2015 ~ Helen Hagemann

Saturday, December 19, 2015

Three Poems by Tony Curtis, a Dubliner!

I had the pleasure of reading a scene from my novel with Tony Curtis. He is such a generous man and gave us not only a reading from his several poetry collections but also entertained the OOTA writers (Fremantle) with his guitar compositions, talks about his family, his working life and all with a wonderful Irish sense of humour.

What a wonderful poet and generous man!

When Sometimes all I can Imagine are Hands

There is a winter within me,
a place so cold, so covered in snow,
I rarely go there. But sometimes,
when all I can imagine are hands,
when trees in the forest
look like they’re made of wood,
then I know it’s time
to take my photograph of Akhmatova
and sling it in a bag with socks and scarves.
My neighbours must think it strange
to see me strapping on my snowshoes,
to hear me roar at the huskies
as I untangle the harness.
But when all you can imagine are hands
it’s best to give a little wave
and move out into the whiteness.

http://www.tonycurtisirishpoet.com/well_in_the_rain.html

Friendship

Friendship
There are names for what binds us - Jane Hirshfield

There are days that bind us.

We meet as one, but are many.

When we started out we were younger.

Our nails were stronger, our hair

fell down and dovetailed in to curves

matching a lighter weight.

The way a younger self holds firmer flesh,

small triumphs for tanned skin

baked proudly in the sun.

There's a name for the battle scars

doctors burn them from our skin

and as we age, gravity's the fear.

When seven women

meet in friendship over years

there may be wounds, a partner gone,

something proud inside one's chest.

But between us all there's only
the strength we have and we give it.
Then it asks more, and we give it.

4th Draft Copyright (c) 2015
Lunch with good friends today. It's a ritual to swap gifts, eat wonderful food and talk for five hours. Many thanks to our host Linda.

Marlon Williams coming to PIAF - what a great voice!

Marlon Williams coming to Perth for the Perth International Festival. My daughter and I will be going - what a great voice!

Reading with Irish poet, Tony Curtis

I'm reading with Irish poet, Tony Curtis on Friday 18th December at the Fremantle Arts Centre - my writers' group Xmas party. Curtis is a regular visitor to Western Australia, and I first heard him read at Walking on Water in 2003. I purchased his collection The Book of Winter Cures and from then on have added to the pile with Folk and his children's book An Elephant called Rex. Curtis was born in Dublin in 1955, he studied literature at the University of Essex and Trinity College, Dublin. As well as being available for readings at Irish and International festivals Tony Curtis is an experienced facilitator of poetry and creative writing workshops with both adults and children and is a regular contributor at the Clifden Arts Festival. His latest collections are Pony (2013), and Approximately in the Key of C (2015). I hope to buy his latest on the day!


I will be reading from my novel The Ozone Cafe

Tiger Snake

Tiger Snake

in the country we discover
the twin bands of tiger snake ‒
it travels a pathway
to riverbank, a meal
of bird, duck, or gosling.

we watch and pause, the snake shy
of our company,

nothing eaten so far,
no error made, or tailbone struck
seems enough reason
for its leaving.

our chilled nerves and skin
are flensed in this scene, we know
one hundred reasons
to move quickly
from venom, or flash of tongue

our distinct reasoning
is to cross hill and highway
ascend well-built stairs
to quiet rooms
comfort,
sandwiches and tea,

relief, shared between us.

The South Western Tiger Snake is a medium-large (maximum 1.8 metres) terrestrial elapid confined to the southern part of western W.A.They have a wide flat looking head and have a large square shaped frontal shield, smooth scales, a large single temporal scale, have a mid body scale row count of 17 to 21, has a single anal plate and single sub-caudal scales. Body coloration is variable and can be any shade of grey, green, bronze to black.

Most specimens have body banding that can be bold and distinct, faint and indistinct, to some individuals that are completely pattern less. These bands can be either olive, brown, or yellow (which can look quite spectacular). This typical body banding is probably how the tiger snake got its common name in the beginning.

http://www.pilbarapythons.com/tigersnake.htm

3rd draft re-worked
Photographs © by Helen Hagemann

Through a Litany of Filtered Light

Through a Litany of Filtered Light

When it comes to nature
there is no half measure,
no illusion or suggestion.
You follow kangaroos, ducks,
bobtails, the weed choke on deadwood.
You enter fragility, old ghost trails,
settler's huts, cold granite
– that other world –
through a litany of filtered light.

Nature sways you to spring,
to look eye-to-open-bud

your breath passing over the lilac
of fringe lilies, plush cat's paws.
And how to proceed while others
choose to speak? Everyone knowing
you're an amateur will walk away.
You know it's guesswork and pivot
from the group, finding sights and
sounds as evidence for a poem.
You have come to this world
in deep thought,

saying nothing,
except
the day's walk is variously selected
for this –
camera lens
taking words to the page
as if they mean something.

Field Trip ©

Field Trip

I sit in the kitchen
surrounded by books, manuscripts.
I read a poem each day, especially Collins
and I'm instantly inspired.

I have a selection of poetry books
surrounding the table, a container of pens,
weekend notes, Gillian Welsh, mellow
on CD player, and coffee, cooling.

I have other things: council papers,
a synopsis half-written, dictionary,
thesaurus, books on wildflowers,
native plants, and suburban birds.

But I have had enough of that –
the isolation of creation on a laptop,
something that comes with the quietness
of a word, hum of refrigerator.

On the weekend I joined a convoy
of walkers, fitter and older than I.
But it was worth every aching climb,
heat rising to thirty-four degrees!

The kangaroo and joey in her pouch
caught with zoom lens is now in my folio.
A gift no doubt, along with other young
life waddling with mother duck.

A walk like no other, away from desk,
away from vaporous suburbia, sounds
of mowers, leaf-blowers, dogs. Moments
finding yourself once again on that field trip.

Photographs taken at Yanchep National Park. The ten kilometre walk was called Ghost Trail Walk.
This poem is part of my daily writing practice and the photographs were taken on a Sony HD Cybershot with Optical Zoom.

Helen Hagemann 2015 ©

The View ©

The View

for Dmitry Kozlov

A landscape

without views from windows or curtains.
Boulders are boisterous, shaped to spiral a climb.
And the hanging rock, a ragged edge for trembling.

Lucky the one who has closed urban doors,
who rises, stretching, to sit at a table
with coffee, sweet with sugar.

Lucky the one who sets out for purple trails,
a backpack thumping behind
fitting the shape of the wearer.

A song perhaps comes with a day's trudging,
words in the deepest brevity
as the sun warms, as energy wanes.

What of other views, unknown, unseen?
– a world shaping treachery at every turn.
Are we prepared for the hardest climb?

This ekphrastic poem is written in response to Dmitry Koslov's painting. Dmitry is an art student at Applecross Senior High School and the work, of course, along with many other artists/ poets will be published in an anthology. This is all due to the hard work of English teacher, Veronica Lake.

Egret in the Shallows ©

Photographed at Herdsman Lake with the WA Naturalists Club, 27th Sept, 2015

Egret in the Shallows

Never clumsy, sturdy knees,
she stands in the shallows
waiting to strike.

Each foot turns over, slowly, right
then left. A young body, white body,
eyes hardened into the bedding of paperbark.

Without knowing her meal might vanish,
move into the cool shadows; the world waits
as the heron waits.

If her fish disappears without explanation,
does she feel anger, loss, anxious? Or is this
simply a walk in the lake?

I first thought that this waterbird was a "crane" - not so, it is an "egret" - still learning!

The Casual Vacancy by J K Rowling - currently reading

Already into the first few pages and I want to know more about Barry Fairbrother. Ignore the naysayers, JK Rowling is an excellent writer. She is "not" always going to be writing adventure fantasies for children. This is an adult novel about councils, and I am intrigued because I have just completed a novel about council corruption (some of which follows).

The Ozone Cafe - Part of Chapter 9

‘Waiting for me?’ Haycock, dressed in suit and tie, removed a hanky from his jacket pocket, wiping his nose side to side. ‘Sorry I’m late. You know what it’s like, meetings! At the moment, those bloody councillors are arguing about the state of the highway. Road crews can only go as fast as they can, isn’t that right, Ron?’

Ronny lifted his chin in agreement.

They found a table amongst other diners in between potted plants that swished as people walked past. A long table stretched one wall filled with a smorgasbord of salads, cheeses and condiments. In one of the largest rooms in the club, sporting trophies and members’ boards hung on either side of the sliding doors. Haycock stood in line and scanned the specials chalked on a blackboard.

‘Fisherman’s basket will be fine. What about you Ron?’

‘Yeah, same.’

When their meals arrived along with glasses and a jug of beer, Ronny and Bob shuffled their chairs in close. It was a ritual they had learned in the practice. ‘I’ll get straight to the point,’ said Bob, lowering his voice. ‘It was owned by a Stan Sawbridge, an old fellow of eighty-two who passed away, leaving no will. From what I can understand,’ and Haycock moved in closer, ‘no family - equals - no inheritors.’

‘So what’s this Demolition 121 Marjorie told me about?’

‘Never mind about that. Not a problem. My cut of the sale will be five hundred.’

‘What?’ said Ronny Williams, nearly choking on a calamari ring.

‘Shush will you. It’s worth a lot more than you think. Some of the big boys have been sitting on the property for reasons of their own, especially the Mayor. There’s talk,’ continued Haycock, whispering in slow monotones, ‘that Tyrone is doing deals with the Memorial Club. So it’s just a matter of time before they will whip it out from under us. But we’re not going to let that happen, are we Ron?’

‘What I don’t understand is how come probate hasn’t got their hands on it?’

‘Oh, my boy. Just think how the stationers are running out of brown paper bags right now.’

‘So, you want to get in first?’

‘Exactly. Otherwise there’s no sale and we don’t get rich.’

‘You’re amazing.’

‘Best in the business, mate.’ Haycock poured another beer, offering a top up, but Ronny held his hand over the glass.

‘I better get back to the office. Got some figures to tally. Shit, I only hope my client goes for it. It will be way over price.’

‘What’s he want that old thing for?’

‘A café.’

‘Oh, so it’s a rezoning. That would now make my tally seven hundred then.’

‘Jesus!’ said Ronny, rubbing his whiskers.

Both men crumpled their serviettes, moving away slowly from their chairs. At the bottom of the steps, Haycock put his hand on Ronny’s back, and huddled in close. ‘Hope your client is keen, Ron.’

J K Rowling

Although she writes under the pen name J.K. Rowling, pronounced like rolling, her name when her first Harry Potter book was published was simply Joanne Rowling. Anticipating that the target audience of young boys might not want to read a book written by a woman, her publishers demanded that she use two initials, rather than her full name. As she had no middle name, she chose K as the second initial of her pen name, from her paternal grandmother Kathleen Ada Bulgen Rowling. She calls herself Jo and has said, "No one ever called me 'Joanne' when I was young, unless they were angry." Following her marriage, she has sometimes used the name Joanne Murray when conducting personal business. During the Leveson Inquiry she gave evidence under the name of Joanne Kathleen Rowling. In a 2012 interview, Rowling noted that she no longer cared that people pronounced her name incorrectly.

Rowling was born to Peter James Rowling, a Rolls-Royce aircraft engineer, and Anne Rowling (née Volant), on 31 July 1965 in Yate, Gloucestershire, England, 10 miles (16 km) northeast of Bristol. Her mother Anne was half-French and half-Scottish. Her parents first met on a train departing from King's Cross Station bound for Arbroath in 1964. They married on 14 March 1965. Her mother's maternal grandfather, Dugald Campbell, was born in Lamlash on the Isle of Arran. Her mother's paternal grandfather, Louis Volant, was awarded the Croix de Guerre for exceptional bravery in defending the village of Courcelles-le-Comte during the First World War.

Rowling's sister Dianne was born at their home when Rowling was 23 months old. The family moved to the nearby village Winterbourne when Rowling was four. She attended St Michael's Primary School, a school founded by abolitionist William Wilberforce and education reformer Hannah More. Her headmaster at St Michael's, Alfred Dunn, has been suggested as the inspiration for the Harry Potter headmaster Albus Dumbledore.

As a child, Rowling often wrote fantasy stories, which she would usually then read to her sister. She recalls that: "I can still remember me telling her a story in which she fell down a rabbit hole and was fed strawberries by the rabbit family inside it. Certainly the first story I ever wrote down (when I was five or six) was about a rabbit called Rabbit. He got the measles and was visited by his friends, including a giant bee called Miss Bee." At the age of nine, Rowling moved to Church Cottage in the Gloucestershire village of Tutshill, close to Chepstow, Wales. When she was a young teenager, her great aunt, who Rowling said "taught classics and approved of a thirst for knowledge, even of a questionable kind," gave her a very old copy of Jessica Mitford's autobiography, Hons and Rebels. Mitford became Rowling's heroine, and Rowling subsequently read all of her books.

Rowling has said of her teenage years, in an interview with The New Yorker, "I wasn’t particularly happy. I think it’s a dreadful time of life." She had a difficult homelife; her mother was ill and she had a difficult relationship with her father (she is no longer on speaking terms with him). She attended secondary school at Wyedean School and College, where her mother had worked as a technician in the science department. Rowling said of her adolescence, "Hermione [a bookish, know-it-all Harry Potter character] is loosely based on me. She's a caricature of me when I was eleven, which I'm not particularly proud of." Steve Eddy, who taught Rowling English when she first arrived, remembers her as "not exceptional" but "one of a group of girls who were bright, and quite good at English." Sean Harris, her best friend in the Upper Sixth owned a turquoise Ford Anglia, which she says inspired the one in her books.

Reference: Goodreads

Video: Wild in the Dry Grass by Helen Hagemann

Wild in the Dry Grass by Helen Hagemann from H2 Design on Vimeo.

Morning Husks

Morning Husks

In my neighbour's property
there are no mountains,
acute pinks and lilacs of roses
or the inclusion of water loping idly
over tendered lawns and beds,
but a yard of seed pods, pollen and nuts
where wild birds chatter in the bowers
of eucalypts
eating morning husks.

Graphic for the Day: A Grammar Lesson

Graphic of the Day: Money for Poetry!!

England and Wales in June

On my way to a writers' retreat
looking all the part as a writer,
laptop, camera and pens on the ready,
I wanted to look at the scenery, the mute
hills, meticulous pastures, grazing cows,

but was distracted by flashing cars,
honking, speeding in both directions. I
recall some scenes that I would never see
again. The castle at Bishop's Castle, canals,
stone bridges, grassed moats, the deep chasm
of a Welsh river much like a landscape painting
by W. Turner. On the motorways, I heard
the distinctive howl of motorbikes, trucks,
sports-cars. Crossing the border into Wales
the clacking rail chorus of a passing train.
I missed the deep valleys of the Severn
River and more than likely the abundance
of water fowl. To go much deeper, I would
have liked to photograph the invertebrates
that I'm only just reading about now. The
mayfly, lacewing, glowworm, lace beetle,
harlequin ladybird and the devil's coach