I Wish I'd Written This

Windows

I am not sure

who it was

who taught me

about sadness

or if my sense of this

is connected to

the winter solstice

I know not

who taught me joy

if it was the spring

the birds nesting

or if this germinated

during winter

beside the hearth of the fire

I understand

that romantic love

is a construction

and that you need

to enter into this illusion

with someone

who has been tricked

the same

or you

will be punished, then deadened

What I know now

is that the moon is bright

and I have shelter

and friends

and animals to protect

from drought and wind

and for this I rise

each day

At night I say

"I know not how

I will be strong enough

to survive tomorrow"

then I watch the moon

and feed on the moonlight 

even though it leaves me sleepless

as it spreads

into my bedroom

made only of windows

– Claine Keily

I spotted this poem on Claine's facebook page, along wth her note about it: 

'I wrote this today as I sat in my fenced in veggie garden planting out new crops and letting my little quail semi free range. It was a lovely day.'

Yes, it sounds like a lovely day!

I like the musing of the poem, the images it evokes, and the way it moves from sadness to drawing strength from nature.

I met Claine online when we were both involved in Project 366 (as we referred to it amongst ourselves) in which Aussie poet Kit Kelen invited several other poets and graphic artists (mostly, but not all, Australians) to contribute daily during 2016 to a blog called Project 365+1 (2016 being a leap year). It was an experiment to find out what would happen out of writing a new poem every day, and particularly whether the blog would give rise to a conversation – or perhaps various conversations – in poetry. (It did, from time to time, though perhaps not quite in the way Kit had in mind.)

A core group committed to the project for the whole year; Claine and I were two of many who signed on for a particular month – in our case the same one, after which we sought each other out to become facebook friends. It was a joy to become, in this project, so well-acquainted with the work of others involved – some of whom I already knew; others, like Claine, were new discoveries for me. I didn't want to stop reading her poetry after that month; I'm glad she posts poems on facebook.

Her facebook profile tells me she is originally from Sydney but now lives in Kuranda, a village in the rainforest in North Queensland, noted for its waterfall and scenic railway; that she works as a 'café poet', and has taught English Literature at two different colleges in Darwin. (A lover of the tropics, it seems!)

I thought of 'café poet' as someone who might offer to write poems to order for customers. Then, in her facebook Author Page I saw a newspaper interview which described her as being a 'writer in residence' there, so then I imagined her sitting and going about her work, composing poems in full view and discussing the process with any who cared to ask questions. But the interview soon revealed that she actually used it as a performance space, even surprising the clientele by suddenly collapsing on the floor before rising to give them a poem.

Although I know her only online, and her poems by reading them, I gather she is above all a performance-poet. (Is that term still current? It's what we used to call it when I was one of them.) Her Author Page includes photos of some of her performances. They look dramatic! 

When I asked her for some bio notes, she sent me the following:

Claine Keily is a poet and visual artist.

She has been published in Standards, Sotto, Cuttings, The Wonderbook of Poetry, When the Moon is Swimming naked, Notes for the Translators, Solstice Initiative, Poetry E Train, Project 365+1, and in The Rochford Street review.

Claine Keily’s limited edition artist books form part of the rare book collections at the University of Sydney Library, The National Library of Australia, The New South Wales State Library and the National Defence Force Library of Australia.

Well of course I had to ask her more about the 'limited edition artist books', didn't I? Most intriguing! 

She explained: 'The limited edition artist books contain etching and woodblock prints created by myself. For the limited edition copies of Viola Tusk there were photographs of sculptural installations by Claire Hauge and Russell Milledge'.

She also referred me to the afore-mentioned Author page on facebook. It includes not only images from her poetry performances or 'happenings', but also photos of some of the books; a 'video poem' combining film, spoken words and music; and texts of various poems. It's a Public page, so you should be able to access it and have a good browse (though I'm not sure if you have to join facebook to do so; I did that so long ago that I no longer know what applies to non-members).

You can also find her poems at 365+1, in June 2016. And, though our year there is over, some of the poets, including Claine (and Kit himself), have continued to post poems there; you could search for her work in the 2017 posts too, using the right-hand column – and perhaps find posts you like by others as well.


Note (From The Daily Echo online newspaper):

The Cafe Poet Program places poets in cafes as ‘poets in residence’ for a six-month period. The poet is given space to write (maybe two or three times a week – in consultation with the cafe) as well as complimentary tea and/or coffee and in return the cafe gets to be part of this community, promotion and the opportunity to plan events with the poet enriching the cultural life of the cafe. The program began in February 2009 and has been a huge success, placing more than twenty poets in cafes all over the country. The program has also connected cafe poets with various opportunities including working with RMIT media students and being published in the 2009 edition of Blue Dog: Australian Poetry.

Material shared in 'I Wish I'd Written This' is presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings remain the property of the copyright owners, usually their authors.

Poets United Midweek Motif ~ Rising Above

  “Little minds are tamed and subdued by misfortune; but great minds rise above them.” — Washington Irving

SOURCE

“One challenge of our adventure on earth is to rise above dead systems………wars, nations, destructions……to refuse to be a part of them, and express the highest selves we know how to be.”— Richard Bach

Midweek Motif ~ Rising Above

There are people even in our times who keep on inspiring us by living well, transcending their adversities.

I read in an article that circumstances, according to scientists are only 10% contributors to happiness and the rest is done by ‘our genes, our behavior and our intentional activities’. This may be the reason why some people having been through so much would not sink and cope well.

To quote from Nietzsche, “He who has the why to live can bear almost any how.”

How to rise above this dark cloud that this world / life/ has become?

Here is a poem for you by Maya Angelou:

Still I rise

by Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise. 

Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community—

               

                       (Next week Susan’s Midweek Motif will be ~ Animals)

                                                                     

LIFE OF A POET - SARAH RUSSELL

My friends, we have a treat for you today. I know you have been enjoying, as much as we have, the poetry of one of our newer members, Sarah Russell, of   Sarah Russell Poetry.  We are zipping across-country to Pennsylvania to sit down with her, and are so looking forward to it. Sarah has an interest in dollmaking, and her work is so exquisite it can't be considered a hobby, rather another art form. Draw your chairs in close. You won't want to miss a single word.

Sherry: Sarah, recently you posted the most beautiful poem about your 25^th anniversary. Would you tell us little about your wonderful life, your husband, your family, your work in the field of academia – anything that will help us know you better?

Sarah: First, thank you so much for asking me to do an interview.  Totally unexpected!  Where to start…   During the school year Roy and I live in State College, Pennsylvania, where Roy is a professor and department chair in the Education School at Penn State.  Summers and Christmases we spend in Colorado to be with children (3) and grandchildren (6).  

We love to travel, and we have lived in Oxford, England for a year and in Finland for six months.  Before we met, Roy lived in Kenya, teaching and training for Peace Corps, and I lived in Paris as a college student, so we try to indulge our love of other cultures every chance we get.  

Two years ago, we spent May in Paris where we put a padlock on a ring on the quai of the Seine to renew our vows, and tossed the keys in the river (frowned on, but so romantic!), and this year we returned and found the lock, safe and sound with 5 other locks added by other lovers. 

Sherry: Oh, my goodness, so romantic!

Sarah: We have a puppy mill rescue parti-colored poodle named Smudge who is 6 years old and who works as our personal trainer. 

There’s a beautiful wooded park in State College where we go every day to walk and receive Shinrin-yoku – our forest bath.  It always refreshes our souls to breathe air tinged with pine.  Smudge is the smallest (and arguably the smartest) of the 5 rescue dogs we’ve adopted over the years—a funny, loveable little guy.  In fact, we turn down most invitations to go out because we’d rather spend our time with him and with each other.  The life of semi-recluses, I guess. 

Sherry: That would be my choice, too! He is such a cute boy. (And your husband is handsome too, lol.) This might be the perfect place to include one of the beautiful poems you have written to your husband.  

If I Had Three Lives

               After "Melbourne" by the Whitlams

If I had three lives, I'd marry you in two.

The other?  Perhaps that life over there

at Starbucks, sitting alone, writing – a memoir,

maybe a novel or this poem.  No kids, probably,

a small apartment with a view of the river,

and books – lots of books, and time to read.  

Friends to laugh with, and a man sometimes,

for a weekend, to remember what skin feels like

when it's alive.  I'd be thinner in that life, vegan,

practice yoga.  I’d go to art films, farmers markets,

drink martinis in swingy skirts and big jewelry.  

I’d vacation on the Maine coast and wear a flannel shirt

weekend guy left behind, loving the smell of sweat

and aftershave more than I did him.  I’d walk the beach

at sunrise, find perfect shell spirals and study pockmarks

water makes in sand.  And I'd wonder sometimes

if I'd ever find you.

                                            First published in Silver Birch

Sherry: Oh, my goodness, this is wonderful. Those closing lines! They gave me goose bumps. Where did you grow up, Sarah? Were you creative as a child?

Sarah: I was born and raised in Muskegon, Michigan, the only child of older parents, so I spent a lot of time alone with my imagination.  My father was an invalid who loved poetry.  He always scanned poems for rhyme and meter, and taught me to have an “ear” for the music of poetry.  I wrote a poem every day  when I was in high school—the normal angst-filled or maiden/hero fare of adolescence—which have mercifully been lost over time, but it was wonderful discipline for daily writing, and it led me to majors in English and French in college.

Sherry: I am interested in your years in the women’s movement in the 70’s. Would you like to tell us a bit about that?

Sarah: That was another period of poetry for me—my shrill poetry, I call it now.  Having been socialized in the 50's, the concepts and truths of the women’s movement hit me like a hammer.  Sometimes I would read a passage from feminist literature and literally have to remember to breathe because it was so true, and so much the life I was living.  I was expecting my third child when I decided to return to school for a masters and doctorate.  

I didn’t follow my instincts to get degrees in English or Theater (another love from high school and college) but went into mass communication and communication theory.  My very traditional marriage fell victim to my feminist thought and my return to academe, but in time, while teaching at the University of Memphis, it led me to Roy and a great deal of happiness.

Sherry: I felt the same way back then, in a stifling marriage as the thunderbolt of The Feminine Mystique was awakening me. I am so glad you found lasting happiness.

When did you begin writing poetry again?

Sarah: When I retired after working for the Colorado AIDS Project as their communication director, and then as an editor at Penn State for several years, I was again drawn to poetry.  But oh, how it had changed!  Rhyme had given way to the thrilling freedom of free verse, and I loved it.  

I’ve read that you should read 100 poems for every poem you write, and I had some catching up to do if I were going to write in the 21^st century.  I read and read and read before I started writing again.  I still adhere to the 100 to 1 rule and spend every morning, and sometimes the afternoon as well, reading and writing.  

I love the rewrite part.  Generally I write a first draft as prose, not even looking at the iPad keys—just putting it ALL down.  Then I’ll leave it to germinate, and when I go back to it, later that day or the next, it starts to coalesce as a poem.  I save an original copy of the prose, then prune and prune, shaping it until it looks right, then leave it again.  I may go back 4 or 5 times before I’m ready to let anyone else read it.

Sherry: That method seems to work very well for you. Your poems are very polished. What do you love about writing poetry?

Sarah: Words, meter, nuance, metaphor, the unexpected images I find, the search for just the right phrase to describe a concept.  I believe in clear, honest words and everyday scenes to portray abstract ideas.  And I believe the bigger the concept, the more intimate the image should be that illustrates it.  Many times the whole poem becomes a metaphor.  And I love it when readers find more in a poem than I have seen myself. 

Sherry: We are all anticipating reading a few of your poems. Let's dive in!

Sarah: I am currently muddling through my poems to form a chapbook.  I’ve always thought that borders, seams, where meadow meets woods, shifts in thinking or feeling, frontiers, are where the new or unexpected happens, so I’m working on that theme.  Here are three poems that will be in the chapbook.  I’m not much for explaining my poems, so I’ll let them speak for themselves. 

Leaving West Virginia

The road curls snug against the hills,
dips into hollows, rises up through stands
of oak, rough against dun clouds
that promise snow.

Old Jimmy waves goodbye, and Maude
is backlit in the door.  Homesick starts here
on this gravel road, I guess -- nuzzling deep
in sun-sweet quilts, an owl keeping himself
company at midnight, clanking the old stove

to life come morning.

The world is raw, waiting where the road
goes flat and blurs in a rush to get somewhere.
I watched for dawn this morning, breathless to be gone.
Now I want to salt away this place the way it is,

the way I was.

                          First published in Kentucky Review

I lost summer somewhere

in the wildflowers, woke

to trees blushing at my disregard,

wind hurrying the clouds along.  

I should have seen the signs.

I watched geese abandon their twigged

April nests, pin-feathered goslings

ripple ponds listless with July.  Now they rise

gray against the gray sky, skeining south

before first snows.

I'll stay here, I tell them.  I'll air out

cedared cardigans, chop carrots

for the soup tonight, cross

the threshold of the equinox,

try not to stumble.

                                  

                              First published in Poetry Breakfast

The Cottage

I've grown quiet here. My mind

has opened to woodsong

and the smell of earth turned

by a trowel.

I enjoy solitude, even when regrets
or the throb of an old lover happen by.
Sometimes I invite them in, make
a ritual of teacups on starched linen,
a silver server for the scones.
We reminisce 'til shadows trace
across the floor, call them away.

Afterwards, I tidy up, wipe away
drops spilled in the pouring.  I save
the leftovers though they're getting stale.
I may crumble them on the porch rail
tomorrow for sparrows
before I garden.

                 First published in Poetry Breakfast

Sherry: I love your poems, the owl keeping itself company, "homesick starts here", woodsong and crumbling the leftover scones (and memories?) on the railing for the birds....sigh. So lovely.

Do you have a favourite poet? Do you feel he or she influences your work?

Sarah: In high school, I devoured Edna St. Vincent Millay’s work, and I still love her poetry.  But now I read more free verse.  Mary Oliver, Ted Kooser, Stephen Dunn, Thomas Lux.  Poets who don’t obfuscate.  I believe you should get something the first time you read a poem.  You should get more on a second reading, and even more with a third or fourth.  But I have no patience for poetry that is pretentious and/or obscure.  Thomas Lux said that kind of poetry is “just rude.”  I agree.

Sherry: I do, too. I like to be able to understand what I am reading. Is there someone you feel has had a significant influence on/or has been a strong encourager of your creativity? 

Sarah: I am in a poetry workshop group in State College that has met every other Saturday morning for 4 years.  The people in that close knit group have been invaluable in helping me shape my poems and my style.  And for three years I have had a writing buddy whom I met online.  We’ve never met in person. When I have taken a poem as far as I can alone, I send it to him.  He sends his first draft poems to me. We truly are in one another’s heads, we trust each other, and the changes he suggests are always spot on.  I treasure our friendship.

Sherry: Your work is well supported. That certainly helps keep the creative juices flowing. What other interests do you enjoy? 

Sarah: For 20 years I sculpted one-of-a-kind dolls, a pastime, then a career for a time.  I specialized in Native American dolls from various tribes, and I did a series of dolls based on Edward Curtis’s photographs taken at the turn of the century. 

Here are a couple of pictures, and there are more on my old website (I haven’t updated it in several years, but if anyone is interested the URL is www.SarahRussellDolls.com.)  

When we moved to a townhouse I stopped making dolls and turned to writing, since dollmaking takes a lot of room and a lot of supplies. 

Sherry: Sarah, your dolls are exquisite. I love that they are Native American. They are so realistic. 

Thank you, Sarah,  for this lovely visit. We are so happy you found your way to us, and look forward to enjoying much more of your work. Is there anything, in closing, that you would like to say to Poets United?

Sarah: I feel so fortunate to have discovered Poets United.  You all have been so welcoming. I love working from prompts and trying new forms, if I have time to work on them long enough to be satisfied with the results.  I’ve met some amazing poets, and I’ve been reading wonderful poetry.  What a great group!

In a couple of other interviews I’ve read, they have closed with a short poem.  Here’s one I would like to share:

September

Black-eyed Susans gossip in the gullies

between the road and corn

past harvest,

clouds in feather boas waltz

through pale silk skies, and cows head home

for milking, while

the hawk holds vigil on a fence post.

                                  

                              First published in The Houseboat

What a wonderfully visual poem! I love it! Wasn't this a heartwarming visit, my friends? Each poet's journey and story is so unique. That's why I love doing these features. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It might be you!

                                       

Poetry Pantry #372

Photos Taken Along the Bay Trail
by Bekkie Sanchez

A lone century plant blooms amongst the anise (or fennel.)
These do not grow along the Bay Tail but this one did. The birds and I love it.

A sea monster at the Magic Mountain Playground in the Coyote Point
park tried to steal away with my bicycle!

Coyote Point is a state park of Eucalyptus trees with a harbor, a museum,
 a large playground for children and more with trails running throughout.

Morning (and sparkling water) at Coyote Point
overlooking the San Mateo bridge.

This water fountain at the Oracle company was dry for years.
Now that the drought is over it’s back. What I like
 is when you look closely at the water on the rocks it
 makes beautiful patterns with the light.

There are a group of at least 6 snowy egrets in these trees.
They like to hide out and even sit in trees when not hunting up food.

Greetings, Friends!  The photos in Poetry Pantry today are courtesy of our biker Poet Bekkie Sanchez, who took them along the Bay Trail in California.  The words are Bekkie's as well.  I love that she photographed places that she saw as she biked, don't you?  Sherry will be featuring her interview with Bekkie soon.  Stay tuned!

This week many of you wrote poetry to Susan's Midweek Motif prompt - "Peace." A very apt prompt for the week when the world celebrated the International Day of Peace. Next week Sumana's prompt will be "Rising Above."

Friday Rosemary featured the poem "It Was Long Ago" by Eleanor Farjeon!  A very nostalgic poem - a lovely feature. Check it out, if you haven't.

Be sure to return on Monday to read an interview with another poet fairly new to Poets United, though certainly not to writing poetry.  Smiles.

With no delay, let's share poetry.  Link your poem below.  Stop in and say hello in the comments. And then visit the poems of others who have posted!  See you on the trail.

The Living Dead

~ Honouring our poetic ancestors ~

It Was Long Ago

I'll tell you, shall I, something I remember?
Something that still means a great deal to me.
It was long ago.

A dusty road in summer I remember,
A mountain, and an old house, and a tree
That stood, you know,

Behind the house. An old woman I remember
In a red shawl with a grey cat on her knee
Humming under a tree.

She seemed the oldest thing I can remember.
But then perhaps I was not more than three.
It was long ago.

I dragged on the dusty road, and I remember
How the old woman looked over the fence at me
And seemed to know

How it felt to be three, and called out, I remember
'Do you like bilberries and cream for tea?'
I went under the tree.

And while she hummed, and the cat purred, I remember
How she filled a saucer with berries and cream for me
So long ago.

Such berries and such cream as I remember
I never had seen before, and never see
Today, you know.

And that is almost all I can remember,
The house, the mountain, the gray cat on her knee,
Her red shawl, and the tree,

And the taste of the berries, the feel of the sun I remember,
And the smell of everything that used to be
So long ago,

Till the heat on the road outside again I remember
And how the long dusty road seemed to have for me
No end, you know.

That is the farthest thing I can remember.
It won't mean much to you. It does to me.
Then I grew up, you see.

— Eleanor Farjeon (1881-1965)

I used to love Eleanor Farjeon's stories when I was growing up. Sometimes they contained poems; and this poem could well have been written for children. The 'you know' and 'you see' (which I admit I find slightly irritating) could suggest as much.

However the nostalgia for a special moment in childhood belongs to the adult, even if in the poem she means to address children. She makes me feel it too, almost as if I had had that very experience. Although I didn't, and you didn't, we can all, I'm sure, remember berries and cream, sunny days, dusty roads, cats and kindly old women.

Wikipedia tells us that she 'was an English author of children's stories and plays, poetry, biography, history and satire. Several of her works had illustrations by Edward Ardizzone. Some of her correspondence has also been published. She won many literary awards and the Eleanor Farjeon Award for children's literature is presented annually in her memory by the Children's Book Circle, a society of publishers.'

She came from an artistic and literary family. Her father was a novelist, her mother the daughter of an actor. Poetry Foundation describes their home as 'a literary and artistic hub'. One younger brother grew up to be a composer, another a novelist, and the oldest (to whom she was very close) a Shakespearean scholar and drama critic. A timid child with poor eyesight ('Just like me!' I can't help thinking) Eleanor grew up to have a wide range of literary friends, including D. H. Lawrence, Walter de la Mare, Robert Frost and Edward Thomas.

Her best-known poem was written as a hymn, to put words to an old Gaelic tune. You'll know it — it's the beautiful Morning Has Broken (which she titled Morning Song) usually credited to Cat Stevens (Yusuf Islam) whose singing popularised it.

Her best-known novel, the unforgettable Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard, was written for adults but became famous as a children's story. It works on both levels, delighted me when I was a child and still does.

You can read more of her poems at PoemHunter. Some of her books (more fiction than poetry) are listed at her Amazon page; a few of them are even in Kindle. I just grabbed the Martin Pippin book and its sequel, Martin Pippin in the Daisy Field; high time for a re-read.

Material shared in 'The Living Dead' is presented for study and review. Poems, photos and other writings and images remain the property of the copyright owners, where applicable (older poems may be out of copyright). This picture of Eleanor Farjeon is in the Public Domain.