Sunday, April 25, 2010

Of All Edges

So, I think I'll save the analysis of this poem for another day.

Of All Edges

Month after month
Everything played out
in my mind like
a cancer of thoughts
and I convinced
myself it was terminal.
Then in the Family Room
on a day like every other
I discovered there is a verge
waiting for us with every
step that is taken.

I could only watch
as all of the things
about me that I could detach
easiest teetered on the edge
that I never thought I'd
ever see. Teeter then drop
like stones into the ocean's mouth
below. I can imagine so many
things in life slipping through
my fingers, but never this. And
then I imagined the people I'd heard of;
that Dad had told me about
because he is one of those people.
He was a cliff-dweller.

Two weeks. Hospital visits.
Doctors. Blood tests. X-rays.

"Are you under any kind of stress?"

Doctors. Blood tests. X-rays.


And these days I'm a scoober
diver and in this arc I'm
salvaging the parts of me
that I treated like air and water.
Mostly my patchwork
body is thrown against the cliffs
by the waves
but there are precious times
in dangerous waters because
sometimes I find exactly
what had been taken and
then I find a little more.

He was a cliff-dweller.
And now me too.

Watching the World Turn got published!

'Watching the World Turn' got published in Five Bells and I didn't find this out until my copy (I'm a member of the Poets Union... fitting? I think so) arrived in the mail. Can you imagine my excitement when I flick though the pages and see my name and poem published? I got pretty damned excited to say the least, and dad would agree since he was standing right in front of me.

Weirdly, I can't help but wonder why they didn't notify me that I was being published, since the Poets Union website details that that will happen once my poem is selected for publication? OH WELL. WHO CARES? I got published! Very very happy! And what makes me even more happy is that after me and Dad found out about my publication, he went out to get beer and apparently told everyone who he saw that one of my poems had been published. I love that he is proud of me, what more could a son want? Funnily enough, he told the person who the poem is about that I got it published, but she doesn't know anything about being the subject of the poem. Irony anyone?

I actually don't think I've posted the poem on my blog, so I've posted it further below. First though, a little analysis. Written in 2007 as 'The Dusty Frail', the poem is about not being able to offer any assistance to one of my best friends (by their request) who was going through a difficult period in there life. It has a number of companion poems, being written about an event during my last years of highschool (which is when I started writing poetry). For your reference, these poems include: 'The Sitting Room', 'Daysrping Leaves', 'Magnolias', 'Quiet', 'The Narrative' and 'Their Nests Were Made of Glass'.

The original poem 'The Dusty Frail' mainly consisted of the 'Question stanzas' that make up the body of the poem. It was written before my computer crapped itself and deleted the majority of the poems that I had written up until then, so when I rewrote it, I managed to remember most of the body, but the first and last stanzas I added on and I believe it is a much more coherent poem with these additions.

The title comes from directly from a line the Powderfinger song 'Sunsets' which is mine and the subject of the poem's favourite song. See why it makes a better title than 'The Dusty Frail'? I don't even remember why I originally called it 'The Dusty Frail'...

Watching the World Turn

It was 3:27PM, and
we were hip-to-hip
on the school bus that
was today an oven.
You said nothing to me but
I still noticed
Your blue eyes radiant
Against the fires
Of the afternoon sun. They glistened
As birds of sorrow that could not fly:
A swirling, darting dance
Of tears and frowns.

Why not let me build
The bridge to cross
The haunted waters within?

Why not open your heart to words
Drawn from the well of sturdy
Legs and arms?

Why not pick up the pieces
Of your shattered past
And throw them to the stars?

But I guess you're happy
To merely watch the
Sunset set sail across
The treacherous seas
Of the universe, and I
Am just
An obliging friend.

Friday, April 23, 2010

Tourmaline Dream

Tourmaline Dream
Once the leaves above
Trail Street spread into
a canopy, I instantly wanted
to live there. The growth was
exponentially green and it
was a stark reminder of my other home
that was willingly trapped beneath the
wings of birds.
DRAFT. Will add to later.

Thursday, April 22, 2010


For the past three days
I have witnessed a light
flickering in the trees
outside my room. It flitters
from tree to tree like a
bird made of light and
calls my name. If I go near
it I fear it might take me away
to another life in another world.
But it could be calling back
towards the line that I've walked
up until two months.

I do miss that line.
These days I walk on a
zig-zag and sometimes
even up-side-down.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Her Quiet Inspiration

Starting from now, I think I'll try and have pictures of things in my blog that inspire me in some way. To start things off, I have a very nice picture of someone who is pretty much my idol when it comes to being creative. I sort of wrote a poem ages ago in dedication to her called "The Goddess of the Gypsies" but since then I've realised that name is massively cliched and it uses one of her song titles as inspiration which is comes across as cheap to me now. I'll try and rewrite that poem now.

Her Quiet Inspiration
Her crystal voice sang low in an atrium that she built herself.
The sapient nightdress of Minerva (upon another's body)
twirls with every soulful note that's sung.
It's like the winds of a storm.
She embeds those words of the soul;
words that tear pieces from the primal skies and seas
who's hunters found their prey all those years ago.
The maze that she's crafted from the clay within her mind
protects her from being translated into life, into form.
Who else embodies so brightly the spirit of the world?
Who else is the poet in all those people's hearts?
She is silent sometimes but so alive
when life calls for it.
Okay so that's that. Just a draft for now. Thoughts?

Tuesday, April 20, 2010


Instead of writing new poetry, maybe I'll should drag out a few oldies and post them? I started writing this blog when I'd already had a substantial amount of poetry written. Here are a few that I admire most (hopefully they haven't been posted previously).

The Beekeeper
The sun might shine
right through you
when you step outside
but I still see
the tortured bees
buzzing around
behind your eyes.

I know
you said something important
at the same time

that all the smaller things started
shifting towards the fire to
burn into bigger things so
they could be monuments
to erase all of this


But I was so in awe
that I couldn't hear
what it was.

In Limbo.

So it was brought to my attention today that I haven't posted anything in quite a while. And looking at the last post date, I suppose this is quite true. The reason why I haven't posted in such an extensive period of time is probably because I haven't written any poetry since 'Something Abstract'... Well, more accurately, I haven't completed any poetry since 'Something Abstract'. And why I haven't written any poetry? This a question with a number of answers - some clear, and some not quite so clear. Uni work is probably one reason, yet last year I seemed to do fine with studying and writing at the same time so what's different this year? Stress is probably another reason: I've recently starting have panic attacks for no apparent reason, so lately I've been massively on edge about everything you could possibly think of. I suppose poetry has taken a back seat in my life... No, it's probably taken the boot. Eating well and exercising have taken a back seat, but hopefully I've started to turn those things back into passengers.

Awesome! I'm using a metaphor. This is one step towards writing poetry again. Maybe later after I finish some school work, I might gather up a few drafts and try to forge something like poetry. Maybe. We'll see what happens in the next couple of days.