Helen Hagemann

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Saturday Poetry at the Grove Library, Peppermint Grove

Helen Hagemann’s Saturday Poetry Workshop this week 3rd March @ 1.30pm-3.30pm is called ‘Motherland’. The class will look at ways of writing the heartfelt and personal aspects our own country. Class involves further writing exercises on the patriotic/ political & historical heritage of one's original "motherland'. We will be reading and discussing poems by Dorothea Mackellar, Hyllus Maris, Amy Witting, Jo Shapcott (UK), Dennis O'Driscoll (IE), Michael Crummey (CA), e e cummings (US), and Marina Tsvetaeva (RU). Cost: OOTA $15, Non-OOTA $20. All welcome!

Poem for the Day - Visiting Loughcrew (from the Irish Suite)

Visiting Loughcrew

Shock of blue in the sky
after light misty rain.
The fields and drumlins
are a skin of green.

It's warm today for a hillclimb
to a strange cairn
of Megalithic art.

The woman at the kiosk
hands me the key, tied to
a large orange flashlight.
As if this is a passage
back in time.

I've half-circled Ireland
before arriving. Swerved trucks,
narrow bridges, my new hire car
saving my skin.

At the tearooms, cows with pink snouts
share the aroma of my morning
coffee, then send out a message
with the breath of mist.

Over the fields, I look down
on more Friesians, craggy hillsides,

dunes of hidden houses, clouds billowing
out like the plumping of bed sheets.
I take the first steps to unknown art

and fall in love with Ireland.

Poem for the Day - Three poems

Lines composed while thinking about the Powerhouse Museum
after Billy Collins

How agreeable it is sitting here in Perth

not thinking about St. Mary’s Cathedral,

the Domain or Hyde Park’s flowering morning.

No need to stand in queues for the Museum or

the Opera House with its sarcophagus of lights,

or count the pigeons lunching at El Alamein,

the wrinkled outlines of its spray like saints in glass.

No need to get lost in the streets of Glebe, memorizing

a succession of streets to the Friend in Hand,

or view Picasso’s masterpieces in gallery frames.

How much better it is to be at home in thirty eight

degrees, with the air-conditioner on, books on the lap.

And after the heatwave, a trip to the supermarket

to buy a journal, some pens, to record just how

a monumental sun drags itself down like a dungeon

ball, sets at dusk, a tired rucksack into the night.

* * *

A Spyglass on Sydney

I would have liked to get to know

the city better than three years.

I have so many memories I don’t know

what to do with them. On second thoughts

I’ll move my table closer to the harbour.

My binoculars spin on my neck to get

a better view. Further from the bridge

there’s a bottle of wine on the ferry,

group activities, everyone my age.

I’m reminded of the workplace, shoes

paired in chronological order, wedges

from George Street, platforms from Kings

Cross. There is attention in stiletto heels.

I shoulder my way into Wynyard, for more

shoes. I can learn to dance, in circumspect.

Only at the movies do I face a new problem,

not the sailor, or that Damien never phones.

I’ve left the iron on, and no-one’s at home.

* * *

Home for the Holidays

Home for the holidays and I’m three stanzas

between country air and deep compression.

Up there the clouds are snowfields, icecaps of

Antarctica. From my window, I feel the force

into Mascot. I have a stubborn prune in my throat.

I’ve been away studying Flaubert and Mallarme.

Parents think I’m Judith Enright, but it’s Marco Polo

I am, back and forth, back and forth, amongst

a constellations of random stars. Sydney, the green

blotter of my youth, pimples and Tafe certificates.

Prince Alfred Park where I almost died, tripped

by four iced legs. Sydney, ah! The harbour at dawn,

spinnakers at sunset, seabirds on the Opera House.

The rock stars & concerts I sometimes lost track of.

Let’s leave the house, catch a ferry to the zoo. Hear the

same peacock cry, giving out his woodwind sound.

* * *

Poem for the Day - The Laneway (from The Irish Suite)

The Laneway

You look back as if into a rear-view image
of Ireland. Seams of light and dark overlap hedge,

stone and field where cows snub noses into turf.

Tall grasses yield the return of spring. The wind
sounds like a flute playing, and intermittent farm

houses in unkempt orchards are barely seen.
On a two lane highway, you pit-stop for a moment,

hands firmly clenched on lunch, sweets, drinks.
Coke and juice move quickly through your esophageus,
at least that's the way the body tells it. Now, the
bladder cramps as one forty kilometres slowly pass
from Westport to An Longfort. No service station in sight,
no verge on this one way street, until a laneway!
Time to depress all that liquid into knotweed, the

mind giving you this one clear thought between
pleasure and relief. You're like a dog wanting to put
down its scent until a grey car arrives, blocks you in;

farmer or landowner jerking your lead. Shades of dark

sun glasses walk towards the car. It's not the owner
it's "The Garde!" You're the Australian abroad, caught
well before bare tail reaches Irish soil. Crikey!
Two men approach, clean cut, one stares into the open
window tells you farms are being robbed. You're acting
suspicious. You confess, tall grasses are a great
cover for a tinkle. Wry smiles are withheld under
peaked caps, they hardly stop to blink, back away
in their unmarked car. You walk into the lane's interior,
squat long enough to count five cows swishing tails
like batons, black eye patches staring you down.

Poetic Graphic of the Day - New Year's Resolution

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all my friends, followers, readers, sneak peekers! More poetry to arrive in 2012. I am currently working on an e-book for you to read about my sojourn & writer's residency in Ireland (produced by ISSUU). The e-book will contain poetry, photography and art. Stay tuned!

Recently we found a stray kitten (only 5 weeks old) and the only group who would take it was the Cat Haven. I hope little Smokey is happy in her new home. You can donate here http://www.cathaven.com.au/donate/

Here are my two scallywags!

Poem for the Day - My Tao Name

My Tao Name

What do you think of my name, Joyous Lake,

I asked my daughter over the phone,

when I had finished deleting

another sex site on my Twitter account.

A loud burst of laughter followed. It

descended down the line, over the waterfowl

paddling the lilies and into the rivers beyond.

Further still from the poems I had created with the
Chinese I-Ching, an ancient Taoist symbol. The Lake

regardless of change can achieve tranquility in

disturbance, Chinese scholars say. Why can't

"Bliss" and "Jude in the Mood" tell this apart

from a whorehouse of sexual arousal. Nothing

surprises me in this virtual world, these ladies

imagining 'Joyous Lake' as a red light district.

Might they compare the deeper soft petals of silk,

black-stringed corset to a lotus flower on a lake,

magpies in taught suspendered trees, caroling.

Poem for the Day - Fireworks

Fireworks

They slumber in their corners,

In soft light, till the wind lifts

Till a first spark propels them away.

Into the new century or year

They rise half blown, exploding sombreros,

Wide-brimmed hats, ribbons of colour.

Fireworks, caught in the moment,

Pulled into voluminous splays

Of fire, handwriting the night.

Adorned by the moon, and the soft

Hands of stars their memory

Drifts onto children’s faces their small

Fingers languidly pointing

To the sky.

Poem for the Day - Repainting the Scream

Repainting the Scream

How pretty fine it is to be born

under a blue sky.

To watch garden roses unfolding

their 'double delight'. The ones

crimping out their pink skirts,

giggling in the wind ─

their cream undies showing.

How terrible, then, an expression on a face,

standing on a bridge, swirl of dark water beneath,

a red sky full of pain. And so many

steadfast hours going into the work

of a silent, yet unsettling scream.

Nothing about Edvard Munch’s scene

will ever change. Yet, I want to repaint

that unhappy face. Swirl his body around,

zero in with just a tiddly-wink of smile.

The bridge gone, water gone, blue sky

now shouldering disheveled dobs of cloud.

I want the man to see exquisite

lady beetles burrowing into double delights.

I want his eyes looking out on this urban

garden where rough beds thirst and the

stocky butcherbird on the tippy

buoyancy of a branch, sings.

The Attitude of Cups, MPU Anthology - Out now!

This is the front cover of the latest anthology from the Melbourne Poets Union of poetry about tea, wine & coffee (however, I'm still waiting for the book to be listed in bookstores for real cover). Nevertheless it's a beautifully presented work by many well known Melbourne poets, and I'm proud to have a poem in there called "Left Over Wine". Here's part of the poem only, because the anthology would make a great Christmas present.
Contact MPU for details.

Left Over Wine

   it's fragile
and rehearsed in this mind cask
home pleasures are like the sentiment
of crisp, summer wine

it mouths get help!
so you dive unexpectedly
into the freezing brook
through wooded trees
          perfectly still
only you've had more wine than usual
and distortion wins

the grass is intense
and there's plenty of green
it's like having a bottle
          you've saved all these years

blackberries hedge the railway bridge
          mulberries give a whole new meaning
          to bottled jam
          the purple avenger stays before tea
you say 'no' to this dream in your head
it's a letting down of home-field
the school team
you approach fewer each year

you let the grader scrape the voices in the glade
swing the river rope you missed
          hold your breath longer under water

you can't remember how many silkworms you kept
or when the blackberries disappeared
          but the wine tastes sweeter than it used to

the old neighbourhood has disappeared in brick
the weathercock is a stable dish
and backyard pickets no longer talk

          you turn over, wake in a different world

Saturday Poetry Workshops at the Grove (Cottesloe) for 2012

Saturday Poetry Workshops were successful at the Grove Library in 2011 and OOTA will again offer this after-hours course in 2012. Tutor, yours truly, Helen Hagemann.

It will consist of fortnightly Saturday Poetry Workshops for casual participants. Each Workshop will introduce contemporary poetry for those poets wanting to write contemporary poetry.

Participation in the Workshops will cover the study of poems, discussion and several writing exercises. In a recent survey the consensus was that most writers wanted to continue with the same 2011 format, with a minor introduction of the classics and traditional poetry and its forms. Poets wishing to attend can view the times and dates on the OOTA blog (Out of the Asylum Writers Group) and also Writing at the Centre blog. Classes are earmarked to start in 2012 on Saturday 4th February. 1.30pm-3.30pm.

The Grove Library now has a coffee shop and we will continue to incorporate this social side of our poetry group after class.

OOTA Click here for more information
Writing at the Centre Classes

My Irish Pics, Annaghmakerrig & Dublin

Poem for the Day - Her Blue Dress (artwork by Janice Mason Steeves, Canada)

Her Blue Dress

for Janice

You will want to know

the season

how a gown can slip itself over nose and cheek

and be visible from art

how Emily Dickinson stood by a window

pressing her pink hips

through a passage of time

lifting a blue taffeta dress

over her shoulders

to reach

cool, upturned toes

where poems lay like stepping stones

on the hardwood floor.

The long blue dress

was too big for this slip

of a girl

but she proceeded down the hall

where a mirror

motioned her to look

at the poet she would become.

I was instantly drawn to Janice's artwork at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre, Annaghmakerrig, Ireland where we met and were housed in rather large cottages. Her series included separate paintings joined as one. I have used one panel only from her work titled Thoughts of Stones to represent a mirror and a blue dress. I saw Emily Dickinson's blue dress inside the painting (and, I guess, I was also inspired after reading Billy Collins' poem Taking Off Emily Dickinson's Clothes

So there we were ( including Rebecca Crowell from Wisconsin- another fine artist!) each in our separate units, inspiring each other, and both encouraging me to visit the Megalithic art at Loughcrew. I have many more poems to come! Janice's Thoughts of Stones and her full art work can be viewed at Janice Mason Steeves

Cartoon for the Day - I Love this Irish One!

Three Poems in Eureka Street!

Three poems published today in Eureka Street. Must be the luck of Ireland still on my shoulders. Thank you Mr. Tyrone Guthrie for bequeathing your house to artists. What a wonderful place it was, the people more so. I now have lots of Irish friends and others too, from all over the world! The Tyrone Guthrie Centre
You can read the poems at Eureka Street
Poems are also read by broadcaster Peter Thomas with the gorgeous radio voice.

Helen is Back from the Land of the Leprechauns!

The Return of Saturday Poetry & A Possible Hands-Up Count
This is a hands-up count to those of you who are interested in attending Term 1 of the fortnightly Saturday Poetry class at the Grove Library in 2012. The library is once again very supportive of OOTA and is requesting a confirmation from me regarding the booking. (Apparently the Flax room is in high demand for 2012!). It would be great to secure our original space – that lovely quiet room with the plush-red chairs!
Once again this class is "drop-in-style, no booking required". Saturday Poetry is suitable for community writers/ OOTA regulars, part-timers and casual attendees. So you can go off on holidays when you choose and we will still be there when you get back!

• Dates: 4th February to 7th July, 2012 (Saturdays & fortnightly thereafter) TBC

• Time: 1.30pm to 3.30 pm.

• Where: The Grove Library, 1 Leake Street, Peppermint Grove.

• Cost: $15 OOTA Members $20 Non-OOTA members.

• Class numbers required: minimum 6 – maximum 10

So here are the questions as a sort of poll to gauge your interest about the class. Please feel free to answer all of the questions or as little as you want.

• Does the time suit you? Yes / No
• Are you happy with the cost? Yes / No
• Do you wish to mainly workshop contemporary poetry? ⁯ Yes / No
• Would you like Readings or Workshopping each other’s poems introduced? Yes / No
• What about more of the Classics, Traditional Poets, Traditional Forms? Yes / No
• Other – please feel free to add further comments

You can add your answers in the comments section below or alternatively for privacy & confidentiality you can email me at hagemann.helen@gmail.com

Many thanks for taking the time,
Helen Hagemann

Poem for the Day - Bull's-Eye (revised at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre, Ireland)

Bull’s-eye

The whole house turned wild
took a deep breath
with the noise of it
like snapped wood

It was before the dartboard
before father fixed a flywire door
before anyone thought
of a startled death

My young brother
too sick of dying
from archaic flow of arrows
from Robin Hood’s deathly yowl
from behind the staghorn wall
where a graceful thrust of sword
pinched him to the floor

took
the sharpest tool from the shed
and with a garrulous burst from the woods
cried ─ ‘Bull’s eye, you're dead!’

Missing the older brother by an inch
the knife split the wood
writing the veranda door
back to a Celtic myth

My young brother vanished
for most of the week

My older brother
sucked awe through his teeth
gauged the battle scar

This was what he wanted
to stand
as one peels back armour
in pride of his life
saved

Poem for the Day - Camping (revised at the Tyrone Guthrie Centre, Newbliss, Ireland)

Camping

We pack after Christmas,
a band of pilgrims heading out
on the open road.

This is the best time of year when nights
are full of stars and clouds have slung
their guy-ropes across another town.

Cruising Walpole, trees cast their long shadows
like mesh across insects and streams. We explore
pioneer camps, axe handles in old markings,
phantom footprints of an agreeable time.

We have the night sky all to ourselves. It warms
us like saplings around the glow of fire sparks.
We join the moon couched in tangerine, all
asleep under the heavens and all tucked in.

Now, this is something different. The children’s
grown-up diction makes bittersweet an absent
father, a Ted Hughes. And echoing Plath’s words,

The man was a lion and had the voice like the thunder of God.

But none of this can be wasted. It’s part of time, the memory
of young children fishing, coursing mountain walks, spider
webs that hung their sticky tremble on narrow paths.

Our surfcat leaving the shore, the dog’s abandoned bark
filling the bay, his black body slapping forward in a confusion
of wind and wave, as we sailed further away.

Poem for the Day - Kewpie Doll (revised at Annaghmakerrig, Ireland)

Kewpie Doll

            And nothing that moves on land or sea
           Will seem so beautiful to me – Equestrienne, Rachel Field

Little doll, carried home from carnivalé,
rustles her Giselle skirt in the wind.
She is as old as Ray Lawler's
Summer of the 17th Doll.

Her faded lipstick pouts an "O" as the mouths of girls,
words forming seduction in their heads.
She has lost her wand, her diamond ring
but not her good luck charm.

At the windowpane she raises her suppliant wings
and reaching for the stars
taps her ballet shoes against glass.
Fairy wings dispersing dust, as if she is back there

circling the Ringmaster’s voice
body upside down, pointing toes in the air
         - a girl in pink on a milk-white horse
           cantering over a sawdust course.

I just love the names of these northern Irish towns. e.g Cootehill, Clones, Rockcorry. I'm in thick pastoral country, a rich green canopy of trees, cows and emerald fields. The roads are like winding narrow pathways. Suddenly you come into a town, like a time-warp, Irish architecture as solid as its stonework frontage. Immemorial, its land and its culture dating back to the Late Stone Age. No big shopping complexes here, just traditional shop fronts, with pubs along the street, just a few paces with your feet and you have a bar, then another bar, and a bar & grocery shop!