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)

Fire Light 1, 2019

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

Fire light 2, 2019

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.

~