WordsFlow Writers

Riding the Dragon

2012-01-23T23:56:00.000+11:00

By Rosemary Nissen-Wade

I cast circle,

ignite a red candle.

His white hair

shines in the light.

He closes his eyes

for the ritual,

speaks firmly aloud

his New Year desires.

He asks

to get closer to God,

resolves

to meditate on this.

Then, turning his hands,

he gives

energy back to the earth

with gratitude. So do I.

Twisted Stringybark Short Story Award 2012

2012-01-06T11:52:00.000+11:00

(Just received):

Nothing entertains a reader more than a good short story with a nifty twist at the end. Stringybark Stories is delighted to invite all writers to enter their best work in the Twisted Stringybark Short Story Award 2012. The maximum word length of your story is 1500 words; it must have some link to Australia (no matter how tenuous); and it must have a twist in the tail! There is over A$500 in prizes available, cash, plus publication for place-getters and highly commended stories. There is an entry fee of $9.75 (discounts for multiple entries) Closing date 4 March 2012. Details here.

Results of the Stringybark Australian History Short Story Award 2011

On 28 December 2011, the judges announced the winning stories in the Stringybark Australian History Short Story Award 2011. From bunyips to war and from Ben Hall to boot-eating, the winning entries are now available in a new anthology Marngrook. The book is named after the winning entry, Marngrook, by Victorian writer, Sean Quentin Lee. The story is beautifully and poetically written (even if it is about football!) and it was the standout winner for three of the four Stringybark judges.

Second place went to Footsteps in the Dark by Elsie Johnstone. This story set at the time of the 'Brown Out Murders' that occurred in Melbourne during World War Two. It is a masterful story that has the reader sitting on the edge of their chair...

The Woman at the Back of the Room, the third-place getting story, by J.B. Rowley examines the passion of the suffragette movement and the reader is deftly drawn into the drama of one small moment in time.

A full list of winner and place-getters can be found on our website.

David Vernon
Judge and Editor
Stringybark Stories
PO Box 851
Jamison Centre, Jamison, ACT 2614
Australia
Email: judges@stringybarkstories.net
Web: www.stringybarkstories.net
Web: www.davidvernon.net
Twitter: stringybarkstor
___________________________________

Two Christmas stories

2011-12-25T10:57:00.013+11:00

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'.

Modern Poetry? You've Got To Be Joking!

2011-12-22T22:35:00.004+11:00

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.

Verse

2011-12-05T10:48:00.008+11:00

“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.”

—P.G. Wodehouse (quoted in The 90 top secrets of best-selling writers at Writers' Digest)

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!

Success as a Writer

2011-11-15T23:00:00.002+11:00

‘What does that mean for you?’ I asked the group. At first no-one mentioned fame or money.

Learning to express oneself as well as possible ranked high. (Oh, good! As facilitator, I must be doing something right.) For some people, just completing a piece of writing was a goal in itself. Further probing revealed that they meant completing it to their own satisfaction.

‘What about having someone else read it?’ one person asked the others. Yes, they did all want that, but it was ‘down the track’ for most. Best-sellers weren’t even contemplated.

Other answers included getting published; getting published in a particularly prestigious literary magazine; completing TWO pieces of writing (so as to know the first wasn’t a flash in the pan); and touching people’s hearts. One woman said that she enjoys writing, but is just too lazy to strive for anything beyond that enjoyment.

Teasing things out further, we realised that the bar shifts. After writing something that satisfies you, you want to improve even further; after achieving first publication, you look to the next. Success, then, seems not to be a fixed thing so much as a series of goals. It’s not only different for different people, but for the same person over time.

That realisation allowed everyone to admit that, yes, fame and fortune were desirable; it was just that they didn’t seem possible in the very near future. I think it’s good that the goal keeps receding, so we continue to stretch ourselves — as long as we don’t just give up trying, in the belief that we’ll never be good enough.

Halfway through the discussion, something very interesting emerged. None of us regarded ourselves as highly successful writers — but several of us were seen that way by the rest of the group.

There’s Eddie, in his previous life the author of numerous scientific papers which appeared in relevant publications — a published author, in fact. (‘That doesn’t count,’ he said. ‘Hey, you WROTE them,’ we said.) Then there’s Nan. Not only did she have stories printed in magazines in the past, but a poem of hers was recently read — repeatedly — on Australia All Over, which is very wide exposure indeed. Lots of people have contacted her since, to request a copy. And there’s Andrew, former free-lance journalist and currently author of a children’s novel which sold out its first two (admittedly modest) print runs. It’s all relative!

So now I know one answer. What does success as a writer mean for you? Oh, it’s what X over there has and I don’t.

I suppose no-one (even himself) would argue against calling Stephen King a successful writer. Or Seamus Heaney. Or Deepak Chopra. Yet they are very different writers, and the measures of their success must differ too — popularity, money, literary reputation, persuading people to action....

Another answer is that success as a writer is whatever that means to you. Whatever that is, learning to express oneself as well as possible must be the perfect place to start.

Stringybark Short Story Award 2011

2011-10-27T16:50:00.000+11:00

We've been asked to advertise this:

The annual Stringybark Short Story Award is now open. This is an open-themed competition (although your story must have some link to Australia). You have 1400 words with which to entertain the judges. There is over A$500 in prizes (cash and books) available, plus publication for place-getters and highly commended stories. Entry fee of $9.50 (discounts for multiple entries) Closing date 18 December 2011. Details here.

Food

2011-10-16T14:28:00.107+11:00

We have arrived at Blog Action Day, time to blog about Food. Food and eating are always rich topics for writers' groups. The subject is so primal, so tied up with survival and therefore, as nature arranges things, with pleasure ... and with our earliest childhood memories, too.

Here are some of WordsFlow's writings on that subject. We didn't have a lot of time to prepare for it this year. Bron's opening poem has been worked on; luckily she had already dealt with this topic recently. The others are stream-of-consciousness writings created specifically for this occasion. They are five-minute timed writings, which is why they may appear to stop abruptly. (They did!) They illustrate a few of the various possible off-the-cuff responses to the topic, even amongst a small group of very similar people: ageing, middle-class, educated white Australians from one small area of the country.

Food

Gives health
expresses culture
makes friends
excites senses
satiates desires
unites countries
sustains comfort
builds strength
exudes pleasure.

Food is life

— Bron Trathen

Food, glorious food

Poor little Oliver, bad enough to have to eat that watery gruel, but to be hungry enough to ask for more? Pitiful. Children were treated badly in those days in a so-called civilised country, but now in our world children are still starving and dying of malnutrition. We in Australia have been rather spoilt over the years. We do live in the land of milk and honey and other delicious nutrients. When all else fails we have Vegemite, which provides vitamins and niacin. I don't know what niacin means. but it must be good for you.

— Nan Doyle

Food

Food – good grief.

There are so many rules about it – what we should eat, what we shouldn’t eat – do you know anyone who doesn’t have some sort of food restrictions – even children? And if they don’t, well there is sure to be someone out there who will advise them about that: they should – and for free. And in total conflict with what they’ve already been advised by any number of others.

Food – why can’t we just eat it?? Why count the calories, or the carbs, or the GI, or the protein, or the additives, or the sugar, or the portion size?

Food – remember what it used to be like? We just ate it. Recipes – well there were a few – your Mum wrote out her butter cake recipe, or tomato relish …

— Christine Maddock

Food

I sat and watched the old man set up his stall.

From the back of his truck, he took plain cupboard boxes and sat them on a trestle table under a shade area.

Then he started opening the lids of the boxes. The transformation was magical. Deep ruby colours of large capsicums adjacent to lime green lettuces, bright orange mangoes nestled next to old granny smith apples.

At the back he set up the deep purple bulbs of beetroot still with their bright green hairy heads, and around the box he placed the dense orange of fresh crisp carrots.

It was not only the colours, but the smell of fresh fruit and vegetables that was so overpowering.

— Bron Trathen

Food in the Western World

Food. I love it. I am what is called a foodie, and all my life I have tried not to get too fat. I was a fat baby. In those days it was considered healthy for babies to be fat, and my Mum was proud of me. There are still countries where fat is a sign of wealth and status. And as we know, there have been eras in history when large women were regarded as beautiful. Even Marilyn Monroe would be considered a bit plump by today’s standards.

How lucky we are in the Western world — most of us anyway — to have the luxury of over-eating and then trying to lose weight. There are other places in the world where there is famine and starvation; people die of hunger. Here, we say that as an expression, not meaning it literally. And yet there are hungry people in Western countries too. My friend Thom in Texas feeds the homeless, taking food from a restaurant in his van, left-over food which would otherwise be thrown away.

I saw incredible waste when I was there in 2006, stores full of many van-loads of food, all of which would be chucked out that night. No wonder people are occupying Wall Stret right now; and no wonder there were riots in Britain not long ago. Inequity is becoming so entrenched! It must be so here too. We just don’t always see it. Even in this small town, my friends Maureen and Alan are part of a charity to feed the homeless. It is needed.

— Rosemary Nissen-Wade

#BAD (Blog Action Day)

2011-10-05T13:07:00.017+11:00

Once again our WordsFlow group is registered to participate in Blog Action day, that day of the year when bloggers all around the world post on a topic we think needs attention. This year the date is October 16th, which just happens to be World Food Day, so this year the organisers have chosen Food as the topic. They ask us to use the hash tag #BAD.

Our next WordsFlow meeting is October 14th: perfect timing.

Stay tuned!

And if you are interested in participating yourself, go here.

Her First Day

2011-08-03T13:45:00.017+10:00

By Maggie Good

‘It’s today,’ she says, a little ripple of excitement shivering through her morning cup of tea. ‘Today I go there. I wonder who I’ll meet.’

Dressing for the day, from her wardrobe she chooses to wear her Brave Face with a Veneer of Affability wrapped around her. Her shiny black computer in a matching carry case accessorises her outfit.

She crosses the Sand Bar and gives herself to the lining up of tables nice and straight, a pleasing sort of symmetry that doesn’t go down too well with the Girl Wearing Exotic Orange Shoes. She likes that girl who smells of mandarins and magnificence.

Introductions. Her Veneer of Affability flutters in the breezes of impressive achievements, words and deeds made solid in publication. She delights in a delicious whirling and swirling of words. What bliss to feel them fall on her ears; old friends, some dusty and forgotten. Her heart sings; she is heady with it all. The Man Who Splits Atoms and Hairs says, ‘No words of ours shall go across the Sand Bar.’ They all nod, nod, nod in agreement. She likes that very much.

Now it’s her turn to be visible, make herself known, step forward with her garment of beautifully woven words, to be one of them. This is why she launched herself across the Sand Bar; no turning back now. She flounders, not ready yet to let them see past her Brave Face and Veneer of Affability. She searches for the words and matching face. It all goes too fast; in her haste she says something blurry and ordinary, and she cries. Oh how she hates that, when the world sees the Cry at the Drop of a Hat face. She replaces her Brave Face and clings to the tattered remnants of her Veneer of Affability. They smile at her, she smiles back. The world still turns.

Got to write now, crunch time, type, type, type ... what a relief to immerse herself in the streams and currents of the familiar world within. In the safety of the interior she forgets for a while the Authors and Wonder Writers around her. Her own expectations swim about her in a feeding frenzy, eager to bite and bring her down. She remembers just in time she is a Hero, and saves herself from the biters and spiters swimming and circling around her.

Time’s up. They stop writing and read out what they’ve written. She listens with delight and awe at the words all strung together in artful forms: clever, funny, enticing, sharp, spicy. She is absorbed by the story told by the Lady Who Doesn’t Do Emotions. So clever; she wishes she could do that.

Her turn to tell a story now, but the only word she can say is ‘Pass’ as she sinks inside. ‘Got to do this next time, got to, got to, it’s now or never, come on Hero, help me here.’ She types some stuff, babbles some words, ice broken, leap leapt and the Girl with Orange Shoes declares, ‘She’s off!’

Food, cups of tea, toilet, pancakes arriving on the Wing of a Lark, the Authors and Wonder Writers ordinary now as they eat, drink and attend to some of their natural desires. Heliotrope Who is Loved by the Bees returns from the Opp Shop with a dolphin made of brassieres, or bras as the modern-minded would say. They sit back down, the writers and her, their words and weavings settling around them. A fuss and bother over a tiny spider. Spiders, spokespersons, sex and silliness eddy and swirl around her as she waits to become a writer.

‘Get on with it,’ she thinks, anxious as to where the words will take them now. They write and wriggle around, playing funny exercises that make her brain fizz and hum. She feels her Brave Face soften with a glimmer of hope that she can be a Wonder Writer one day, too. She plays, daring to be nearly as naughty as the Granny Who Said Fanny. Granny’s words had ruffled the folds of her Veneer of Affability a little, but no harm done.

Day is done. She packs her things, bangs a few pieces of furniture around, transforming the Writers’ Place into a Children’s Place.

She walks away smiling and wondering what she’ll wear next time.

Note: The group meets in what is known as the Sandbar Room

Encouraging a New Writer

2011-07-08T14:16:00.002+10:00

By Rosemary Nissen-Wade (WordsFlow facilitator)

The WordsFlow writers’ group recently presented a young writer, Revinda O’Donnell, with a brand new notebook purchased from the proceeds of our last anthology.

Left to right: Revinda, Kay, Rosemary, Eddie

What happened was that, after a few years of producing zines and chapbooks, we decided we’d learned as much as we needed to from that exercise and didn’t wish to continue. That left us with money over and the question of what to do with it. We tossed around the usual ideas, like having a party, until someone suggested it would be appropriate to use it to help and encourage new writers. But how? And which new writers? It wasn’t as if it was a fortune.

Then we remembered that Kay, an early WordsFlow participant, now teaches at local ACE Community Colleges. She began by running literacy classes for young adults and developed that into a writing group. I told her our plans and she said, ‘I’ve got the very person!’

Revinda is a single mother from an abused background. Kay and Tia — the course supervisor, who is also a qualified psychologist — describe Revinda’s writing as eloquent and exciting. The book she’s working on includes her poetry, a memoir, and transcripts of court cases she was involved in because of the abuse. She told us she felt that if she could survive her background and come to a good place, so can others, and that what she has to share could be helpful. She has titled the book, Forgetting Horror.

When Kay told me about Revinda, my next question was, ‘What does she need that would be helpful to her writing?’

‘A laptop!’ said Kay, after only a moment’s thought. ‘It would make such a difference to her.’

So Eddie, the production manager and treasurer for our last anthology, who also knows a thing or two about computers, did some research. We had thought, with our limited funds, we might have to look for a good second-hand one, but he found a special on a new machine. He consulted with Cheryl, WordsFlow’s computer expert, to make sure it was a good buy. It was! After we handed it over to Revinda, he sat with her awhile to help her get familiar with it.

The presentation was a happy, and not unduly formal occasion. We invited Revinda to visit our group when possible to share her writing with us, and she said she’d love to.

The Creek

2011-07-05T07:20:00.004+10:00

By Nan Doyle

This poem — about an Australian childhood that some of us are lucky enough to remember, and which probably still exists in some places— has recently been aired a number of times on the radio program Australia All Over, giving it one of the widest audiences any writer could hope for. It has touched a chord with listeners, many of whom have contacted Nan asking for copies. We're proud to share it here.

Do you remember when we were young, Tom?
We’d scarper away to the creek,

On Sundays at one, before Church had begun

And the treasures of nature we’d seek.

We knew where the birds had their nests, Tom

We knew where the fish liked to hide

We knew where the maidenhair grew, Tom

And we knew where the bees had a hive.

We used to laugh at the world, Tom

As we merrily hunted for frogs.

We ate lilly pillies and called them wild cherries

And crossed over the creek on a log.

Then we’d go back to the house, Tom
As the clock was striking three.

We had the primeval instinct of kids, Tom

To be home for afternoon tea.

Then the lectures would start, Tom

After the parson had gone,

Our souls must be headed for Hell, Tom,

if wagging church was so wrong.

I remember the day you protested,

In tones begrudgingly meek,

‘If God wants to talk to a bloke, Dad,

Why don’t he come down to the creek?

‘It’s hard to sit still in church, Dad,

When you’re only a boy like me.

We don’t make much noise at the creek, Dad,

And there’s interesting things to see.

‘Why does God live in a church, Dad?

Where an hour seems more like a week?

If God wants to talk yo a bloke, Dad,

He oughta live down at the creek.’

I went there today for a walk, Tom,

And nothing has changed very much.

I sat there and breathed in the peace, Tom,

And memories came back with a rush.

I found something good there today, Tom,

And I’ll give you this secret to keep.

He was there with us all of the time, Tom.

He’s always lived down at the creek.

Cheryl Sends Her Apologies

2011-06-11T08:13:00.008+10:00

By Eddie Blatt

(June, 2011)

A word is not the same with one writer as with another.

One tears it from his guts. The other pulls it out of his overcoat pocket.

---- Charles Peguy ----

I’m a person disinclined to work or exertion, which, according to Webster’s dictionary, defines me as lazy. So when I drove to my writers’ group the other day and saw Dinah, a fellow writer, drive into the car space closest to the meeting room, I nearly spat the dummy. I would have to walk an extra twenty metres (forty if you count the return journey), a task requiring an effort sufficient to raise an embarrassing sweat, especially if it rained and I needed to break into a gallop in order to avoid getting wet. Webster’s dictionary had been vindicated.

“That’s my spot,” I joked to her after getting out of the car and walking the 20 metres to where she was parked.

“Yeah? What makes it your spot?” she replied.

“Because I always park here.”

“Not always, chooky.”

We both laughed as we made our way past the buildings under construction and towards the meeting room. Before we got to the door, Dinah turned to me. “Cheryl sends her apologies. She’s not feeling well today and has decided to stay home.”

Cheryl is a woman with an infectious laugh who occasionally reads other members’ pieces due to the strong projection of her voice, an attribute she cultivated while performing and directing theatrical productions. Cheryl writes prose like a well-seasoned jazz guitarist plays his instrument, with unflinching verve and an uncanny ability to thread together motifs plucked out of the ether. Her responses to the five-minute writing exercises around prompts, which we undertake each week, attest to the name of our little writers’ group, Wordsflow. The ease with which Cheryl’s words flow is in stark contrast to my intolerably convoluted prose, most of which ends up gathering dust in a filing cabinet or being flung into a rubbish bin.

Wordsflow meets each week for three hours on a Friday afternoon. At fifty-six years of age, I’m the second youngest of the troupe - just in front of Cheryl - and one of only two males. Our fearless leader, Rosemary, is a writer equally adept at poetry as she is with prose. She’s particularly interested in a form of Japanese verse known as ‘Haiku’. Unfortunately, I can’t tell the difference between simple parametric attributes such as iambic pentameters and accentual-syllabic verses, or, come to think of it, even dialectical constructed sonnets and anapest literary terms, so I’m particularly adrift when trying to understand Haikus. Which isn’t saying much, given understanding most things these days is quite a daunting prospect for me. In response to Rosemary’s poetry readings, I usually smile and make positive grunting sounds, feigning at least comprehension.

Our other resident poet, Jan, creates what I would nominally call ‘modern’ poetry. Each word or phrase is like a splash of paint on a piece of canvas, something akin in the art world to Jackson Pollock’s ‘Blue Poles’, or perhaps Picasso’s eccentric cubist geometry in paintings like his ‘femme en pleurs’. I’ve been told by reliable sources that such works of art cannot be fully appreciated by the left-brain, a place my brain naturally, and regrettably inhabits most of my waking life. Thus, I rarely make comments about Jan’s poetry either. I do take refuge, however, in my ability to write nifty jingles, a talent my year-seven teacher once told me could develop into a promising career in advertising (that is, if I first got over my laziness).

There is only one rule to be obeyed at all times in our meetings. No self-negating or critical comments are to precede one’s readings; like, ‘This isn’t very good’, or ‘I don’t know if it’s worth reading’. Using swear words, on the other hand, is not only tolerated, it is actively encouraged. And when it comes to profanities, we invariably turn to Nan, our irreverent muse and master of coarse language. The number of ‘f’ words appearing in some of her stories would make a Redfern pub crawler blush, while her stories of god conversing with the devil would offend all but the most atheistic of people. Nan’s outpourings are presented with a wit and in a vernacular that transforms even the most mundane of stories into a unique experience of Australiana. When she does drop the cussing she still writes terrific prose - as well as very touching poems in a rhyming style that even I appreciate.

Nan’s friend Anne rounds off the holy trinity of JAN – Jan, Anne and Nan - an acronym I used when I first joined Wordsflow in order to remember their names. The three of them would sit next to each other every meeting in the same order on the opposite side of the table. For someone like me with a memory comparable to a leaking tap, I was grateful for their compliance with the seating arrangements. Anne’s writings are pithy, mixing the sweet with the sour, tastes somewhat reminiscent in culinary terms of a popular Chinese pork dish. I have often envisaged her writing a weekly column for a magazine or newspaper on the vagaries of the human condition. Her acerbic prose would sharpen even the bluntest of minds.

Like many writers’ groups, Wordsflow hosts a variety of writing styles and genres. When it comes to descriptive prose, Bronwyn shines. Bron’s writings are elegant and sophisticated, qualities that are matched by the clear and concise manner in which she reads her pieces. From stories of the outback to unrequited young love, Bron vividly takes the reader into the heart of each scene. One can smell the flowers, walk the streets, and feel the tension in the faces of her protagonists.

In contrast, Dinah - whose car inhabits my parking spot - occupies the position on the spectrum of writing styles associated with comedy and the new-age. (She may not be so jolly, or spiritually uplifted, when she discovers her car has four flat tyres.) From fun to faeries, from the amusing to the entertaining, Dinah’s pieces capture the intrinsic humour of the silly and the playful. Green frogs dance the watusi on ponds while garden gnomes keep watch behind trees and shrubbery. The on-going difficulties Dinah encounters when reading her own shorthand, however, are amusing incidents in and of themselves, and could form the basis of many a funny skit!

The other male member of our group is Andrew, who, like me, is writing a memoir. Andrew is Rosemary’s husband. Together they form the group’s dynamic duo, somewhat reminiscent of TVs Ozzie and Harriet of The Nelson family in the 50s, or the equivalent 90s version, Scully and Mulder of the X-files. Andrew is as adept at writing fiction as he is with children’s stories. His impish grin and soft temperament belie a power that emanates from his pen, adding credence to the saying that the pen is indeed mightier than the sword.

Rounding off the regular attendees of Wordsflow is Marie, an ex-schoolteacher, whose pieces radiate with beguiling charm. Whether it’s stories of her family or entries in her daily journal, the warmth of Marie’s prose is like drinking a warm cup of milk chocolate on a cold day while eating chocolate cake - with chocolate icing on top, of course. It’s all wonderful.

****
Wordsflow is a committed group of writers who enjoy each other’s company in a free and non-judgemental environment. We joke at the mysterious appearance of words before us each week, and we laugh at our fears and misgivings as we each navigate solo journeys through life’s adventures.

Thus, when someone sends their apologies, it feels as if an essential part of the whole has been absented, like a missing limb. With Cheryl, there is an added dimension to the ensuing disappointment. Cheryl has been diagnosed with cancer and is in the midst of a stirring confrontation with the life-threatening illness. It is much to my relief that she is winning the encounter, and I’m sure every member of Wordsflow sends her their well-wishes. Continually.

To quote Henry Miller,

Life moves on, whether we act as cowards or heroes. Life has no other discipline to impose, if we would but realize it, than to accept life unquestioningly. Everything we shut our eyes to, everything we run away from, everything we deny, denigrate or despise, serves to defeat us in the end. What seems nasty, painful, evil, can become a source of beauty, joy, and strength, if faced with an open mind. Every moment is a golden one for him who has the vision to recognize it as such.

This piece was inspired by Cheryl
and is dedicated to her.

Leaking Roof

2011-06-09T23:23:00.001+10:00

By Dinah Morgan

I am a leaking roof.
A woman who lives here needs to cry.
I cry for her
and make a black stain on the ceiling —
to bring to her attention
the need to look at her sadness.

Advice from the Mirror

2011-06-07T23:27:00.008+10:00

By Lorraine Cobcroft

Mirror, mirror, help me please
I’ll not complain if there are fees
To look again as I once did
To be again a pretty kid.

Can you smooth the wrinkles; tint the grey?
Can you trim the fat, so that I may
Charm him again in that same way
As when I sought to win him.

Alas, my friend, the glass replied
I cannot alter what you spy
But do not fear, for can’t you see
This image isn’t you…it’s me!

I can’t reflect a loving heart
And that’s your most important part
Your beauty shines from deep within
And that’s what’s seen by kith and kin.

Secrets

2011-05-29T09:38:00.009+10:00

a short story by Bron Trathen

Carla

I had kept it from him for years. My life revolved around hurriedly hiding the bottles as I heard him drive into the garage downstairs. I’d shower, clean my teeth, and come out sparkling.

Today, when I heard him drive up, he was at least an hour earlier than usual. I was trying to get the bottle open when I heard the electronic garage doors. That instant the cork came out and the bottle, set precariously on the edge of the kitchen bench, toppled, spilling wine all over me and the floor. The bottle smashed, scattering glass everywhere.

I left the mess and raced into the bathroom. One look in the mirror at my bloodshot eyes and dishevelled hair made me panic. I jumped into the shower still in my clothes. As I frantically got out of my wet clothes, I heard the downstairs door from the garage open.

‘Darling, where are you?’ I could hear his booming voice over the shower.

‘I’m in the shower…will be out in a minute.’ I shampooed and rinsed my hair in record time, turned off the water, grabbed a towel and dried myself. From the bathroom I called out.

‘Dan. You’re home early. What’s happening?’

‘Oh, it’s Thursday. I play tennis and forgot my whites.’

‘Forgot it was Thursday.’ I yelled back. Oh shit! The bottles! Where did I put them.

‘Carla!’ His accusing tone shook the walls. ‘What the hell’s happened here?’

‘Sorry? What darling?’

‘The wine and glass all over the floor.’

God. What am I going to say? Helly? Yeah. Good old Helly.

‘Oh, Helly came to celebrate and she dropped the bottle, when she tried to open it. She’s gone to buy another.’

‘God, it stinks!’

‘Hope you wont be late. I’ve asked her for dinner.’ I can hear him opening and shutting drawers.

‘Carla, Bloody hell. Where’re my whites?

‘Oh, they’re in the sports cupboard.’

‘I can’t see them.’

‘Just next to the dirty clothes bag.’ He always does this.
‘Ah! Okay, got them. What are you celebrating?’

‘I got an interview for that job.’

Shit. I’ve got to get those bottles. I think I left them in a box on the garbage bin in the garage.

I dragged on my new jeans and t-shirt, threw the wet clothes into the washing machine, and ran barefoot down the back stairs. I could hear the shower in the bathroom next to the rumpus room. He must be going to change here before going on to tennis. God, I hope Helly’s home and will cover for me. What time is it? 5.30pm. Wish he’d hurry up and leave. Can’t risk him hearing me on the phone. Ah! Great! There’s the box.

I lifted the box with the half-dozen empty wine bottles off the garbage and placed it behind the storeroom door next to a number of other boxes filled with empty wine bottles.

No one ever goes there. It’s mainly filled with my mum’s stuff. She didn’t want to be bothered with a large house and unruly garden so she moved to a flat. I miss the old home. When we were little, Tess and I would spend most of our time in the garden.

Back in the bathroom I put on a little foundation and a touch of lipstick. I gave my hair another towel, and slipped on my latest acquisition: high heeled sandals. They were a consolation prize for losing my job.

As Dan came out of the study in his whites, I grabbed him and put my arms around his neck, confident I smelt good.

‘Isn’t it wonderful, Darling.’ Dan absently kissed me on the cheek and picked up his keys off the hall table.

‘I’m off.’

‘What time will you be back for dinner?’

‘Oh, the usual. Round 8.00.’

‘Great.’ I rushed into the sitting room as I heard his car engine turn over. Please Helly be home and please, please come over.

‘Helly’s Haven.’

‘Oh Helly. It’s me. You got to do me a big favour.’

‘Not another one.’

‘I know, I owe you, but this is important. Can you come over now?’

‘Now!’

‘I’ll cook a great dinner.’

‘Come on, Carla. What’s this about?
‘I told Dan you were coming to celebrate my job interview.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s hard to explain. I’ll tell you when you get here. PLEASE, Helly.

‘Oh, I guess it beats watching TV and now I’m curious.’

‘Oh, Helly, can you buy a couple of bottles of good red.

‘Sure. I’ll be there in about an hour.’

‘Great. Love you. Kiss. Kiss.’

With a sense of foreboding, I busied myself in the kitchen, filling up a large plate with things for an anti pasta: dolmathes, roasted capsicum, artichoke hearts, olives and fetta cheese.

I need a glass. Wine. Where did I see some wine? Now I remember. There are some bottles in Dan’s office: gifts from appreciative clients.

Once I had a glass in my hand I could feel myself relax. I ordered Portuguese chicken from down the road. Then started preparing vegetables to roast.

I went to pour another glass and realized the bottle was nearly empty. At that moment I heard the front door.

Great! Helly looks gorgeous as always. She works out at the gym as well as doing an early morning run most days. She says it clears her head. I should do something like that as well.

In her hand were two wine bottles.

Thank Goodness.

I took them from her outstretched hands, went through to the kitchen. As I went to put the bottles on the bench, I just managed to stop myself falling. Helly grabbed my arm.

‘Carla, are you all right?’

Concentrating hard, 1 picked up the anti pasta, a couple of glasses and a corkscrew. As I walked onto the deck I called out

‘I’m fine. Bring a bottle with you.’

With a concerned look on her face, Helly came out on to the deck, kindly poured the wine and handed me a glass.

‘Hope you enjoy this one.’

‘Thanks.’ I replied turning away to look out at the changing colour on the water.
We said nothing for a while. Then I broke the awkward silence. Looking at her new tan,

‘You’ve been to the beach.’

Helly bent over to look at her long legs.

‘I’ve been running down at the beach before work now that the weather is warming up. Why don’t you join me next week? I usually go early on Tuesday morning.’

‘Yes, I should. Thanks for the offer.’

‘Dan…pretty busy these days, is he?’ Helly was looking at me intently.

I wasn’t sure what she was getting at.

‘Yes, he is but he’ll be late tonight because he’s playing tennis.

‘Why don’t you play, you were always a good player,’

‘Oh Dan just plays with his work mates. It’s a boy thing.’

Helly probably thinks I’m getting too fat: all these references to exercise.

‘So, what’s the job.’ With one eye on me, Helly helps herself to the anti pasta.

‘What do you mean?’

Helly immediately shot me one of her looks.

‘The job… the interview you’re going to. What is it?’

‘Oh! This new job: Head of Public Relations for AGH.

‘That’s great! So we do need to celebrate. But what’s the urgency about coming tonight?’

Okay, now I have to try to make it sound normal.

‘I just didn’t want Dan to know I was opening a bottle to celebrate on my own.’

‘What’s that mean?’ Helly had a habit of boring into me with her black eyes. In the most off-handed way possible. I said,

‘I was trying to open a bottle and it spilt all over me, and the floor. Glass went everywhere. This was just as Dan came in to get changed for tennis.’

‘Is that all?’

I looked at her, embarrassed.

‘I know it sounds silly but I told him you had opened it and that you’d gone out to get another.’

‘Oh. I see. Why’d you have to say that?’

‘I don’t know. It was the first thing that came into my head. Dan’s a bit intolerant of my not having a job. He’s been especially difficult since I finished up at Ballast.’

‘Does he know you’ve got an interview on Thursday?’

‘I told him today. I said you were staying for dinner. He said he’d be home by 8.00.’

What is she thinking? I’d better stop before I say too much. Does she believe me?

Helly poured herself another drink and ate some fetta.

‘Something smells good,’ she said looking towards the kitchen.

At that moment the front door bell rang. I took my glass and went to answer it.
I opened the door. Suddenly everything was a blur. Mike seemed to reel in front of me. I managed to say, ‘Thanks Mike. What’s the damage?’ pay him, take the chicken and shut the door. For a couple of minutes I leant against it, my head spinning. Then I made my way to the kitchen and put the chicken in the warming oven with the plates.

I gulped down some wine, grabbed some more dolmathes and went out onto the deck. Helly was standing with her glass in her hand, looking out over the sea. It had taken on a silvery look as the west still had quite a glow. The garden lights had come on casting a white light over everything.

‘That was Mike with the Portuguese chicken. I’ll serve up now. Have some more of these.’ I passed Helly the plate of anti pasta and was certain my words were becoming slurred.

‘Do you want some help in the kitchen,’ offered Helly with her mouth full.

‘No, stay here and enjoy the view. It’s lovely tonight. We’ll eat out here if you like.’

‘Carla, it’s great. I’m looking forward to it. Are you sure you’re okay?’

‘Fine.’ I called out as I walked uncertainly back to the kitchen.

From the kitchen I heard the familiar sound of the electronic garage doors. Dan was home. Helly was leaning over the deck railing, and I heard Dan’s voice as he came up the deck stairs. Gingerly, I picked up the tray with all the plates and cutlery and carried it out to the table. Dan came over and gave me a peck and then gave Helly a hug. I left them chatting and went back to get the food.

Finally, we were eating. Both Helly and Dan seemed to be enjoying the meal. I pushed the food round the plate. I had lost my appetite and had some cramps in my stomach.

Dan looked up. ‘Carla, could we have some more wine?’

‘Yes, of course. Where is it?’

‘There are a number of bottles in my office in the stationery cupboard.’ He turned to Helly.

‘Some of my clients are very generous with their gifts.’

‘You can never have too much wine,’ Helly replied.

What does she mean? Does she think I drink too much?

I went into Dan’s office. Helly was asking Dan about his job. As an Environmental Lawyer he gets lots of clients fighting large corporations for compensation.

God I hope there are some left because I’ve drunk quite a few and haven’t had time to replace them. Ah, here we are. Two left.

I took both bottles out onto the deck along with the bottle opener and handed them to Dan. As he took the opener he turned to Helly.

‘I heard about your little incident with the wine earlier.’

Helly stopped eating for a moment looking confused and then it dawned.

Did Dan notice her falter?

‘Oh. Yes. I think it had some condensation and slipped out of my hand.’

‘You always finish work early.’ Dan took his glass and drank. Helly looked across at me.

‘Well, I’d been to a meeting near here and it wasn’t worth going back to the office, and Carla had rung to tell me about the job so I thought I’d surprise her with a bottle to celebrate.’

I can't look up. She is such a good liar. Thank you, thank you, Helly.

Dan smiled and looked towards me. I helped myself to more vegies, even though I hadn’t finished the ones on my plate.

‘Great to have thoughtful friends, Darling.’ He touched my arm and I managed a brilliant smile.

‘Well, Helly knows how much this job means to me.’ I said.

What’s he thinking?

‘Tell me more about the job.’ Dan filled our glasses. I took a mouthful of vegetables and chicken, forcing myself to chew and try to remember what I had told Helly.

‘It’s in public relations with a company you’ve had dealings with Dan.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘AGH.’

‘Ah! A nice squeaky clean petro-chemical company. You’ll make them look innocent, of course.’

‘Well, in the last 10 years they’ve had a good track record.’

Helly looked at me and then turned to Dan.

‘I heard they cleaned up their act. Joe, a colleague of mine did a piece on them a while ago.’

Dan smirked.

‘Yeah. I’d like to read the small print and a few of those pieces that don’t make the front page. Carla’s a little idealistic you might say when it comes to telling the story.’

He’s not talking about that. What’s he mean? He has that accusing look on his face, and Helly doesn’t understand what he means.

‘You like your rose-tinted glasses, don’t you darling?’ Dan was trying to smooth things over. Helly gave me a wary look. My mind was spinning and I felt hot and sweaty. Dan continued in a more jovial way.

‘Carla, did Kay think it a good idea to go for the job so soon?’

‘What? Big Red!’ I glared at Dan.

Helly stared at me a little puzzled.

‘Oh. Helly. Kay’s been helping me with my new image.’ I went on hurriedly.

Why did he have to bring Kay into the conversation? I have to get away.

‘New image.’ Dan scoffed putting his head back and rolling his eyes.

I got up from the table, poured more wine into my glass, gulped it down, then collected the empty plates. Helly was trying to change the subject.

‘Dan, have you had anything to do with Webber’s claim against that large mining company? Apparently they are settling out of court.’

Dan was getting a little drunk now. He turned to Helly.

‘You journos don’t miss anything do you? Who’s on that?’

‘Jim Soames. He does a lot of investigative stuff on the mining industry.’

My legs were shaking as I carried the plates into the kitchen and put them on the bench. There was a thump at the back of my head. Things became blurred and distant. I heard a loud noise, could see the kitchen turning upside down and was thinking the ceiling needed a new coat of paint. I thought I heard Dan call out.

Why did he have to start talking about Kay?

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Helly

‘Carla! Carla! Are you all right.’

Dan was kneeling beside Carla, who was unconscious on the kitchen floor.

‘Dan, shall I call an ambulance?’ I said, fumbling in my bag for my mobile.

‘Let’s get her into the bedroom, Helly. Could you help me with her? We’ll put her in the spare. It’s closest.

‘Okay. This is not that easy.’

‘Dead weight. And she’s put on quite a few pounds. Okay. Here we are.’

We put Carla on the bed and Dan sat next to her, feeling her forehead and taking her pulse. I went out into the kitchen to phone for an ambulance. When I returned, Dan had a damp washer across Carla’s forehead. He was looking forlorn.

‘The ambulance will be here in about 10 minutes. She seemed a little out of sorts earlier today,’ I ventured.

‘Yes. Helly. Things have been difficult for her.’

‘I guess losing the job was a disappointment.’

‘The circumstances were not so nice.’ Dan got up off the bed and walked towards the door.

‘I’ll turn the front lights on for the ambulance. Thanks for your help Helly.’ He turned away from me and walked down the internal stairs to the outdoor entertaining area.

I sat in a chair opposite Carla, straining to hear the approach of the ambulance. In no time I heard Dan giving directions. He showed the ambos into the room. They checked her vital signs, and then placed her on a trolley. They were quick and efficient and asked us few questions. Dan got in the back of the ambulance with Carla and I rode up front. We made our way easily through the thinning traffic.

On our arrival at the hospital a number of white coats met us and steered Carla in through emergency. She was still unconscious. A tall young doctor of eastern appearance took us aside and asked Dan some more questions regarding Carla’s medical history. Then we were ushered to an adjoining hallway.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

We’d been sitting in silence in the sanitised hallway just outside the emergency ward of the local hospital for what seemed ages. Dan turned towards me. He seemed to be groping for the right words.

‘You see, Helly. The lies and the make believe are wearing a bit thin. I have to have some time to myself to get the strength to deal with her without losing it.’

I knew I couldn’t look at him directly as I felt complicit in some way. ‘But can’t you talk to her. Tell her exactly what you told me.’

‘It’s no good. It’s her addiction talking. She’ll tell you what you want to hear and then as soon as your back’s turned…’ He drifted off.

‘But surely you can do something. She’ll listen to you. She adores you.’

‘I’m afraid the only thing she adores is her hit of alcohol.’

‘Who’s this Kay person you mentioned?’

Dan pulled a face and studied the ceiling for a minute.

‘I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘When did you confront her last?’

‘The last episode,’ Dan muttered.

‘What do you mean?’

He got up, walked over to the dispenser, dropped some coins in and punched a number. There was a clatter. He bent over and picked up a can of drink. He looked drained and very dejected. He had developed a slight tick just above his left eye. On his return he sat and stared at the can, turning it around and around in his hands.

‘Carla probably told you about the problem at her last job.’

‘Yeah, she told me she had a personality conflict with the boss.’ I watched Dans face cloud. I could see his jaw muscles tighten and he pushed his fingers into the soft aluminium can.

‘Well, you might say that, but in fact she started drinking at lunch times and often missed out on meetings.’

‘Did Carla tell you this?’

‘Oh, no. She denied it was a problem. Kay, the counsellor who was employed by the company, rang me and told me they needed my cooperation.’

‘What did you have to do?’

‘Oh, go along with their demand for her to detox.’

‘And did she?’

‘Yeah. They said they would organise for her to do a stint for a week or so.’

‘Wow! That’s really good.’

‘They acknowledged that the job could be stressful.’

‘Ah. I remember. But she didn’t tell me about that. When was it?’

‘About nine month’s ago.’

‘Oh, she did tell me something about going to some training program in Tassie for a couple of weeks.’

Dan laughed. ‘You could say that’s what it was.’

‘How was she when she got back?’

‘She seemed fine to me but six weeks later they brought her in and said they had to let her go. Kay told me she was caught drinking at work and had a stash of bottles.’

‘Poor Carla. Why?’

‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’ He shifted uncomfortably.

I didn’t know what to say. I could see the first light of dawn through the window.
I wondered if Dan knew Carla had used me to cover for her a number of times. I felt guilty but couldn’t bring myself to say anything. I still felt some loyalty to Carla. Dan seemed to care but I just felt uneasy.

‘What are you going to do now?’ I said.

Dan just shook his head. At that moment the Emergency doors swung open and the doctor who had admitted Carla came towards us with a very business-like look on his face. We stood up.

‘How is she?’ Dan’s face darkened with concern.

The doctor took his stethoscope from around his neck.

‘She ‘s suffering from the effects of long-term alcohol abuse, and has been bleeding internally. We’ve stabilised her for now and she’s sleeping. I suggest you go home and catch some sleep. We’ll see how she is in the morning.’

Dan didn’t ask to see her. He just nodded and we turned, walked out into the cool early morning and hailed a cab. The taxi dropped me off first. Without even taking my clothes off, I got under my doona, covered my head and tried not to think of anything but blissful sleep. What a night.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Carla

I feel the wet leaves under my feet as we run down the path towards our favourite tree. It’s raining: steady fine rain. Everywhere crystal-like drops of water glisten in the morning light. The thick carpet of leaves lies sodden from the heavy rain the day before.

I feel light. If we meet the fairies, perhaps they will teach us to fly. Suddenly, my feet slide from under me. The wetness soaks my shorts. Tess is ahead of me.

‘Come on Carla. You said you’d show me the fairy circle.’

There’s a white light above me. My arm is sore. Something is sticking out and it won’t go away. The white light fades.

Now I’m leading Tess through the thick, dark green undergrowth at the bottom of the garden The harbour sparkles through the gnarled and twisted pink trunks of the Angophora trees.

‘This way, Tess. Careful.’

We come to the spot I’d found. The sandstone overhang protects it, and the trees, growing between the large sandstone rocks, keep the place shaded. Although there are lots of twigs and leaves at the entrance, the area has a floor of clean, dry white sand enclosed by lots of small rocks. It’s like an amphitheatre. This must be the place where the fairies gather; it is so perfect.

I’m bending down looking at it and Tess is pushing her way in to get a better look. I put out my right hand to push her away.

'Don’t touch it!’ I shout. Tess makes a surprised sound and there’s lots of rustling and the sound of a branch snapping. I turn and Tess isn’t there.

Everything is blurred and spinning. I can’t stop the spinning. I think I can hear a high-pitched sound. A scream. I am scrambling back up the path to the house. The scream gets louder. I want to be sick. Where’s Tess? I look up and I can see my mother running, running barefooted towards me. I fall and can’t get up. The wet leaves cling to me. I can feel my mother holding me, her sweet smell.

‘Where’s Tess, Carla? Where’s Tess!!

I’m screaming. I can hear Mummy’s heart pumping in my ear as I cling to her.

OOOOOOOOOOOO

I feel bile filling my throat. The light is white and I am in a bed. I lurch forward, spewing onto the floor. Where am I? The room rocks.

‘It’s okay Carla. You’ve had a bad dream.’

There’s an antiseptic smell and someone in white is fiddling with something above me. I can feel them touch something sticking out of my arm. My head feels like lead against the pillow. My legs are numb.

It’s dark. I’m running along the corridor. It’s a hospital. People are dying. They’ve been poisoned. It’s cancer. They won’t do anything. I can’t get to them.

‘Hello, Carla. What’d you say? It’s all right. You’re in hospital. I’m Anna. You collapsed at your home last night. You’ve been unconscious.’ A hand strokes my arm. A blurred image above me speaks.

‘I’ve given you something for the nausea. You have a drip in your arm. Yes, don’t touch it. Leave it. There, you’ll feel much better. I’ll be close by. Just press this, if you need anything.’ She shows me a small round thing with a red button. I try to sit up.

‘There, there. Lie back. It’s just a nasty dream. You’re safe here Carla.’

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

At the end of the bed I see my favourite flowers: blue Iris. The late afternoon sun intensifies the delicate colours. The door opens to Dan holding my over-night bag. He looks sad, like he’s lost someone.

‘Hi.’ He comes over and takes my hand, the one with the drip in it. ‘How are you feeling?’ He leans over and touches my forehead.

‘I’m okay. What happened?

‘Carla. You fell last night and hit your head.’

‘Oh, did I? I don’t remember.’

Dan sits on the chair next to the bed.

‘Helly was there and we thought it best to get you to the hospital.’

‘Helly? Where is she?’

‘I guess she went to work.”

‘What was Helly doing there?’

‘Remember. She’d come to dinner.’ Dan was looking at me with that look of his.
I turned away.

‘I really don’t remember anything… an’… I must’ve slipped on something.’

‘The doctor said he’d be here in a minute. You look tired.’

Dan picks up the over night bag.

I never use that stupid bag. I keep it in the storeroom.

‘Oh, I brought you a change of clothes. We didn’t have time for anything last night.’

I watch him open the bag and lift out a nightie. I never wear nighties. I wonder where he found that one. I feel sick in my stomach. Nerves I guess. I can’t think clearly. Everything’s hazy with different images. I wish he’d go away.

Dan gets up and puts things in the drawers of the bedside table. A tall dark man appears. He says hello to Dan and asks how I’m feeling. I say I feel sick in my stomach. He picks up a chart at the end of my bed and scribbles something. A nurse in white appears and he gives her some instructions. She nods, comee over and fiddles with something above my head. Then disappears again.

‘You don’t seem to have done any damage when you hit your head.’ The Doctor is reading the chart.

‘We think you may need a rest. Do you remember what happened yesterday?’

I look at him and then at Dan. They both seem very serious.

‘No. Apparently I slipped and fell and hit my head. Dan said I’ve been unconscious.’

‘Well, you have some internal bleeding as a result of too much alcohol.’

I look at him.

Not this rubbish again. They always think they know what’s wrong.

He ignores my dirty look.

‘You need to stay off the alcohol. We’ll give you something to relax you. You need time to heal. Dan tells me you’ve had some problems before. Your health is deteriorating.’

I give Dan a filthy look. He looks away. The doctor comes over and sits by the bed. ‘Is there anything you want to discuss?’

I shake my head. He continues, ‘I’ll send in one of our people who can help you organise some assistance outside the hospital. Give it a little time and you’ll feel much better.’

The doctor leaves. Dan comes over and sits on the edge of the bed. I don’t want to see his face. It has that look of ‘I told you so’ all over it.

‘The nurse said you were having a bad dream. What was that about? Do you remember?’

‘Nothing. I don’t remember dreams.’

‘Would you like me to ring Kay?’

‘Kay. What’s she got to do with it? You just want an excuse to contact her, don’t you?’

Anger flashes across his face but he just tightens his lips. ‘Thought you would prefer to see Kay rather than someone new.’

‘Why??’

‘Well, Kay said that maybe you drink more when you’re reminded of something unpleasant. Do you know what that would be?’

‘That’s rubbish. I just enjoy a few drinks. I have to have something to put up with you.’

I’m sick of him always being the ‘good’ guy. Dan sighs and got up. He picks up the empty overnight bag and leaves the room.

Everything is silent. The sun has left the room and it feels cold. I lie there trying to grab hold of images flashing through my brain. I want to sleep forever.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Helly

‘Good Morning, Green Law.’

‘Hello, my name’s Helen Rigis. I’d like to speak to Daniel Clooney.’

‘Yes, one moment.’

I heard the receptionist put down the phone and the sound of her chair being moved. I wondered why she didn’t ring through.

I heard a click and then Dan’s voice.

‘Hi, Helly. I was just on the phone to a client.’

‘Well, I got back to you a soon as I could.’

Obviously, it was about Carla but I didn’t want to ask. It’d been weeks since he rang to tell me they had put Carla into rehab. Apparently she hadn’t kicked up a stink but as he said she wasn’t very willing, and he was the bad guy as always. Carla had made no attempt to contact me. Dan had said she had no memory of our dinner. I wonder.

‘Helly. What about lunch? Your office is close by. Let’s meet at Zephyr’s?’

‘A late lunch? I have a meeting till 1. Say 1.15pm.’

‘That’s fine, Helly. I’ll see you then. Lunch is on me.’

Luckily I didn’t have any deadlines but thought I’d better clear my desk so I could get away from the meeting by one exactly.

OOOOOOOOOOOOO

Zephyr’s is one of these trendy cafés: all brown, chrome and glass. At least they had some comfortable benches. I sat at one against the wall so I could see Dan when he came in.
There was a distinct spring in his step as he turned the corner. He gave me the perfunctory kiss on the cheek and mumbled something about the specials and had I ordered. I chose the warm BBQ Octopus salad with lots of chilli and Dan settled for the Chicken Caesar. We made light-hearted small talk until they brought over our drinks. Then he became serious.

‘I guess you know why I called you.’

‘It’s about Carla?’

‘Yes, thought I’d give you an update. I’ve been a little remiss.’

‘Well, we’re all busy.’

‘Yes. Ah…Carla’s not home yet. She spent rather longer than anticipated at rehab. Now she’s staying with her Mum for a while.’

‘Oh, I thought she didn’t really see much of her mum these days.’

‘Yes, well there have been some changes.’

‘What sort of changes?

I stared at him while he made holes in the paper napkin with his fork. At that moment our meals came and all he said was, ‘Eat up.’

Half-way through his meal he continued.

‘After the detox Carla had some counselling. One of the nurses was concerned for her, because she had some disturbing nightmares.’

‘Oh.’

‘They decided to work with Carla to see if there was something troubling her.’

‘What sort of thing?’

‘Well, Kay tells me alcoholics often have destructive drinking bouts when something happens to trigger a past trauma.’

‘Oh. Kay told you this?’

I was suddenly suspicious.

‘I thought Carla didn’t want anything to do with Kay.’

‘Yes, you’re right. But as Kay had worked with Carla previously, she was consulting behind the scenes.’

‘Did Carla know this?’
‘The doctor thought it best not to upset her.’

‘What did they find out?’

‘It was something she never told me. Recently I had a long talk with her mother. You may not know this but Carla had a younger sister.’

‘Gosh, I understood she had a bother but she never said anything about a sister.’

‘When they were young they used to play in the garden. They had lots of secret places. The boundary went down almost to the beach.’

‘What happened?’

‘Well, no one really knows exactly. Seems it was an accident. Tess, was about 5 at the time. She fell from a sandstone ledge and the drop was some 30 metres.’

‘Oh. My God. What an awful thing to carry with you.’

‘Her mother said Carla never really said anything. She became much quieter and was very studious at school.’

‘How did they find out?’

‘Part of her treatment included hypnosis. It came out, and of course the terrible guilt.’

Dan eyes were shining and he blew his nose. I put my hand on his arm.

‘Poor Carla.’ I murmured.

‘Yes. These feelings of guilt came to the surface again when she was involved with the work cover-up.’

‘What cover-up?’

‘The company she was working for tried to avoid paying compensation to some of their employees who’d contracted cancer from the chemicals they’d been handling. Carla was their Public Relations person.’

‘So…so that would explain why she started hitting the bottle so hard.’

I remembered Carla very drunk in the pub one night after work. She had been raving about people being poisoned, but didn’t make a lot of sense.

‘I’m really pleased you told me.’

‘Something else. When I went to get Carla’s overnight bag to take some things to the hospital, I found boxes of empty wine bottles. They were in the storage under the house. I didn’t realise she was drinking so much.’

We ate our cold food in silence. Then I remembered something.

‘What happened about the job? Carla was to have an interview that Thursday.’

Without looking at me, Dan took a mouthful of his wine and shook his head.

‘Helly, I don’t think there was a job.’

‘Really? I can’t believe that.’

‘The HR people at AGH had never had any dealing with a Carla Clooney.’

All I could do was shake my head.

‘And she probably felt guilty about deceiving you so it was easier to have no memory of any of those events.’

Dan paid the bill. He walked me back to my office, promising to let me know how Carla progressed. I felt flat. I couldn’t help wondering whether it was better to wait till Carla contacted me as Dan said, or if I should try to contact her at her Mum’s. Maybe I could talk to her Mum?

I didn’t try to make contact. I came up for air after ten days of working long hours. I’d arranged to meet a friend for lunch. We had decided to get take-away and eat in the park nearby, as the local café was always full.

I had paid for our lunches, Evelyn was chatting to someone outside on the pavement, and I was waiting for the food. At the counter people were three deep, but on the other side a couple was sitting at a table against the wall. Their intimacy caught my attention. The guy had his back to me. He was leaning towards a striking young woman with red hair, his hand caressing her neck. Then he turned to pick up a jar of water. There was no mistaking the handsome profile. It was Dan. I remembered something Carla had said about Kay at dinner that night. She was angry. She’d said ‘Big Red.’ That must be Kay. They weren’t just acquaintances and Carla probably knew.

I took the lunches and hurried out to join Evelyn.

‘Helly, what’s wrong? You look upset.’

‘It’s nothing.’ I answered. ‘I just saw something… very disappointing.’

I looked up at Evelyn. ‘Let’s have lunch. I’m starving.’

Riches

2011-04-07T21:55:00.001+10:00

By Lorraine Cobcroft

“How do you define rich?” he asked. I thought him perhaps a little facetious, but his earnest expression exposed the seriousness of his query.
“For so long, I dreamt of being fantastically wealthy,” he continued, “and I strove daily to find a way to achieve that ambition. But faced, now, with the reality that it is unlikely I’ll ever accumulate substantial wealth, I suddenly find myself quite disenchanted with the idea, and wondering why the prospect of being monetarily rich no longer appeals.”
His use of the terms ‘rich’ and ‘wealthy’ as synonyms grated a little. Oh, sure, I know the thesaurus lists them so, and the dictionary definitions are similar, but for me the terms are worlds apart. For wealth refers only to monetary acquisitions and the assets money can buy.
“My grandmother was rich,” I mused, not quite in answer to his question. “She hadn’t two cents to rub together, and the tiny old house she lived in – her only material possession – was described as ‘a knock-down’ in the for sale advertisements that appeared after her death. But the huge cathedral in which her funeral service was held couldn’t accommodate all who attended. Loudspeakers were hung from trees in the park opposite where friends and loved ones gathered to hear the minister proclaim that few there would know her last name. She was ‘Grandma’ or ‘Aunty Bid’ to all who knew her, and everyone had a story to tell of her kindness and displays of abundant love.”
I think he understood, for he nodded gravely, then remarked that he was greatly enjoying his new job, working from home beside his wife all day, without either the stress attached to a demanding profession or the worry of managing the substantial salary it had yielded.
“It’s a simple life,” he said. “With all the peace and joy that a simple life brings.”
Simple? No! Gran’s life was not simple. She worried daily over the welfare of loved ones and she wearied and deprived herself caring and giving. And yet she was rich beyond words, because all the world loved her, and because she sang and laughed her way through life, and was happy.
“How do I define rich?” I asked. “No definition needed. It shows in shining eyes and glowing cheeks and a deep belly laugh that resonates through the house and echoes from the nearby hills. It’s heard in a lilting voice and seen in a light tripping step. It’s tasted in the sweetness of tea and fresh-baked patty cakes. It’s felt in the hug that welcomes you and in the warmth of the room into which visitors are ushered.
“It’s seen in the contented smile of an infant settling in cradling arms, and heard in the joyous shout of the toddler rushing to greet you; the soft ‘thank you’ uttered by the grieving widow or the labouring mother-to-be to whom you ministered; and the clink when you drop a coin into the blind beggar’s tin.
“’The word ‘rich’ defies definition or measure. When you achieve it, you will feel no different than before and you will not boast of it nor even lay claim. No-one will congratulate or applaud you. But all will know.”

A love story in 25 words

2011-04-05T12:02:00.002+10:00

By Eddie Blatt

She wanted a real man.
I wanted a real woman.
We got each other.
Our love survives changes.
We're not who we thought we were.

Fairfield Writers' Group — Queensland

2011-03-20T12:29:00.009+11:00

You've heard of twin towns? We now have a twin group! Writers' group, that is.

A recent new WordsFlow member, Lorraine, moved to our area from Brisbane, Queensland, where she had been part of the Fairfield Writers' Group. Although we operate a little differently, it's apparent that the two groups share similar attitudes and values *. We decided to befriend each other so as to share resources and opportunities. We're not so far away as to rule out getting together occasionally, perhaps for our respective book launches when we publish anthologies.

Meanwhile, one of the differences between us is that the Farifield group's website publishes more tips, techniques and exercises for writers, whereas our blog here is more of a showcase for participants' writing. We both do both, but the predominant focus differs. Much of the material at the Fairfield group's site could be very useful to writers beyond the group. I've listed it on our 'Useful Links for Writers' page, and I recommend that you have a look at it. It is in itself a rich resource.

* You think that's only to be expected? Sadly, some writers' groups haven't found out yet that you can be serious about writing without being snooty. It's off-putting for newcomers to be greeted with, 'And what university did you attend?' or 'Are you a PUBLISHED poet?' — even when the answer would be deemed acceptable. Talent, creativity, and the ability to work at one's craft can flourish just as well, and to my mind better, in an atmosphere of friendliness and laughter, which builds trust.

Poetry Olympics

2011-03-05T16:47:00.001+11:00

There's an arresting headline! But no, it's not an announcement; it's one of the five-minute prompts from our last writing session. The others liked the nonsense I wrote in response so much that they demanded it go on our blog. So here it is. — Rosemary

Whoopee! At last they have recognized me. My potential is realised. I could win, you know — I could. And the relay will be wonderful; how could we possibly fail at that? There’ll be Jan Busch and me, and Les Murray and John Kinsella. I can just imagine us, passing the stanza to the next person, who takes it and runs with it (metaphorically speaking of course). The official scorer will be taking it down with the recording device on his mobile phone.

Who can the other teams field that could match us? I can’t think of any good foreign poets who aren’t dead already. Oh well, come to think of it, maybe one or two. The Americans might give us a run for our money. But Aussies, you know, have words like no-one’s ever heard. We must get some points for originality. Bonzer and bottler and bewdy, they’d all count extra, don’t you reckon? Yeah, she’ll be apples on the day.

There’ll be the improv section and the free verse race, the formal high jump and the haiku sprint.

I hear the Board is still deciding whether to admit rap. So old-fashioned of them! If they let in concrete poetry, which doesn’t even get to be spoken, why not rap? If they let in dada, which is just repetitive sounds, why not rap? I’m going to get up a petition on the internet. The Yanks’d join me, that's for sure; they invented it — or so they think. It was really the Mexicans, but never mind.

Well, gotta go and practice my sonnets and triolets. See you after the ballad race.

Note: No discussion of the nature of dada or the origin of rap will be entered into.

Keyholes and Glimpses (a collection of reflections)

2011-02-01T22:40:00.006+11:00

by M Cunningham Webb

Poignant

When going to the Oncology Department on Wednesdays, with Tony for his treatment, at first I expected it to be scarily depressing and upsetting. Instead I found it to be an interesting cross section of fascinating characters, as most gatherings are. The children there were naughty and adorable even though they were also sick. The adults were a complex mixture of: chatterboxes, hard cases, leg pullers, well travelled wags and of course whingers and ‘sad sacks.’ The nursing staff was not made up of angels as you might expect, they were real people. One had crashed his car the previous day and complained about the cost of repairs. A second, newly separated, was doing the ‘I’m a liberated woman’ act. A third showed newly taken pictures of his children. All were efficient and compassionate, even though they were overworked. On the way home, I reflected on the poignancy of it all.

Bearded Men

The men I have loved in the past and the man I currently love have all worn beards. If I found myself in a room full of men I would only notice the bearded ones amongst them. Does this suggest that in my deepest instincts, I craved ‘a caveman?’ I don’t think so. Maybe it is conditioning of a more subtle kind. As a little girl I remember looking at a very handsome man, with facial hair, in a sepia photograph. To my eyes he was more handsome than Rock Hudson or Glen Ford. Whoever he was, (my deceased grandfather, maybe,) he has had a major influence on my life, even though we had never met. I seem to have been looking for someone just like him.

One of my Earliest Memories

One of my earliest memories is of an embarrassing incident when I was less than three years old. I saw my Nana walking up our street wearing her tan coat and hat. Hurrying as fast as my chubby little legs could carry me, I ran to meet her, before she reached our front door. With great delight I threw my arms around her knees and looked up expecting to hear her kind words and to see her smiling down at me. Instead, a different woman, who wasn’t my Nana at all, was scowling down at me and shaking me free of her legs. I can still remember the feeling of acute embarrassment, which I experienced, for the first time in my life.

She threw the First Punch.

“She threw the first punch, me Lord,” Catty Barry told the judge, pointing her finger in anger at her opponent.

“She was being nasty and insulting and she called me establishment a bawdy house, your honour. When I told her to leave, she punched me on the jaw and pushed me hard. Then she had the audacity to tell me that me nose was like the last rose of summer.”

Catty Barry stopped, apparently still seething from the insult.

The Judge was clearly intrigued and inquired,

“What happened then, Miss Barry?”

“Well I put her in her place, me Lord, by telling her, ‘well, at least I not blooming alone.’”

I was so relieved

He looked nothing like his photo on his profile page, on the internet dating website. Obviously he had it taken many years ago, before the beer belly and the dejected look. I was so relieved that I had only agreed to meet him for lunch. I insisted in paying for myself, so that there would be no hidden obligations. After ten minutes of continuous sarcasm about his ex wife I decided he was neither attractive in looks nor manner. Once I had finished my eight dollar ‘special’ at the bowls club restaurant, I could tell him, easily, “You are probably a nice person with good qualities but we have absolutely nothing in common.”

How are you?

“How are you?” he asked as we shook hands. I realised it was a habitual platitude and that he didn’t really expect an answer. I fell into the trap of saying,

Fine, how are you?”

I could see his chest puff up as he started his spiel, which had all the signs of being well rehearsed. I got it all: how much his back hurt, how his ex was a bitch who fleeced him, how his kids didn’t want anything to do with him. This was followed by how he had lost his job and all the other woes he had to share. On and on he droned. When he stopped for breath I successfully interjected, “I am sorry about all that. I only came to say that I can’t stay for coffee with you, today. I remembered an hour ago that I have another appointment, which is really urgent and could not be postponed.”

Heading for the door I figured that it was probably the shortest internet date I had had so far.

Going Back

It is lovely to go back although it is not always easy. Everyone seems the same and it seems like I have changed immeasurably because of many new experiences. It takes a day or two to get over my jetlag and to get back on the same wavelength that I was on 22 years ago. That was when l left to live in another country at the opposite side of the world. People act as if it doesn’t matter that I’ve been gone for so long but the gaps between me and those I have loved my whole life, sometimes seem insurmountable. There is a feeling of separation which adds to the notion that you are in some sort of time warp. Add to this the fact that I get lost in the city where I grew up because of a new one way traffic system. There is a tunnel under the river that was never there before. Seventeen new suburbs have extended the city outwards to join up with what once were country towns. There are also important things that will always stay the same: those who really do care, the friendliness, the quick sense of humour, the accents, the attitudes, ‘the Guinness and the rain.’

Coffee

Don’t offer me instant coffee, ever! I grew up with a bottle of Iral (like Camp) coffee in the cupboard; it was made from chicory essence and tasted quite good when added to boiled milk. It was almost the same as the enjoyable milky stuff they served in the coffee bars, down town, in my teens. Then I travelled to work in Italy and discovered the true meaning of the word COFFEE. On my days off, I would leave the house, where I had a job as a nanny, at 6.00 am and head into the city. I’d stop at a bar, which opened that early to serve customers coffee on their way to work. Having bought two demitasse cups of black and strong coffee, I would throw them back one after the other, as I had seen the locals do. The wonderful liquid coursed through my veins and I could feel the full extent of the caffeine hit. Oh, yes, good coffee is my drug of choice.

Edinburgh

If ever there was a city where I felt I belonged, even though I wasn’t born there and I had never lived there, it is Edinburgh. I felt instantly at home, like I wasn’t just a visitor on my very first and every subsequent visit there. Maybe I belonged there in a previous life. Edinburgh is essentially a ‘lang toon’ or long town with its one long beautiful picturesque main street. All other streets then run parallel to that on the south side of the city. It was the design of the original town which has expanded into the breathtakingly stunning city of today. The royal mile ambles as it climbs gently up towards the magnificent Edinburgh Castle. The historical towers seem to overlook and survey with pride the buildings and streets below and if watching carefully over its subjects, like a parent does their family. My joy is that every time I go back there I still continue to get that feeling.

My Musical

I love all musical theatre and have an eclectic taste. However, the musical ‘Hair’ is very special to me. I first saw it in my twenties and its naivety and simplicity spoke directly to me, making the musical a show dear to my heart. The sketchy storyline didn’t take from it, nor did the innocent nude scene which shocked the ‘pillars of society’ at that time. The anti-war and anti-establishment motifs were the main appeal, as they were the voice of a whole generation of young people; my generation. Add that sense of belonging then to the musical score, which for its era was truly innovative and fresh. Some are still widely played as classics of modern ‘show tunes.’ The Age of Aquarius, Frank Mills and the Hair Anthem at up there with the numbers that will always transport me back to my youth.

Redhead

When your parents and your entire family are redheads, like you are, you learn early on to tolerate nicknames and teasing. “The Foxy Family” and “Copper Nobs” where shouted at us as we walked home from school. New teachers called me “the girl with the red hair” for a long time before they learned my name. People suggested that there must have been lots of fighting in our house, as redheads are supposed to be fiery. This was not true. I believe we had possibly the same number of fights as any other family and probably a lot fewer than most. I sometimes hated my colouring until when in my teens I realised that it made me noticeable and marked me as being unique. Our parents told us our hair was beautiful and made us feel that we were special because of it. We were advised that red was not a good colour to wear, as it clashed with our colouring. I’ve been called: Fox, Red, Rusty and Carrot Top. In Australia they added Ranga (from Orang-utan) and Blue (being the opposite of red.) Now that I am losing my hair colour as I age, I keep enhancing it (cosmetically) because it has become an interictal part of who I am.

Excuses

I could write an epistle about the excuses I’ve been given by students, over the years, who had not completed homework or an assignment on time.

“I put it on the laundry bench while I looked for football socks for the game this afternoon, Miss, and then my bother tried to grab the same pair of socks and he knocked my assignment into the washing machine while the lid was open and the machine was working.” That was one of the longest excuses I’ve ever heard.

“The dog ate it, Miss,” was the shortest. “I thought it wasn’t due until Monday, Miss,” was the most frequently used. The best and most honest excuse award went to the boy who told me, “I just didn’t know how to start it, Miss, and I was too embarrassed to ask. It would mean admitting that I wasn’t paying attention in class when you explained it.” Teachers hear all the excuses you can imagine. Is it surprising that they doubt them all?

My Grandmother

Helena was my grandmother. She was widowed at thirty seven and reared eleven children by working three jobs in the days before widow’s pensions. “She had to be both mother and father to us while we were growing up,” my mother told me. This suggested that my grandmother was strong, firm and in control. But to me growing up she always seemed kind, calm and relaxed. I slept in her house every night from the age of thirteen. She read as many as ten library books a week while wearing two or three pairs of glasses at a time, because she had cataracts. My grandmother loved murder mysteries and the book dust covers were often filled with gory, graphic illustrations. She sat comfortably, next to the gas fire, knees apart while reading and often lit her cigarette off the end of the last one. This resulted in a yellow streak in her otherwise white hair from the smoke. As the ash fell, it gathered in the dip of her apron skirt, which doubled as an ashtray. We sat and read together in compatible silence. When it came time for bed, she stood up and shook the ash out the back door before putting her cat, Manky, outside to perform her ablutions for the night.

Red

“Red,” they said, “will clash with you hair colour so you should not wear it.” As a result I’ve never worn it much myself but have always admired it on other people.

Film stars wore red but it was considered loud and attention seeking, in the era in which I grew up. It was probably too vibrant and looked ridiculous in the often rainy landscape and cold weather back home.

“She was like a Yank, all dressed in red,” I once heard a neighbour describe her son’s new girlfriend. My Nana, who couldn’t whisper even if she tried, once remarked as on St. Patrick’s Bridge, we passed a woman wearing a splendid red hat,

“Red hat, no drawers.”

Favourite Movie Derived from a Book

My favourite film derived from a book was ‘Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.’ I was in awe of J.K. Rowling for writing something that boys between the ages of twelve and fifteen actually wanted to read, without coercion. One day during the school holiday, I spotted the film in DVD in the shop across the road from my unit in Fingal. It was a combined food store cum bottle shop cum post office cum video store cum fast food outlet. I went to buy vinegar and came back clutching the new Harry Potter film. Having made myself comfortable for the afternoon, I revelled in watching it twice so as not to miss anything. The wonderful interpretation, special effects and acting were all superb. It surpassed my imaginative visions in my head, as I read the book. I was really impressed by the excellence of the film and my appetite was whet for the others still to be made, from the rest of the series.

What I Learned this Week

This week I have learned that my mood has lifted and that I feel motivated to start writing again. My daughters will be surprised to find me standing outside of ‘my Grief Cage,’ when they come to give me support, on Tony’s anniversary. I have also learned that it is not necessarily those big occasions, which we seem to dread, like: birthdays, Christmas, and anniversaries etc. which are the most difficult. Rather, it is the memories of walking on the beach where we saw whales, the curry night with friends, the time I got heat stroke at Woodford and Tony bought me some iced tea. Those are the kind of memorable incidents which I want to hold on to for ever.

Recovery

Recovery they call it, as if I was getting over a serious medical procedure or a long illness. I don’t feel like that, though. It is more like I have been suspended for a long time on a cold, dull plain where I am slightly removed from where everyone else is normal. I didn’t want to get involved with their normality, it was too painful. It was a bit self indulgent, that self imposed isolation, where I stayed until I was ready to be me again. Thankfully, I wasn’t going insane as I had imagined at times. I was just giving myself time to adjust to what has to be my future.

Getting up

Sometimes it is easy. I jump out of bed when the alarm on my phone rings, hop in the shower and get dressed. Then I eat something and leave the house on a mission to go and do something. When I stay at home, I’m usually tackling the chores that must be done, not always with enthusiasm. At other times, like today, I lay awake listening to the heavy rain and thought; I have nothing or nobody to need me out of bed and functioning. Then it is a real chore to drag myself to the kitchen and make a choice about what to eat. I sit around in my night clothes, messing with the computer and wasting time all day. Still the phone doesn’t ring and the mail box is empty. I hear my mother’s voice encouraging me to, “Count your blessings,” and “There are always people who are worse off than you are.” Then I think to myself, if I only accomplish one thing today, then I won’t be a complete failure. I put a load in the washing machine. Feeble success!

This collection of 3 minute reflections is from stimuli at the WordsFlow Writers' Group which I attend. I am surprised at how much they reveal about my feelings at the times I was writing them.

Haiku and Other Short Forms — the cheat sheet

2010-12-21T16:20:00.007+11:00

Someone asked me for guidance. This may not be the most elegant or scholarly dissertation, but I think it works as a quick reference.

Haiku: three short lines, traditionally 5/7/5 syllables. About nature, including a word that indicates the season (e.g. cherry blossom for spring) and containing a turn of thought or juxtaposition of objects/ideas. They are not supposed to use any poetic devices such as metaphor. Ideally they should create in the reader an ‘aha! moment’.

Senryu: same form, but about people and can include humour and urban settings.

Modern haiku and senryu in English often ignore the syllable count in favour of short/long/short, as Japanese syllables tend to be briefer than English ones (I’m told). In this case they aim for shorter lines than 5/7/5. Some people even go in for one-line haiku! They often omit punctuation, too.

In our Haiku on Friday page on facebook, the lines between haiku and senryu are sometimes pretty blurred!

Renga: a chain, in which someone adds two 7-syllable (or just longer) lines to the original haiku. The next person will then write another three, and so on, until everyone gets sick of keeping it going.

Tanka: a 5-line form of 5/7/5/7/7 syllables or short/long/short/long/long. Not so strictly about nature, though they can be. Often have a romantic theme. There should be the ‘turn of thought’ and aha! moment in tanka too.

Lune: a 3-line form devised as a Western haiku, based on syllable count without all the other rules. Called lune because of crescent shape (resulting from line lengths). Two kinds:
Kelly lune invented by Robert Kelly; syllables 5/3/5. Collum lune by Jack Collum, who misremembered and taught it as 3/5/3 WORDS (rather than syllables).

Gogyohka: new Japanese form freer than tanka. 5 lines, each as long as one breath (if speaking them aloud). No other rules.

Poetry — Initial Capitals or Not?

2010-12-19T08:44:00.002+11:00

I asked a friend to do me the favour of casting a critical eye over my latest manuscript before I submit it. One thing she queried was my practice of not capitalising the initial letter of every line of my poems. Evidently she is more comfortable with the convention of initial capitals.

For the sake of others who may be interested in this question, here is my reply to her:

Many poets still use the convention of capitalising the first letter of every line. At least as many, if not more, no longer do that. There's an interesting discussion of the matter here, amongst poets.

The practice of initial capitalising in English poetry began in the 16th Century. This changed with the advent of free verse in the 20th Century, as initial capitals would have been intrusive to the flow and to the various ways that poetry can now be arranged on the page. It is very common now for formal poets, too, to dispense with initial capitals, though some retain them. On the other hand, some practitioners of free verse, when using a fairly conventional arrangement of lines on the page, like to adopt initial capitals — but have to abandon them when they venture into things like shape poetry or prose poetry.

I write mosty free verse, but like to play with form sometimes. I don't want to be inconsistent within my own work so I adopt prose rules for capitalisation, whatever kind of verse I'm writing.

When all's said and done, these days it depends on the personal preference of the poet.

The Road to Heavenly Bliss

2010-09-24T23:04:00.002+10:00

By Nan Doyle

The road to heavenly bliss is paved with white tiles, white and shimmering like mother of pearl in an artificial light. And so I apply myself to the task with the clinical precision and fervour of a serial killer. Cracking, banging, snapping and gouging white flesh from hidden depths; anticipation rising as I salivate and drool, torturing myself by refusing even a tiny morsel until my task is completed. The eating of this creature is forbidden somewhere in the Old Testament, probably in that Leviticus chapter that forbids everything that may be pleasurable to some. My take on this is, why make it taste so good if it's unclean? I know this creature well, it will taste of the ocean and the air and the sky. Preparing it for consumption is a solitary task as I don't share my mud crabs with anyone. Mine, all mine.

WordsFlowers in The Smoking Poet

2010-09-18T09:58:00.004+10:00

I first encountered the lively arts and literary magazine The Smoking Poet on MySpace, and have thoroughly enjoyed every issue since. The current issue, Issue #16, Fall 2010 (the magazine emanates from the Northern Hemisphere, where it's autumn now) is full of good stuff as usual. At WordsFlow we're particularly excited by this issue as it includes pieces by two of our participants: Poverty, by Eddie Blatt and The Desert People, by Bron Trathen.

Do go and have a read, for these and many other good reasons!

Why Write?

2010-08-29T12:47:00.008+10:00

We've been looking at journalling. I referred The WordsFlow participants to an article, Why Write? at the Writing Through Life blog. One of them emailed me:

The question: "Why write?" is one I always ask myself. My problem is not lack of time, I can make tons of that for myself, it's answering that question to myself in a way that has rigour enough to satisfy me. I can't think of meaningful enough reasons for doing it. That's why I can't get myself to do anything with the memoir I began... just the possibility that my grandkids might like to know about some of my life story doesn't cut the mustard. So, where's the value to me? This woman may give me some insights to encourage me to take the trouble to write stuff on a daily basis, if only just for personal emotional and psychological reasons... e.g, dumping, expressing joy about something I experienced, spiritual explorations that have startled me in some way... maybe these are some reasons for recording the ephemeral parade of my ego's life and, at times, even, my soul's journey. Otherwise, recording my 'story' seems to amount to nothing more than passing fluff, and what's the use of that?

(My correspondent is also a sculptor, graphic artist and musician.) I replied:

Why write? I think it's different for the multi-talented; you might well feel more like expressing yourself some other way, being creative in a different medium. For myself, writing is a sort of compulsion, albeit one I passionately enjoy.

I think we do it first for ourselves, because it fulfils something within us, and that the wish to communicate it comes second. (A close second, mind you!)

Your issues might be to do with self-worth. (Why not do it just for your own sake?) Or they might be to do with preferring other forms of artistic endeavour. If the former, the journalling advice would obviously help. If the latter - well, life's too short to waste on things you don't enjoy; stick to what you do love.

In my experience, our children and grandchildren do want to know our stories. If you don't enjoy writing the memoir, how about a scrapbook with photos, and notes related to them? You could maybe expand some of the notes into brief vignettes and reminiscences.

I should have added that she (unlike those of us with fewer gifts) might also draw in the suggested scrapbooks.

UN CERTAIN REGARD (Cult of the Marvellous)

2010-08-22T10:06:00.002+10:00

By Thom

(We've been looking at memoir lately. This recent piece
by our favourite guest workshopper seems right on cue.)

I was a Writer in Residence
Kansas City School Of Performing Arts
their exercise was making face masks
She presented hers-white death with pins stuck in her lips
"Is this true?"i asked.YES
Never allowed to speak in a male world
She reached to art to open her lips/pull out the pins
and send a hand grenade of personality self defense
rolling down the art room floor

Each night,a certain light
animates the faces of those exposed
to radioactive self-revelations.Your own stories
winds intestinal snakes -to strike out when unexpressed
and to wind python round the mind of those
willing to embrace

When fully exposed-every Emperor Penguin is naked
We are all Presidents of our Queen of Stories
Memories,diary moons,handscrawled lyrics of forgotten tunes
snatches of mulch remembered composted childhoods-
these belong to you.Share them -quickly!
before the pins of self-censorship are re-inserted
just to prove all is possible.

The Ultimate Rejection Slip

2010-08-12T17:55:00.003+10:00

We have read your manuscript with boundless delight. If we were to publish your paper, it would be impossible for us to publish any work of lower standard. And as it is unthinkable that in the next thousand years we shall see its equal, we are, to our regret, etc.

Rejection slip from a Chinese economics journal, quoted in the Financial Times. (I found it quoted in Creative Wisdom for Writers by Roland Fishman.)

Writing Memoir

2010-08-07T16:55:00.011+10:00

I got into a doldrums with my writing; so today, to re-inspire myself, I went to the library and borrowed some books for writers. Already I am finding gems to share.

Here, from Writing the Story of Your Life by Carmel Bird, is the first part of her Prelude, 'Sing a True Song':

I would like to emphasise the elements of joy that you as the writer of your own story will experience. To sing a true song, the song of your own life story, is a most energising, absorbing and delicious thing to do. To create the narrative as first of all a gift to yourself, and then as a gift to the people who matter to you, and perhaps ultimately as an offering, through publication to strangers you will never meet, is a glorious and fulfilling project. And the process of producing it is a pleasure. Ultimately it is a useful thing to do because it may enlarge the universe of the people who read it.

She goes on to explain that the book is in four parts, 'designed to first of all confirm you in your desire to write a memoir, then to cover the practical side of things, then to enter many of the technicalities of writing, and finally to discuss with you some of the ways to work with journals and other personal writing', and that it includes twenty-eight exercises and a number of quotations which she hopes will nourish her readers..

This is Carmel Bird's third book for writers. The others are Dear Writer and Not Now Jack — I'm Writing a Novel. I own copies of the first two, so I know that this one will also be entertaining and useful. That you may discover for yourselves — I just couldn't resist sharing that joyous Prelude.

Here's another wonderful thing she says, a little further on:

The written word is a looking glass; it will tell you lots of things you probably didn't realise about yourself.

A Thom poem

2010-07-25T09:44:00.003+10:00

Thom Moon Bird, WordsFlow's favourite guest workshopper, is a prolific poet and has given me carte blanche to disseminate any of his pieces that particularly take my fancy. This one does!

THE SILENT STONES ARE TALKING
they are rich in deserts
if we could leave them alone,they would sleep
but we dig and drill,make wars and borders
claim paper title over a rock space
use rocks as forts and weapons
wage war for shiny rocks(blood diamonds)
(Nigeria's gas burns since 1965
China's oil seas poison rivers)
Leave the desert to dream.Magnets inside have a purpose
apart from gold and oil and opals and diamonds
Rock has a meditation too.Let it ignore you.
Move on to scissors.

Prayer of Emotion

2010-05-24T17:24:00.003+10:00

By Jan Busch
(Written during Thom & Bob's workshop 14/05/10)

Formation clouds elegantly drift,
thick white bright to hue.
Whisper notions screams speaks silently.
Emotions unvoiced.

Heart, ribs, lungs explode noiseless,
endeavour to transcend dread.
Thoughts travel on fleeting soft clouds.
Prayer unspoken.

Heart song cleanse poison cells,
that dwell multiply in destruction.
Earthbound wings fall regularly
token of vulnerability.

Barely noticeable mist mingle elevate
steadily skyward, whisking
away pain and fear.
Prayer of emotions.

Workshop: Thom Moon Bird and Bob Mud

2010-05-19T17:27:00.061+10:00

When I told the WordsFlowers that Thom would be in the country again and asked if they wanted another workshop with him, the overwhelming answer was, ‘Yes please!’

(And yes, he has yet another moniker. I've known him as Tom the Street Poet, Thom the World Poet, thom moon 10, and now Thom Moon Bird. 'I won't have an identity crisis,' he says, 'I don't have an identity!')

This time he was accompanied by his old pal Bob Mud, just home from a visit to the Texas poetry festivals in April. When Bob’s home, he’s in Brisbane, where he makes music, poetry and mud art, and encourages children to interact with the natural world. The photo is of Bob and some of his mud art at the workshop. He treated us to flute, didgeridoo, penny whistle and recordings of bush birds; while Thom inspired us with his own words to respond in writing to his poetry, Bob’s music, and everything else in our immediate environment. And he put us in touch with our immediate selves — what we feel, think, know; who we are and who we want to be; how to be our own Muse.

We meet and write every week, and write between times too — yet somehow he drew new things from us. Andrew, for instance, waxed uncharacteristically poetic:

Love

Love, it’s evasive, it’s elusive
until we know the secret —
to let it go, let it float
away. Don’t long for it as
it will always be beyond
your reach, just be love.
Let it embrace you, don’t be
afraid of love or you will
drive it away into the
far reaches of your mind
where you will never find it
again.

But one day it will overwhelm
you, lifting you into a new field
of ecstasy and understanding
and joy.

Dreaming

Dreaming — it’s a dangerous
pastime — floating off into
worlds unknown, stepping into an
alternate universe and meeting
our personal doppelganger
who guides us on an
imaginative journey into lands
unknown.

We float back down to earth
in ecstasy wanting to return
again, and again and again.

(both by Andrew Wade)

‘What’s the most important thing?’ Thom asked. He gathered up the sheets of paper with our individual responses, to make an instant anthology. I got the job of compiling it later, using the handwritten pages just as they were written, most of them unsigned. The contents flow from change and the unknown, through love, home, travel, freedom, passion, health, to life itself, and back to love again.

That evening, some of us went on to a performance which Thom and Bob gave at The Castle on the Hill at Uki — another inspiring experience! (Read about it by clicking the performance link.)

Slim at the Pearly Gates

2010-03-06T11:21:00.010+11:00

By Sheila Harrison

The exercise was:

'You are the person at the bottom of the page. You are attending an interview to explain why you feel you should be permitted to pass through the Pearly Gates. If you don't believe in Judgment Day — then use your imagination.'

When unfolded, the page revealed the name of a famous person, whether historical, legendary or both.

Sheila got Slim Dusty. Not being Australian-born, she had to do some research. Now she loves him as the rest of us do!

Well at last I can see the light, yes it is a tunnel. I’m flying fast, the light is getting brighter and brighter; I’m slowing down, slowing; I have landed on my feet in front of a large pearly gate. This is what I have been told to expect but somehow I never quite believed it.

Oh, the gate is opening. I can see this majestic figure with a flowing beard and long hair, in a white robe, with the most beautiful smile and twinkling blue eyes.

“Hello Slim, it’s good to see you. I’m Peter. Now I just have a few questions that the boss would like you to answer before I can let you in. I hope you don’t mind.”

Peter pointed to a seat in front of the gate. I sat down.

“So Slim, can you tell the boss why you think you deserve to live in heaven now that you have made your transition? Tell him what you have been doing in the last seventy six years.”

I looked directly in into those twinkling eyes. “Well doesn’t he, isn’t he meant to see everything?”

“Well yes, Slim, but you must realize he is very busy and that’s why he has his guardian angels to look after each individual. But what he is really after is you to tell him in your own words. It’s alright, he will be listening; it’s all being recorded directly to him.”

“Oh O.K. Well I was born in Kempsey on June 13th 1927. I was christened David Gordon Kirkpatrick. I was called Gordon — my mum told me that I was born because my brother Georgie had died with meningitis at the age of nine; they couldn’t get him to the hospital on time.

“My dad played the fiddle and sang lots of Irish and Music Hall songs. He also had a very loud voice and he would recite poetry by Patterson & Lawson; he was known by his friends as Noisy Dan. Yes, he was loud. My granny was Irish; she gave me a portable wind-up as a present. The needles were always wearing out but I really loved it. I bought my first guitar from a Nulla Nulla farmer, it cost 30 shillings; that was a lot of money in those days but my lessons were free. I practised the clear chords which were on the radio shows, being played by my favourite singing cowboy Buddy Williams, whenever I could. I guess he might be here; it would be good to talk to him.

“I realized I had a gift, which your Boss must have given me, and I didn’t want to waste it.

“I decided to change my name to Slim Dusty; all my friends called me Slim. Shorty, my best friend, and I got our first break on Radio 2km; it was great. I finished school at 12 and helped Dad on the farm, but my dream was set and I knew it would happen. I started writing songs. The war came, which slowed things down a bit. I was 18 when I wrote When the Rain Tumbles Down In July. That song became a classic — not that I got any royalties for it. I signed my first recording contract with Columbia Gramophone for the Regal Zonophone Label. I met Joy, my wife, in ’51. She and her sister had a live yodelling show. We have two kids, Anne & David. Anne sings with me. She has a lovely voice. David’s a doctor but he’s a really good singer too and so are my grandchildren. We sometimes all sing together. ‘One big happy family’: it was great.

“We lived like gypsies travelling the whole of Australia to all the small townships, giving pleasure to all — I knew it was what I was meant to do. I loved it with every fibre of my body. I felt the spirit —your boss I mean — was with us through rain and storms. Dan Sheanen had written a poem that one of my band members, Pearson, had got hold of and restored to eight verses and set to music; it was Pub with no Beer. Pearson gave me half the rights: lucky me!

“I had no idea what a bonanza that song would be. It made us a fortune — and enabled us to continue our gypsy life, bringing joy to all.”

“Did you make enemies on the way?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“You had lots of accolades.”

“Yes, I suppose I did — but don’t you see, I was doing what I was born to do. It was my dream. It was a wonderful gift he gave me and I wanted to use it for as long as I could. In fact I would like to, if you let me in, go on using it. Can I?”

Peter stood up, put his arms around me and hugged me.

“Come on in, Slim, you are welcome and he is waiting for you.” I felt all tiredness and sickness drift from my body and just a warm glow surrounding me as I walked through the pearly gates into the arms of Love. I thought to myself, I must write a song about this.

Slim Dusty 13 June, 1927 – 19 September 2003

The Pearly Gates

2010-02-26T07:39:00.013+11:00

The exercise was:
'You are the person at the bottom of the page. You are attending an interview to explain why you feel you should be permitted to pass through the Pearly Gates. If you don't believe in Judgment Day — then use your imagination.'

When unfolded, the page revealed the name of a famous person, whether historical, legendary or both.

Here are three of our efforts.

Judge Judy

by Jan Busch

Bursting smashing shocking shouting
sparkling red yellow white blue purple green
lights amongst gold silver frame
stand the Holy Pearly gates

Drifting towards that image,
feet scrapping on the fast disappearing earth.
A sensation of nothing behind, or, on either side.
drawn forward to this ugly bizarre scene.

Pulled up short, feet hefty, arms drooping, head wobbly
eyes large saucers, that won’t close.
Signs everywhere pointing all directions
flashing green/white.

Christians to the centre
Jews to the right
Muslims to the left
Others to the bottom
Lights flashing faster, on off,
panic, where to go, where,
Centre, go to the centre.
In the centre more flashing lights,

Presbyterians to the centre
Roman Catholics to the right
Church of England’s to the left
Others to the bottom.
What, Where, dread increasing, fear.
Big arrow straight to my saucer burning eyes
WRONG WAY
GO BACK TO GATE

A force unseen hurls me flipside
more lights on off, over and over, faster.

Christians to the centre
Jews to the right
Muslims to the left
Others to the bottom.

Enough! I yell from a wordless mouth,
I am JUDGE JUDY.
I am a prominent respected American
I demand to get in.

“We know you, go where you belong.”
This sound, no voice, no person,
just a broad surround sound
muffled yet precise.

Alarm abound, getting jittery
I float in one spot
to the right – Jew – What
Yes! Jew, one of the chosen.

JUSTIFY WHY boomed that sound again.
gapping tongueless hole once my mouth
Well, I’m famous, I deliberate evidence,
demand respect responsibility.
I impart great wisdom, behaviour honesty,
courtesy, decency to all folks.
I maintain a powerful boss to
“who ever” the Court Clerk.

An important feature my decision is final, no appeal.
I tell witness “LOOK AT ME
LOOK AT MY EYES WHEN I’M SPEAKING”
Another aspect of my greatness
is my wealth, I have lots of money,
cars, property, International T.V. Show
And I’m not giving it away.

So Yes I am one of the chosen people,
therefore, I am safe.
I go through the flashing gaudy lights, easy
Again the booming sound from nowhere, that is everywhere

“LOOK AT ME
LOOK AT MY EYE WHEN IAM SPEAKING
NO ROOM AT THE INN FOR YOU”

RASPUTIN’S WISH

by Andrew E Wade

WH0 RINGS THE BELL?

IT IS I OH GOD…CRAVING YOUR FORGIVENESS!

RASPUTIN!

YOU KNOW I CANNOT FORGIVE YOU!

YOU KNOW THE RULES.

I HAVE TOLD YOU SO OFTEN BEFORE!

OH YES…

I REMEMBER. I MUST FIRST FORGIVE MYSELF!

BUT I CAN’T DO THAT GOD!

YOU KNOW YOU CAN. BUT FIRST YOU HAVE TO STOP

HIDING BEHIND YOUR RIDICULOUS DISGUISE…

BUT IT SERVES ME…

IT ONLY SERVES YOU BECAUSE YOU ARE A COWARD!
SPEAK THE TRUTH NOW IF YOU DARE!

NO! I CAN’T!

YOU HAVE TO IF THE WORLD IS TO BE SAVED!

SATAN SHAKES HIS HEAD

THEN I WILL SPEAK IT FOR YOU…

YOU ARE BEELZEBUB. THE DEVIL HIMSELF!

DOWN THROUGH THE AGES YOU HAVE WREAKED HAVOC AND SORROW ON THE WORLD AND YET YOU STILL ASK ME

TO FORGIVE YOU!

GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN!

THE DEVIL KNEELS BEFORE GOD…

P L E A S E…

GET AWAY FROM ME SATAN…NOW!

YOU KNOW I CAN’T DO THAT EVER!

SATAN CONTINUES TO KNEEL.

THEN HE SAYS SOFTLY:

GOD…YOU KNOW YOU HAVE TO. YOU KNOW

IT IS TIME FOR CHANGE AND YOU ARE

THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN EFFECT IT!!

SATAN LOOKS UP... A TINY TEAR

TRICKLES DOWN HIS CHEEK…

I ASK YOU TO FORGIVE ME

AS I NOW FORGIVE MYSELF!

THE SKY IS RENT ASUNDER AS
A HUGE LIGHTNING STRIKE
OBLITERATES SATAN

AND THE WORLD IS FOREVER
CHANGED!

Oliver Cromwell Interviewed by St Peter
at the Pearly Gates

by Rosemary Nissen-Wade

Sir, I question your right to interrogate me like this. I am after all Lord Protector of England!

You have the look of a plain working man, not one of those fancy aristocrats. I like that. The circle around your head could even be construed as making you a Roundhead, ha ha ha — if only it didn’t shine so brightly. Are you sure it’s not a crown or a tiara or something of that ilk?

A halo? You’re a — saint? Oh look, we can’t have that, you know. That’s Popery, that is. We don’t hold with that in England. I answer to no saints. No, it’s no good telling me you speak on behalf of God. I’ve heard all that ’divine right’ stuff before. You won’t get far with me if you take that tack. I had the last person who tried it beheaded in the end. A fat lot of good it did him then. No monarchs, and no saints, I say.

What do you mean, beheading people is not a good recommendation to get into Heaven? You have no idea the evil that man did. There was no other way. I was protecting the kingdom, don’t you see? Making it safe for the truly God-fearing.

I beg your pardon? What a strange question — ‘what part of “Thou shalt not kill” do I not understand?’ No, I’m afraid it doesn’t help to be told that your phraseology is from the future because you are in all time and none. Don’t speak to me in riddles, man! I’m a plain soldier, after all.

Well yes, I’m Lord Protector too, but that was at the people’s demand. So was the war and so was the beheading, if it comes to that. And as for that last, the tyrant was properly tried by due process of the law, I’ll have you know. It was an execution, not a murder.

No, NOT like the execution of Christ! What do you take me for? No I am not trying to wash my hands like Pontius Pilate! Don’t you try and trick me with your theology.

Not much theology about going to war? That’s killing too? You paint everything so black, you do.

Yes yes, I acknowledge that I myself have always had a tendency to see things in simple black and white. But truly, I believed I was doing God’s bidding as well as the people’s. What do you mean, ignorance is no excuse? I need no excuse to do the bidding of God.

Oh, that’s below the belt, that is. No, I am not just another Divine Righter. How can you say such a thing? I’m NOTHING LIKE that other individual.

So it seems I’ve failed your test. That’s so unfair!

I was so too fair to Charles. He had every chance to recant but he wouldn’t. In any case, if you’re speaking for God as you claim, surely you would know He is a merciful God.

I had little mercy for Charles, and for those who died in my wars? I could say it was their choice!

OK, OK, so I’m a man who knows no mercy. I disagree, but have it your way. Then, I ask you, how am I to learn mercy except at God’s hand? If He wants to teach me mercy, I beg Him to show it to me, and let me into Heaven.

Oh! Oh, thank you! What a beautiful landscape. It looks rather like I imagine the Garden of Eden to have been. Oh I see, this IS the Garden. There are a lot more people here than I thought there would be. Oh no, it can’t be! Some of them appear to be having a party, and not the kind of quiet, pious celebration I would have expected, either. All that enthusiastic dancing and singing; how can this be?

Eh? Charles — is that YOU? What am I doing here? This is the wrong place! Let me OUT!

Edwin Wilson on Poetry and Memoir

2009-12-07T23:49:00.021+11:00

I was tempted to head this “Local Boy Makes Good”. Visiting writer Edwin Wilson, who spent a recent Saturday afternoon talking to WordsFlow participants and visitors, grew up in these parts. (At the end of this post you'll find his impressive CV.)

He was back here to visit family, and we grabbed him for a gig. He spoke to us about poetry, getting published, and memoir writing. His reminiscences of his youth in this region were interesting to others who grew up here, who swapped stories about people and places they all knew. It made them keen to buy his memoir, “The Mullumbimby Kid”. He said he felt Mullumbimby to be his “heartland”. When he chose to write about it, he did the “shoebox trick” of collecting and storing anecdotes. He had to do some research to gather information on the background of people. Every family, he found, has someone who acts as the custodian of the myths and legends – not only of the family but also the locality.

Poetry

As a poet, he started at 10, and feels it can be an important safety-valve for the young. Craftsmanship becomes important. He likes to let a poem “marinate” – work on it, put it aside and sleep on it.

He keeps paper and pencil in his pocket all the time, and also next to the bed. (If it’s a pencil rather than a biro, you know it’s going to be working.) When you get an idea, the trick is not to lose it; it can be fleeting.

Revision

You’re only a poet if other people call you that, he said. It’s useful to get someone else to look at your manuscript and say, ”These bits don’t work”. Edwin thinks writing is necessarily hard. “If the writing is easy, the reading will be hard. If the writing is hard, the reading is easy.” However, strive to get a first draft, THEN start the revision. Show your work to someone you respect, whose opinion you trust. (And then sleep on it etc.)

He likened writing to a symphony in one’s head, with different movements – slow, fast, sad, happy, crescendo, storm, denouement, resolution. There can be variations in themes; there can be echoes, and references back to things already written. Also one can take stuff out, creating spaces to put other things in.

Musicality of the senses is essential in poetry. In prose too there are cadences. It’s important to sound the words in one’s head.

Memoir

One man said he was having trouble finding the structure for his autobiography. Edwin’s advice was, ”Play with it. Then it falls into place. Patterns form.” As a scientist, he likened it to classifying vertebrates. “When you find the pattern, you get the story line. It’s also like a kid playing with blocks. Art is made from indulgence. You are permitted to indulge yourself. (Other people don’t necessarily find it so.)”

His advice to all of us was that memoir is valuable to our children and grandchildren. “Your voice is important.” It’s true there will be different recollections of the same events. “We are human and fallible. But it’s YOUR story.” The habit of journalling helps, as you’ve then got a record. This doesn’t mean it’s right; there are still variables. But your story is as valid as you can make it. Whenever you write a story it will cause problems. You could use the 30-year rule: write about something that happened 30 years ago.

Write irrespective of other people; make the first draft as if writing for yourself. The custodian of the story is you. Forgetting or concealing is OK. If others disapprove, that‘s OK too. You may edit or censor for your own reasons; that’s fine as well.

What’s the best place to start?

Edwin made the following points:

• It’s your story, of your family. People tell lies; that’s part of human nature. Get as close as possible to veracity. Whatever you do, you won’t please everyone.

• An outsider’s perspective can be better; they’re not constrained by local politics.

• Our role is not to hurt people or be malicious, but our goal is veracity. Sometimes we may choose to leave things out.

• An amalgam of lots of facts from lots of places constitutes fiction.

• Australians love taking the piss, and are not pious.

• If you work better to a deadline, you can create artificial deadlines. “I will finish this chapter by next Monday” for instance.

• You need whys and hows – motivations and reflections – not just a linear account of what happened when. You need the philosophy and psychology behind the events.

• Start with what you know, and work back.

• Then you must look for documentation and corroboration. If two people agree, it’s probably true. It’s a detective game. You’re looking for clues, following leads. If you know the background, it’s easier. Uncommon names are easy to find. You can cross-reference. You may find a distant cousin with a loyalty to the story, a commitment to truth and a desire to share.

• You may need to be “a bit rebellious, a bit curious” and look deeper than the official version.

• If you’re worried about treading on toes, you can wait until time has passed. You can write a book and dedicate it to the local library, and put an embargo on it for 30 years.

• Chronology is not as important as reflection, in relation to realising who and what you are – which readers also want to find out.

Edwin's CV:

Educated at Mullumbimby and Murwillumbah High Schools, Armidale Teachers' College (trained as junior secondary science teacher), University of New South Wales (BSs in chemistry and botany).

Initially taught (science teacher), then lecturer Armidale Teachers' College (1968 - 1971), Education Officer (The Australian Museum Sydney, 1972 - 1980). From 1980 to retirement (in 2003) worked in Community Relations at the Royal Botanic Gardens Sydney. Retired as Hon Research Associate (see web page Royal Botanic Gardens Sydney), on an orchid breeding program using high altitude New Guinea 'Latouria' dendrobiums to potentially bring cold-tolerance into show bench hybrids/varieties.

Has written 20 books, mostly poetry, one book about poetry ('Falling Up Into Verse'), plus prose, one science fiction, and social history (about Royal Botanic Gardens and Domain Sydney, and featured on 'Poetica' on program called 'Walk in the Gardens'). Collected Poems published by Kardoorair Press, Armidale (2002), with introduction by Professor John Ryan. Also took up painting in retirement and was elected as Exhibiting Member of the Royal Art Society of NSW in 2008.

Published a number of times in 'Australian Folklore', and has just had an essay published in latest edition of 'Five Bells' (the Poets Union) on Poetry and Art. His latest book (of poetry) called 'My Brother Jim' (1939 - 2008), is dedicated to the memory of his half-brother Jim, found in 2003, when Edwin was 61 and Jim was 64.

The Bone Woman

2009-11-17T23:32:00.010+11:00

Our writing prompt, The Bone Woman, came from a poetry anthology of that name with an interesting title poem. Our pieces completely reinterpreted the phrase, all in different ways. Here are some I particularly liked:

The Bone Woman, by Bron Trathen

Her skin was like parchment stretched tightly over her skull, her eyes sunken pools. Every so often you caught a reflection and realized her eyes were moving, watching everything. Her arms lay out across ice blue pillows like bones dug up from an archaeological site. The skin was so fine the bones appeared to be covered in dust.

Her mouth moved and I bent down to listen. A gurgling sound rose up from her chest. I felt as if I was in a place of God: I needed to be quiet and respectful.

With great effort she lifted her skull head up off the pillow, and in a rasping voice she spat the words,

‘Where did he hide my money?’

The Bone Woman, by Anne Kiddle

She collected bones; hundreds of them. Any kind: animal, human, bird or reptile found their way into her collection. They were always white and no longer than 30cm. She never cut or shaped them, just moved them around on a piece of cement sheeting until they formed an artistic picture; like a mosaic.

The latest masterpiece was a landscape, looking out to sea in the background. Tiny bones formed the crests of the waves and slithers of fine lacy ones depicted sheaves of cut wheat. Looking at it from a distance the reality was stunning, I studied it for hours. Suddenly I was inside the picture looking out; now it was almost a prison.

The Bone Woman, by Nan Doyle

She flexed her fingers and stretched her toes. Tall and lean and underfed she rummaged through the bins in the food hall. Leftover bones from KFC and a half eaten bun from McDonalds. The Bone Woman knew that she could survive like this for a very long time. How wasteful the people who frequent these places are. She shook the takeaway milkshake container. Jackpot! Someone wasn't very thirsty. How spoilt these children are. "I want, I want I want...." and then they leave it all behind. She knew that if she picked her shifts and kept an eye out, the staff wouldn't feel compelled to move her on. She wandered in and out the tables, eyes darting this way and that way, watching for the next half eaten meal to be discarded. The Bone Woman was in business.

What To Do When the Tsunami Warning Comes

2009-10-15T00:58:00.004+11:00

By Rosemary Nissen-Wade
(WordsFlow facilitator)

On this stretch of the Australian coastline, our greatest fears around climate change are to do with the invasion of the ocean. Our only question is whether that will be gradual or sudden: rising sea level or tsunami? It appears to us that the sea level is visibly rising bit by bit, the high tide line much closer in than it used to be. On the other hand, I was assured by one of my sons a couple of years ago that we have nothing to fear from tsunami here: the tectonic plates in this area are such that it couldn’t happen. The Australian Government doesn’t seem to agree with him though – we now get tsunami alerts. So far none of them have come to anything, but apparently it could happen. That’s a scarier idea than rising sea level. Unlike the poor citizens of the small Pacific islands which are likely to drown, we’ve got a lot of inland to retreat to and time enough to asses whether that’s going to be necessary. Tsunamis, though – that thought is terrifying. We’ve already seen on our TV news the damage they can do, and how fast they can do it.

With Blog Action Day coming up, WordsFlow’s most recent group exercise was to write on what to do when the tsunami warning comes. As usual, everyone handled the topic differently. There was the fictional approach, the journalistic, the philosophical…. One thing, though, was strikingly the same. We all felt quite sure we’d be utterly unprepared. If it was the middle of the night, would we wake up in time? Mari imagined trying to shake her husband awake and get him to understand what was happening, then floundering around wondering what to do next. Would we have time to get dressed and grab our pets and our valuables? Which would be the nearest, highest hill? Would the roads be so choked with cars that we wouldn’t make it? As we read out what we’d written, a sense of powerlessness pervaded the room. Some people felt so hopeless about the chances of getting away, they thought they might just as well wait it out and pray. From the TV images we’ve seen, that would probably be a self-imposed death sentence. It was a sobering exercise indeed!

Dinah, ever practical, decided to follow it up with a query to our local Council. They told her which was the quickest way to high ground from her place. As with every road away from this bit of coast, she’d have to dip down into a low valley before going uphill. They also sent her several brochures about tsunamis, and what to do in case of that or any emergency. I asked them to send me some too.

It seems my son was right. “On average, a tsunami is recorded in Australia every two years, but most are too small to be seen by people. The tsunami threat to Australia varies from ‘low’ for most of our coastline to ‘medium’ along the northern half of WA (see map, page 27). A small one struck WA in 1994. In the 1980s a tsunami reached Darwin at low tide, which fortunately cancelled out most of its force. Evidence also exists of large tsunami impacts on our south-east coast, but before European settlement. The largest actually recorded in Australia was in August 1977 at Cape Leveque, WA, with a ‘run-up’ of 6 metres (ie wave travelled inland to where the ground was 6m above sea level).” [From “Hazards, Disasters and Survival]
http://www.csu.edu.au/faculty/arts/sslib/aemf/HDS/chapter_9.htm

We live on the east coast. The Australian Government brochure on “Tsunami Awareness”, one of the documents the local Council sent us, says, “In May 1960 a
great earthquake along the tectonic plate boundaries in the sea of Chile generated the largest recorded tsunami along the east coast of Australia. The event generated tsunami waves of just under a metre (trough to coast).” Several places suffered “slight to moderate damage (mainly to boats).”

On the other hand, it seems my son was wrong. I also read, in the Australian Government’s brochure, “Tsunami, Frequently Asked Questions”: Australia is surrounded to the northwest and east by some 8,000 kilometres of active tectonic plate boundaries capable of generating tsunami, which could reach our coastline within two to four hours. One-third of earthquakes worldwide occur along these boundaries. The impact of a tsunami hitting vulnerable, low lying areas on the Australian coast could be significant.”

The same brochure states: A small tsunami may result in unusual tides or currents that can be dangerous to swimmers or cause damage to berthed boats. … The south Java tsunami (17 July 2006) was caused by a relatively small earthquake (magnitude 7.7) that generated a 0.5 metre tsunami. This tsunami inundated the coast by up to four metres in some places, killing over 600 people.” Hmm, seems we can’t relax after all.

So what are the warning signs, and what should we do when the tsunami warning comes?

“The number one warning sign of a tsunami in Australia is the advice you may receive from the media (radio or television) or from police and other emergency services. Follow their instructions immediately.”

Natural warning signs include:

1. Ongoing shaking of the ground in coastal regions (evidence of a large earthquake).
2. There may be (but not always) a rapid rise or fall in sea level.
3. A roaring sound may precede the arrival of a tsunami.

What should you do?

•    If you are at the beach, immediately move inland or to higher ground.
•    If your boat is in deep water and offshore, maintain your position.
•    If your boat is berthed or in shallow water, secure your vessel and move inland or to higher ground.
•    If you are on the coast and cannot move inland, seek shelter in the upper levels of a stable building.
•    Do not return to the coast until you receive official clearance. (A tsunami is not a single wave.)
•    Continue to follow emergency services instructions.

And – my advice – pray!

Another response to Thom's workshop: Jan Busch

2009-09-07T21:27:00.009+10:00

These four poems by Jan Busch were inspired

in the recent workshop given by Thom Moon 10.

I Flew

I flew – inches atop the ocean
gliding flashing across,
snow surf wets my flight

I circle amongst
heavy scented pine trees
now engulf my lungs

perched in an eagles nest
I view the prospect of
dawn rising

infinite flight
infinite water
I abound in abundance

I stand invisible

I stand invisible
absorbing the beauty
my essence starkly strikes
the landscape

where I’ve been;
where I’m going
thousand years old
yet to be born

Hills hug tightly my valley
muddy river snakes through me
my breath my arms my legs
caresses my land

The Rose

The beautiful flower
The Rose

house full of explosion
colours scent shapes sizes

naturally then, their
resting place of choice

The Rose
identifies them.

Thom from Texas

Today Thom came from Texas

To read and show poems he wrote.

asked all to write continuously.

At first seems confusing, hands clasping,
Thoms’s bits and pieces.

Almost impossible, then,
befuddlement gave way to the pen.

Writing happening, the group responded,
words flew, brilliance abound.

Sparkling images, generous emotions,

stories, prose, poems galloped forth.

Wonderful surprising,
energizing electrifying stuff

Thanks Thom from Texas.

Writing Workshop with Thom Moon 10

2009-08-08T14:22:00.062+10:00

By Rosemary Nissen-Wade
(WordsFlow Facilitator)

Thom starts talking. His voice is soft but clear. His words move like an impromptu dance. Liz and Kim (the Cathouse Creek Duo) play music behind him. He tells us, “Write down what you love.”

I write:

Trees. Song. Waterfalls. Andrew. Chocolate. POETRY! Home country. Birds. Purple. Red. Hot sauce.

He keeps talking. He passes out newspaper pages. “Find a word,” he says. “Write it down.” (That’s when I find “hot sauce”.) He hands round books, photos, CDs with evocative covers. “Respond!” he tells us, and, “We only have a short time together. Write while you’re listening.” We find that we can.

We write, he talks, we talk, the music plays, we read out what we’ve written, he recites a poem that responds to our words, he reads out poems by other people….

“Write about one of those things you wrote down, write about what you love.”

I write:

It’s the rain in Tassie that I miss. Strangely, and more the older I get – though when I was young and there, the rain was misery: a deep damp that permeated the whole world, the whole atmosphere. We stayed indoors as much as possible, gazing through windows as rain dripped constantly from saturated leaves. Now, in a sunny landscape, free from cold, I find myself hankering for just that sight of rain, a world of rain, dripping and glistening. I can recall the smell. Rain dripping from acacia, from eucalypts, from apple trees, from blackberry vines – it smells in each case a little different. I have known rain to somehow smell dry, how can that be? When it drips from dry twigs, the smell conveys that dry.

“Why Tasmania?” he asks me. I say that I grew up there. “Have you written much about that?” I tell him I haven’t, not very much, not lately. “Will you?” he asks, like a plea, looking deep in my eyes. I say yes. He talks of his own childhood in Brisbane, and the ways in which that Brisbane has changed, so much so that his Brisbane is lost.

Everyone writes while they listen. I write:

What is lost? Nothing is lost. It’s been said before: if we remember it, it remains. Only the new people cannot remember the old things that we knew. I can remember Byron Bay when it was a sweet little hamlet with dirt tracks. I can remember when the city of Melbourne had no Bourke Street Mall, no crazy glass thing next to St Paul’s Cathedral.

He hands around photos. “Find a photo you like. If you respond to it, you can keep it.” I accept a picture. There’s a large rock in the foreground, obviously placed there by people as some kind of monument. It’s been stuck in the ground and perhaps cemented. The base is much narrower than the top.

I write:

That poor rock is upside-down. It’s cracked, it’s crying. We come into this land, we pick up some great rock and plonk it down any old how, no respect, no thought that a rock is alive. The ancients knew. They would say, “We must sing to this rock, we must heal this rock.”

The grass and the sky are gentle companions for this displaced rock, and the house is far in the background. That is good.

As I actually dislike this photo – enough to respond – I pass it on.

Another bundle of photos is handed around the circle. When it reaches me, I see pictures of Liz, our musician – some on her own, some with her husband, Kim, who is playing here with her. I take four. No way I’d let them past.

I write:

I choose for my delight a picture of a girl in a red hat. She’ll always be a girl to me, with her long hair and her smile that comes from her whole self. My friend for a long time, and I always liked to see those mittens, a sign to me of natural elegance, individuality. And here’s another with a quirky look that I remember too, still with that irrepressible smile. Today is the first time we’ve met in twenty-odd years. Of course it’s like yesterday.

Thom tells the group about poetry in Melbourne in the eighties, when he and Liz and I performed our work at all the venues. [In those days he was Thom the Street Poet, she was Liz Hall (now Liz Hall-Downs) and I was Rosemary Nissen.]

He hands out copies of his latest books. We accept them gladly and keep writing. He keeps talking.

I write:

He tells me not to get lost in his book. Birds and water, and people he loves. How could I not get lost in this book? How could I not float away into other worlds?

He tears up one of his books and hands out individual poems. I get one about nature spirits, read it, and tuck it inside the book he said not to get lost in.

He speaks of fear. ”False Evidence Appearing Real,” he reminds us.

In answer to the question, “How do you know something’s poetry, not prose?” he thinks a minute, then says, “If it doesn’t have music, it’s not poetry”. He speaks of “cadence, rhythm, emotional intelligence in concise expression.” (Then he reminds himself of discursive poems, and epics.) He adds, “It says what we can’t say.”

[No-one finds this odd, being said to a group engaged with poetry. Writers or not, I explain it to myself now, we all respond to poetry that touches us. We’ve all experienced that moment of release when someone says perfectly what we’ve needed said.]

Thom talks about rhyme and free verse, he talks about “faction”, blurring of genres. He says, “There isn’t any form that can restrict you. Revive, come alive, pass it on! No-one owns poetry, it’s all broad air.” [Was the word “broad”? I can’t read my own scrawl.] “Rediscover what’s possible. Go beyond where you were, get out of being comfortably numb.”

I look at the cover of one of his books.

Who are these ecstatic people, hugging and grinning on the book cover? Are they poets? They look wicked enough – wild hair, bright colours, sunshine, joy.

More books are passed around. “If you respond to it, it’s yours,” says Thom. “You can buy these books and CDs from me, or you can pay for them with your response and you get to keep them.”

I find myself holding “The Erotic Spirit” edited by Sam Hamill: “An Anthology of Poems of Sensuality, Love, and Longing”. I dip into it over and over, and respond:

In a book of erotic poems I find a verse about a garden. How appropriate! Gardens are places for love, places of scent and colour, places for the senses, places where we can relax and be, places where it seems love might go on forever, and beauty last beyond our being, and our dreams be real.

Thom declares he will pay us for our writing. He hands around printed $100 bills copied from US currency, labelled “Thom Moon 10 Poet. Street Bills.”

Here is a face on a hundred dollar bill. It’s Thom’s, magic Thom. He writes of elementals and passes out books of healing. Creation of Health, says the title of this one. We know that poetry creates health!

Thom tells us: “Tithe your time for yourself. The best part of yourself, encourage it by feeding it.

”Respond to each other’s words,” he adds.

Aileen reads what she has just written. I respond:

One day I lifted my head. I saw the sky.

Aileen writes of Kwan Yin. Her own compassion sings.

Thom talks of coming home this trip and going to visit his favourite waterfall. It’s on Mt Tamborine. I respond with a memory 21 years old:

The waterfalls I love are in the Northern Territory, on the cliff banks of big rivers that rise and sink with the tides. Where there are steps of rock made for giants, where there are crocodiles that lurk and move fast as light under the surface, and mosquitoes thick and humming. Nevertheless I love those waterfalls of memory, in sun so hot we are near naked, hair sticking to the scalp; night sky so clear we see all the stars, a forest of stars, and little satellites too, clearly whizzing over. Lying back on the deck of the boat, we gorge on fish caught that day and tins of food, a stash of tins. Under the waterfall, anchored, the mozzies don’t bite, the water’s too thick, too fast. I stand with a rifle I don’t know how to use, as the two men row across to the giant rocks, alight and climb the steps. An American girl was taken here last month. But today there are no crocs. There is the roar of the water rushing down the fall, surrounded by a deep pool of silence.

“We are the rememberers,” says Thom.

Then he says, “Always start on an empty page. If you’re stuck, get a new one.” He tells us to have no writing on it, and to watch that there isn’t any showing through from the previous page.

‘If you’re stuck, start with, “I feel”. Start with the personal to get writing happening.’

He says, “If your parents are dead, talk to them anyway” and quotes Adrian Mitchell’s poem about doing just that. I tell him I just read that poem; he reminds me he sent it to me in an email the other day. We both laugh.

At tea-break, Anne, who keeps finding and laminating four-leaf clovers, offers them to everyone. She is surprised at the one I choose; to me it stands out, the only one I want, but she tells me she nearly didn’t include it, she didn’t think anyone would want it.

Kim and Liz must leave now. They gather up their instruments and tiptoe out.

I respond to an object in the room:

That leaf above the blackboard keeps catching my eye. Anne passed out four-leaf clovers. I took a gold one, the leaf dying into even greater beauty. The leaf above the blackboard was made by a child. It looks real, and not. A child made it. I like it. It keeps catching my eye.

Thom continues unaccompanied. We touch on more serious subjects. I don’t know if that’s mere coincidence or whether it’s a response to the new quiet.

Sally talks of her mother’s death and of her work with the aged. Margaret tells the story of her father’s death and then the story of her mother’s. Thom points out that she has been coughing ever since she arrived, but now that she speaks her voice is clear and strong and there is no cough. “You need to speak!” he says, and, “You’re a natural story-teller.”

He recites a poem about dragons, a metaphor for the problems of the urban young. But I don’t see dragons that way.

Dragons, I like dragons, I object when people use them as symbols of bad. I like their fire, I like their wings. I like their claws, I like their golden scales. Their hot breath whispers truth into my private ear. Their great jaws smile. They hold me softly in tender paws, then lift me aloft. On the back of a soaring dragon, I ride and fly.

He talks of telling our own stories, that only we can tell. He tells us that poetry reveals us.

I write:

Confessional.

We sing from deep wells.

He says poets were once called enchanters, chanticleers, and shape shifters. We can become what we write about, he says, we can see through the eyes of a bird or an animal.

I write:

Ancient and beautiful, we sing sweet.

There are histories to write, of the days of Melbourne poets.

I share that last thought. “Would you do it?” he begs.

He asks if we’d like him to tear up a book of women’s wisdom and pass the pages around, or to pass the whole book around and each of us find something in it to note. As he had intuited, we opt for keeping the book whole. It starts its journey around the circle.

I look at his CD, “Spirits Burning and Thom the World Poet”, and write:

Spirits that burn, not in hell but in poems, burn with passion not punishment.

I look at CDs he’s brought from Austin, Texas and the poets there: “Youth Verse”, and "Expressions June 2009: June is a Woman” .

Meanwhile the conversation continues. He talks of the money he earns from this workshop as simply what helps him exist through time and space.

I write:

Woman expresses herself in June. I remember these women, Kathleen, Nancy, Deb. Kathleen’s long pale hair covering the face she tries to hide, the beautiful face. Deb short and stocky, promoting youth. Nancy older and slightly worried.

The Youth Voices of Texas exist through time and space in the form of this CD.

The spirits that burn are depicted by a white cross that looks like a bird in flight.

All these things evoke my responses. Also I am responding to Thom’s continued reminders, woven in and out of the poetry and the talk about poetry: “Respond and you can take it home.”

Remembering that Thom is all about engagement, I write:

Your response buys something. That’s a lesson we’re being taught.

And I write but don't say:

Margaret, are you going to sit on that book forever, of the wisdom of Woman? I look to read that book, I seek that wisdom, though I have my own. There is always more to learn.

Thom talks again of our own voices, our own stories. “What else is there?” he says. “There’s only my life.”

He remarks on the value of groups like ours. "Your lives can be articulated when you’re with people you trust. It’s a sanctuary. Value judgments can be left outside the door." He thanks me for keeping it going for three years. I tell him, “We all keep it going.”

He invites us to continue the conversation of “What’s the real truth about this?” He says we are lending meaning to each other.

"RESPONSE! It’s really all life and response." [Did Thom say that, or was that my own note to myself? At this point we are so aligned, I can’t tell. I’ll credit him with it.]

I know it’s I who write:

A sunny afternoon.
A big room.
Words and music.
The movement of pens.
Books and words.
Memories.
Lines that sing.

[I notice, as I type these notes, how often I mention singing and song. There’s a clue there for me to follow.]

Behind the conversation I stare pointedly at Margaret’s pile of books and CDs, set aside on the floor, till she asks uncertainly what I want. I want the book of women’s wisdom. She scrabbles through the pile and finds it for me. I flip through and find many gems, but these are the only ones I jot down:

“Advice is what we ask when we already know the answer but wish we didn’t.” – Erica Jong.

“Never judge someone by who he’s in love with, judge him by his friends. People fall in love with the most appalling people. Take a cool, appraising glance at his pals.” – Cynthia Heimel.

I guess they appeal to the cynic in me.

I don’t respond. I’m glad to have looked at the book but it isn’t one I need to keep.

Thom talks of “body shape fascism”. We believe him because he is fat, like some of us. He speaks of those who would have us conform: "You must look like this. You can't have red hair," gesturing to me.

I quote my youngest on the subject of my deliberately improbable purple-red hair (pictured here): "It looks like you're trying too hard."

Thom tells me, "Rosemary, you are full of aliveness".

We get on to adult children who try to bring up their parents. Several of us have anecdotes. Nan says in a growl, smiling evilly, "Mine wouldn't dare!" We applaud.

Then Thom speaks of going to talk with his mother, to listen to her voice. His father died last year.

I respond:

Your mother’s voice needs your listening now. She doesn’t know, I think, that your father can still hear her.

He is telling us of his friend who works in palliative care, the wonderful things she does for her charges, to empower them.

In my mind I become one of them:

In the garden of tranquillity, poems hang from the trees. I embrace a huge heart larger than myself. There is music that I love. I decide on my last wish. I step inside a magic cloak, my magic cloak, with the power to make my wish come true. And it does.

He tells us how important it is that we speak, that we write, that we don’t give up and accept the status quo. We are agents of change.

“What can we do?” someone asks. He replies:

“You do what you can. Give no energy to limitations, anger, fear. Clearly articulate. Start where you are. Allow your articulation to sharpen.”

He asks, “What will you do next, after today? I’m outa here now. What will you do next?”

I write what I’ll do:

• Write more about the things I love, my own stories.
• Send Thom more of my poems (as today he had to ask if I’m writing many).
• Create a performance venue.

Four WordsFlow regulars couldn't come to this workshop. Four members of the public turned up instead; they left vowing to start coming to the group. We cheered.

We cleaned up the plates and ate the last of the cake. People hugged Thom. People hugged me. There was no mood of sadness on separating; we were filled with delicious joy.

THOM RETURNS TO POETSVILLE!

2009-07-30T22:45:00.008+10:00

POTTSVILLE BECOMES POETSVILLE

THOM MOON 10
visiting from Texas
will present a writing workshop

at Pottsville Beach Neighbourhood Centre
12a Elizabeth Street, Pottsville
on Friday 7th August 1-4 pm
in the Sandbar Room

plus poetry improv
backed by the Cathouse Creek Duo

ALL WELCOME
$2 DONATION
AFTERNOON TEA

Thom will have books for sale.

ENQUIRIES / BOOKINGS
PBNC (Pam, Angela or Julie) 6676 4555
Rosemary (WordsFlow) 6676 0874

Life is challenging

2009-07-24T14:24:00.004+10:00

By Sally Irwin

Life is challenging

There are many facets to death

At first it is a shock and your mind reels back through the past, remembering faces and places, at the same time still coming to grips with the present.

You feel the loss, as another possession is remembered of the things about them and their life as you feel for their loss as if a part of you has also gone.

The world mourns when a good soul has flown.

It makes you realise what is important.

Love and memories are what last

Death brings up a lot of issues when someone you are fond of passes on. It pulls at your heart and it’s hard to move on.

When someone passes that you didn’t get on with, it still pulls at your heart and you really need to move on.

i sit beside rivers

2009-05-18T12:15:00.024+10:00

By thom moon 10
(Thom the World Poet)

astrologers advised(if i wait long enough
i will see the heads of my enemies floating past
yet all my friends have fine and furry heads
and waiting only changes me

i listen more and deeper now
to what you say and do/it changes me enough
(i will change my name again
since i cannot change you

i watch this day like a hawk
looking for some point of contact
gannet strike into deeper water
in search of the perfect one

this ocean of air dried up
summer moved in her heated furniture
emptied the foreclosed planet so we
could write our own versions of history

in progress and under continuous assessment
we each see the same gun
but only one gets killed by a policeman
the other wounded and discharged

as if a circus -giving money to the rich
so they can make more profits
allows a temporary presidency
until the bills come in

elder trees with oak wilt
elder activists with compassion fatigue
aging population asks for health costs
to be borne on the back of the young

imagine a silent movie
with no commentary soundtrack
and you would have to distinguish between
images,mirages,illusions,mirror tricks

reflecting upon armageddon
only changes reflections
point your solar powered eyes towards one moon
she will cycle and recycle you

and even stars cannot be seen
cities industrial waste 's gleam
as smog around the fog of wars
is peace lifestyle worth fighting for?

May 16, 2009

Included (with permission) because I love it - and because I can justify its inclusion on the grounds that Thom has been a guest workshopper to this group in the past. - Rosemary (Facilitator)

The Trouble with Being an Emigrant

2009-05-12T14:18:00.014+10:00

By M Cunningham Webb

Distance causing isolation
From those I felt were close,
Connection so important
Slips away, I feel morose.

Confidences, familial news
No longer sent my way,
‘No need to trouble her with that,
She’s much too far away.’

Desperately I crave inclusion
Still no letters of affection,
Busy lives and other ties
Replace the strong connection.

Chinese whispers run amuck
Words twisted and misquoted,
Miles impede communications
A villain, I’ve been voted.

Dissension stirs within the clan
New hurt, some gossip mongrel
Has dug the chasm wider still,
Slander scapegoat, tribal libel.

Long distance now in heart and soul
No chance for my redemption,
No explanation can I produce
I am guilty, by presumption.

The Gentle Coals

2009-01-08T22:23:00.016+11:00

By Aileen Hayward

(An exercise: to write a piece starting with this first line:)

The rouged coals languished long after midnight
Where gentle heat kissed the cooling air
Soft darkness mantled the chairs and table
And fine bone china gleamed silently there.

Soft spoken words and innocent laughter
Had graced the day in this family room
As matters of import had full discussion
And busy fingers had worked the loom.

“Oh hasten the day when the spring is with us”
She’d smiled to him with her eyes downcast
“These coals I have brought will warm and cheer you”
He vowed “and the fire I build will last.”

He stacked the fire, and hot tea was offered
These two young people so safe in their dream
Her Mama served scones with jam from the orchard
And cream from the cows that stood safe by the stream.

And gentle was he as he made his departure
And gracious the maid as he kissed her hand
So gentle the coals as they kept his promise
To warm the room in this winterland.

There is no question for coals to answer
When faced with a task they are meant to serve
There is no need in the midnight’s stillness
To fret as hands travel the clock face curve.

Should we move slowly and softly eager
To tread more gently upon this earth
The coals in our hearts would stay rouged after midnight
And we would discover creation’s worth.

Clichés

2009-01-07T10:26:00.019+11:00

By Eddie Blatt

Clichés aren’t what they’re cracked up to be. Unless of course you have an axe to grind. Take my wife for instance. Please. She went out in a blaze of glory. Kicked the bucket, bit the dust, gone to meet her maker. She was only 30 when she cashed in her chips. Didn’t stand a chance. She thought she was God’s gift to mankind. But really she was skating on thin ice. The tide had finally turned and she was up shit creek without a paddle. Oh well, here today, gone tomorrow.

The first time I saw her she was dressed to the nines. I was struck by a bolt from the blue.

“Cat got your tongue?” she said to me.

I was caught off guard but I knew the score. I had to sweep her off her feet or she wouldn’t give me a second glance.

“You’re as pretty as a postcard,” I replied. “Haven’t I seen you before?”

God, I must have been dumber than a box of rocks, but hey, I was bent out of shape. I had already fallen for her, hook, line and sinker. Make no bones about it I was as mad as a hatter. But I had put my foot firmly in my mouth and had to think quick on my feet.

“Look,” I said, “don’t judge a book by its cover.”

“Save your breath,” she replied. “I wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last man alive.”

I had made an ass of myself but it was now or never. I waited for the dust to settle then let fly with both guns blazing.

“Will you marry me?” I blurted out.

She looked like a stunned mullet. Then she suddenly broke out into a laugh. She had a smile as sweet as honey pie.

“Yes,” she said, “a hard man is good to find and you’re just what the doctor ordered.”

**

They say all’s fair in love and war. Take my wife for instance. Please. Well, my best mate did. He took her for every penny she had. Didn’t stand a chance. While she wasn’t looking he took off like the clappers, money and all. He was out of there like a rat up a drainpipe. Off like a piece of gorgonzola. Can’t say she didn’t have it coming. Served her right. In the end she didn’t have two nickels to rub together. Not a zack to her name. The walls were closing in on her and she drove her car off a bridge. What a way to go.

I didn’t see it coming. When all’s said and done, however, come hell or high water, I knew which side my bread was buttered. Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t. All in all, I thank my lucky stars.

When push comes to shove, it’s love that isn’t what it’s cracked up to be. But it ain’t over till the fat lady sings. Amen.

What makes a haiku?

2008-10-25T14:55:00.011+11:00

By Rosemary Nissen-Wade

Many people think the 5-7-5 format is necessary – five syllables in the first line, seven in the second and five again in the third. As you can see on my Haiku Page, I like to write them that way myself. But 'free haiku', three short lines of juxtaposed images or impressions, are often closer to what I like to think of as the the true spirit of haiku – creating an 'Aha!' moment, or a resonance beyond the sum of the parts.

On Fridays I host "Haiku on Friday" on MySpace. I post a haiku in my blog there, and others post responses in the comments. We have some interesting conversations in verse!

This Friday I posted two, on different topics:

Spring in the tropics.
The avocadoes ripen,
my wind chime sings loud.

*********************

My mother’s birthday.
Ten years and more since she died
but I don’t forget.

I loved the following beautiful response by Erin Jorgensen which marries the two, and which I think is closer to haiku than either of mine!

chimes----
my mother's laughter
on the wind

BLOG ACTION DAY - Post on Poverty

2008-10-15T08:00:00.013+11:00

WordsFlow is participating in Blog Action Day 2008. Today – 15th October – thousands of bloggers around the world are posting on the topic of poverty. Here are some pieces on the subject from WordsFlow members:

POVERTY: What is it?
By Mari Hefferan

‘I am poor,’ said the pensioner. By today’s standards I’m poor. But I am O.K. I have a good family who help out, and great friends. There are plenty worse off than me. Take my best mate. Like me he’s a pensioner, but he has no family and he’s not well, poor beggar. I’m the only person who seems to care about him now. He’s all nerves and his memory’s shot to pieces. Losing his marbles he is. Sad thing is he was quite famous once. Harry Benson, Australian middle weight boxing champ and he played rugby for this country too. Now nobody remembers him. Only me. Poor Harry’s a lot poorer than me.

***********

‘I never thought I’d admit it but, compared with my friends I am quite poor,’ sighed the nurse at the end of a weary shift. ‘Bill and I have four kids to educate. He’s a public servant but he does contract work now and I worry that if he can’t get a new contract in a year’s time I’ll be the sole provider for our family. That’s why I do shift work. It’s hard on the family, but it pays better. A funny thing happened this morning though. When the baby sitter arrived Fanny, that’s our baby daughter, held out her arms to the sitter and called her Mummy. I felt like crying. I wish I could be with my kids more.’

************

‘I might have to sell the house and rent. Another interest rate rise and my salary will be stretched beyond the limit. Being a single parent is a struggle from one pay cheque to the next. I don’t want to sell. Our home is the one stable thing the children and I have in our lives. Well maybe that’s not quite true. I love my kids and they love me but our home means more to us since my marriage break-up. At present I live in hope.

*************

‘We hate renting. It’s such a waste of money when you’re trying to save. We can’t seem to get ahead and houses are so expensive. We’ve thought of moving to one of the outer suburbs but we are near our work here and petrol is so dear. Added to that, we’d be moving away from our friends. You know it’s ages since I bought anything for myself. I’d love a new dress. For my birthday, my best friend Jenny gave me a tiny bottle of “Chloe”. It’s a beautiful perfume. I used to buy it when I was single. Dear Jenny. She’s so kind’.

*************

‘I don’t know what I’d do without the Salvos and St Vinnies. I hated going there for help but Meg and I had to think of the kids. It’s terrible being poor but it’s worse feeling poor. Seeing Megan and the kids looked after made me feel a whole lot better. You know we didn’t have any food to put on the table. This farm’s been in the family for four generations. It was a beautiful place when I was a kid. Green and fertile. We ran sheep as well as growing wheat. Had a few calves too. It hasn’t rained properly for years. The creek stopped running last year and the dams are dust bowls. God, why won’t it rain?’

************

‘What is poverty, my father?’

‘Poverty, my son, is when you have nothing to eat and nowhere to shelter.’

‘Is it like when the tsunami came, my father, and washed away our house, and my mother and our baby drowned and I was so hungry and thirsty too. Was that poverty?’

‘Yes, my son, that was poverty. It’s when you have nothing: no food, no water, no shelter and no-one to care about you. That’s poverty. Just like when the tsunami came and took everything. I could not find you at first and I thought I had lost you. Then I lost hope. But when I found you, my son, I found hope again. We are still poor, but we have hope.’

Poor
By Chris Wren

It struck me, as I strode the street
In reverie, and flight of feet
That in my heart was birthed a treasure
Recognized, and without measure
Flooding every part of me
Well – all the parts you cannot see
So – disregard the tattered clothes
For I am counted amongst those
Who, while the outward fades away
The secret, inward life can say
I’m rich beyond my wildest dreams
I live apart. Or so it seems.
So when I hear the idle chatter
All of things that never matter
Bureaucrats, who having said
“Listen mate, I’ve seen your plight
You’re guaranteed – a bed tonight
Be sharing with the other men
Not too many – nine or ten
We’re trying to tidy up the streets
And parks. The benches and the seats.
What’s that you say – you like the park?
You cant be real – its cold and dark.”

I held his gaze for far too long
He doesn’t know I don’t belong
In safe locked rooms, all tucked up tight
All barred and padlocked for the night
And so I lie upon the beach
The palest moon just out of reach
My richest treasures close to me
The earth the sky the moon the sea.

Poverty
By Bron Trathen

In the gathering darkness he can just see the outline of a figure at the side of the road: arm out, thumb up. Jim Holden slows and stops 50 metres past the figure.
He leans over and opens the door on the passenger’s side.
The hitchhiker, heaving after his sprint to the car, ‘Thanks…you going South?’
Holden leans towards the door: ‘Sure am…all the way to Melbourne. Hop in.’
Settling himself into the comfortable leather seats, Mark soaks in the luxurious interior.
‘Nice vehicle.’
‘Yeh, 0 to 100 in 10 seconds, 3400rpm… an just out of the show room.
‘Cool…’
‘Thought I’d give it a good run in an’…visit my son.’
Mark glances at the man at the wheel…large, obviously likes his food…stylish clothes. ‘…Ahh…bit of a drive ahead of you, then.’
‘That’s why I like company…How far you going?’ Holden stretches out his well-manicured hand and switches up the heating.
‘Just an hour down the road…thanks.’
In the silence that follows the two strangers listen to the hummmmmm of the car engine and feel the warm air round their feet. Outside, there’s still a silvery light in the winter sky ahead.

Holden breaks the silence. ‘Do a lot of hitching along this road?’
Naa! Not really…’ Mark shifts in his seat. ‘I was up in Brisbane…had to see some people…’
‘No car?’ Holden gives Mark a quizzical look.
‘Oh…it needs a bit of work…back home.’
‘So you live…not far from here…is it?’
Mark looks at Holden. He is about to say something then ‘…Oh.’ He twists in his seat and stretches out his hand. ‘…the name’s Mark, Mark Lessing.’
‘Ah…sorry. Holden…James Holden.’
Mark withdraws his hand and continues ‘…Mary, my wife and I…and our three kids live a little inland from the next village. You can’t miss it…’
Holden with his eyes on the road, ‘So what keeps you in this part of the world?’
‘Well…haven’t always lived here…’ Mark absentmindedly fingers the strap on his backpack. ‘Used to have…a business up at Coolangatta…got into bit’v strife…guy owed me a bucket…and didn’t pay up…’ He paused staring at road ‘Oh…then Mellie…that’s what we call her…her name’s Melleni. Well…she got real sick. Oh…you know how it is. One thing led to another and then the Bank…’ He trails off.
Holden sits in silence looking ahead.
‘Mary…she’s amazing…was her idea…to move to the mountain. Oh, its not really a mountain. It’s what we call it…and we have great views. We’ve got two caves…an’ that keeps the rain out. It’s a b...a bit cold in the winter…’
Holden looks across at the dishevelled guy with his well-worn shoes.
‘How long you been living in the bush?’
Mark looks up with a slightly uncomfortable expression. ‘About 2 years.’
Th-the family’s been great. The kids love it…an..and Mary’s created a absolute paradise.’
After a pause Mark gives a wry laugh. ‘Eh! life’s like a box of chocolates…”
He looks at Holden. ‘And you got family…James?’
Holden tightens his grip on the wheel but keeps his eyes on the road. ‘Yeh, Jack’s 24…he’s in Melbourne. Haven’t seen him for 10 years…and Annie, the younger, she’s a bit of an adventurer…don’t know where she is…somewhere in Africa, I think… Haven’t seen Ellen…their Mum...for…ah!…well on 20 years.’ Glancing in Mark’s direction. ‘So, your kids like the bush…lots of freedom…big back yard.’
'Yehhh…Toby, my 12 year old…he decided he wanted to get down the mountain quicker…so… you know what he did?’
Holden looks at him and smiles.
Mark becomes quite animated. ‘Well, he took over my workshop…I do a lot of things with my hands…carpentry most…Anyway, he sort’ve made these.… You remember years ago the things kids would play with…the pogo stick.’
Holden nods.
‘He made these springs to put on the bottom of his shoes… and it’s amazing…they work. You should see him take off. …You in business, James?
‘I do a lot of travelling.’
‘What’s your business?’
Holden thinks for a moment before speaking. ‘Oh, finance.’
‘Finance! Oh, that’s where I’ve been…thought I’d see if we could get some money to develop Toby’s idea. They said they’d get back to me’. Mark fiddled with his strap for a few seconds. ‘I guess we just wait and see.’
Holden sees lights of a service station up ahead. ‘Is this the village coming up?’
Mark, putting his backpack on his lap. ‘Yeah, this is it. Thanks. Thanks mate.’
Holden slows and pulls in to the BP. As they stop, he takes a card from the dashboard. ‘Look, Mark, here’s my contact details. Let me know how you go with your project.’
‘Thanks a lot.’ Mark gets out, walks round the front of the car, and holds out his hand as Holden gets out. ‘Hope you enjoy your time in Melbourne with your son, James.’
‘Thanks.’ Holden shakes his hand and then turns to the bowser, and Mark, with his backpack over his right shoulder, walks across the road into the night.
Holden gets back into his car, just as the mobile rings. ‘Holden…. Guy! How’re things?’
The voice on the other end is brash. ‘Listen, Jim. Those transport stocks need to be off loaded straight away.’
Holden, ‘Okay, whatever you think.’
‘Jim. Look there’s something I think you should look at.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I think this is going to be real big… I…I think we can make a hit in China…’
‘Spit it out…’
‘I’ve been talking to marketing guys…we need a gimmick for kids. They’re shoes with springs.
‘ Oh!...
‘Yehhh! Well, we need to develop the prototype yet.’
‘How much you thinking?’
‘ A few mil…’
‘When do you think we’d get a return?’
‘Couple of years…’
‘MMMMmmmm….I’ll think about it.’
‘Jim, you going to Hong Kong this week to talk turkey with Hilder?’
Holden is silent for a while.
‘Jim…”
‘Mate, you go. I’m going to spend a bit’ve time with Jack.’
‘I need an answer on the Spring shoes within 48 hours. I’ll send you the details. Jim?’
‘You’ll hear from me…Bye.. Guy.’ Holden closes his mobile and stares into his rear vision mirror. There is nothing, just blackness. He clicks the CD over and settles himself into his comfortable leather seat. ‘I wonder what Jack’s interested in these days’ he says out loud.

Poor (2)
by Chris Wren

Poor? Not really
Destitute perhaps
“Without visible means of support”
A collapsed building
Falling to oblivion
Where truth comes at last
In a forgotten land.
And truth is treasure.
Therefore I am rich
But never poor
Not talking “Calcutta” poor
Not “drunks under bridge” poor
Just an acknowledgement
A bereftness
Somehow lacking
Not quite all there
And certainly not by design or plan
But more the boat’s gently nudging the shore
And coming home
For the minute.

Haiku and original painting

2008-09-08T22:46:00.017+10:00

By Trishaa Moran

Twin branches
mist over water
reflections times two.

For more of Trishaa's paintings, and to hear her songs, go to her website.

More Poems by Jan Busch

2008-09-03T16:25:00.014+10:00

Recently I asked WordsFlow participants to write a 'rant', partly because it was a poetry prompt on Poetic Asides that week, and also because it's a great way to write with a lot of energy and clarify one's thoughts into the bargain.

Here for your enjoyment is Jan's rant poem, and as a bonus another piece of hers which defies description!

My rant is:

Others,

who seem to know
what's best for me.
They tell me clearly and daily
what to do or indeed
what NOT to do.

They say,
who to see where to go and
more often than not
who NOT to see and
where NOT to go.

Their opinions freely given, at
no charge, except to me.
FRUSTRATION!
What these kindly well meaning
folks do not realise is,

I am ok
doing what I do
seeing who I see and
going where I want. When
what I actually feel like is,

slapping these advisers around
their body with thongs,
rubber bands,
or even,
a wooden spoon.

Simply, because
these same kindly well meaning,
folks could take their own
advice and
then mirror it.

While I am
never to old or
too young to have fun,
make mistakes, and then
do it all over again.

SO THERE!!!!

Breath Like Poo

Walking along Beryl heard
'Your breath is like poo'

'What who said that' said Beryl
'Your breath smells like poo' came again.

Looking around no one to be found
Beryl was confused and then

'Here - up here'
throwing her head up almost cricking her neck, Beryl noticed

a big lump of poo with white
feathered wings.

'Shit' exclaimed Beryl.
'That's right' the poo said.

Beryl went, 'This can't be right, human
poo goes down the dunny, cat poo

is covered in the garden, and
dog turd is on the footpath'

The poo replied 'Have you not
heard of holy shit?'

Beryl made a snap decision to walk
out of the dream and

on the way out
sucked on a mint.

Great Articles on Poetry

2008-09-03T16:08:00.016+10:00

Since we've been looking at poetry here just lately, I'll refer everyone also to Writer's Resource Center (aka PoeWar) where this year's annual game, 30 Poems in 30 Days, is now running during September. You can join in with your own poems in response to the prompts if you like (it's not too late!) either on the main site or by joining a more private workshop-type group.

Articles
AND, in conjunction with this, John Hewitt who runs the site is also posting some very good articles on poetry and the writing thereof.

And that's not all
If you haven't discovered Poewar yet, it's worth checking out for information on other kinds of writing besides poetry, and for commercial opportunities.

- Rosemary (Facilitator)

What Is A Poem? by DE Navarro

2008-08-18T16:21:00.018+10:00

Reprinted with permission from NavWorks Press Poetry Forum on MySpace. When I saw this post I thought it interesting, and it dovetailed so beautifully with our last blog post here that I asked permission to use it, which was graciously granted. – Rosemary (WordsFlow Facilitator).

***********************************************************************

I could write a novel explaining what a poem is to me. The possibilities are vast. The poet gives the poem life in the way the words sustain it with a beat and pace all its own, unequalled in prose. A poem is. [PROSE]

===================

Poetry

I could write a novel
explaining what a poem is
to me.
The possibilites are vast.
The poet gives the poem life
in the way the words sustain it
with a beat and pace all its own,
unequalled in prose.
A poem is.

[POETRY]

===================

Not a single word is different between the prose and poetry shown above. What then makes the second item a poem?

Technically, when I departed from the required rules and structure of prose, I MADE my words into a poem. I used language in a way that was not prose to make my poem come into existence.

Is it a good poem? NO! It is, indeed, a lousy poem. Its only claim to being poetry is that I used line breaks to emphasize word groupings.

You have to admit, however, that it reads differently than the prose even though the words are exactly the same. This is because the line breaks gave the words and phrases different emphasis.

So, the absolute most basic definition of poetry can be: when words are used and structured in a manner apart from the requirements of prose.

Now, with a basic application of some poetic technique, let's transform this into a better poem.

A Poem Is

So vast in its potentialities,
I might write a novel
of its unimaginable intricacies,
of its departure from
prosaic rank and file,
word-art charged
and transformed
with its own life-energy
given the right to dance
with its own beat,
at its own pace,
in its own way
greeting many minds
living in hearts and souls.

Look at the difference a little poetic technique makes. I took the last sentence of the prose and made it the title and it flowed beautifully into the first line of the poem so that it is almost a pretext to it, which is one of the types of titles often used in poetry.

I took the concepts explained in the prose and spent some time mentally exploring them and thinking them through. Why could I write a novel about a poem? Because the possibilities are vast and extensive, the potentiality of a poem is incredible, almost unimaginable. A well crafted poem can be so intricate that multiple readings will not reveal all the goodies.

Prose is like a well arranged army in formation, marching to the cadence of the rules of prose, while poetry frees itself of this formation and dances (much more freedom) with its own beat and at its own pace in its own way and manner, uniquely structured or in free form, to capture a greater beauty than mere prose.

It's like the poet takes that rank and file prose army, separates it out, chooses particular members, and arranges groupings in the way he or she sees fit. The poet then choreographs its steps and paces, and sends it off to dance on its own, giving it its own rights and authorities and its own life.

I boiled down the thoughts and concepts of the prosaic logic and then put them together in a structure that developed itself out of the content and my heart's desire.

It is important to recognize that poetry uses poetic technique but the flow and compilation of it is from the heart. The poet must write from the heart.

As I formed the poem, I added some assonance with the short "i" sounds in line 3 (might write is actually an internal rhyme) and added the end rhyme of line 1 and 3 (potentialities / intricacies).

I added the long "a" sounds of line 4 (prosaic rank). Also, prosaic rank and file becomes an allusion of sorts to the rigors and conformed discipline of a marching army, though the word army is never used, so the metaphor (comparison) itself is implied.

Two lines later I capitalized on the army metaphor. Since rank and file implies conformity, I came out and overtly stated an opposite to conformity, that a poem is transformed.

Then lines 10, 11, and 12 are formed as a repetitive trio, giving them a unique rhythmic flow that stands out from the rest of the poem. Being short phrases ending in commas, they hold the poem back slightly in anticipation of the final lines: greeting many minds / living in hearts and souls.

As people read the poem it "greets" their mind. But as they think on it and read it again and again, it sinks deeper. Where a poem "lives" is in the hearts and souls of those who appreciate it, learn from it, grow by it, are empowered by it, entertained by it, enriched by it, or otherwise impacted.

By applying poetic technique and adorning the poem with some simple sound patterns, I transformed this poem from the conforming standards of simple prose to the wild liberty of poetic expression.

Now remember, these poetic techniques were not applied in some stuffy, calculating, methodical way. As the poet, I interacted with my material and began to form the poem by letting the words, thoughts, and ideas flow out of my heart. I then monopolized on the natural patterns present.

I have practiced these techniques often and they are a part of the repertoire of my heart, so as I interacted with my poem I naturally saw ways of tweaking certain words and phrases to add sound techniques, ways to use different words for better imagery, or ways to add new concepts that develop metaphors or add allusions, or ways to change the pace, beat, or flow.

As poets, all this comes out of our hearts. See why it is important for us to practice our craft? We read, observe, experience, and write, and write, and write. As we practice and discover techniques, they become part of our available arsenal of poetic tools, and they find their way into our poetry more and more as a natural flow out of our hearts.

As we begin to grow in certain techniques, they will often come out contrived, some of our rhymes will be forced, our metric beats will have stutters, our metaphors may seem hokey, or our allusions come off ostentatiously, or any other of a number of "amateurish" indicators.

So what? That is how we grow. I have scrapped so much of my early work in poetry, it would make most cringe. I have literally thrown away hundreds of poems. The few that survived out of my early years I have tweaked to remove the amateurish elements. The rest have survived as bits and pieces in new, better poetry.

We are poets, artists, we grow and get better at our craft with practice. Practice is born out of effort applied through time. That means, writing, writing, and more writing.

Okay, off the soap box and back to poetry, what it is. Considering our basic definition and adding the idea that poetry uses charged language that is given additional power by use of poetic technique and sound, here is what I believe to be a wonderfully open-ended, all-encompassing, basic definition of poetry:

poetry - words used and structured in a manner apart from the requirements of prose and charged with additional power by way of poetic technique and/or pleasing sound patterns

I wrote the above poem as an exercise just to illustrate the making of poetry and to explore a possible and plausible definition of it.

The poem may not be a great poem, and may never find itself into my portfolio, but it was good for illustrative and teaching purposes here today.

I hope you enjoyed it.

© Copyright 2007 NavWorks Press and DE Navarro. All rights reserved.

How Do You Tell the Difference between Poetry and Prose?

2008-07-25T11:35:00.017+10:00

‘How do you tell the difference between poetry and prose, unless it rhymes?’ asked a group member, confessing that he gets confused, particularly when it comes to free verse.

A fair question. It does get confusing, and these days the boundaries are blurring more and more. We have distinctions such as prose poetry and poetic prose. It’s even more confusing that the word “poetry” is used in different ways. It can mean verse as distinct from prose, or it can mean something especially beautiful or artistic, as in, “That [piece of music / dance performance / item in nature /etc.] is pure poetry!” Even when it comes to verse, a distinction is made between poetry and doggerel. “Good” poetry is described as poetry; “bad” poetry is considered not to deserve the name: “That’s not poetry!” Or you can think about it in the way someone recently suggested to me, “Poetry’s like a fine wine.” So bad poetry, then, would be like rotgut?

Well, let’s leave questions of good and bad for now, and just explore the difference between poetry and prose in the sense of different genres. I still like the legendary (and perhaps mythical) schoolboy definition: “Poetry is that stuff where the lines don’t go right to the end of the page.” It’s a good starting point anyway. But there needs to be something more to make it poetry and not just chopped-up prose. My answer to the question, boiled right down, is …

Patterns

Poetry involves patterning. Regular rhyme schemes and metres are patterns, and it’s easy to see that. You can count the number of beats to a line, or map the arrangement of rhymes.

Free verse doesn’t hold to a regular metric pattern, but when I read some aloud to the group and asked them what made it poetry, they could hear it: “Rhythm!”
This does involve reading the poem as it’s written on the page, taking note of pauses and punctuation. But also, when I read them one particular piece that way, doing my best to read it as poetry, they could hear that it wasn’t. The rhythm – or lack of – simply didn’t work as verse. “That’s chopped up prose,” they insisted, and I had to agree. (It would be helpful to give the example here, but I don’t want to risk publicly offending the writer!) It’s true that good prose writing also employs rhythm, but the rhythm of a prose sentence works somewhat differently.

Similarly with rhyme – in free verse it can happen in looser ways than in more formal verse. There may be “slant rhymes” of various kinds, or an echo effect of particular sounds repeated even more irregularly. Of course, some free verse doesn’t use rhyme at all. However the music of the words – the way the sounds work together, and the effect they have in creating mood – is still, usually, taken into consideration. (And incidentally, even formal poetry doesn’t always rhyme. Blank verse, which Shakespeare made famous, was specifically NON-rhyming iambic pentameter.)

Sound is not the only kind of patterning. Some poems work instead on visual patterns such as a harmonious, balanced arrangement of line lengths. There might be a certain number of lines per verse, or a certain average length of line. Some have patterns of syllable counts, per line or verse. Shape poetry makes very specific visual patterns and concrete poetry takes that even further.

Now let’s get back to the “fine wine” analogy. I don’t really want to get into notions of “good” or “bad” verse, but I do think poetry often uses a more heightened language than prose. Every element of a poem, even a space between words, has purpose, is essential. Prose, I think, can be more discursive. But here I’m treading on thin ice, as some prose may use heightened language and some poems may be deliberately discursive.

Prose poems / poetic prose

I think it’s fair to say that prose poetry abandons only one feature of poetry: the importance of where the lines begin and end. In a poem, that matters; it’s crucial. In a prose poem, the piece works no matter how it’s set. (Which might be said of prose too, except you wouldn’t normally wish to set a piece of prose as verse in any case.) Here I think I have to use examples. The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck contains some of the most poetic prose I can think of. Check this excerpt!

Margaret Atwood, in a book called True Stories: Poems, includes the following:

My friend called me on the telephone and said, I’m going to kill myself. Why? I said. He’s left me, she said, I have nothing to live for. All right, I said, how are you going to do it? Pills? No, she said, that would make me sick. If it doesn’t work, I mean. I can’t stand having my stomach pumped out, it’s humiliating. Well, a gun then, I said. Think of the mess, she said. It’s indelible, and I hate loud noises. Hanging, I said. You look so awful, she said. You could say the same of drowning, I said. Well, I guess that’s that, she said, but what am I going to do, now that he’s left me and I have nothing to live for? Who told you it has to be for anything? I said. But were you living for him when he was there? No, she said, I was living in spite of him, I was living against him. Then you should say, I have nothing to live against, I said. It’s the same thing, isn’t it? she said. I said No.

There’s a very fine difference between that and a piece of prose! The language might at first glance seem prosaic, consisting as it does of quite plain, ordinary words. It‘s not so much heightened as tightened. However, if you read the piece aloud, you can hear the rhythm building in a non-prosey way. The beautiful rhythms of Steinbeck, though, are the rhythms of prose. I hope you can hear this, because otherwise it’s a bit like trying to explain the finer points of music to someone tone-deaf. Like an ear for music, one also needs an ear for poetry. Luckily, both can be developed.

What does poetry do?

Another way to examine the question is to ask what poetry does, as distinct from prose. It might seem a strange question, considering that there are so many different kinds of prose with different functions – fiction, drama, and non-fiction of all kinds: journalism, essays, how-to manuals and so on. And there are exceptions to every rule, including the one I’m about to formulate. Nevertheless, I think that poetry gets to the essence of things, or at least attempts to. An unsubstantiated assertion! What do you think?

- Rosemary (Facilitator)

Relationships

2008-05-26T10:34:00.008+10:00

By Tahlia

Relationships
Re
In regards to
Interpersonal communication
Jumbled, mumbled
What did you say?

Relationships
Re
Late
Past the prescribed time
Rushing - no time to waste
Heart pounding
But it's never too late.

Relationships
Re
Late
On
Joined
Connected between
Touching and feeling
No, it's not a dream.

Relationships
Re
Late
On
Ships
Some pass in the night
Others work silently side by side
Now tell me truly
What is your delight?

The Murray River

2008-05-22T17:01:00.006+10:00

By Sally Irwin

Irrigation
is sucking it dry.
Black sulphuric acid,
toxic metals and sludge,
pH below 5 –
arsenic wastelands spread.

It’s spreading
further than we know
Where the Murray
meets the ocean,
no bird life thrives.
It’s choked at the mouth.

Pelicans and fairy terns
are all in decline.
Trees are dying.
Each passing day,
more and more water
slips away.

Women of Peace (for Charito)

2008-05-22T12:30:00.010+10:00

By Eddie Blatt

It was the early eighties and I had befriended a Filipino Catholic nun who was very much involved in helping those in the Philippines adversely affected by the dictatorial Marcos regime. She invited me to stay for a weekend in a small flat in her nunnery that had been put aside for visitors. I had just split up with my then wife and took the opportunity for much-needed solitude and contemplation. I wanted to repay her for her kindness, so although I did not share her beliefs I wrote the following poem as if I was seeing things through her eyes.

Women of peace come take my hand,
through God help me to understand
the inner pain that will not rest;
the ball and chain within my breast.

Women of love show me the way
to free myself from want each day;
to find the Lord through hope and prayer,
through kindly deeds and tender care.

Women of joy please share my sorrow
for broken lives that fall tomorrow;
for every soul that's lost its way,
for every dream in disarray.

Women of peace, come take my hand
and lead me to the promised land,
where lion and lamb are born together,
and you and I can rest forever.

The Practical Writer

2008-05-12T21:03:00.015+10:00

At our last WordsFlow meeting, talk turned to things the local Council is allowing to happen which will be bad for the environment. It seems that many people in the community feel resigned and helpless, so they don't speak up about these issues.

As writers, though, we have a tool readily available: our ability to express ourselves by the written word. Yes, we could write impassioned poems, songs, stories and scripts that might live forever and influence many people ... or not. But we are also the ones who can write the most powerful letters to our local papers. We have the skills to write them so well that they are likely to be chosen for publication!

Even when it seems that a decision affecting the community is fait accomplit, I think it's still worth speaking out – in writing. Perhaps others will be inspired to do likewise. Even if a decision is not reversed, perhaps 'they' will think twice before making a similar one in future.

Particularly if we use the power of the written word to lobby the appropriate Council person too! One member of the group said she kept emailing the person she thought most directly concerned with environmental issues. When he didn't respond the first time, she started sending him the same email every fortnight, with a note: I wish you would reply to this! Pretty soon he did, and directed her to the person responsible for that area of concern. No doubt she will continue to email that person too, if they are slow to respond!

It reminds me of my favourite bumper sticker (now the slogan for this blog):

WRITERS have the last word.

- Rosemary (Facilitator)

What We've Been Up To Lately

2008-05-09T16:31:00.017+10:00

Zines

We've just produced yet another zine. We have decided to do them bi-monthly from now on, to give ourselves a bit more time to get them together.

The next one, in the planning stages, will be for children. We're creating it specifically for children in our two local hospitals, to enliven their time there – but it will be suitable for any youngsters. The hospitals concerned are thrilled with this initiative, which came not from me but from the group. I think it might have been Margaret who first suggested it, but the whole group was instantly enthusiastic.

Writing exercise

Dinah, a member of our group, came up with a wonderful exercise recently. She invited us to draw a map of a real or imaginary country and write about a journey there, either to or within the country. We were to include some excitement and/or a disaster to be overcome. And we were to answer the questions: Who? Where? When? How? Why?

It was an amazingly productive exercise – except that, with our usual time limit, some people got so absorbed in creating the map that they didn't leave themselves much writing time! We produced stories, or beginnings of stories, which we felt we'd like to continue with later.

From the horse's mouth

Angela, the wonderful Coordinator of Pottsville Beach Neighbourhood Centre, asked me today how WordsFlow is going. So I thought I'd ask the participants to answer that question. These are the answers they called out as I jotted them down:

Stimulating
We love Fridays
Brain-activating
Friendship-building
Laughter-generating
We're a community
Skills-developing
Self-determining
We even sing during tea-breaks!

It's my philosophy that learning happens best in an atmosphere of laughter.

- Rosemary (Facilitator)

The You I Know

2008-04-14T09:02:00.017+10:00

By Eddie Blatt

Mountains white bathed in flakes of snow,
Aren't as pretty as the you I know;
And trees so green, so tall and so lean,
Can't surpass the beauty in you that I've seen.

© Eddie Blatt 2008

Murder Your Darlings!

2008-03-18T13:25:00.016+11:00

WHA-A-AT?

There's a tale that the French short story writer Guy de Maupassant, as a young writer starting out, was mentored by the poet Alfred de Musset who was older and more established. They used to go for walks in the park and de Musset would teach the younger writer the skills he had acquired in his own writing life. 'Murder your darlings' was perhaps his most famous piece of advice.

Well that's the story I heard from my English teacher when I was 16. It appears to be rather fictional itself! It seems, for instance, that de Maupassant's mentor was actually the novelist Gustave Flaubert – which is much more likely, as he was only seven when Alfred de Musset died. As for the famous advice, Wikipedia says it is 'commonly misattributed' and was actually written by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch. The evidence supports this. But in any case, what on earth does it mean?

This. If there's something in a piece of writing you've just done that you are inordinately proud of, something that really strikes you as a fine bit of writing, something that you're so attached to that you might throw the rest away so long as you get to keep THAT word or THAT line ... or paragraph, or chapter ... that's probably the very thing you should discard.

Why? Because it's probably self-indulgent, and is liable to stick out in a way so jarring that it works against delivering your message.

Let's change the context for a minute and think of watching a movie. What we want is to believe in what we're seeing, if only for that little while when we're actually seeing it. 'The willing suspension of disbelief,' it's been called. If we find ourselves admiring a particularly fine piece of acting, we have lost the illusion; we have stopped believing in the character. It's only afterwards, leaving the cinema, that we should notice, 'Oh, what a terrific piece of acting; I forgot I was watching a movie.' It is the same for a fine piece of writing that we notice. If it's noticeable, for that moment we've lost the thread of what we're reading. It's more effective if the reader gets lost in the words and only afterwards realises what wonderful words they were and how beautifully they were put together.

There are some good articles on the subject online, e.g. at
Easy Way to Write, MindTWEAKS, Poynteronline and, wait for it, Murder Your Darlings. I cite them all, because they're full of good stuff on that and related matters.

All this does NOT mean you should become completely lacking in discernment about your writing. How can you edit and revise if you can't tell good from bad? That's rather the point, in fact. It's a matter of telling what's good or bad in context. The detailed factual presentation needed in a piece of technical writing could be a complete turn-off in a novel. The slangy, conversational tone suitable for a personal blog might be highly inappropriate for a Ph.D. thesis. And so on. Of course don't edit as you write; let it all pour out at white heat if possible and refine it later – but when you do edit, you will need to be dispassionate, even ruthless, about what's working and what isn't.

How to tell if something is a 'darling' to be murdered? That's easy. Are you attached to it? Do you feel a wrench at the thought it might have to go? Would you want to retain it even if that risked weakening the piece as a whole? That's the one!

- Rosemary (Facilitator)

Descriptive Writing

2008-03-15T12:45:00.014+11:00

Yesterday we focused on describing places. One person said she wasn't good at it, and wanted more practice. She always found herself concentrating on people and dialogue instead.

First I had everyone remember a place that had made an impact on them at some time in their lives, think themselves back into that situation and describe the place. I told them to include sounds and smells as well as what they could see. I shared something I learned many years ago from Faith Richmond, author of a memoir called Remembrance: when describing a scene from your childhood, imagine yourself that small again, and picture the table edge high above your head or whatever. That is, see the scene from the child's perspective, remembering how that looked. It's amazing how much more recall you get by doing that! One such detail will lead to a whole flood of others.

Then I had people look out the nearest window and describe what they saw through it. (This brought groans from some.)

As always, the same topic – and even the same view – produced a variety of responses. The woman who focuses on people still did that in her remembered scene and thought she'd failed the exercise. But she included some very descriptive background touches, which set the scene beautifully for the action taking place; it was just that she herself hadn't realised that! I didn't have a person in mine at all except for the narrative 'I' and wondered if I'd been boring, but several people sighed with delight at what I read them. 'Bloody poet,' muttered one (but she was grinning). A woman who also attends the same meditation group as me wrote almost ethereal descriptions full of lyricism. Our resident dry humourist still managed to sound that way despite herself. A new member revealed the sensibilities of a poet although she hasn't thought of herself that way. One person praised the beauty of the garden outside the window; another considered it neglected and ugly.

'I think it's who we are,' said the people person to the humorist, after they'd cracked us all up with their equally unsentimental views of the garden.

Afterwards I instructed everyone to take their own pieces out of the equation and then I asked, were there any pieces that didn't succeed in making pictures in our heads, were there any that didn't hold our interest? No, there were not. It became clear that we can all look at something and write a description of it, and that we'll all do it differently and that's fine.

The remark was correct – it IS 'who we are' that informs our writing. We are going to reveal ourselves in our writing no matter what we do; it can't be avoided. And that's the very thing that makes our writing interesting.

I shared two last secrets with them:

1) With descriptions of people, it's effective to focus on only one or two striking features and leave the rest to the reader's imagination – a crooked nose, for instance, or a constant, fretful movement of the hands. As Fay Weldon advised in Letters to Alice, a light dusting of freckles across her nose tells people a girl is pretty without you having to say so. It is the same with descriptions of place – single out only one or two things to mention; you don't have to give every tiny detail.

2) In my own reading, long descriptive passages are the bits I skip – no matter how beautifully written those descriptions may be. When I confessed that, there was a chorus of agreement. Which leads us right back to 1).

- Rosemary (Facilitator)

Cut-ups and Zines

2008-02-28T09:27:00.028+11:00

Stefanie Petrik's workshop introduced us to new techniques for creating and publishing our work. (New to us, that is.)

Cut-ups

This technique is based on the work of William Burroughs and Brion Gysin, authors of The Third Mind. They quote Naoleon Hill's book Think and Grow Rich, as saying that when you put two minds together there is always a third mind: a third and superior mind as an unseen collaborator.

I did know a little about cut-ups, but had imagined them to consist of sentences and paragraphs chopped up into individual words or phrases and then rearranged at random. Stefanie confirmed that was one of many options; but the way that she showed us was to take one of our poems and an article from the daily paper, and tear them into long strips, then put the strips together so as to form new lines across the page. She did pay some attention to the new meaning thus created. However when I emailed her a couple of weeks later to say I'd been playing with cut-ups, she asked me if reality had started to rewrite itself yet!

She also showed us permutation poems, a closely related technique invented by the same writers, in which 'the poem takes a simple sentence and forces every available meaning to be gleaned from different arrangements of words.' e.g. the phrase 'NO POETS DON'T OWN WORDS' going through a whole page full of permutations to get to 'DON'T (K)NO(W) WORDS OWN POETS'.

She explained that these methods stemmed from visual art techniques such as collage, and were also transferred to audio recordings and used by musicians such as David Bowie and Brian Eno, who 'both used cutting and splicing techniques that formed new, unconscious thematic links between works, words, and compositions.'

Zines

I would describe a zine as the magazine version of a chapbook – or perhaps I mean the chapbook version of a magazine. In other words, it's put together by hand. Wikipedia describes it as 'most commonly a small circulation, non-commercial publication of original or appropriated texts and images. More broadly, the term encompasses any self-published work of minority interest.'

Stefanie told us that zines were common during the punk era, the idea being that self-publishing is a way of becoming independent of the mainstream media.

She showed us how to create them in A5 size, by photocopying. Because it was not long after Sorry Day, which was still much in our minds, we all wrote short pieces on the theme of 'sorry' (not necessarily Sorry Day as such) and used them, in their handwritten form, as our content. We cut and pasted them on to folded A4 pages. (It is also possible to create printed versions on computer with a desktop publishing program.) We stapled them in the middle with a long stapler. We used our cut-ups on the cover, and the word 'sorry' handwritten with a pink pen.

We've decided to produce a zine a month!

Here are two places to find online instructions on making zines:
Action Girl Online
DIY 8 Page Pocket Zine

- Rosemary (Facilitator)

Writing Health

2008-02-22T10:48:00.013+11:00

Elvis's workshop was not directly related to writing, at least not in the ways we're used to. He gave us a series of techniques from his healing practice, which he suggested we could apply in ways that would help our writing by keeping our brains alert and efficient.

Drink water!

Oxygen and water, he told us, are essential – particularly PURE water, so he recommended spring water.

Oxygen to the brain

He reminded us to do deep, belly breathing because it's more efficient. Inspiration, which we think of in connection with writing and other artistic endeavours, means breathing in.

He told us: 'Put the tongue up, over the top teeth, while breathing in; then put the tongue down, over the bottom teeth, while breathing out. This will feed the brain with oxygen. (It may make you dizzy.) Do this for seven minutes three times a day before meals.'

Holding anger works against us.

'When there's not enough oxygen in the brain we shut down the capillaries leading to the cells. There are doors – precapillary sphincters – all over the body. HOLDING anger is the thing (also embarrassment). When you continue to be angry, the liver continues to shut down.'

He gave us an exercise he called Shiver Shake, ideally to be done half an hour a day, which may be broken up into three lots of ten minutes. Put your tongue over your bottom teeth and laugh out loud, whilst raising and lowering alternate heels and lightly shaking your arms. 'A massage from the inside' he called it, good for all sorts of things including oxygenating the brain. It should be alternated with the Super Stretch: stretch the arms upwards in turn, yawning loudly. It's half a minute shaking and half a minute stretching, for half an hour. You can also do it lying down – and if need be you can cry instead of laugh! The diaphragm will still get its massage.

He said, 'Shivering opens the capillaries, driving the blood into the organs that matter most.'

Clearing stress

You can also do stress clearing with the breath – while seated, breathe with tongue forward, put your head down and laugh.

Feeding the brain

Elvis recommended doing everything one can for the brain, and told us his recipe for banana icecream. The banana strings are the most important ingredient. They have the highest concentration of serotonin we know of. He described serotonin as the glue for the brain. It's in fruits; the maximum is in banana strings. The strings form the white pith inside the skin; scrape them off and put them in a blender with the banana itself. You need to use ORGANIC bananas. Blend and freeze – as simple as that. To make 'chocolate' icecream – though he doesn't recommend real chocolate because of the caffeine content – add carob molasses and a little rosewater; just enough rosewater to change the carob taste to chocolate.

The mind clears; you get better memory. Have three bowls of banana icecream for breakfast every week.

Questions and answers

He had called for questions in advance. They included:

How can I be more disciplined about my writing?

'First thing in the morning, lie down, put your tongue forward, laugh and shiver and super stretch for half an hour. After this you can do half an hour of disciplined writing first thing.'

How can I change my writing style?

'Re the word "my" – ask, "Who am I?" '

After some exploration we arrived at the conclusion: 'I am a soul'.

A way to experience this is by using a mudra. (Mudras are hand positions which produce specific results – an ancient technique revived in modern times.)

'Place the right hand on top of the left, palms up, interlace your fingers so the little fingers are outside. When your hands are close to the abdomen, the hand position removes views of who you are; your focus is on Soul / Higher Self / Divine Spark above and behind the head. When you open your eyes, know YOU are looking through your eyes, the light is looking through the body. You get past personal identification, where the motivation is not focused.

'You can write in many styles, as a soul. You can change, once you're in the identification of the permanent self.'

How can I market my work?

'To market a book,' he said, 'You need a title that sells. At this time a word that sells is soul. Then there's the old standard: sex. So a good title would be Soul Merger Sex.

'Having a title that sells is 80% of marketing. You can hang any story on a title, if you back it up somewhere in what you're doing.'

What did we get from Elvis's workshop?

Some of us were disappointed. It was the first day back after the holidays; we wanted to WRITE.

Others could see the application of his unusual techniques to our writing.

Pam put a good slant on it the following week: 'I think that if you're a writer you can take any experience and decide, "I can use that!" '

And sure enough, he did turn up in some of our later writings, in various guises.

I myself thought him an entertaining and unusual man with his own brand of expertise, and found the experience educational in many ways.

The banana icecream is delicious!

- Rosemary (Facilitator)

Politically Correct

2008-02-19T15:32:00.021+11:00

By Pam Moore

I’m politically correct I am
I’m now a proper Pamela not a prejudicial Pam
And I call myself a Person – not a womyn or a man
And my p.c. conscience is clear.

You mustn’t call me middle aged but merely in my prime
I am NOT getting old – just challenged by time
I know YOUR thoughts and feelings are as valid as mine
And my p.c. conscience is clear.

I don’t eat anything which has a face and eyes
I don’t pollute the planet or go poisoning the skies
I’m not racist or sexist, I am tolerant and wise
And my p.c. conscience is clear.

Political correctness is my true philosophy
I say that everything has rights from a cane toad to a tree
I’m loving and respectful to all humanity
And my p.c. conscience is clear.

A female gender person came to my door one day
Emotionally challenged and in some slight disarray
“You pinched my bloke, you harlot! And now yer gonna pay!!”
But my p.c. conscience was clear.

So I said: “This person you refer to is your former partner now.
And he made some rational choices, you mad demented cow.
And if it is a fight you want, come in! I’ll show you how!
MY p.c. conscience is clear”

SHE was not politically correct at all.
Her misuse of the language really left me quite appalled
And our brief interaction sadly ended in a brawl
But my p.c. conscience was clear.

Political correctness put that person in her place.
I do NOT have a broken nose – it’s simply just displaced
And what you see as bruises are adornments to my face.
And my p.c. conscience is……..

Clear as a bell
She can go to hell
That narkish gnome
And leave us alone!
Pea brained tart!
Breath like a fart!
Whining old witch!
Bothersome bitch!

How dare she accuse me of snaffling her man!!
…………When I’m politically correct I am……..

© Pamela Moore 2007

Exciting New Developments in 2008

2008-01-27T22:23:00.007+11:00

The WordsFlow group resumes on February 1st, 1-3.30pm
at the Neighbourhood Centre, Elizabeth Street, Pottsville Beach.

All welcome. Gold coin donation. Afternoon tea provided.
Don't forget your notebook and pen!

February Workshops:

And we're kicking off first term with a real treat! One of our members has been studying with the backpain relief association, a registered charity, and has started teaching exercises and breathing techniques that help with healing the body and mind. Her teacher is an extraordinarily talented man known to his students only by his nickname of "Elvis". He's an international speaker and presenter, a retired naturopath, a meditation teacher, a singer/songwriter, has a post-graduate degree in professional writing, has been writing for 40 years and published over 100 books – and he is willing to do a workshop with us free of charge on "writing health". (How to get better at writing, deal with writer's block, and so forth.) If you happen to be in the neighbourhood, please drop in! You are welcome to ask friends and family along too. Feb 1st is his only available date in the near future, so we grabbed it!

Then on Feb. 15th we have a young performance poet and magazine editor, Stefanie Petrik

Stefanie will run a workshop on

(1) innovative methods of creating poems
(2) literary magazines – submitting work / creating your own lit. mag.

Don't stay away if you think you're not a poet – it will all have broader ramifications. I know her work and have seen her in performance, and she's dynamic! She's also a real sweetie. AND she is going over to Texas in April for the poetry festivals just as I did in 2006.

Because people were so generous in fund-raising for me, I want to pass on the favour. Again, if you're nearby, please bring any interested friends. Donations will go to Stef for her Texas funds. She will also have books and merchandise (badges and things) for sale.

We request $5 donation if possible for these events (or as near as you can manage) to reimburse the presenters for their costs.

Other projects this year are:

1) a Seniors' Week project to interview long-term residents about their reminiscences, scan any photos people care to lend us, create a display for Seniors' Week and look at producing a book later.

2) the production of a community newsletter.

3) a book for children in hospital. We're hoping to combine with the new art group at the Neighbourhood Centre, so that we can have it illustrated.

4) and of course, as always, lots of writing and lots of fun!

- Rosemary (Facilitator)

Poetry Workshop, Thom-style

2008-01-21T23:52:00.013+11:00

Thom's poetry workshops, like his performances, are characterised by his infectious energy. He's very up-beat and barely seems to stop for breath. And yet you don't end up feeling frenetic but inspired. He's light, gentle, fun, non-threatening – and he never for one moment entertains the idea that anyone present 'can't do it'.

Apart from that, like myself he uses the Natalie Goldberg technique of timed writing (outlined in her books for writers, Writing Down the Bones and Wild Mind) the first rule of which is 'Keep your hand moving'. She adds, 'Don't pause to reread the line you have just written. That's stalling and trying to get control of what you're saying.' In Wild Mind she says, 'When you sit down to write, whether it's for ten minutes or an hour, once you begin don't stop. If an atom bomb drops at your feet eight minutes after you have begun and you were going to write for ten minutes, don't budge. You'll go out writing.'

There are other rules, such as don't cross out, don't think, don't worry about spelling, punctuation or grammar and 'you are free to write the worst junk in the world'. The idea is to bypass the internal censor or editor and break through to what she calls 'first thoughts' which is where the energy is – and therefore, I would add, the originality. It doesn't mean you never edit your work, but you don't keep stopping to rewrite your first draft; that comes later. First of all go for it and get it down.

Her final rule is 'go for the jugular'. That is, if you find yourself writing something that scares you, that's too rude or too revealing, don't inhibit it. Chances are, there's something powerful there. (And hey, you can always edit it out later if you really must.)

Most writers who read Ms Goldberg find her very inspiring, and if we lead workshops we use her basic method which we have found to work for us. It's a foundation for our own methods.

If you're writing alone, working on your own novel, poem or whatever, you might decide to go for an hour. In a workshop setting with a number of different people, naturally each exercise lasts only a few minutes. (It's wonderful how much you can get down in two, if you keep your hand moving etc.)

In the workshop Thom gave us in Pottsville, I think we had about 20 participants. Thom used all sorts of things as triggers or topics for writing. He was demonstrating to us that we need never be blocked or stuck. We're all endlessly inventive really, and can produce interesting writing on any subject, instantly.

He had a whole stack of pictures he passed around. There were postcards, personal photos, pictures from calendars, advertisements…. He had a number of copies of each, and it was fascinating that people would come up with very different interpretations of the same image.

He also used words as triggers. I was shocked to see him rip pages from an old volume of Robert Frost's poems, and hand them out to people with instructions to read, and then write whatever came to mind. I was brought up to believe books are sacred. You don't highlight passages, you don't annotate the margins, you don't turn down the corners of the pages to keep your place, and you certainly don't tear them up! Even worse, this was Robert Frost, acknowledged as one of the greats.

Then I realised it was a tattered, second-hand copy; it was the classic Penguin edition, unlikely to go out of print; I have the same edition on my bookshelf at home and Thom is not offering to come into my house and rip that up … and maybe he was conveying something important. To love and admire the work of great poets is one thing – to hold them as sacred icons may be self-defeating, leading us to feel there's no point in attempting any writing of our own.

There are some points to attempting it, though.
• Everyone, even Robert Frost, has to start somewhere.verdana;">• We all need self-expression.
• Your own voice may be more valuable than you think. When we write like this in WordsFlow sessions, it's notable that we are all different and that each one of us has fascinating things to say. We each tend to think our own writing is the least accomplished and least interesting – but to the rest of the group it's brilliant and enthralling, and may be exactly the thing that someone else needs to hear.

- Rosemary (Facilitator)

Thom the World Poet

2008-01-19T08:50:00.014+11:00

Thom after poetry workshop

Thom, an Aussie now based in Texas, travels the world presenting his own poetry and promoting other people's. His commitment to this is partly derived from a belief that "spoken word poetry" (the current name for what I've always called performance poetry) is the last bastion of truly free speech, and gives a voice to those who might not have such ready access to other outlets.

In August 2005, his last visit to Australia, he did a poetry tour of various States, which took in the "Rainbow Region" of northern NSW, and even Pottsville, where he gave an exciting workshop as well as performing. He was one of the people who encouraged me to start the WordsFlow group, seizing on the idea of transforming Pottsville into Poetsville.

We're working on it! In fact, the group encompasses writers in all genres including poetry. And today, in honour of one of our – er – instigators, I share with you one of his most recent poems.

DISCOVERING GOLD

in the silver creek of liquid dreaming
in the chilled reminders of seasons
in the warmth of friends and family
in the kindnesses of strangers
in the rock of reality
in the cloud of unknowing fantasies
in the times stolen between time
in the affirmation and negation
if these days are dark,these lines are Light
if these nights are deep,these sounds skim skin surfaces
if outside seems static and screech
inner is temple and sanctuary
if other does not understand
another overstands
precious unfoldings-lips,flowers,touch,caress-
dance of spark in throat of next-red fire warm (good health!
winter auditions our green needs to see if we are worthy of our springs..
WHERE U FIND Jan 17,2008

© Thom the World Poet 2008

Rainbow Thom in performance

Some Haiku

2008-01-16T10:12:00.015+11:00

By Margie Moore

[Margie sent haiku and senryu to her friends for Christmas. Below is a selection from them. We have also included the explanation of these poetic forms, which she wrote for her friends. - Rosemary (Facilitator)]

My Christmas gift to you is this smattering of mixed haiku & senryu – uncommon poetry styles – which originated in Japan but are blossoming in the English-speaking world, too. They look simple, but are harder to write than you realise until you have a go.

The focus of most English adaptations of haiku is on syllable counts: specifically, 5 syllables in the first line; 7 in the second and 5 again, in the third line.

The main objective is to show something important in a simple way, evocatively and without too much detail.

That is to say, the whole meaning that’s conveyed will be something greater than just the three small lines each poem fills.

Another way of explaining these styles of poetry is to say “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts”. You might simply say that the aim is to “show and not tell”.

Some poetry along these lines rhymes, but many – including my own – don’t.

The main difference between haiku & senryu – as I understand it – is that haiku speaks mainly about the writer in relation to the outer world.

Traditionally – but not exclusively – haiku is written about something a particular season evokes in the writer.

Senryu, on the other hand, connects with the writer’s inner or intrapersonal world.

The poems may, or may not, be titled. Here goes!

SEASONAL HAIKU

SUMMER

Arnhem Land

Stunning clouds gather
Restless, listless, comfort-less
Fabulous downpour!

AUTUMN

I come upon them
Down every street I wander
Delightful colour

I no longer need
An evening rug to keep me warm
Anticipation

WINTER

…in Canberra

Thin white covering
Crisp crackles under foot steps
Hot chocolate heaven!

Comfort food is good
- hang the extra weight put on -
I must be warmer!

SPRING

Gardening

Hopefully watching
Rejoicing eventually
At the small green things

The Sea

As my bones thaw out
My restless body, again
Yearns to float in Her

Soft caressing, as
You gently carry me
I love you, ocean

Moths

They fly in frenzy
On their rapturous journey
To their bright heaven

MISCELLANEOUS [not seasonal]:

Anniversary

On a sunny day
It’s raining inside my skin
As grief permeates

As I miss you again
I buy this treat you favoured
It tastes sweet and sad

Desert

Hating the Dark Night
Surprised by bloom in desert
Suddenly hopeful

Disability 1

Interrogation!
Pretend it’s not there, my chair
We’ve only just met

Disability 2

Pretend it’s not there,
My chair, and I won’t quiz
you, about your health

Dusk

Drawing my curtain
Sudden eyeball with gecko
Wonderful wildlife!

Grief

Still numb with sorrow
Shall I then play sad music
to hasten healing?

Haiku

Some folk can’t see it –
how three lines can excite us
Sometimes less is more

Loving Differently Now

Incrementally
Learning to stop loving you
What a waste it is

Love springs eternal
Despite many betrayals
Even so, good bye

A Result of Chronic Pain

Abundant time now,
Learning to be a “human
be-ing’” not do-ing

Photography

Oh, that’s riveting!
Click – the moment is frozen
My heart is singing

Sparky 1
[Sparky is my friend’s cat]

Soft paw pats my cheek
Loving purring in my ear
A new day is here

Sparky 2

Completely mute
Yet you speak so eloquently,
beloved feline

Snorkelling

Translucent swimmer
I watch you through my goggles
Tiny jelly-fish

Last, but not least, this is not haiku or senryu but I’ve got a bit of space and I like this little poem of mine, so here goes:

Re-creation

If I could form myself a form
a fish I’d be
No gravity, free

All these haiku are © M A Moore 2007.

Benjamin Barnaby Brown

2008-01-11T09:58:00.009+11:00

By Nan Doyle

Benjamin Barnaby Brown sat on the front step of his mother’s shop.
He was bored. He had nobody to play with and his Mum was a very busy woman.
“My name is Benjamin Barnaby Brown,” he announced as an old lady approached.
She was tall and rather bony. She had a long nose and wrinkly skin. She had blue eyes that twinkled.
She smiled. “My name is Miss Rossington hyphen Rosenbloom,” she replied, and went into the shop to buy her morning paper.
He went out the back to his toy box and fossicked around until he found his cowboy hat.
He went to the broom cupboard, untied his trusty steed and walked into the shop.
“Good-bye Benjamin Barnaby Brown,” said Miss Rossington hyphen Rosenbloom.
He frowned. “I’m not Benjamin Barnaby Brown. I’m a cowboy.”
“Oh! Is this your horse?”
“Yep.” he replied “You can have a ride if you want. Hop on behind me. Hang on tight.”

They rode through the shop. Up and down the aisles.
Past the breakfast cereals, round the soaps and detergents, and galloped by the tinned food.
Benjamin Barnaby Brown waved his hat and yelled “Yee Haa!”
Miss Rossington hyphen Rosenbloom waved her hat and shouted “Yah Hoo!”

Benjamin Barnaby Brown sat on the step waiting for Miss Rossington hyphen Rosenbloom to come for her paper.
‘Hello Benjamin Barnaby Brown,” she said.
He frowned. “I’m not Benjamin Barnaby Brown. I’m Superman.”
“Oh! That is interesting! Can you fly?”
“Yep.” he said, flourishing the towel that was attached to his shoulders with two large safety pins. “Would you like to come for a fly with me? You’ll have to be an aeroplane. You put your arms like this and go Z000ooom!”

They flew through the shop. Past the pet food. Past the toiletries and landed in the hardware department.
“That was fun. Thank you Superman,” said Miss Rossington hyphen Rosenbloom. She paid for her paper and went home.

Benjamin Barnaby Brown stood on the steps.
His hat was on sideways and he wore a black patch over one eye.
“Goodness me, Benjamin Barnaby Brown! Have you hurt yourself?” asked Miss Rossington hyphen Rosenbloom.
“I am not Benjamin Barnaby Brown. I’m a pirate. You can be one too. Pirates only have one leg and you have to hop like this.”
They hopped by the ice cream department, past the soft drinks and the sweets and fell laughing on the floor near the papers and magazines.
“I like being a pirate.” Said Miss Rossington hyphen Rosenbloom.

Some days they were butterflies, flittering and fluttering through the shop. Sometimes they were birds, or Red Indians, or slithering snakes.
One day they sat on a nest while Benjamin Barnaby Brown tied to hatch a chicken from an egg he had taken from the fridge.
That took too long, so his mother cooked it for his dinner that night.
They sat in a rocket ship and flew off into the universe to visit The Man In The Moon.
They passed through The Milky Way and many unknown galaxies.
Benjamin Barnaby Brown and Miss Rossington hyphen Rosenbloom played a game every single day.

One morning Benjamin Barnaby Brown stood on the steps with his mother.
He wore socks and shiny black shoes. A blue shirt with buttons and grey shorts.
He looked sadly at Miss Rossington hyphen Rosenbloom.
“I am Benjamin Barnaby Brown, and I have to go to school. Will you come with me?”
“I’m afraid I can’t to-day.” she said “I am Miss Rossington hyphen Rosenbloom and I have to look after the shop for your Mum.”
She bent low and smiled at him. “You have a good day, young man.”

On Saturday Benjamin Barnaby Brown sat on the step, looking miserable.
When Miss Rossington hyphen Rosenbloom came to collect her paper, he said, “I am Benjamin Barnaby Brown and I want to go to the park to play with my friends from school.”
“Well, why look so sad?” asked Miss Rossington hyphen Rosenbloom.
“My Mum is too busy to take me and I’m not allowed to go by myself. Do you have time, Miss Rossington hyphen Rosenbloom?”

She raised one hand above her head and pointed to the sky.
She extended her other arm to the side and pointed that way.
“I am not Miss Rossington hyphen Rosenbloom,” she declared. “I am a clock and I have all the time in the world.”

Benjamin Barnaby Brown raced into the shop to grab his hat and tell his Mum.
Benjamin Barnaby Brown and Miss Rossington hyphen Rosenbloom walked to the park.
Tick Tocking all the way.

© Nan Doyle 1999