Author Archives: Frank Prem
Christmas Poem, 2019
I was moved to write a Christmas poem, today, but I post it with a small caution. It comes after weeks of uncontrolled fired in New South Wales and Queensland, and it comes after the smoke from them has crossed oceans and this continent.
It is not a cheery Christmas poem, so please don’t read it without bearing in mind my caution. If you still wish to proceed, please do.
on fire (just a bauble)
the bauble
is on fire
the christmas bauble
burning
it is the red and gold
I am on
the blue one
where all
the nuance green
is turning yellow
the brown
is floating
into dust
but still
I
am on
the pretty blue
gazing
at the red
and
at its shimmers
it stares
or so
it seem to me
either
in jealousy
or
in warning
my christmas tree
is fading
fast
it is a structure
in my mind
presents wrapped
in faded paper
pine needles
strewn
no longer
on their branches
the baking walls
radiate
a constant awareness
and the rage
of fires
to the north
is inescapable
I breathe it now
from far away
in places
blue
in places
green and brown
and places dirt or dust
are becoming places
ashen grey
as I feel
ashen grey
knowing my bauble
too
is burning
open presents
while I can
I rush
in hope
to find some water
maybe a droplet
in a plastic bottle
hosed up
from underneath the earth
near a place
that is now
burning
ah
this baking
dries my mouth
I’m parched
the heat rolls on
incessant
and I wonder
what is the meaning
where is the purpose
what is the point
and
where
and when
is rain
where and when
is tomorrow
I watch the red
and I
am the one
on fire
taking all
I (into the breech)
far and far
how do I know (unknow)
in turns
a waddle
without crump
Exercises on the Inspiration for Writing #02 December 4th 2019 – the flight of fancy
In my working life it becomes necessary from time to time for me to attend workshops and to learn or re-learn some aspect of my professional endeavors. I generally find these little retreats quite interesting and engaging, but by the second half of the day, I sometimes find my mind drifting off into contemplation of unrelated ideas and subject matter.
On one such occasion I found myself mentally bringing together the pristine expanse of golf course that I could see through the feature window – the 9th tee and beyond, as I recall – and the exquisite buffet that had been provided for lunch. At that time, some details of the cuisine escaped me – such as the arancini balls, which I hadn’t previously encountered.
For me, that is sufficient stimulus to cause a surreptitious scribbling of poetry onto note paper, when I should have been attending to the lecture.
The poem I wrote that day later became important to me as I used the title to form the basis of my publishing imprint (Wild Arancini Press). Here is the opening to the poem the hunt for the wild arancini:
the wild arancini
gallops
across the driving range
the golf club chef
so close behind him
holds his implements
up high
his cook’s knife
the roasting fork
a sharpening steel
held to his wrist
by a shortened length
of cord
the apron flies
a-flap
around his knees
his moustache
holds beaded sweat
while his jowls
are in full motion
and broad wobble
but he runs
full stretch
as a lion
might
the prey
leaps and bounds
more like
a gazelle . . .
Read the rest of the poem the hunt for the wild arancini, here.
How can you participate? Use my discussion as a prompt to write a poem or some prose on your own blog about a place that has inspired you, then create a pingback to the prompt page or post your link in the comment section – (please check to ensure your link appears in one form or another). Find out more about pingbacks here.
Around the start of each new month (or six months as it has been on this occasion), I’ll list participant links that have appeared as pingbacks or as posted links in the comment section of this post.
If you have any questions, or if you notice that I have messed up something in this process, drop me a line and I’ll probably manage to work it out.
~