Written this Christmas Day, 25-12-2011, by Aileen Hayward
The 85th Christmas Day
She glanced at the time showing on her computer screen, 3.06am, 25th December, 2011. The first time in 85 years that she would spend Christmas day alone. Alone, that is for human companionship — her faithful dog lay curled up in his bed at the foot of the stairs. She smiled briefly through the tears, sure of her pet’s love and devotion in the face of this strange and foreign feeling of bereavement that now crept into her soul.
She had not had time to consider the situation; there had been no warning before she initiated the fateful phone call on Friday afternoon. The shock of hearing words that conveyed the cold and unfeeling attitude of complete indifference, a total disregard of a previous firm invitation to spend Christmas day with her son and his family. Unstable health prevented her from making any frantic dash for last minute provisions, and her fridge was now depleted and empty following pre Christmas visits by grandchildren and friends during the past week. A cheese sandwich would be the best she could manage for her Christmas dinner and even a cup of tea seemed dodgy as what milk was left showed signs of being ‘off’.
More urgent than that even, she noted that she was out of food for her beloved dog, and that indeed distressed her. Perhaps there were just a few dry kibbles left; she hoped that would suffice.
How happy, she remembered, the day she had purchased all the ingredients for an extravegant fruit cake to share with her son and his family on this anticipated Christmas day together. It had tested her depleted strength this year, mixing the double quantity heavy fruit content, but she had mixed away with firm intent to make this the best cake ever. Now, her son’s wife had blithely informed her, the cake would be taken to Coffs Harbour where they would share it with her father and his wife on Christmas day.
On her dining room table stood two boxes of festive holly patterned mugs, wrapped with love in Christmas paper, a gift for her son and his wife, again with the object of sharing a happy Christmas tea or coffee together. The parcel stood now, festively forsaken , testament to an empty promise and a breaking heart.
She was spinning a compact disc of Irish Celtic music and as the harpstrings played old tunes, memories of Christmas mornings past drifted into her mind. She smiled for a minute at the recall of a Christmas tree with four excited children opening gifts in the early morning light. Her eldest son, silver blonde hair glistening beneath a handsome cowboy hat, standing tall at the handlebars of his shining new scooter. His brown eyes were wide with the wonder of yet knowing that Santa Clause was real. She took great comfort in remembering how secure he had been in his knowledge of the total and unconditional love that was his birthright. How they had proven their devotion tohim as he grew into adolescence and their loving support had not wavered as he fought for survival in the emotional jungle of a disadvantaged and underprivileged neighborhood.
A sharp stab of pain in her lower back brought her rudely back to reality and she thought of the medications that awaited her in the bubble pack prepared by the local pharmacy. That was a blessing she must not overlook, count ones blessings today, and do not dwell on the small vicissitudes of life such as thoughtless children who found it unnecessary to explain in advance that there would be no Christmas welcome for her this year. And was it such a disaster, this oversight on their part? This indifference to her value ... the tears do not stop.
It is a strange and foreign experience to now tread the corridors of old age. What to expect is not really documented in detail. She had not considered that her kidneys would fail and was not equipped to deal with the consequences. It was her responsibility to recover as best she could and recover she did. Sometimes her blood would become infected, causing her mind to be vague. She annoyed others because her hearing was now impaired. Sometimes she would not have the energy to walk her loving friend, he who did not complain.
Her own birth so long ago had not been a happy and joyous occasion, rather, a sad and bitter experience for her unwed mother and an embarrassment and threat to her wayward father. She had been taken in by a compassionate woman and saved from life in a girls’ institution and that had been a blessing indeed. Yet, despite this unhappy start to life, today was the very first Christmas day in her 85 years that she had been forced to spend alone.
She glanced at the time now on her computer, 4.26 am. The Course in Miracles stood by her desk; she was up to lesson no. 46, one more time. Would re-learning the Miracles help her through this trauma? She does not know. She is well aware of the karmic law that states what goes around comes around and must ponder on her own attitudes towards that wonderful woman who became her caring adoptive mother. She could have been a far better and more attentive daughter; and feels remorseful for her own tardiness.
She is also aware of the reality of things. Wisdom explains how one is not so much disturbed by what occurs, but by one’s interpretation of that occurrence. The fact remains however, that she is indeed hurt and reduced to tears and is alone on this Christmas day in her 85th year. Again, philosophy suggests that what does not kill one makes one stronger. Right now, however, there is just inconsolable sadness.
She documents this experience in an effort to externalize and rationalize human emotion that cannot be rationalized. She wants relief, she wants to feel OK. She needs to love her children, she needs to remember that she is worthwhile in the face of being trivialized.
She is 85 not out, imperfect, loving and of not much consequence, yet not deserving of indifference. Perhaps she is the voice of many....
Hello there
“Hello” he said “Merry Christmas Love”
His beer can wavering — unsteady hands.
I forced a smile and returned the words.
My voice betrayed me – my eyes grew wet.
“Hey, Darlin’ you shouldn’t be all alone
Down here at the beach, with your little dog”
“Oh, I’m O.K. thanks,” my voice shook more
And tears spilled over despite myself.
“Oh, now, Love, its Christmas, where are your folks?”
He glanced around and he drew a frown
“I wish my Mum was here today, you’re a lovely lady,
Now, don’t you cry.”
He asked me if he might give me a hug.
He wept on my shoulder, he sobbed and sobbed
And I dissolved into tears to match.
We sat there, a sorry, weeping mess.
His grief spilled over, his life so sad
Poured out in a torrent of pain and woe
And we wept together, this drunk and me
Bonded in sadness – the price of love.
My tears fall now as I pen these words
And remember his kindness, his need to share
And I will be better for having well met
This stranger who called me a ‘lovely lady'.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Modern Poetry? You've Got To Be Joking!
By Eddie Blatt
‘And so modern poetry has followed the example set by the poets - it has become self-absorbed and formless, and so, incapable of providing a conduit of meaningful communication.’— Matt Bynum
I don’t like poems,
or jeroboams.
Now I’ve said it.
Now you’ve read it.
I try hard to understand modern poetry. Really hard. I attend a writers’ group every week, and for years I sat numbly at poetry readings feigning attentiveness, all the while presuming there was something wrong with me. I’ve even had a puff of the green stuff, attempting to shift my brain activity from its preoccupation with the left hemisphere to the more aesthetic lobe on the right side. All in vain. I remain as mystified now as I did way back in high school when my English teachers read us Shakespeare.
Let’s be honest. Modern poetry is a jumble of unrelated words and meanings ‘incapable of providing a conduit of meaningful communication.’
Take for example, the first stanza of ‘Morning Song’ by Sylvia Plath:
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.
When love got me going, it never had anything to do with a fat gold watch. I’ve never even owned a gold watch, fat or thin. Lots of $10 cheapies, but. In any case, what in the world do fat gold watches have to do with midwives slapping footsoles? What the hell is a bald cry, and what does any of it have to do with the elements? I know what an ‘element’ is - I have a PhD in chemistry – and it has nothing to do with a bald cry! The poor woman, Sylvia Plath. No wonder she committed suicide. Her pind was all over the mlace.
And look at this clanger from the Beat Generation, titled ‘Obsequity’:
Red asteroids assault the evergrowing tangents slithering noiselike out of frostbitten tongues.
Does anybody know what ‘obsequity’ actually means? I have no idea so I googled the word and in response got ‘Did you mean: obloquy?’ I must have dozed off during those English classes in high school dealing with obtuse vocabulary, so I googled ‘obloquy’, and found the definition: ‘a strongly condemnatory utterance; abusive language aimed at a person or thing’: just what I am doing here with this piece of writing!
The thing is, I do actually enjoy poetry, real poetry that is. You know, the stuff that rhymes and makes sense. Like in the 60s as a kid, I used to sing along with the ‘Happy Little Vegemite Song’:
We are happy little Vegemites as bright as bright can be,
We all enjoy our Vegemite for breakfast, lunch and tea,
Our mummy says we're growing stronger every single week,
Because we love our Vegemite,
We all adore our Vegemite,
It puts a rose in every cheek!
In the 70s while at university, I would gather together with other like-minded poetry lovers to listen to more sophisticated poems, such as the classic tale, ‘The Ballad of Eskimo Nell’, one verse of which went something like:
She seated herself on a table top,
Where someone had left a glass.
With a twitch of her tits, she crushed it to bits
Between the cheeks of her ass.
Now that’s an exquisite piece of writing; full of verve, stirring imagery and relevance in the modern world!
And for those of us who lived in the momentous times of the 60s and 70s, who could forget that other classic tale concerning ‘The Good Ship Venus’ and its first mate, Arthur;
The first mate’s name was Arthur,
Boy was he a farter.
When the wind wouldn’t blow, the ship wouldn’t go,
They got Arthur, the farter, to start 'er.
or the classic limerick set in the Garden of Eden:
In the garden of Eden lay Adam,
Complacently stroking his madam.
And great was his mirth,
For on all of the earth,
There were only two balls and he had 'em.
My year-seven English teacher knew a thing or two about verse and real poetry. She predicted that one day I would shine as a jingle writer, a specialised area of poetry not given its just recognition as a highly developed art-form. I complete this posting with one of my very own - a poem destined to become a classic of the genre - in memory to that wonderfully perceptive woman:
The Jingle Writer
The jingle writer is a blighter,
He makes up all these rhymes.
He takes a word nobody’s heard,
Then repeats it countless times.
The jingle writer is a fighter,
He competes with every poet.
They say his verse is rather terse,
“Poetry? He wouldn’t know it.”
The jingle writer is a skiter,
He laughs at all those snobs.
“My poems rhyme, all the time,
“While yours ain’t worth two bob.”
All said and done, he had some fun,
The jingle writer beckons,
To poets that write, such dribble and trite,
“You’re up yourselves,” he reckons!
****
Postscript
The author of this post is currently seeking medical attention for a condition associated with the hemispheres of his brain, and thus cannot take part in any dialogue of import. Current medical opinion is split as to whether complete rest or large doses of Anthony Robbins’ videos would be of benefit.
He wishes to advise those who sent him abusive responses, that although he is not a violent man by nature, when he has fully recovered he intends to come out of your TV screens and rip your bloody arms off.
No further correspondence will be entered into.
‘And so modern poetry has followed the example set by the poets - it has become self-absorbed and formless, and so, incapable of providing a conduit of meaningful communication.’— Matt Bynum
************************************
I don’t like poems,
or jeroboams.
Now I’ve said it.
Now you’ve read it.
I try hard to understand modern poetry. Really hard. I attend a writers’ group every week, and for years I sat numbly at poetry readings feigning attentiveness, all the while presuming there was something wrong with me. I’ve even had a puff of the green stuff, attempting to shift my brain activity from its preoccupation with the left hemisphere to the more aesthetic lobe on the right side. All in vain. I remain as mystified now as I did way back in high school when my English teachers read us Shakespeare.
Let’s be honest. Modern poetry is a jumble of unrelated words and meanings ‘incapable of providing a conduit of meaningful communication.’
Take for example, the first stanza of ‘Morning Song’ by Sylvia Plath:
Love set you going like a fat gold watch.
The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry
Took its place among the elements.
When love got me going, it never had anything to do with a fat gold watch. I’ve never even owned a gold watch, fat or thin. Lots of $10 cheapies, but. In any case, what in the world do fat gold watches have to do with midwives slapping footsoles? What the hell is a bald cry, and what does any of it have to do with the elements? I know what an ‘element’ is - I have a PhD in chemistry – and it has nothing to do with a bald cry! The poor woman, Sylvia Plath. No wonder she committed suicide. Her pind was all over the mlace.
And look at this clanger from the Beat Generation, titled ‘Obsequity’:
Red asteroids assault the evergrowing tangents slithering noiselike out of frostbitten tongues.
Does anybody know what ‘obsequity’ actually means? I have no idea so I googled the word and in response got ‘Did you mean: obloquy?’ I must have dozed off during those English classes in high school dealing with obtuse vocabulary, so I googled ‘obloquy’, and found the definition: ‘a strongly condemnatory utterance; abusive language aimed at a person or thing’: just what I am doing here with this piece of writing!
The thing is, I do actually enjoy poetry, real poetry that is. You know, the stuff that rhymes and makes sense. Like in the 60s as a kid, I used to sing along with the ‘Happy Little Vegemite Song’:
We are happy little Vegemites as bright as bright can be,
We all enjoy our Vegemite for breakfast, lunch and tea,
Our mummy says we're growing stronger every single week,
Because we love our Vegemite,
We all adore our Vegemite,
It puts a rose in every cheek!
In the 70s while at university, I would gather together with other like-minded poetry lovers to listen to more sophisticated poems, such as the classic tale, ‘The Ballad of Eskimo Nell’, one verse of which went something like:
She seated herself on a table top,
Where someone had left a glass.
With a twitch of her tits, she crushed it to bits
Between the cheeks of her ass.
Now that’s an exquisite piece of writing; full of verve, stirring imagery and relevance in the modern world!
And for those of us who lived in the momentous times of the 60s and 70s, who could forget that other classic tale concerning ‘The Good Ship Venus’ and its first mate, Arthur;
The first mate’s name was Arthur,
Boy was he a farter.
When the wind wouldn’t blow, the ship wouldn’t go,
They got Arthur, the farter, to start 'er.
or the classic limerick set in the Garden of Eden:
In the garden of Eden lay Adam,
Complacently stroking his madam.
And great was his mirth,
For on all of the earth,
There were only two balls and he had 'em.
My year-seven English teacher knew a thing or two about verse and real poetry. She predicted that one day I would shine as a jingle writer, a specialised area of poetry not given its just recognition as a highly developed art-form. I complete this posting with one of my very own - a poem destined to become a classic of the genre - in memory to that wonderfully perceptive woman:
The Jingle Writer
The jingle writer is a blighter,
He makes up all these rhymes.
He takes a word nobody’s heard,
Then repeats it countless times.
The jingle writer is a fighter,
He competes with every poet.
They say his verse is rather terse,
“Poetry? He wouldn’t know it.”
The jingle writer is a skiter,
He laughs at all those snobs.
“My poems rhyme, all the time,
“While yours ain’t worth two bob.”
All said and done, he had some fun,
The jingle writer beckons,
To poets that write, such dribble and trite,
“You’re up yourselves,” he reckons!
****
Postscript
The author of this post is currently seeking medical attention for a condition associated with the hemispheres of his brain, and thus cannot take part in any dialogue of import. Current medical opinion is split as to whether complete rest or large doses of Anthony Robbins’ videos would be of benefit.
He wishes to advise those who sent him abusive responses, that although he is not a violent man by nature, when he has fully recovered he intends to come out of your TV screens and rip your bloody arms off.
No further correspondence will be entered into.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Verse
“I think writing verse is a great training for a writer. It teaches you to make your points and get your stuff clear, which is the great thing.”
Who doesn’t love P.G. Wodehouse? He is an acknowledged master of prose, so (as a poet) I was gratified to read the above. Of course, some of us regard verse as an end in itself, rather than merely a means to better prose. Nevertheless, anything that gives people a greater appreciation of it is good in my book!
Several WordsFlow participants say they don’t like, don’t understand, and/or don’t write poetry. But when someone raised the question last week, ‘Who has ever written a poem?’ it transpired that nearly everyone in the group had. I tend to think poetry is a natural form of human expression, as people who are institutionalised, e.g. in prisons or long-term hospitalisation, often turn to it as an outlet for their feelings.
A couple of the WordsFlow people, after playing with verse for some years — both free verse and, in one case, song lyrics — have become interested in learning more of the craft. Poetry, as we know, is an art form. It’s good to support one’s artistic expression with an understanding of the craft. It comes with practice, but we can also benefit from the work our predecessors put in, the things which they found to work. Musicians play scales and learn to read music; painters study things like line and perspective; and poets learn prosody, the techniques of versification.
We can try various poetic forms, from haiku to sonnet and a wide variety in between. We can look at rhyme, metre, and syllabics, which are associated with formal verse. We can explore such devices as metaphor, alliteration, or enjambment, which may apply to both formal and free verse.
If you Google 'poetic forms', you can find many comprehensive lists. I like the list at Shadow Poetry. I also find the weekly prompts and challenges at the online community dVerse very useful, as some are focused on poetics, including particular verse forms. As well as the opportunity to try things for oneself, one can see what others do with them. The community includes some very fine poets who consistently post excellent work. This is far from an exhaustive list, but my top favourites include Samuel Peralta, Claudia Schoenfeld, Jenne' R. Andrews ... and quite a few more. Go see for yourself!
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