Poem # 6 The one that got away

When I was a teenager I would go fishing with my aboriginal friends from a wave cut platform that jutted into the Arafura Sea. The sea would change colour from dull green to blue according to the time of day. In the dry season it would be cool in the morning and evening and quite warm at noon. When the tide came in we would dive off the platform and swim with our dogs, we would dry off quite quickly after we got out of the water. We could tell where the fish were by the activity of the seagulls who would follow the swarms of sardines and sometimes mullet. When they came near to shore we would cast out weightless lines with live bait and capture the big pelagic Queen fish, known locally as skinny, or Turrum. Later on in my life when I was under duress and in pain I was advised by doctors to visualise my most beautiful place and mentally transport myself there, because in that place I could avoid the pain, my most beautiful place was that wave cut platform.

The one that got away

Lost another poem
in the waves of
the computer today.
I tried to reel it in
but the line snapped
and with a flash
it went swimming away to Samoa.
So here I sit with
hook baited
feeling those good
vibrations in the line
and waiting to catch the big one.

Poem # 5 Flower Shop memories

At this time of year spring is steadily moving towards us like a tumbleweed before the wind.The seasonal change from winter to spring invites me to consider the circle of life, birth, death, and renewal.Reincarnation does exist, because when we die energy is released and this energy is taken up by other parts of our environment. Who can know what we become, we are all part of the great wheel of life, and flowers are an enduring symbol of spring. The following poem is about flowers, death, and the wheel turning.

Flower Shop Memories

I went to the florist
in the country town
where I was born.

"You've bought flowers here before",said the florist,
a friendly guy named Dave.
a long time ago when we first opened up."

"To Adelaide?"

Before Adelaide. Even before Amidale"

He was weaving a spider web of heartbreak right before my eyes.

"It was to Balmain
a dozen pink and orange roses, very pretty
in a nice ornate vase as I recall.
Have you forgotten?"

That had been a long time ago.
The flowers had been for Doon,
who'd died very young,
and had been pressed between the pages of my life more
than two decades ago.

I'd called the old federation house
to make sure the flowers had arrived,
the house was double fronted pale blue weatherboard,
with stained glass windows.

I remember the times when the doors
and windows were open and light burst out
from a house full of life.

Doon had already left for London,
but I still recall the words of Sarah
who was always cleaning.

" Doon left the vase",she'd said
"but she took the roses."

"I haven't forgotten",I said.

Poem # 4 Seeing the world through rose coloured glasses

I live in the foothills of a mountain community, in a village described, with self importance as ' gateway to the mountains". The location is slightly over an hours train ride from the central business district, so consequently this involves some commuting, usually by train, by mountain residents.

When you enter a train carriage you enter another little world, and you are ensconced within that world. Freedom is station to station, it could also be a prison.It is a wonderful microcosm in which to observe life. This small world generated the following poem.

Seeing the world through rose coloured glasses

As I travelled home in the twilight
in a 1940's train carriage,
myself surfeit with three days of union training,
a lady in red lowered herself
slowly into the seat next to me.

She wore red,
red everything.

A red coat,
a red skirt,
red stockings,
shiny patent leather red shoes
with very high heels.

Red toe nails,
long red fingernails,
red lips like Paloma Picasso,
red eyes behind red frames that
rose like wings from the bridge of her nose.

A fine red web of enlarged capillaries
flushed her cheeks.

Her long pure white hair was piled high on her head
and held with hair clips, each one
adorned with five ersatz rubies.

Huge red discs adorned her ears and
from the split in her skirt peeped a frilly red suspender.

She had a matching set of red bags,

a red cosmetics bag, and a red shopping bag.

A red purse held crisp $20 notes.

From the shopping bag she produced a case,
it held twelve red styling combs of different types.

She peered closely at them for a long, long time.
She picked three and held each to her ear
and thumbed them with her thumb.

She listened like a musician tuning an instrument.

ziiiiiiiiiiip............went the red teeth.

From another bag she took a long salutary pull at the red drink.

She noticed me watching her.

" Would you like a bit Darlink?" she said throatily, laughed,
and raised one henna eyebrow suggestively.

I stared.

I could see she was closer to eighty than seventy.

She introduced herself.

" My name is Camellia, Camellia La Rouge"

We headed west into the setting sun
enclosed in that noisy veteran carriage.

We left behind the city's pollution as we climbed into the mountain range.

On one side of me was a window thick with black grit and grime.
In the dusk, in my window seat, my world was one of dirt,soot,seediness, and depression,

but right beside me, in her aisle seat
sat that old spectacular lady,

"Camellia La Rouge"

and in her world all she could see was rose coloured,
the colour of luck,
and her own glowing environment was
enthused with european glamour.

Poem # 3 Sock Soca

Art is about emotions, it is also about making associations or connections, the more connections we make with a work of art the greater our appreciation of it. I believe there is, or at least should be a contract between the composer of, and the responder to a work of art. An unspoken contract, along the lines of " I will do my utmost to produce the best possible work I can, and you in return will give some consideration of this effort in an an attempt to understand it. Because art deals with emotions, it is sometimes uncomfortable to respond to, especially if it deals with 'raw' issues, but what is happening with this exchange between composer and responder. With a poem whose voice are we hearing? Are we hearing the voice of the composer, are we hearing the voice of the "poet",or " a narrator", or is it our own voice that we are hearing?

When I write I adopt the voice of a "poet", I usually try for an epigram, I know the feelings and experiences expressed by the "poet", but they are not necessarily my feelings and experiences.

Art is also about rhythm, and rhythm is an essential part of our lives. Rhythm gives structure and brings harmony to our lives, the beat of the heart, the regularity of your breathing, the vibration of an atom, the oscillation of a wave, a good rhythm brings happiness. With this in mind I offer the following poem.

Sock Soca

Every day when the wash is done,
then we get together and we have some fun.

Those single socks are all alone
they want to get together when the laundrys done

and have a big sock par tee
with the happy sock community
big sock par tee
with the happy sock community
party here, party there,
party together till the baskets bare
and have a
big sock par tee
shiny golden Russian samovar
big sock par tee
shiny golden Russian samovar.

red, black, yellow; they're all alone
haven't got a clue where their
partners gone.
They're thinking of taking out a classified ad
cause being without a partner is really bad.
big sock par tee
gonna hang out at the singles bar
big sock par tee
driving there in a funky car
big sock par tee

the only resolution is a social one
just get together and have some fun
and have a big sock par tee
two vegetable patties and a sezzame seed bun
big sock par tee
party here, party there,
come together in their pairs,
and have a big sock par tee
cranky Dad and a disgruntled Mum
big sock par tee.

and after all the dancins done,
they're no longer lined up
one by one;
they're joined together in harmony,
each one with a partner, not fancy free.

cause they had a big sock par tee,
tickling a tummy is a lot of fun
big sock par tee.
party here, party there,
party together till the baskets bare,
big sock par tee
soca dancin is number one!
big sock par tee.

and now they've all had some fun
its back to the drawer cause the party's done.

They had a big sock par tee
eaten the snacks to the very last crumb
big sock par tee.

Poem # 2 A magical Poem

Today I went to see the Pre-Raphaelite exhibition at the Art Gallery of New South Wales, title " Poetry of Drawing". It occured to me that 'poetry' in its essential sense is the raison d'etre of art. What the artist seeks to convey is that beautiful truth, in whatever the chosen medium, be it painting, sculpture, moving visual media, whatever medium is chosen.

I also thought about the synthesis across the arts, the Pre-Raphaelites were influenced by Romantic literature to create their visual images. These images consequently influenced the subsequent rise of the genre of Fantasy literature, now the biggest selling sub section of publishing. This writing in its turn has generated more visual images, and most likely the wheel will continue to turn.

In the spirit of Fantasy and Romanticism I offer the following poem:

A Magical Poem

Begone bad Princess!
You have no hold over me,
once you had emasculated me
your hold was gone.
Try not your siren spells with me,
I see not a magical beauty, but clearly
an ugly truth
that you will consume me
piece by piece,
flesh and spirit both,
and enjoy the ripping
asunder, until I am
tasted,chewed, and
digested.

100 Poems by A'dair: Poem # 1 ( Love me, love my dog )

Today I decided to attempt to write one hundred worthwhile poems, the assessment of whether they are worthwhile is entirely my own, but I do feel that I am in a position to at least make a reasonable critique, having been a serious student of literature since I was about six years old, and I am now fifty-six.

I once considered writing a novel in the thriller genre about a poet who was compelled to write a "good" poem each day in order to save the life of his loved one who had been captured by an evil doer. A friend convinced me this would be an unpleasant writing experience, which put me off. In this blog I am not attempting to write one poem a day, though this might happen, but my objective, my mountain to climb, as it were, will be 100 poems, a fine classic number.

Because the format of the blog allows it, I may as well illustrate them with some images of my art works, though these will not necessarily have any correolation to the text, the juxtaposition, or dialectic, if you will, might prove interesting in itself.

I hope it's an enjoyable exchange for both myself, and any who chose to observe them.

Poem # 1

Qui me amat, amat et canem meam

When you left I was an empty shell,
I was not alone;
but very lonely.
I was very depressed.
The nights were worst;
the matrimonial bed seemed a desert,
with me a question mark in one corner.
I'd roll out my sword arm to protect you,
but you weren't there,
and I missed that.
I missed the comfort and warmth of you.

One night I dreamed
I could feel you there.
Your rump tucked into
the curve of my belly,
your hair tickling my neck,
the rhythm of your breathing
rising and falling with mine.

This was reality, this was truth;
like a glass of water for a man 
dying of thirst in the desert.

You wouldn't leave me.
You whose mouth was finding mine;
the rubbery flesh of your lips
nuzzling mine;
the wet rasp of tongue
mashing my cheek;
the whine of desire 
rising from your throat;

but when I opened my eyes
all I could see was the family dog
by the side of the bed.