Of Prosody and Verse

Of Prosody and Verse

What does a person who regularly reads poetry look like?

Do they wear linen and silks, and always take time with their appearance? Do they

give preference to the artistic and the aesthetic? Do they always have a vase of fresh

flowers in their rooms? Do they choose unusual taste combinations when ordering

from a menu? Do they complete studies in the arts at an ivy league university? Do

they seek the esoteric and the sublime? Do they always possess presence of mind

and are they always in tune with their inner thoughts and feelings?

Did they always think that poetry was important? Do they realise some truth about

poetry that an ordinary person does not? Do they consider that there is always at least

one poem in an anthology worthy of respect, if not joy?

Can ordinary people like poetry? Like it enough to look with eagerness for it in the

magazines they read, or to purchase a book or two of poetry that they occasionally

take down from the bookshelves to read? Ordinary enough that their bookshelves are

overflowing with the pulp fiction that is so easily obtained, and so difficult to refuse, but

are equally happy to have a small volume of poetry sitting amongst all these other

titles? Ordinary enough that their friends don’t know they like poetry?

I like poetry, but I feel ordinary. I dislike about fifty percent of the poetry I read; either I

don’t understand it or it’s too obtuse, or it is simply too aphasic for taste. Much of the

rest leaves me unmoved. I don’t dislike it, but it does nothing for me. I feel nothing. Did

the poet feel anything when he/she wrote it? Isn’t poetry supposed to move me, make

me think about the topic differently, improve my perception of life in general, give me a

new glimpse into a field I thought I already knew? Only a small portion of the poetry I

read moves me, makes me sit up and take notice. It makes me stop and think and

often sends me off into the realms of thought that are deep and too seldom visited.

And what does a poet look like? Most biographies of the life of bards I have read

indicate that they were closet poets until the weight of their work could no longer be

hidden. Did they hide themselves because they were ashamed of being a poet,

embarrassed over the quality of their writings, fearful of mockery and ridicule? Do we

expect a poet to produce simple, even mundane, thoughts wrapped in a beautiful

conception, a delightful artistry, while at the same time dressing carelessly, living

poorly, and enduring a life of deprivation and penury?

Poetry is a mystery to me. I feel it has a lofty mission but is that really the case? And

what, exactly, might that elevated purpose be? Surely it must be more than mere

linguistic synthesis. I hope that it is more than trite re-articulation using pentameter or

iambic structure. I don’t mind careful interpretation being a requisite commitment to

appreciate what the poet is declaring, but wilful obfuscation and obtuseness cannot

be condoned. Impenetrability is not the measure of good communication let alone a

work that should, at least in part, inspire, inform, or edify.

The poetry that I like, the poetry that inspires me, informs me, and edifies me, makes

my life richer. I look for the aesthetic beauty it brings to my day, and I enjoy the way it

furnishes my thoughts with deeper meanings and understandings. But clearly, a very

large portion of the world’s population do not think the same way. I doubt more than

ten percent of my friends and family could give two hoots about poetry. Even less

would go out of their way to read a poem. The thought of spending hard-earned

money to purchase a book of poetry never arises in their mind, and if ever it did, it

would be immediately discarded as either wasteful or extravagant.

I wonder, is poetry a metaphor for how we live? We, each, ascribe different weights

and measures to things in accordance with a subconscious world view, and that is

what makes the world multicultural. Some of which is good, and some which is terrible

from almost any perspective. Will there be poetry in Heaven? Will only the same ten

percent give a hoot, and will heavenly community poetry nights eek out a sparse

existence for lack of attendance?

You know, there are many, many things in this life that puzzle me, and no doubt, there

are many more important things to wonder about than where poetry sits in the

collective subconscious of our society, but I cannot help myself. I think about this far

more often than even I think is useful. What do you think?

When I write

I write when I am inspired; when words pour from my head faster than I can type.
When phrases leap into my brain unbidden and in the most banal of circumstances,
or in the most unexpected or inconvenient moment.

I write too, when I have an urge to foster conversation. When I ponder a subject that
initially perplexes me, causes me bewilderment, or that causes such strong perturbation
that I am driven to explore, to investigate, to examine and scrutinise until finally I arrive
at some level of peace.

Writing forces me to clarify what I think, what I contemplate. When I write I am
sometimes surprised at what appears on the page. Those bold words formed by ink
and pigment can seem so cold, heartless; cruel even. Or is it the paper that is cruel,
hard, and thankless, not my words? Regularly, the words emerge warm, kind,
whole-hearted and I wonder at the quality of the stationery that has so imbued my
words with such decency.

Writing may bring depth, but I know that speaking brings clarity and sharpness. So
how do I deepen my understanding of a topic? How do I plumb the depths of a subject
to illuminate the dark areas of bias, spotlight the hidden reef of attitude, reveal the secret
agenda of selfishness?

Reading brings advice, data, information and knowledge and writing brings depth, but
it takes the perception, judgement, opinion and discernment of others to bring enlightenment,
illumination and wisdom. Balance comes when I listen to the viewpoint of others, when
their declarations and opinions are given equal weight with my own, when I hold lightly
my own persuasions and give dignity to the expression of others

Ziziphus Spina-Christi

Did the bush survive when it lost its long stems

or shrivel from the theft of such diadems?

Did it know the outcome for that scented bouquet

would cause blood to run red as beaujolais?

And that the action of each piercing thorn would

one day bring all men to mourn?

Or did it gladly meet its expiration sentenced

for history’s most vile coronation so when

it gasped its last rhizomeous breath it

gracefully greeted its justified death?

Did it realise as the royal blood mingled down with

the aroma of that perfumed crown nature was

sent into disarray at the horror of such foul play?

And what of the gardener? Did he presume that

the bush would flourish, grow and bloom and

bear its fruit with equal scent as any blessed sacrament?

For sap and petal to ignore such treason and

blithely continue in each season and thereby

ignore its lament at such sour discontent?

And what of the hands of the crown’s designer? Did

he wish he’d picked a bush much kinder than

the treacherous barbs that nipped and bit at

his fingers and was he surprised at how long

the poison lingers when once the thorn has

made its attack?

Grocery Shopping

“I’ll just duck in and grab a few things”, says the child bride. “You want to join me?”, the look on her face brooking no dissension. Reluctant as a chook at a tar and feathering party I trail behind her hoping for some legitimate distraction, or at least to come across a not-so-well-known acquaintance that provides the required excuse to linger outside.

A blur of colour greets me from every shelf, adding to the confusion of my intention. Occasionally amplified instructions echo down the aisles like the call to evening prayers from the local mosque. I have often wondered, if all the public notices in our grocery stores were sung like Islamic prayers, would the diction and clarity of the message improve? Every time you turn into the next aisle you meet the same people you saw in the previous aisle. By the time you have finished your shopping you almost feel like old friends. Sometimes I find myself wanting them to be old friends; the contents of their trolley looks much more interesting than what’s in ours.

The are three groups of people in a grocery store; those with a list and a determination to get in and out as quickly as possible; those without a list that still need to return home with an appropriate quantity of food and household items to forestall another trip to the store for as long as possible; and partners dragged along against their will to “help”, but who usually provide little assistance. I so want to be a member of the first group, but know in my heart that I will  always hold a solid membership in the third.

I don’t know how grocery stores became so big, or why they felt they needed to grow to such monstrous proportions. If I find a grocery store when I get to Heaven I will feel completely abused of the commonly accepted meaning for ‘heaven’. I bet Nirvana doesn’t have a grocery store. I bet Utopia doesn’t either. Nor a post office with a long queue, or cafes that only sell kale smoothies and vegan dishes. Heaven will be sensible about such things. After all, who wants to spend eternity shopping for gluten-free bread, low-fat milk and quinoa.

And don’t start me on shopping for clothes! Heaven forbid.

.

Ode to a Pumpy

I am a humble pumpy driving down the street

On my way to a job where I will pump the ‘crete

I’m considered a nobody, the lowest in the chain

If anything goes wrong I will get the blame

I pull up, look at the site and hope it will soon be dawn

Extend the legs, deploy the boom, stifling a yawn

Again the batch plant’s broken, the first load is late

Giving me time to get things all ship-shape

The first agi finally turns up and thing’s are looking sweet

Until the tester comes along and inspects the ‘crete

“It’s good to go”, he says but he’s got tunnel vision

The ‘crete’s too dry; so I make a common sense decision

And it’s not just the pumping, there’s the WHS patrol

And the parking nazzi wanting to prove he’s in control

The council complaining of restricted airspace penetration

And the overhead power lines threatening bifurcation

Architects and draughtsmen, interior designers too

Of their creations there is always much ado

Their flash and fancy productions cause an ooh and ah

The industry of construction always setting a higher bar

Breakdowns, weather, plus loads, the normal delivery delays

Every pumpy knows to expect those kinds of days

So unless it’s raining heavy we’ll always come through

Cos’ I’m a noble pumpy proudly wearing the orange and blue

Evelyn Grace Briese

Evelyn Grace, I never got the chance to meet you.

To say hello. To say goodbye.

No chance to see your sweet face, your tiny hands, your perfect feet.

So I am sorrowful, sister dear, but you are happy.

As the wise man *wrote, you are more blessed than both the dead and the living.

And your soul is rejoicing, and your spirit is singing, for you are with Him

and you are experiencing the joy of living with Him face to face.

So dear little one, I know that we will meet one day

and we will greet each other as we truly are; fellow sons of God.

And we will never have to say hello

or goodbye.

*Ecclesiastes 4:2-3

Autumn in Toowoomba

Solicitous as a maitre de

the autumn dawn arrives filigreed with

the warble of wagtail and finch

Cumulus measle the grey sky

Ironbarks discuss needless alibi while

lawyer-gowned magpies hypothesize over the breakfast menu

The day unfolds to reveal

some drunk’s vomit congealed in

the gutter joining the stench of rotting leaves and diesel

Dusk settles with the authority

of ceaseless repetition as

the silent majority make their way home from work

Fast-food dishes of pizza and noodle

Eaten in front of programs with scant scruples as

the remora of twilight’s grey skin, the blue wash of digital

screens, appear on-cue

MDC

April 2018

King James Quoting King David

King James quotes King David

If, by morning, I leave any that pisses against the wall”

I was taught as a child that piss was a vulgar word,

not to be used by persons of good breeding

or polite nature. So you can imagine my surprise

to discover these words in my young teenage years.

A king using such language? If it is permissible for a king

to talk like this, why not a pleb?

Still, I have never felt free to use this word.

I suppose parental admonition is stronger than royal decree.

MDC

March 2018

Driving to Stanthorpe

We set off on the journey, suitably groomed,

clothed, and suitcased for a week at Grandma’s.

Days filled with fresh air, tea and shortbread loomed.

We breathed a mixture of anticipation and resignation.

The potholes in the road were filled with water

that captured fragments of the overhead sky

in portions larger than if they were filled with mortar;

Bringing the sky down so it was over us and under us

Feeling eerie, we drove between two skies expecting the universe

to fissure any minute from our unnatural action,

But the skies remained calm, clouds interspersed,

puffed and pompous like French pastries.

Empyrean dainties plump with heavenly manna,

watery intent dripping from their brows.

The universe split, dumping again its wet hosanna

with distemper and petulance upon us.

Arriving at the matriarchal residence

as we dismounted from our muddied sedan

the cerulean skies belied the sullied evidence;

We looked like travelers venturing from a previous epoch.

MDC

March 2018

Ode to Banjo

I’ve always wanted to write poetry just like ‘Banjo’ Paterson,

But I’ve neither had the intelligence or the wit.

Words flow from my mouth more easily than my pen,

And I’m often taken by many for a twit.

Banjo wrote of sheep and stockmen, and Clancy of the Overflow;

And characters you found along the track.

He made the past romantic, with somewhat of a lure

And I’ve often wished that I could travel back.

He had a sense of perception not common in our time

Though it was more usual in his day.

He could make you cry with a verse but when you turned the page

His prose would have you laughing all the way.

I could never hope for the skill or even for the wit

To write my verse with Banjo’s kind of flair

For history was his canvas; for colours he used words

And his “paintings” shine with a stately kind of air.

MDC

April ’81