National Poetry Week 5-11 September - Jane Baker Book Launch

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National Poetry Week beckons - 5-11 September

There is plenty happening in the world of poetry. Poetry Australia now has over 1500 registered members. Of course there are many more involved in one way or another in creating and supporting poetry.

I shall be attending a book launch on 3 September - Jane Baker of the 'Yass Valley Writers' is about to launch a marvellous collection of poems - The Galled Tree ... which link her deep appreciation of the natural world with words from close observation.

Below is a poem she wrote at the time of the recent drought where the 'galled tree' is mentioned ...

Rain

Despite the best efforts of weathermen
and long absent kookaburras, not to
mention the premonitional processions
of ants in column, we did not believe.

Despite the slow descent of the sky
to a point just above our heads and
single fat drops leaving random muddy
splats on the windscreen we did not believe.

It wasn't when the soft shirr of newborn rain
whispered on the roof that we found faith or
even when the shirr sharpened into audible
hammer drills boring into the solar fired earth.

It was when water coursed down the trunk
of the grey Blakeley's gum revealing rainwear
of pink and ochre, blue, green, rust and butter cream
that we dared to believe and, believing,
to look at each other and grin foolishly.

Jane Baker

Footnote ...details of Blakeley's Gum from Wikipedia ...

Eucalyptus blakelyi, known as the Blakelys Red Gum is a common eucalyptus tree of the tablelands of New South Wales and adjacent areas in Queensland and Victoria. Growing to 10–24 metres (33–79 ft) tall, the trunk is smooth, with shedding scales of bark, revealing varying colours of pink, white and grey.^[1] This species is often a victim of eucalyptus dieback.^[2]

Broken Words

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She said she would get the matches we needed

but when she came back from the shops all

I saw in her basket was a dozen eggs and a cucumber!

And my dear mother said it would be the Gold Coast

this year, but we were not surprised to receive

a postcard from Batemans Bay. Now Julia’s another

fish and why we hold her words to ransom I just

cannot fathom, maybe that public face, – red one day

but never black and white. Well, it is clear to me

that reality is built from broken bricks.

It is just the way the world is, believe me –

but please, don’t take my word for it.

Richard Scutter  29 July 2011

Mrs Midas - Carol Ann Duffy

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A stanza by stanza commentary …

It was late September. I'd just poured a glass of wine, begun
to unwind, while the vegetables cooked. The kitchen
filled with the smell of itself, relaxed, its steamy breath
gently blanching the windows. So I opened one,
then with my fingers wiped the other's glass like a brow.
He was standing under the pear tree snapping a twig.

I like the domestic setting of this scene and the personification of the kitchen … the smell of itself and the blanching of windows (The I is infered female – which is the case) … 'brow' describes a well-recognised swipe in clearing the window. Who is this person? ... is the pear tree significant?

Now the garden was long and the visibility poor, the way
the dark of the ground seems to drink the light of the sky,
but that twig in his hand was gold. And then he plucked
a pear from a branch - we grew Fondante d'Automne -
and it sat in his palm like a light bulb. On.
I thought to myself, Is he putting fairy lights in the tree?

Dark of ground drinking light ... nice reverse of usual thought. They have some communion with the pear … and the Fondante d’Autumne is a delicious melting pear with a sweet musky flesh and a light green slightly russet skin … sexual connotations ... was the pear chosen for the transformation into a light bulb … the turning on of a light … she thought he could be putting bulbs into the tree

He came into the house. The doorknobs gleamed.
He drew the blinds. You know the mind; I thought of
the Field of the Cloth of Gold and of Miss Macready.
He sat in that chair like a king on a burnished throne.
The look on his face was strange, wild, vain. I said,
What in the name of God is going on? He started to laugh.

A real shock is taking place as he transforms objects familar to his hands.

From the Internet a comment by Carol Ann Duffy … ‘Miss Macready is Mrs Midas's old History teacher- she taught her about The Field of the Cloth of Gold- Mrs Midas is suddenly reminded of her when Midas draws the blinds. Cloth. Gold. History.'

His God is gold or Gold is God. He has changed. She wants an explanation but he taunts with laughter. Male dominance implied by ‘king’ and ‘throne’.

I served up the meal. For starters, corn on the cob.
Within seconds he was spitting out the teeth of the rich.
He toyed with his spoon, then mine, then with the knives, the forks.
He asked where was the wine. I poured with shaking hand,
a fragrant, bone-dry white from Italy, then watched
as he picked up the glass, goblet, golden chalice, drank.

She takes up the traditional wife position in serving … golden corn no doubt for golden teeth! She is also changing … ‘shaking hand’ and ‘bone-dry’… as she watches the alliterative transformation of a wine glass

It was then that I started to scream. He sank to his knees.
After we had both calmed down, I finished the wine
on my own, hearing him out. I made him sit
on the other side of the room and keep his hands to himself.
I locked the cat in the cellar. I moved the phone.
The toilet I didn't mind. I couldn't believe my ears:

Total realisation now … he takes a submissive position … she wants to spare the cat but doesn’t mind having a golden loo … and then he starts to explain …

how he'd had a wish. Look, we all have wishes; granted.
But who has wishes granted? Him. Do you know about gold?
It feeds no one; aurum, soft, untarnishable; slakes
no thirst. He tried to light a cigarette; I gazed, entranced,
as the blue flame played on its luteous stem. At least,
I said, you'll be able to give up smoking for good.

The negatives of gold … can’t sustain the body… Ah … but there is a positive here … nice way to give up smoking! … a sense of humour in the interplay

Seperate beds. In fact, I put a chair against my door,
near petrified. He was below, turning the spare room
into the tomb of Tutankhamun. You see, we were passionate then,
in those halcyon days; unwrapping each other, rapidly,
like presents, fast food. But now I feared his honeyed embrace,
the kiss that would turn my lips to a work of art.

Near petrified takes on its literal meaning!

Presents and fast food equated to the sexual fire that existed … but now she feared the kiss that would destroy (religious connection)

Tomb of Tutankhamun … there was a golden sarcophagus in the tomb as well as a dead mummy

And who, when it comes to the crunch, can live
with a heart of gold? That night, I dreamt I bore
his child, its perfect ore limbs, its little tongue
like a precious latch, its amber eyes
holding their pupils like flies. My dream-milk
burned in my breasts. I woke to the streaming sun.

She literally does not want to have a ‘heart of gold’ ... nor to have a child with only gold in it's eyes … nor, of course, her precious milk contaminated. The son-nightmare is broken by the streaming sun.

So he had to move out. We'd a caravan
in the wilds, in a glade of its own. I drove him up
under cover of dark. He sat in the back.
And then I came home, the women who married the fool
who wished for gold. At first I visited, odd times,
parking the car a good way off, then walking.

Well what to you do when you find you have married someone with completely alien priorities … well he has to live his life but you don’t want to be involved anymore – apart from the occasional visit through the woods ... so the relationship is maintained ... but perhaps not such a touching relationship.

You knew you were getting close. Golden trout
on the grass. One day, a hare hung from a larch,
a beautiful lemon mistake. And then his footprints,
glistening next to the river's path. He was thin,
delirious; hearing, he said, the music of Pan
from the woods. Listen. That was the last straw.

… and after occasional visits you found he had progressed deeper into his world … and the world of Pan = the God of the wild and famous for his sexual powers

What gets me now is not the idiocy or greed
but lack of thought for me. Pure selfishness. I sold
the contents of the house and came down here.
I think of him in certain lights, dawn, late afternoon,
and once a bowl of apples stopped me dead. I miss most,
even now, his hands, his warm hands on my skin, his touch.

What is most trying is the total disregard for her … total male selfishness. (Where she has moved to we don’t know … but if she sold the contents of the house she might have made a bit of money on all that golden stuff!)

She is reminded of him when there is gold in the sky.

She still has a fondness for her fool husband  … stopped by a bowl of apples … note Eve only stopped Adam with one, but she is stopped in her tracks by a whole bowl … golden delicious no doubt… she misses his touch … his golden touch … the actual physical contact of man  … very much a touching poem in everyway ... and perhaps she does have a golden heart and still love him.

Carol Ann Duffy

Public Credentials

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    ‘ well I’ve never met him personally

shaken ’is hand, had a drink at the bar

I know he’s been around for quite awhile

and people are always talking about him

apparently, he started out with nothing

’mazes me that he did everything by himself

original and imaginative work

but of course that was many years ago

one of m’ mates is always praising him

says he’s become more of a consultant

they say I should get more acquainted

not knowing tomorrow and in need of work

yes, I will have another, pour one yourself

and have you heard from Susie since she left

you’ll need a bit of help while she’s away

they should put on extra staff at the weekends

Bill’s been seeing him regular like

he reckons he’s a new person now

completely changed his way of working

but mind you he needed to change his ways

have you seen his work, what would you say

in need of more than a little refinement

did the devil of a job for his daughter

so crooked the council made him redo

he’s always been a bit of a loser

anyway he’s started to do the right thing

but how long will it last; you know what I mean

he’ll be back to his old ways; you wait and see

no, the wife’s better, not on her feet yet

it’s the change in the weather what knocked her

we’re taking her for a drive on Sunday

but she’ll have to stay in the car of course

so, you reckon I should contact this guy

perhaps send him an email to explain things

I’ve got enough work for a couple o’ weeks

after that, I’m afraid, there’s not much around

I hate having nothing planned in life

not knowing what to do or where I’m going

but don’t like the sound of a consultant

they’re always giving advice at a distance

I like someone more practical, involved

wouldn’t mind working for him if he chips in

you says he’s embarked on some big project -

probably needs me as much as I need him

anyhow, you say Susie’s up on Facebook

I’ll ask my son to search his computer

I’d like to see her photos as she travels

I might even surprise her with a message ’

Richard Scutter  June 2010

A Hymn to God the Father - John Donne

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Wilt thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallow'd in, a score?
When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
For I have more.

I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son
Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore;
And, having done that, thou hast done;
I fear no more.

John Donne 1572 - 1631

This poem was written late in his life. John Donne reflects on God forgiving man for wrong-doing (or sin), including a reflection on his own wrong-doing and most importantly in the last stanza a wrong-doing in terms of a fear of not being saved. Whether he was close to death or not this contemplation shows a fear that would be common to many approaching death.

In the first stanza he identifies with all that has gone wrong with humanity in the past. Life cannot be viewed without this acknowledgement whether or not you embrace the concept of original sin and a fall from grace.

The second stanza becomes more personal. Thinking of times where he has caused others to stray. Also the many years of his youth when he led a life of abandonment   '... wallowed in, a score'

The last four lines express his faith in his religion quite succinctly and his fear is dissipated. He uses his own name in two ways .... to state the accomplishment of God ... God has done his work through the son, and God has, of course, Donne within his care.

A link to more analysis of this poem 

'The Gods' - Dead Poets Dinner 2011 ... Details of Readings

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'The Gods' ANU Canberra (Geoff Page):  Dead Poets Dinner 26 July 2011
(details of some of the readings)

Reader ..... Poet ..... Poem(s)

Peter Edgar ... Shakespeare sonnet and ‘Skylark’ by Johnny Mercer

P.S. Cottier ... Borges Two sonnets

Joyce Freedman ... Robert Browning ... ‘The Lost Leader’

Janice Tynan ...  Emily Dickinson two poems

John van de Graaff ... Christina Rosettie ‘The First Day’

Hazel Hall ... Two Chinese poems (classical)

Christopher Dorman ... poem by Will Ogilvie

Geoff Page ... Philip Larkin ... ‘Aubade’

Melinda Smith ... Laura Riding ... ‘The Troubles of a Book’

Sarah Rice ...  Robert Frost ... ‘Mending Wall’

Caren Florance ... Lauris Edmond ... ‘Take One’

Lisa ... Edith Sitwell poem from ‘Facade’

Nicholas Brown ...  John Forbes two poems

Penelope Upward ...  ‘La Bonne Chanson’ Verlaine (in English)

Richard Scutter ... Arthur Stace ... Eternity ... E. E. Cummings ... If everything happens that can't be done

Sue Edgar ... Kipling ... ‘The Ladies’ and C.J. Dennis ... ‘Beef Tea’

Martin Dolan ... R.S. Thomas ‘A Marriage’ + poem by Edwin Morgan

Kathy Kituai ... Frank McMahon and Norman McCaig poems

Luke Whitington ... Wallace Stevens ...  ‘The House was Quiet and the World was Calm’

Alison Hastie ... Dorothy Baruch ... ‘Different Bicycles’ and Arthur Waley (trans)’On the Birth of his Son’

Donna Stewart ... Two Classical Chinese poems (in English)

Peter Latona ... Anne Edgeworth ... ‘Birth of a Poet’

A Token Life

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they do not sigh, pass-judgement,
back-talk, or give that evil eye, but
flash bright forever their acceptance
passive, with patience unlimited,
they wait disciplined in gaudy rows
a friendly arm outstretched

but if they could speak they would
say that the kids are left unattended,
that the glass has been filled by
the food they planned to buy, and
outside the sun is shining, and that time
is devalued by a token life

Richard Scutter 24 December 2009

Footnote ...

Australia has the highest number of poker-machines per capita than any other country. Apparently forty percent of revenue comes from 'problem gamblers'. The Government is trying to legislate to limit loss for those addicted.

If everything happens that can't be done - E. E. Cummings

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If everything happens that can’t be done - (... with a line by line analysis)

If everything happens that can’t be done

… this may appear a contradiction. What is the poet saying?  An explanation is needed. If everything happens ‘naturally’ (without thought) perhaps.

(and anything’s righter

than books

could plan)

… learning (by books) not needed … living and doing is always better

The stupidest teacher will almost guess

… everybody will intuitively know what to do … except the stupidest teacher

(with a run

skip

around we go yes)

… like the start of an automatic dance of joy

There’s nothing as something as one

… the individual rules supreme … knows best … perhaps I should say the one and only one! … and one is the connecting word to the next stanza

One hasn’t a why or because or although

Defining one … one just exists without asking questions … needs no qualification

(and buds know better

than books

don’t grow)

… books are dead things … compared to life (buds that grow)

One’s anything old being everything new

… every thing is a singularity (has a oneness) … whether it is old or new

(with a what

which

around we come who)

… the dance that was started in stanza 1 continues … what fun

One’s everyanyhing so

… emphasis on the properties of one … connecting word to the next stanza is so

So world is a leaf so tree is a bough

… there is a whole world in the unity of each object … each object has a whole world to discover

 (and birds sing sweeter

than books

tell how)

… books tell while life speaks as in the voice of a bird

So here is away and your is a my

… everything ‘distant’ is incorporated in the unity of the now which is happening

(with a down

up

around again fly)

… the dance continues in merry joy abandon

Forever was never till now

… now is the eternity of the moment

Now I love you and you love me

… connectivity between one and another is love
(and books are shuter

than books

can be)

… books are really inadequate compared to love, they are really closed shut … shuter than ever in the light of love … shuter … the creation of a new verb

And deep in the high that does nothing but fall

… a picture of love ever descending from the heights (heaven)

(with a shout

each

around we go all)

… the dance is really taking off … with love now in the movement

There’s somebody calling who’s we

… connectivity of one and one = we … and we has power (with love inherent)

We’re anything brighter than even the sun

 ... we (love), movement (life) … how can this be defined (brighter than the brightest)

(we’re everything greater

than books

might mean)

... certainly greater than anything that a book can give

We’re everyanything more than believe

… love (life) … beyond anything we could believe … beyond imagination

(with a spin

leap

alive we’re alive)

… the dance reaches a peak of joyous activity

We’re wonderful one times one

… we are ourselves complete, undiminished … 1 to the power n is 1 … rejoice in our oneness … compare with the last line of the first stanza.

E. E. Cummings

Looking at the poem structure and design …

Five stanzas of 9 lines … the last word of the stanza becomes the first word of the next  … the bracketed components form a two way linked undercurrent … the first of these in each stanza relates to books/learning/instruction … the second bracketed component relates to life and living in the moment in the form of a dance … words that can almost be sung … excellent rhyme and rhythm throughout.

(Note ... the word shuter (Stanza 4)… the degree of shutness … books are really shut tight ... that is in relation to life itself.)

My Love In Her Attire

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My Love in  her attire doth shew her wit,
  It doth so well become her:
For every season she hath dressings fit,
  For Winter, Spring, and Summer.
No beauty she doth miss
When all her robes are on:
But Beauty's self she is
When all her robes are gone.

Anonymous

Without knowing the context anonymous poems must stand by the text alone. They occur for a number of reasons. In the above, and seeing that the poem was written some time ago, it may have been because the author did not want their name associated with what could have been risque text.

What is more beautiful than the human body. The temple of the soul. Shame about obesity though! Clothes cover a multitude of sins ...and  in some cases perhaps preventing the same.

Bump Out - Anne Edgeworth

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(for the cast and team of DUSA, FISH, STAS, & VI)

Time to bump out the show,
the last line spoken,
Time for us all to go,
the circle broken,

Outside this spotlit space
the unknown, waiting,
It's been a growing place
this brief creating

for all of us who learned
long hours that went
into one moment earned
more than was spent;

We leave no artefacts
only a swept
stage, emptied of our acts
laughed with - or wept;

Nothing to take away - ?
Scrawled notes on pages,
Hopefully, heart to play
on harsher stages,

Some, perhaps, less alone -
Those weeks together
still with us, sounding on
in wilder weather.

Anne Edgeworth (from Poems for Off-Duty Hours)

This poem has been included as a tribute to Anne Godfrey-Smith (who wrote poetry as Anne Edgeworth).

She passed away in Canberra at the end of June at the age of 90. A former 'Canberran of the Year' and much involved in the art life of the capital including the first female manager-producer of the Canberra Repertory Society.

See - Anne Godfrey-Smith

Ant Attack

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I wondered where he was

then I saw him out in the garden

by the garden path, watching a stream of ants

as they crossed from one side to the other.

Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly

he stamped his foot down hard.

A little severe I thought,

they didn’t know what happened.

Then he saw me standing at the window,

he read my eyes immediately -

‘They can take it Dad’

as he left the ants to repair their path.

Richard Scutter 27 Feb 2011

The Orange Tree - John Shaw Neilson

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The young girl stood beside me.  I 
Saw not what her young eyes could see:

 A light, she said, not of the sky

    Lives somewhere in the Orange Tree.

The young girls starts the conversation ... perhaps so moved by her sense of seeing something within the orange tree that she just has to share.

Is it, I said, of east or west?

  The heartbeat of a luminous boy

Who with his faltering flute confessed

  Only the edges of his joy?

Was he, I said, born to the blue

  In a mad escapade of Spring

Ere he could make a fond adieu

  To his love in the blossoming?

Two stanzas of questioning takes the focus away from the tree on to the girl for an understanding of what she is experiencing. The bystander is trying to discover the nature of her experience in terms of his own thoughts.

Listen! the young girl said.  There calls

  No voice, no music beats on me;

But it is almost sound: it falls

  This evening on the Orange Tree.

The young girls says 'listen' ... she has been interrupted in her own listening ... listening is important ... but she has the grace to share saying there is something ... an almost sound ... a sense of something in the tree.

Does he, I said, so fear the Spring

  Ere the white sap too far can climb?

See in the full gold evening

  All happenings of the olden time?

Is he so goaded by the green?

  Does the compulsion of the dew

Make him unknowable but keen

  Asking with beauty of the blue?

Another two stanzas of similar questioning ... quite clearly there has been no listening, and no attempt to understand what is happening to the girl. The responder wrapped in their own thoughts.

Listen! the young girl said.  For all

  Your hapless talk you fail to see

There is a light, a step, a call,

  This evening on the Orange Tree.

Again the young girl asks for the person to listen ... and divert attention to the tree ... and she again emphatically states there is something communicating with her ... (call - a key word)

Is it, I said, a waste of love

  Imperishably old in pain,

Moving as an affrighted dove

  Under the sunlight or the rain?

Is it a fluttering heart that gave

  Too willingly and was reviled?

Is it the stammering at a grave,

  The last word of a little child?

Unfortunately her requests to listen have fallen on deaf ears ... the person wanting to extract the experience from the girl by analysis rather than any attempt at sharing in the moment.

Silence! the young girl said.  Oh why,

  Why will you talk to weary me?

Plague me no longer now, for I

  Am listening like the Orange Tree.

The young girl has had enough of the weary talk ... the communication with the bystander has ended ... she is now at one with the orange tree sharing totally with the tree ... perhaps at one with the natural environment.

John Shaw Neilson 1919

The most known and perhaps one of JSN's most important poems. Every poet, writer and especially those steeped in analysis should read these words.

Analysing experience detracts from the experiencing ... and may, as in the case above detract from the experience of another. I hope that my analysis has not stopped enjoyment of the poem!

I have a friend who twenty years ago stopped taking photographs on his journeys away. 

Where is the 'correct focus' of our attention? ... and do we live to write or write to live?

I must go and put the dog out, enjoy your day, really enjoy the day ... and no feedback necessary.