Helen Hagemann

Friday, August 29, 2014

Poem for the Day: Poetry Workshop with Tony Curtis

Poetry Workshop with Tony Curtis

He tells jokes and Irish tales, takes you into
a Dublin pub with barrels of whiskey, his words
phrasing like the soft swish of a poured pint.

When the room writes to the tasks of the day,
he slips you into the backlog of home, through
old grumbling nights with the porch light on.

His guitar is the sound of dusk under the
lemon tree, or laneway where you smoked
cigarettes made from Gum tips. He sets your

mood, as distinct as the sun is to the stars,
even the planets are aligning themselves
with your laughter, throbbing into the room.

He's better than that Tony Curtis in Some Like
it Hot. Hilarity like a gunshot waking you up,
as if poetry writing could lift you from your

heavy bootstraps in winter, take you to the park
like a kid on the roundabout, a bag full of chocolate
drops going round and around. Then like a breeze,

he lets loose without discretion, letting sticky,
gooey wrappers fall to the ground, so that your
swallows of marshmallow and cocoa feel like

sex, chewy nougat like intercourse, strawberries
rolling about like tongue seduction. In the end, he
has you where he wants you - writing poetry.

Poem for the Day: Creature Comforts

Creature Comforts

There are several rooms in the house,
with pet beds in geometric shapes.
Some have man-made fibres, others wool.
One has a compartment the animal
can travel through. With no expense spared,
it's a courting to give the cat ample space,
a silence where no dog lives.

At midnight, there is a weight of four paws
awakening your impoverished dreams,
the cat, finding a waist in the shape of a sweater,
or liking your scizzored legs, curls there as if you
might not notice a lump of floating fur.

In three degrees, she finds relief
near your face or in the abundance
of PJ's no longer one thing, yet another.

She'll be content at 2.00am
to snore inside your ear, or play
hopscotch as you turn, stretch pelvic floor to feet.
Fearful, watchful, fitful, she'll nuzzle
wildly into your craving sleep,
doona meeting two minds like opposing planets,
sheets cooling at both tail ends.

You're not prepared for this torment
as you plunge through it.
Nor can you turn the clock back
to what came before,
not this lifetime of coming together.
It would be like metal without a shape,
no sound without a bell,
a bell without a clapper.

Poem for the Day: Young Love in Bobby Socks

Young Love

Under the outside porch, the wind knocks at the windowpanes. You crouch down on the front step, it's comical and the little petals of his pink corsage brown with exhaustion. Your hand shakes, pinning it onto your cardigan, and quickly you rush through the streets to the entertainment hall. Red lights charm musicians' faces. This beautiful kingdom is in the mood, and now it's 'Rock around Clock'. You put your high tail on, flay back, pucker lips, spin in the wave of his arms that dominate the night, tap the parquet floor as if it's the clickety-clack of the train that runs beside the sea. Your shining face is a rose in his eyes. The dance is a handshake like a weapon that pulls you quickly from fear, then back again into the light. Your right leg swings a charleston side to side. It's a kick high, kick back. What a dance! What a dancer! See how his hands are like handlebars, as he jitterbugs to the right of your body in opposite flight, a two-time double shuffle according to his beat. You follow. He spins, pulls you in, pulls you back, and under as if you're going through town in his white Cadillac, absorbing his grace, his dimpled chin, as he hauls you into a night full of stars, and then the vibrations of the hall subside, and you're back on the porch, with the lights left on. You don't see his hands holding your face, kissing your face with makeup in your eyes, and he goes away, crushing the heavy bushes you've both stepped from, your bobby socks full of burrs. You walk inside, into the rest of the night, tap on the wardrobe, tap on the bed, tap on the headboard overhead, your heart in paradise.

Graphic of the Day: Writer at Work

As a woman, I would add the following list:-

1. Do nails
2. Attend exercise class
3. If raining, attend the new Danny Green Gym
4. Have coffee with the girls
5. Shop for food, clothes, make-up, etc.
6. Talk to daughter on the phone for 2 hours
7. Do some gardening, preferably trim bushes, pull weeds, cut winter roses
8. Prepare a creative writing class/ notes/ research
9. Take the dog (or cats in my case) for a walk to the park
10. Babysit the grandchildren

Reading as a Performance Poet at the Dome, Maylands

MONDAY SUPPER CLUB

I will be reading from my two books (+ new work!) at the Dome, Maylands on Monday, 18th August.

Check out their delicious menu

http://www.summersupperclub.com/

Overnight in Barcelona!

Poem/Painting Collaboration with Paige Preston Byrne's 'Stone Bird' (inspired by sculpture in Montserrat)

Painting by Paige Preston Byrne (Washington, DC)

                                                                  stone bird

                                                                  stone bird sits
                                                              in the middle of time
                                                                  inquisitive little fellow
                                                                  his tiny head looking over something
                                                              perhaps he feels the wind, or hears
                                                                  the striking waves on the shore
                                                                  he can't fly
                                                                  but lives beyond
                                                              the brushstrokes of art

Please note: the following was translated from a Catalan dictionary app. The correct Catalan
is soon to come, kindly translated by folks at Can Serrat for the Open Studio

pedra ocell

pedra ocell se senti
en el medi de temps
homenet inquisitiu
el cap tony buscant per alunga cosa
potser se sent el vent, o escolta
                                                                  les onades pegant a la riba
                                                                  ell no pot volar
                                                                  sino que viu mes enlla de
                                                                  les pinzellades d'art

Painting by Paige Preston Byrne (Can Serrat)

Frill-necked Lizard

he's been knocking his knees
at the ant-hill ball
collects his hat and coat
with a flick of tongue
how smart he looks
in his blue suede shoes,
diamontees & pleats

it's wonderful to think
that he's all leather
feisty
not yet skinned

LIangardaix Volant-Nu

ha estat colpejant els genolls
en el ball formiguer
recull el seu barret i l'abric
amb un moviment de la llengua
que sembla intel.ligent
amb les seves sabates blaves de camussa,
diamants i plecs.

es meravellos pensar
que es tot de cuir
lluitador
encara no esqueixat