Journeys in Form: Nonet

Sunshine after recently reading my last post encouraged me to do more adventures in poetic form, a great idea really to limbre up my writing muscles.

Today I am trying nonets – a 9 line poem starting with 9 syllables on the first line and contracting by one until you end with one syllable. I wonder which form will attract me next, or if I’ll stick with nonet’s for a while – we’ll see how I feel at my next warm up.

Alone with my Friend
Jody McNary- Flickr Creative Commons

Alone

The girl with a flower in her hair
Motioned moonlight to visit her
Dancing light beams touched her face
Stillness touched ruby lips
Froze tears to her bones
Love still for her?
She could hope
And dream
Alone

By June Perkins

 

Magic Porridge, Haiku Sarah and Multiplying Guitars:Saturday Writing Sagas 5

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Blossom Morning – June Perkins

Message to self : stop writing poetry. Why?  Answer: because you are not writing anything else and poetry is not going to make you a living in writing.

The week began with a look through the ancient and not so ancient blog archives of Ripple, and ended with the editing and writing of several poems.

They just kept flowing, like the little girl who tells the porridge pot to cook in a fairy tale, until her whole town is covered in porridge, but in my case it’s poetry going bubble, bubble.

Is there such a thing as too much poetry?

Well there could be such a thing as too much hastily written, pure emotive poetry, but all poetry serves some purpose for writer and reader – from release, to communication of deep and complex meanings.  I would recommend everyone write poetry.

Now whether I’d say everyone share every piece you’ve ever written, the editor part of me would say ‘no, keep it back and share what you feel is going to be helpful to share, or inspiring to read.’  Your criteria could be theme, technique, and a combination of both.  Especially if you want your work to have ‘staying power.’

My son recently had to do an assignment to decide a poem to promote into a high school anthology, and another to throw out.  He chose to chuck, what he considered, a standard Elizabethan love poem , because there were other far better poems from the same era in a collection and it had nothing interesting in the technique. Also the poem seemed written to ‘get a girl’ rather than last for all time.  Remind you of any modern throw-away rock song? Hmm this reminds me of university classes where we studied poetic techniques from all eras.

I still recall my university class, but not the names of the students, more as personalities of the writers.  The stand outs were sonnet boy, Jane Austen rewrite fanatic and Surfer man – and then there was me and according to one teacher I was at my best being pithy! And another I was a lyricist.

We had two very different teachers, one who was into the beauty and power of language and our message could be anything and another who felt that the message of ‘soul’ was cliché.  I wrote a reactionary poem to that which never made it to my class folio – looking back it should have.  We also had to write fractured fairy tales.

My own fractured fairy tale idea has just come whilst writing this piece – yes a magic poetry pot that keeps bubbling until everyone speaks in poetic verse and becomes Haiku Junko and Sonnet Steve – and is starring in their own mixed verse novel.  Maybe writing poetry, and writing about writing poetry will be good for the creative prose muse.

Back to the anthology of my son’s,  my son chose a Paul Simon classic song, ‘I am a Rock’  to promote. Just think, many songs are now heading into the regions of 50 years plus, and we are beginning to see song writing classics worthy of study in schools and several forgettable songs bite the dust!  My Mum used to make me play my guitar at the nursing home she worked at. It was a disaster as they all wanted ancient songs, well like ‘Pack up your worries in an old Kit bag’, which I just didn’t know, not then anyway.

What songs do they play in nursing homes now today? Is it Paul Simon?  I feel this might be worthy of investigation.  I know it’s what I’d want to listen to.

And here we meet my other great love, song writing.  Here my guitar, or a piano come with me as a I write and a melody is either the beginning point, or fitted over the words which are reworked.

Something about song writing is less lonely than poetry, and that guitar often becomes a subject of poetry.  It is a trusty friend.  Mind you in our house guitars are multiplying.  The boys have moved onto Electrics but still have their steel strings, and I still have the Yamaha guitar my Uncle gave me when I was just fourteen.

As for the money makers in poetry – how many best selling poets are there out there? And perhaps all of them tend to be in the music industry – and from the fields of folk and Country and Western.  I think this is a huge topic to think about, but I  can only think of Pam Ayres, who went on tour to read her poems – there must be more????

New Message to Self: a poem a day will be my welcome warm up to the rest of the day and then I will move onto writing in other forms.  

Blue Bonnets

I wrote this poem a few years ago, but in light of the recent events in Texas it seemed a good time to share it publicly.

At the time I penned it a mother had suddenly lost her husband and I was extremely moved by her situation. The poem is not specifically about her, but more about grief – and then I read the legend of the Blue Bonnets and the poem took shape.

The poem has taken on new meanings for me in the wake of recovery from cyclone yasi, which it seems we only now start to truly feel relieved from.

When the newspapers and  most media go, and headlines diminish families are still left rebuilding, recovering and having to learn to let go to truly be free in the spirit. This is by no means easy. Yet somehow we get there in the end, and stories have a power to help us make it the point of renewal.

 

Funerals like rain
Fall from clouds
Young boys say ‘goodbye’
As father’s lowered to the ground

Mother stands alone
Tears become her shroud
Funeral goers utter not a sound.

She hears blue guitar strums
She’s pounding melancholy’s drums.

Texas and Tully are so far apart
Yet they share skies
Where hawks and ibis fly

Storms and troubles rock both their shores
Warn their people to depart.

She tells her children
the legend of the Texas Blue Bonnet flower

A young girl gave up her warrior doll,
The last reminder of family,
To invoke a higher power.

She burnt her warrior doll
Its head dress of blue feathers
Offered up its ashes
To the North, South, East and West Winds
So hunger and loss it would tether.

She cried herself to sleep.
Let her memory weep.

When she awoke
Never before seen flowers,
Clambered the mountains
Birds made their bowers
People drank from hope’s fountains.

The mother with the shroud
Inside’s the little girl
Who’ll burn her own warrior doll
She knows what must be done

She’ll let her dreams unfurl.
She’ll wait till all sleep then
Pull out her favourite guitar
Take those blue cords
Burn them, banish them

Scatter their ashes,
North, South, East and West.

The dry season will begin
Floods have had their fun
A looking- to-the-future music
will now begin to grow.

By June Perkins

blue bonnets
Herself- Flickr Creative Commons

Rainbow Gaze

Frog in recovery – June Perkins

A day of rainbows
Everywhere I look

Frog recovering
And put into a mini hospital
Made by caring children
Perched on glass above a kite

Children dancing in playgrounds
Climbing high to the rainbow filtered sky
Wearing hats of technicolour

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Rainbow shade cover- June Perkins

Walls down narrow streets
Tagged and painted to chase
Away boredom with art

Rainbow gaze
day ablaze

With colours

(c) June Perkins

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Hats – by June Perkins
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Down Under Wall – Cairns – June Perkins

Bush Boy

Bush Boy
Bush Boy – By June Perkins

Bush Boy feels ground’s textures beneath his feet

avoids ant’s nests as if they’re mines

likes the music made by falling branches

makes them into wands, drum sticks,

swords and all manner of things.

Bush boy likes to clamber and climb

look for turtles down at the creek

scare away snakes from the back clothesline

ignore smudges of dirt on his face

until he’s home for snacks.

Bush boy kicks his footy back and forth

hits a tennis ball with a stick – it’s his imagined cricket bat

dreams beyond the scrub

of games and heroes who once began here

sporting heroes raised in the bush.

(c) June Perkins