Poetic Graphic of the Day

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Poem for the Day - Old Heroes at the Memorial Club

Old Heroes at the Memorial Club

To compose a poem on old heroes at the Memorial Club, which has probably been written before, is much like looking at the faces of men in the cockpit of fighter-bombers crossing over a mountain range. Once when enemy planes flew overhead they dropped bread, not bombs. People scrambled to find pigeons wiping their beaks in the cracks of white stones. At the old Memorial club, the diggers wore rubber-soled shoes where once they trudged through engulfing forests of rain. High lace-ups on the Kokoda Trail. Jack boots amongst the goats on the Isle of Crete. Combats in the trenches of El Alamein.

My Uncle Charles once visited the now defunct Memorial Club on the Central Coast. It was nearly midnight before he turned one hundred-and-nine and only a few patrons were playing cards. Perched high on a stool at the bar, his only company was a busty blonde who kept referring to him in intimate terms. Earlier, he had moved amongst the lanes of machines, talking to some old diggers who were hesitant to respond, elbowing each other at the sound of his Kiwi accent. When he found a sympathetic ear in an old bloke called Herb, he proceeded to tell him about his days in the Great War, ducking sniper fire in the desert. The heavy backpacks he had to carry. And in a sideways hold to his head, he demonstrated loudly how a bullet whooshed past like a jet fighter plane. He had found the night amorous and immortal, getting to know Sid and Barney, two war veterans who had supped into their own heroics. With winnings from the poker machines, he shouted beers all around and handed out Churchill cigars, telling them, that he had recently read, War and Peace and Les Miserables. How they smirked and laughed, how they misused their newfound friendship by slapping him hard on the back to a suicidal fall on the floor. Lucky for uncle he didn’t suffer any further indignities. He was cushioned, so the family story goes, inside the soft breasts of the waitress blonde, who called a taxi with the wisdom of her lovey-dovey words.

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NYC - Publishing Opportunity - SQUAWK BACK

Online publishing opportunity
Squawk Back - We are interested in stories that threaten, provoke, mildly irritate, tickle, inspire, stimulate, penetrate, nauseate, horrify, embarrass and put to shame.

NYC · SQUAWK BACK

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Poem for the Day - On Entering the Big House (from the Irish Suite)

 
On Entering The Big House

                         

The drumlins of County Monaghan lie cool

in acreage earth. Moist air meets the wind, as it

mutters along. Its tall façade, far above eye-level,
pinks in certain light, smooths a grey slate roof.

This is how it looks beyond its flashing. Conical

spires and gables filled with rich attention. The

side door is an entrance to staff, couriers on their

rounds, rummaging in the backs of vans.

Perhaps, large shoulders of a Nobel winner have

already moved in. Stooped to touch the floor for a

green scarf. The poet’s coat simply falling off, one arm

first, the tweed shouldered from the right.

You imagine a quiet Gaelic tune inside, keys

tinkling in the piano room - a practice for sound. 

The office ladies welcoming in the hall, saying,  
Come in. Come in! Tis good you’re here.

Ah! there at the top of the stairs, linen and towels,

and with every good sense an oak desk, mirrors
to double your view, a chaise lounge, brass bed

tall and plumped for a three-week comfort.

While you, by day, settling on a selection of books

for an evening read, will walk in the afternoon

beside the lake, beside hedgerows, the way forward
with a greying, energetic kelpie-cross racing ahead.

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Poetic Graphic of the Day

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Poem for the Day - Ode to Grandparents

Ode to Grandparents

Your faces shine like oval moons

over the green gate,

rose blossoms at your feet.

You left, marking a passage of time

forced through the sea
in grey light.

Your voices return through
the silence, spreading coins

on a kitchen counter.

Us, mischievous kids
bypassing the deli

for shrinking waves at Manly

our feet rushing back

in their thunderous return.

The blossoms are swept away, gate

abandoned. Curvature of tin roof
and pepper pot chimney, gone.

Such moments to think back on

as history, as youth ―

a world of watercourses that held

a fun pier, green sea divers

with knives like missing teeth.

Yet, pines still spread their mass

along the esplanade,

seas drip from children's hands

while carnivals reel in Sunday marches.

Grandma, Grandpa, you seem to have

sunk into silence, but I did notice
early this morning

red rose blossoms

falling at my door.

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Helen Hagemann reading on the Varuna, Writers House Blog

Fairly proud of myself, even if I do say so myself! Check out my reading of an excerpt from a chapter called "Stealer of Secrets". This is from my novel-in-progress 'The Ozone Café.' - Oh, deadlines, deadlines, must get on with it. Varuna, Writers House Blog

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Hilarious Graphic for the Day - Lost Dog!

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Poem by Bob Adamson

David Aspden's yellow tree

by Bob Adamson

The yellow tree's
a shadow so dark it's invisible

we know it's there
oh we know exactly where

the painting will sail on to meet
its maker's grandchildren

one day in a stainless museum
they'll look up and say

nothing but turn inward
as the tree seems to be asking us to do

so that you may perhaps meet some traveller
there and walk awhile

some unknown
place

talk will smudge the air
and float from your mouths

you will shine
with a light the painter

knew
was there

inside
somewhere

Aspden's drawing "yellow & orange" 1976 in the NSW Art Gallery can be viewed here...

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Poems for the Day, Driving to the City, Dublin 2011 (from the Irish Suite)

Driving to the City, Dublin 2011

On route to the M1, doubt is released

as verges widen, and a diesel

tractor bumps off its hay.

I hand over one euro-eighty to uniforms

who witness and laugh at my accent

and loss at the Rugby match.

My diminishing fuel is mea culpa.

I've made an appointment at County Rentals

ending a kind of chaos opening the tank.

Near the airport, I enter

and reappear, losing my bearings,

the fuel tank near to empty.

I enter Dublin, a cavern

of one way streets, glares and crowds.

The River Liffey moves under my feet.

I find the tourist bureau, tell a

Melbourne assistant I need directions

to County Rentals from the other side

of the city. I act nonchalant, first stop Grafton

Street, buying camera parts, books. I disguise
my morning hell over Hahn beer, this nervous

entry into a city, as simple as an awkward tourist.

Where I'm Staying

The Centre sits on 450 acres of a bequeathed estate.

There are wide lawns, stone paths,

potted fushias and cool country lanes.

Behind my apartment of five rooms, stairs

to a balcony, the woods are a miasma of hills

and dales, and across the road in front of

The Big House nears a lake they call Annaghmakerrig.

There is a boat ramp and a seasonal fishing spree

with cars, dogs and restless maggots.

Today early, I will walk down to the fishermen

and talk about their miniature jetties, fixed and

splayed as iron chairs in water.

Some men stand in their wellington boots, others

pin their hopes on their jackets, all manner of

tackle, hooks, glasses bonded to their nose.

Each day I will walk under the canopy of maples,

an avenue at dusk with only small troughs of cloud

passing through. The season is warm and mild,

an Indian summer, the radio says. And I can only

think of the shamrock buried in my hands before

I left, a very lucky wish from my Oz-Irish friend.

Paradelle to Irish Women

I can't forget your warm, singing smile

I can't forget your warm, singing smile

Always baked ready in the morning kitchen rush

Always baked ready in the morning kitchen rush

Morning smile, I can't forget the warm rush

Always singing, I baked in the ready smile.

It is time for me to write your poem 
It is time for me to write your poem

Praise your friendly, culinary skills at the stove

Praise your friendly, culinary skills at the stove

You're at the stove for me to skill the poem

Praise time, it is for me to write your poem.

The aprons on, your old world, familiar.

The aprons on, your old world, familiar.

Your talks remind me of your bread, pasta and sorbet

Your talks remind me of your bread, pasta and sorbet

The familiar pasta and sorbet as tasty as your bread.

Your old world of aprons on, remind me of your talks.

I always praise the morning stove, the familiar poem.

Sorbet, pasta and bread of your tasty talks.

Your warm smile I can't forget, your culinary skills.

It is time for me to skill the poem, your old world.

Singing, and aprons remind me  to rush, to write.

Kitchen-friendly, I baked it for you, it is ready.

The Paradelle was invented by Billy Collins. It is a poem of four six-line stanzas in which the first and second lines, as well as the third and fourth lines of the first three stanzas, must be identical. The fifth and sixth lines, which traditionally resolve these stanzas, must use all the words from the preceding lines and only those words. Similarly, the final stanza must use every word from all the preceding stanzas and only those words.

I found the paradelle to be just as challenging as the villanelle. It was also fun to write, thank you Billy Collins!

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10 Questions to Ask Before you E-Publish

Article about e-publishing

With an avalanche of new services promising to help writers self-publish or distribute their e-books even better and more profitably before, it’s imperative that writers educate themselves about how these services typically operate—plus read the fine print of any new service before deciding to commit.

Read on..

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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!

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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.

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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.

             *    *    *

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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.

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Poetic Graphic of the Day - New Year's Resolution

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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!

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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.

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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.

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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.

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