22 September 2017

Poetry on the Move, the festival of poetry sponsored by the University of Canberra ended yesterday.  A week of poetry and poems and poets… Delicious.

In between poetry readings, I wrote two very short poems. The first one was just after I left an evening session and was walking through the campus back to my car.  The second was right after a poetry reading.

•  •   •  •   •   •   •   •

talking to myself

walking to myself

thinking to myself

looking to myself

watching to myself

singing to myself

jumping to myself

leaping to myself

speaking to myself

asking to myself

learning to myself

telling to myself

forgiving to myself

•     •     •    •    •   •   •

Pamela at Boodoree National Park, ACT, Australia

•   •   •   •   •   •   •

time jumping

space splitting

heart thumping

mind shifting

head shaking

breath escaping

word singing

poetry emerging

 

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Feeling excluded

alienated

by poetry readings

Poetry should open up

new worlds

expansive ways of being

Aching head

Worn out by tedious presentations

Speaking only to themselves

and a closed off group of poets

But are they poets

if they speak only of other dead poets

of esoteric translations

Not speaking to me

Except for the Serbo Russian Australian woman

sitting next to me

She is a storyteller

I haven’t read her poems

Only one about Anzac day

I only partially understood

her use of the Aussie idiom

How many languages does she speak?

She speaks stories

so she will be heard

I seek refuge

exhausted

barely able to drive home

Going to bed

Sleeping not too soundly

Awaken aching for something

Opening a poetry book

Our Post-Soviet History Unfolds

for solace

for reassurance

Do I still understand poetry?

Can I read and be comforted

that there are other worlds out there

other minds that

show me the world

I cannot see by myself?

Thank you Eleanor Lerman

 

 

Panorama, Depot Beach    New South Wales, Australia

 

 

Nature Reserve

 

The gate signing

what can and

cannot be done

Walking on

path rutted

shaped by many feet

Scraggly natives

Yellow strawflowers

Grey green shoulder

broken by embedded stone

Piercing red rosehips

Screaming noisy miner

birds signal invasion

Swinging head

back and forth

Kangaroos watching

waiting, then

fleeing from unknown

Arriving at summit

Grey clouds open

slivers of gold

above blue ridges

defining the end

     Sunset      Red Hill Nature Reserve                     Canberra Australia

 

Thinking of my brother Lon Hutchison.  His birthday is 22 June.  He would have been 62 years old.  He was hit by a bus and killed in Mazatlan Mexico 5 May 2014. 

 

Rounding a bend

something shiny

glinting in the sun

a car

Intruder

in a forest walk

that should go on forever

OHHHHklahoma

where the wind comes

sweeping down the plain

Invaders of territory

promised

in perpetuity

to displaced Cherokees

Snatched away

leaving only the washed up

migrants

failed elsewhere

to wait on the border

wagons lined up

the pistol shot

signaling

race to take over land

repossess the stolen

broken promises

unstable

unwelcoming

environment

to raise a family

divorce

extreme cruelty

three young children

barely beyond teen age

mother

not promising soil

for raising a family

constant migration

mostly men

moving moving

looking for work

handouts

jumping on and off freight trains

not belonging

anywhere

outliers

rough camaraderie

no questions asked

ethical code of hobos

persuade runaway children

return home

he refused

age 13

jumped a freight

joined the hobos

on his way to California

Ohhhklahoma

Thoughts while ill and not ill with mystery virus

January, February, 2017

                                                                     Photo by Gabriel Collett

 

Living in a soup

Daily survival

Minimal activity

No motivation to do more

Strange illness

Mystery virus

Late afternoon

in bed

too tired to sleep

Staring at

brick wall

Noting

whiteness of some bricks

the pattern they make

Not motivated by hunger

Not wanting to cook

Lack of respect for the body

Betrayal of the body

Unreliability of the body

Living in limbo

Nothing much matters

Everyday life holds no interest

Real life dulled

By a sickness that seems almost imaginary

If I think hard enough

If I just try harder

Surely it will go away

Yet it drags on with no real focus

And I am not

What I want to be

 

 

Watching

cars go by

So many people

encased in metal

Do they put it on

like a new outfit

Slip into something

that gives them a

different personality

a different way of being

Feeling self assured in my BMW

My Audi tells me who I am

Why sacrifice

being human

to get places faster

In a car we are

no one

non caring

non communicative

in motion

to nowhere

 

10 March 2017

Mom’s Australian Hat from her visit in 1992

the passing on                                                                                                                                  from one generation to another
an object
a beloved object
my mother gave me                                                                                                                      too many objects
I wear them
I remember her
but there are so many
Is any one special
was any her favourite
no way to know

Today’s your birthday, Mom. I wish we could celebrate together.

Love,                                                                                                                                           Pamela

1 March 2017

I remember.  The final day I had with you Mom.  1 March 2011.  I was there when you opened your eyes, looked at me and your grandson Nathan and then closed your eyes forever.  A few days earlier you had asked me if you were dying.  I said yes and that everything was taken care of, you could go in peace.  And you did.

Yesterday I got out your blue jean jacket with the patches from one of your trips to Africa.  You sewed all the patches and embroidered the outline of the African continent on the back of the jacket.

Mom's Africa Jacket

                     Mom’s Africa Jacket

I live surrounded by you.  Whenever I go out, I open up the drawers with your jewelry and choose something to wear.  Bracelets, necklaces, so many to choose from.

You are always with me and will be forever.

With love,

Pamela

 

no writing for this blog for months

not that I’m not thinking about

my mother

my family

my brother

my sister, who recently died of cancer

my nephews

my sons

What is taking up all of my writing thoughts, time?

my father

working on a novel

based on events in his life

events I never knew about

events that appear in documents

as if he were a stranger

I am still trying to get to know him

45 years after he died Lon Hutchison young man

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