MMIX

The comrades of Oceania are dictated to by the Corpus Juris Civilis. Blindly they circumnavigate the world, gently brushing keystrokes; fingertips reading the dots that denote each letter. No further interpretation could be made. All must abide by the unwritten obligations of the Jus Civile, which tracks the errors one can make: Crimethink, Crimespeak, Oldthink, Oldspeak. A series of amateur spies act as a modern day Censura; enabling Big Brother in his pursuit of the reckless, the thoughtless, and the brave.

"Be my friend, comrade," they cajole. Information passes freely; privacy an Oldspeak term diligently made redundant by these regulators of public morality. She knows this, but still pursues the contact; trapped by the unenviable human desire for companionship. There are others, she is sure. Numbed by Victory gin, the web of deceit spins delicately around the limbs of the damned citizen. Paralysed, her soul is dragged to the forum for judgement. Elsewhere, the lions wait.

The stench of betrayal hangs in the air, weaving a path towards the baited meal. Still the lions wait. The comrades mock. The comrades pity. Regimen morum, however, must be upheld. Behind the column of stone lurks the victim's comrade, now promoted to the much revered role of Castigator. An appropriate pathway to Caesar she was sure. The Castigator smiled as she watched her fallen comrade branded with the nota censoria. With that, the damage was done.

How's your Latin?

Corpus Juris Civilis - Body of Civil Law

Jus Civile – Civil Law

Censura – Censor

Regimen morum – Keeping the public morals

Castigator – Chastiser

Nota censorial – Censorial mark

Bah Humbug ...

Internet censorship is on the cards in Australia. I have heard about this on and off for the last 12 months, and while agree something must be done about child porn, I am very worried about Government controlled media. Stay tuned to this one folks .

http://www.theage.com.au/technology/technology-news/internet-censorship-plan-gets-the-green-light-20091215-ktzc.html

Thought this topic quite apt considering the level of censorship I am encountering in my personal life at the moment - BLAH.

Censorship ...

It's on my mind. Self regulations, societal norms, ability to trust others. The need to censor your ideas, thoughts, behaviours; the desire of others to censor you.

Once again, I write to make sense of this world.

18 hours to vote

I have decided to enter a poetry competition. It's just a small step, but it's a step none-the-less. I am after literary and critical feedback from my followers as to which poem (or maybe poems - as in two) best reflect my writing style and literary abilities.

Here are my shortlisted:

Iscariot's Rope
Consanguinity
Recidivism
The dichotomy of dealing with the dead
Rapunzel
Russian Dolls
Fallacy
Pandora's Box

I look forward to your comments :)

Interview me: Five questions.

One of the myriad blogs I frequent is Victoria Dixon's Ron Empress. Her latest post answers five questions another blogger has asked about her and asks for volunteers to be interviewed. I thought that this would be a wonderful way to get to know others at blogger. After you've read the answers to my questions, you can comment (of course hehehehe) or request to be interviewed yourself. All you have to do is comment to this post with 'Interview me' – simple.

Here are the five questions Victoria asked me:

1. I love the line of poetry behind your blog's title, but why did you choose it?
   
2. You seem to love writing poetry. Who is your favorite poet and does it have to do with a poem, or with their life?
   
3. What is your favorite poem or quote?
   
4. What is your favorite book?
   
5. If you wrote an epic novel, what would it be?
   

I hope you enjoy the answers below, and let me know if you'd like to be interviewed too.

Aaaah, A Misinterpreted Wave. I chose it because it is what I am; what I have been for most of my life – A Misinterpreted Wave. Stevie Smith's poem, Not Waving, but Drowning, struck a chord with me when I first read it at University. The emotion that I felt when reading it was so intense, that the poem became an instant favourite. The saddest thing about this was the judgement people felt obliged to offer, in that people often felt that unless you could discuss Keats, Shakespeare, Donne and the like you were not discussing real poetry. I liked how the world misinterpreted the waving in the poem, so much like the world we live in. I hope that every time someone reads the poem by Stevie Smith that they realise that they really should look out for others, just in case someone is drowning.

I love writing poetry, and have written since I was about fourteen years old. At high school I had a wonderful friend with whom I would share my poetry, and he would reciprocate in kind. I wouldn't say that I have one all time favourite poet, but there are three that spring to mind when I say favourite. The first is Shakespeare. Despite all of the conspiracy theories that suggest it wasn't he who wrote all the plays, sonnets and the like, all I can say is whoever wrote them was brilliant. To be bound by such structure, yet to be able to write with such grace is a gift I can only dream of. Seeing as I write in free verse (or as I like free falling verse), I struggle to write when such boundaries are placed on me. The fact that I memorised his 18^th sonnet in year 10 speaks to the level I fell in love with his writing. I absolutely love teaching Shakespeare, love reading his work, and watching other people's interpretations. The second would be Sylvia Plath. I am drawn to her writing like a drunken moth is to light. A colleague once describe my poetry as being 'Sylvia Plathesque', something I found to be a great compliment. I adore how she uses a plethora of imagery (despite the controversial aspects) to write powerful and confronting messages through poetry. Lastly, I find Wilfred Owen's Futility and Dulce et Decorum Est a lesson in life that is so often ignored. It is easy for me to say that War is wrong, but I have never been. He has, in fact he died during the First World War, and his poems were published posthumously. I find the criticism of the Government empowering; and so right.

My favourite poem is Stevie Smith's Not Waving, but Drowning. I love so many others and find more each and every day, but her poem is the one that has almost become a mantra.

My all time favourite book is Marion Zimmer Bradley's The Mists of Avalon. It is the Arthurian Legend from a Feminist or Female perspective (depending on who you are). I also thoroughly enjoyed the pagan mythological allusions and the change in the story when told from another perspective was enlightening. The Arthurian Legend is one I am quite interested in, and it was really nice to read a version where the women aren't all considered evil or stupid.

My epic novel would have serious feminist overtones, and would come with a powerful message; that women have the power to succeed if only they let themselves. I like the idea of sisters seeking out the truth behind family secrets, or a mother – daughter relationship. Most likely, it will have the protagonist trying to understand the motives behind other people's actions and lives, and will have its fair share of heartache. Even though I live in an outer suburb of Melbourne, Australia, I would most probably set it in Tasmania and model it around my mother's upbringing – that of a migrant family living in a small town where anybody and everybody just wants to get out of there, and most people find themselves stuck for generations. I would like to address the judgment that goes with the inability of people to move on from small towns, and liken that to the urban community. The epic tale will cover periods in history such as the 'White Australia Policy' and the toils and tribulations that migrants faced when coming to Australia in the 1950s.

 

Over and out folks, hope you enjoyed the answers. I look forward to 'interviewing' some of you soon J

Iscariot’s Rope

Today I found Iscariot's rope -

Bloodied and frayed from overuse;

False camaraderie is still a crime the world commits.

Thirty pieces of silver offer no recompense,

Do nothing to alleviate the guilt.

They sit, heavy in the pockets of the damned

Replacing the secrets a modern-day Judas was to keep.

The Potter's Field has been fertilised

With idle gossip, and the accomplishments of the unwary.

The silver churned through the dirt, relishing the tarnish it had bought.

And yet, the rope swings above,

Never without the weight of someone's reputation.

Patiently it hangs; it is a lesson never learnt.

Consanguinity

I had met you before.

There you sat - patiently waiting until I was ready.

But you wouldn't remember that.

I knew you were coming.

I listened for you.

Mama, I am here now, hello.

Do you remember that?

Mama, are you happy?

I touch you, smell you; miss you every day.

Hand to face, eye to eye.

Yes, I am happy.

Was it the same for me and my mother?

I can't remember.

I was always alone.

With you there is no loneliness.

What do you remember?

This.

Your hand reaches to me.

You.

I could be with you whenever I wanted.

An unremitting bond.

Am I Winston or Julia?

Never before has Friday the 13th had any negative connotations. That was until today. Today I entered a time machine and travelled back to 1984. I was subjected to Orwellian censorship.

I committed the much reviled act of thought-crime and for that I was betrayed. What disappoints me most is that people spew out rhetoric like it grows on trees.

They don't want Big Brother, yet they enable him with their petty, small-minded grievances that prompt them to report on any and all they see in the world.

They feel that people can't be upset, can't show emotion and can't vent, without it being seen as an attack on the institution. The irony being that they themselves are causing the breakdown of privacy, freedom of thought, freedom of emotion, and freedom of speech.

That is what disappoints me most about the world today. So many are happy to betray one, for the betterment of their own self, not able to foresee the detriment it will have to them, our society and each individual in it.

If my Judas is reading this, then I have absolutely no judge of character, and all I can say is - send in the rats.

Slacko checks in ...

Ok, my bad. I have been MIA, but I have a good excuse ... truly. My year 12s had their final exam last Thursday, so we ( my beautiful students and I) have been preparing like crazy. Essay and essay after never-ending essay. We find out final results on December the 15th, so it's fingers crossed until then.

Secondly, I am just wrapping up hell month. AKA 6 weeks of toddler birthday parties. At least one party every weekend for the past 6 weeks, sometimes two - aaaaahhhhhhh. It ends on the 21st with my darling little girl's party, but tomorrow is her actual birthday. She turns three. Like any dutiful, modern-day, Generation X parent I have created a photo montage for her, and will share it with you (please keep comments suitably sucky, of course she is gorgeous, wonderful, the smartest kid out etc, etc).

I am currently drafting a poem for her. The poem focuses on the close bond that we have, and I hope for it to be a poem that she can look to forever and ever and then a little bit more. Meanwhile, I would like to remind you all about the poem I wrote for her many months ago. This poem describes the impact she was had on my life. She is a true gift and I am so happy to have been allowed into her life.

Lastly, I would like to thank Steph Damore for nominating me for a Kreativ Blogger award. I am so very glad that you like my musings, and hope to be back in action very soon, so that disappointment no longer abounds.

Let she who is without sin, cast the first stone.

re⋅cid⋅i⋅vism /rɪˈsɪdəˌvɪzəm [ri-sid-uh-viz-uhm] –noun
1.
repeated or habitual relapse, as into crime.
2.
Psychiatry. the chronic tendency toward repetition of criminal or antisocial behavior patterns.

Decades have gone by, all the while we keep looking at that mirror. Snow White's step mother asked, 'Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is fairest of them all?' Desperate to beautiful, she preened the savagery that came from the all-consuming obsession.

The mirror never lies. It always tells you what you want to hear. We ask it to tell us that we are ugly, too fat, scarred, mutilated, not worth loving. We commit this crime each and every day. We tend to the needs of the mirror, ensuring that it is clean enough to reflect our sins. We look for evidence of imperfection. We hate, we loathe, we constantly remind ourselves of the repulsive nature of our souls.

We wonder why children are sad. We don't understand why little girls don't want to grow up. We cry when children tell us that they are not worth loving. The answers should be clear.

It is a cyclical crime; its recurring nature realised too late - when the damage has been done.

Flowers for Algernon.

Today I wish that I wasn't like Algernon. I don't want to be aware of how the world works. I don't want to have to listen to people's inane banter and pretend that I think it is worthwhile discussion. And then, I wish I could be like Algernon, slowly decaying; going back to a place oblivious to the world around.

The only problem is that Algernon dies in the end (and I don't particularly want to die) and that in order to slowly decay, one has to be aware of the decay. No Thanks.

I am left with no choice. I must sit, listen and pretend that I do not understand how the world works. How I wish that intelligence did not bring with it an acute understanding of how different one is to others.

This is my whinge, my selfish little rant for the day. It's because the tears don't come. They never do. *sigh*

Recidivism

Hands mould, abuse, shame and control

A marred psyche plagued by cheloid scarring.

Mirror, mirror in my eye

Surely you will tell no lie.

Repulsion; truthful observations of the temple.

Distorted perceptions provoking metamorphosis.

A scalpel to flesh, needle and thread.

Stitch.

One stitch, two stitch, guilt stitch, filth stitch.

Mercury tainted window - quicksilver reflecting a cumbersome vow.

The looking glass lined with sin,

Casting aspersions forth with flippant disregard.

Polishing cloth recoils with each stroke,

Collecting the shards of mercurial dust that have accumulated over time.

Desperate cleaning, searching for echoes of the past.

A patient history waiting ominously to be revealed -

A hoped for barrage of self-loathing

Each attempt to define the tarnished image trapped in the mirror

Erodes the meticulously applied silvering.

The dust shifts, the cloth sloughing away the surface,

Revealing the true nature of the crime.

No longer a mirror, the glass exposes an innocent child,

Who, wide-eyed, learns how she too must behave.

Return of the Prodigal Poet

Hmmmm, nice name for a poem (maybe - sounds a bit too 'Star Wars', but it was catchy). Apologies to all. I hope that my hiatus hasn't put you off long term, but I am back :)

I have bought LAND in beautiful Emerald and look forward to living a more sustainable and environmentally friendly life.

I look forward to chatting with you all again.

Classroom writing

I'm still house hunting and it's taking up an enormous amount of time. It is so stressful; interest rates, needs for the future, school zones … aaaaggghhhh. I've neglected my writing, and need to get back on track. However, I have written two 15 minutes pieces, both during my year 11 English. We are working on creative writing, so I wrote a couple of small pieces when they were working so that they could understand what I was asking. I thought I might share them with you (remember that they are only quick 15 minute writing pieces with no drafting), and you can critique them too.

The first piece is the 'no e' writing (again – I'm a great recycler of ideas), but I changed the topic to 'Deforestation'

A monstrous wail is cast forth across a dark woodland. Birds wings grasp airy flight; lofty boughs no match for his chainsaw. An ill-advising authority allowing for total annihilation of flora and fauna; disdainful chaos and lacking any form of discrimination. This is tantamount to a mythological slaying, an assassination of our air - humankind can not do without. You want a utopian world, but punish our world's lungs; brimming with chlorophyll and of much import, you simply gnaw away its ability to purify our lands. It is you who is at fault, you who will allow our kind to diminish. Your calm and rational pitch was no match for our ruling administration's wily plans.

The second piece was a part of a theme 'Future Worlds'. The idea is to watch Gattaca (a film by Andrew Nicholl) and use the text to inspire a piece of writing. The text cannot be copied as such, but literary devices, uses of symbolism etc can be used. The students had an idea they were expected to explore, which was, 'Humankind will ultimately become a prisoner of technology'. A few of them were struggling to create a piece that highlighted an opinion (portrayed through a character, narrative, plot line or similar) about the particular idea. Over my lunch break I quickly drafted this piece, so that the students could see a basic example. My writing form is a letter from one scientist to another. It is clearly not finished, but my protagonist is concerned that the use of technology is going too far. I quickly whipped up a minor link to 'Gattaca' in that the corporation in my piece was named using the letters G, C, T, A, just as GATTACA was.

My dear friend,

I write to you in the hope that you'll stop the experiments in time to stop the destruction of mankind. Society is moving too fast, becoming too reliant on technological advances. Please don't fall into the trap that has been set by the Atagt Corporation. Those imbeciles of nature; purveyors of desecration only serve themselves. Our search for the easy way out has led to our ultimate demise; our minds have become inactive, and we have been trapped within the prison we have created ourselves.

I am not long for this world, but my soul bleeds with the knowledge that the Atagt Corporation will have control of the very food on which we depend. Please, I beg of you, stop this nonsense now, before it's too late. You say that the technology will help our world, will alleviate poverty. It has done nothing of the sort. In thinking of present concerns, all we have done is ruin the future. The next generation of children will have no skills, no knowledge of food production. Everything we, as a society, rely upon so much has been genetically modified. When will this stop? Too soon, we will be the ancestors of genetically modified humans. Too often, humans lack the will and motivation to do anything difficult. We have volunteered to let technology take over and have orchestrated our own downfall. You have the power to stop this. Step in now and act.

Hope you liked the little detour in writing, and hopefully I will be back soon (commenting and blogging – thanks Laura for commenting on my last post J)

Adolescence

I have a confession. I am looking to buy a house, and because of this I am on the Internet every night scouring pages upon pages of potential properties in the hope that I will find one that has everything I want.

It has stopped me from writing, blogging, commenting and all things I usually like to do on the Internet.

I even have a half drafted poem, but clearly have not pushed myself to complete it.

However - I thought it might be interesting to post two poems I wrote when I was 14. To be honest I was two months off being 15, but it is the truth when I say I was 14 when I wrote these. I thought it might be interesting for you all to see how I have evolved as a writer, even if some of the subject matter is similar. Enjoy!

You see the shadow in the rain.
Moving slowly - trying to hide.
You will never catch it.
It is a state of mind.
A shadow is never understood,
Never heard, never remembered.
I am a shadow - but no-one knows


In the distance,
You can see laughter,
You can see joy.
But you feel only pain.
You know the pain.
It is a memory.
Pain is a memory of your past.
Joy is a dream of your future.
Living in your dream, you see your dream,
Your joy.
Some say dreams come true.
For you, dreams are still far away.

Is it dealing with, or dreaming of, the dead?

ROMEO
I dream'd a dream to-night.

MERCUTIO
And so did I.

ROMEO
Well, what was yours?

MERCUTIO
That dreamers often lie.

ROMEO
In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.

MERCUTIO
O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you ... (William Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet)

I am talking of dreams. A series of dreams that I have experienced over a lifetime. Some recurring, others solitary visions that cannot be forgotten. Visits from those no longer with us, offering messages, hope, forgiveness. The most recent was two weeks ago, and it was a dream of one of the students who died in the horrific car accident at the end of June. I felt that I had no right to dream this, that others would benefit from my dream more than me, but it was I who saw the girl - felt her presence, saw her smile.

I have had many dreams; nightmares, night terrors, hallucinations, hauntings. In the clutches of a sickness induced fever I hallucinate. There were many times that my body became paralysed by fear as I felt the stalking presence that chased me endlessly throughout my childhood. 'Fever Dreams'. I dreaded the onset of illness, which was inevitable as I was constantly sick. It was then when I would experience the hell of Hades, and welcome the daylight that would chase the terror away.

MERCUTIO

True, I talk of dreams,
Which are the children of an idle brain,
Begot of nothing but vain fantasy ... (William Shakespeare. Romeo and Juliet)

Is that all it is? A child's lonely, feverish musings? Left without company in a hospital ward, crying herself to sleep? Or is it more? One will never know I guess, but I would like to think that it more. I am sure you're thinking that inviting the devouring beasts is madness, however without acknowledging the truth of their presence, one cannot accept that the others who visit are also true.

A childhood visit from an angel who sat on the end of my bed and comforted me when I was sad.

My mother, who promised to protect me, my sisters and brother for as long as we needed.

My family's childhood pet dog Beau, who forgave us our lack of knowledge about the nature of his illness.

My husband's grandfather who scared me in the hallway of our home.

My dearly loved pet dog Ickus, who continued to run tracks around the backyard.

And the girl, one I taught many years ago, who visited my classroom via my dreams and told me that she was safe.

You tell me - am I dreaming of, or dealing with, the dead?

Kreativ Blogger Award

A massive thank you to Laura Martone at Laura's Simple Pleasures for nominating me for the Kreativ Blogger Award. I am absolutely rapt. Laura and I 'met' through Nathan Bransford's blog, all thanks to one of his guest poster competitions. Laura has offered wonderful and supportive comments, so to have her compliment me in this way is fantastic.

As with all competitions, there are a few rules. Here they are for those playing along:

1. Thank the person who nominated you - Thanks a heap Laura!

2. Copy the logo and paste it on your blog.

3. Link to the person who nominated you for this award.

4. Name 7 things about yourself that people might find interesting.

5. Nominate 7 Kreativ Bloggers.

6. Post links to the blogs you've nominated.

7. Leave a comment on each of the blogs to let them know that they have been nominated.

Now for some oddball information about myself. Hmmmm what would you like to know ...

1. When I was born, my oesophagus was not joined to my stomach, so I had to have major surgery. As a result I have a massive scar that runs halfway across my back, under my arm and then proceeds half way across my chest.

2. I have a double jointed big right toe (weird huh?)

3. I have never broken a bone in my body, but I do have a small chunk out of my front tooth from when I fell over on concrete in grade 3.

4. I had my first (and only) car accident when pregnant due to the condition commonly known as 'Baby Brain'. Seriously I just drove into the back of someone for no good reason at all!

5. I was supposed to go to a new school for years 11 and 12, but didn't like it. In my typically assertive teenage way, I un-enrolled myself at the new school, re- enrolled at my old school and informed my dad that was how it was going to be.

6. I met my husband at a party when I was 16 and he was 18. My dad told me I had to break up with him as he would likely make me miss out on university. I informed him otherwise and had proved myself right by the end of the year.

7. When I was in grade prep, I sneaked out of class to go and read books in the library. I love ♥ books.

Here are the 7 bloggers that I follow. Sometimes I am more of a lurker than a poster, but I do like to read what these people have to say. Obviously, I also follow Laura's blog :)

1. Emily at Too Much Blush. Where I get inspired about all sorts of make up (even though I have no idea)

2. Lucia at Remember Orbeli. A wonderful assortment of fashion, magically sourced from op shops.

3. Big Frank Dickinson at What it is! Musings, meanderings, travels and poetry.

4. Victoria Dixon at Ron Empress. Knowledgeable information about writing and publication.

5. Eric at Pimp my Novel. A newish blog that came about as a result of Nathan Bransford's competition. Very interesting publishing information.

6. Elaine Smith at Still Writing. Follow her journey towards publication.

7. Robyn at The Beautifully Painted Tragedy. A very new blog, but the musings have caught my eye.

Thanks for reading my 'stuff' everyone. For those of you wanting the explanation - you'll just have to wait one more night.

The dichotomy of dealing with the dead.

The antipodes of that other world -
Oft times leave their respite
To touch, caress, preen, and clutch at those left behind.
To murmur, whisper, cajole -
A personal absolution, navigation, safe keeping,
Or to cast it awry.

They come.
Those true in the knowledge that they served some welcomed purpose.

See me. I am here. Watch me.
There I am - did you notice?
Listen. I have something to tell you.
I forgive you. I will protect you. I am with you - guiding you.
I am content. Here there is only love.
Heart. Beats. Rapidly; breathe.

A gift, a direct contradiction to the other, more egregious visitors,
Invisible harpies who seek out weakness; preying on a febrile mind.
They have no message.
Urgent, frenzied hunting through the tarnished night.
No apparent grudge, only a hubris filled desire to foment irrational fear.

Run.
Breathe.
Wade through the fog of time.
Fingertips reach forth and smooth the notches of your spine.
A rapacious grasp slips from your shoulder.
Run.
Hide.
Paralysis. Make your extremities work.

Chase, stalk, loom; gorging on illness.

They come.
A vitriolic scourge that mocks the barrier.

Listen: I am coming, a wheezed breath that does not belong.
Wait: I will graze your cheeks with my yearning.
Hide: I will find you, I can return.

To see one, you must accept seeing the other -
Feel each as unflinching limbs embrace your core,
Leaving and imprint of love - or one of maimed futility.
Cursed foreboding; tainted blessings
All found in sleep.

Breathe. You are safe. I will protect you. Breathe.

Game on!

I am still sick, and have just been sent home from work (eeek). I didn't think I was that bad, but now that I am home, I am grateful that I don't have to finish the day. I have quite a complex idea roaming free inside my head at the moment, and I'm trying to wrangle it into a poem. I do have the title, which is strange as I often work on the title later on. But I am sure this one is it!

Here is the game ... I am going to post the title, and I want you to try and guess what the poem is about. Post your answer as a comment, and we will see who is the closest. I'm looking forward to reading your answers, and I think the discussion will actually help those of you trying to decipher my writing ♥

What do you think , 'The dichotomy of dealing with the dead' will be about?

Celebration!

Today I logged on and found that I had accumulated 21 followers! I am rapt and would like to thank you all for following my ramblings. I appreciate all the comments that I have been getting, and find all of your feedback valuable.

I love that I have met some new people on line, and that I feel so wonderfully supported with my writing. Thanks heaps everyone.

I am totally exhausted today; too much work and not enough play, so will try to get back to you all tomorrow.

The life of a concubine

In the great palace, opposite the most amazing Taj Mahal, there is a courtyard, overlooked by a series of windows. At each window, there is room for one concubine. Can you imagine yourself there?

For me, the only consolation would be that this was in the Hindu section. The King, after all, had three wives (to ensure that he had the perspective of each of the three major religions), and concubines of each 'variety' as well. Surely he wouldn't have had enough time for me.

That's my modern 'feminist' spin on all things concubine, and all things 'trapped in a window overlooking the King's courtyard'.

For me, some of the things I see in the world are there so that I can be more grateful that ever to have been born when and where I was.

The grandfather and the child

'Creep with me,' she said - Little Miss Tippi-toe,
Her tender features yearning for the game to be played.
The little mouth dipped as she saw your shoulders hesitate.
'Please,' little blue eyes asked, and how could you now say no?
And crawl you did, beginning a simple game,
' I'm a cat - meow,' her face lighting up with joy.
It's a memory I would not give up for the world.

Why didn't she just cut off her hair in the first place?

I mean seriously, waiting up there to be rescued (by a man, of course); in reality waiting for anyone really. It's just not going to happen is it? Not in my world anyway. I quite liked the story of Rapunzel as a child. I adored the notion of being rescued from evil; no longer trapped in the towering prison. It just doesn't happen in real life. In fact, in real life, it's much worse, because sometimes you're purposefully left there to squander, and sometimes a whole lot of people help put you there in the first place! The subverting of the plot was my cheeky feminist touch. I loved that the Rapunzel character rescued herself by using her hair as a rope. What was the point of bringing the prince up to the tower? She needed to get out, and you can't climb down your hair if it's still attached to your head - so off it came. It suits me really. I loved that I could take a well known story, and change it to say something dramatic, something much more powerful than the original fairytale.

Warning: personal content following.

Ask yourself - how well do I really want to get to know 'Little Miss Wave'?

'Rapunzel' is a poem of anger. An 'in your face' to people who think that it is not their responsibility to do something for others. That every time you ignore a child, render them useless, you put up another block that separates them from the world they are supposed to dwell in.

'Rapunzel' is a story of survival. It is inspiration; acknowledging that it is possible to overcome adversity. 'Rapunzel' quite aptly describes my teenage years, a living hell I would not curse anyone with - made much, much worse by meddling, ignorant individuals who saw only what they wanted to see.

It is a redraft of a poem I wrote in 2003. In fact, it has quadrupled in size, but I am happy with it now. I also enjoyed 'helping' my hubby to photo shop a picture that I took of the Taj Mahal. Clearly I chopped out a few bits and pieces here and there, and changed the colour totally. Now it fits my poem ♥

The silent figures are a group of adults in my life, who allowed themselves to be misled, and assumed that I had nothing of importance to say. The 'insightful libertarian' is Lady Justice , the irony being that justice was so often not served by the adults in my life, who allowed the metaphoric blindfold to stop them from seeing my point of view. These people would seek guidance from each other, and congratulate themselves on being able to 'see' past the untruth that had filled my family's life. How wrong they were. Instead, they forced lies and cover up to become an integral part of life, something that scorned, and burned, and continued to demean everyday.

As a child, I waited for someone to help, my siblings waited for someone to help. There were a few people who were told of our plight, but many others who continued to perpetrate the myth. To make matters worse, other adults joined in the game, knowing that the old excuses would cover them too. In the end, most of the adults who had been told of our plight, decided not to act, or believed the untruths that they were told when they confronted the accused. And so began a cycle - the victim become the accused, and the tower grew taller.

There was always light though, from a small open 'window'. A window, that offered a glimpse into another world, a life that was possible. An inner voice telling me that I would survive, that it wouldn't last forever, and that I would get out eventually - I just had to do it for myself.

And so I did. I prepared, I planned, and one day I had enough. I just left. However, I left behind three others, three wonderful people who had helped me in the battle of survival, three wonderful people who have now all escaped their own minarets.

A lot of people say I am pessimistic. They don't know me at all. you can't live like that for twenty years and not have optimism coursing through your veins. Next time someone tells you something, actually decides that you are the one who can help, make sure you listen. It is important that children are not left to rescue themselves.

Thank you for reading my poetry, I understand that a lot of you wait for the explanation before you comment, and I appreciate that. Please feel free to leave your comments either here or on the actual poem. I welcome you comments, and look forward to the feedback.

Do you want a cool way to waste time and do something good?

How about donating rice for words?

What on earth do I mean?

Go to Free Rice and test your vocabulary knowledge. For every word you get correct, 10 grains of rice will be donated through the UN World Food Program to help end hunger. It's easy!

I wouldn't mind if the rice was just given anyway, but ... I am happy to do this too. Now I know 10 grains of rice isn't much, and to be honest the 430 grains that I've 'donated' today isn't much either, but it all adds up. There were over 15 millions grains off rice 'donated' yesterday - that is HEAPS.

It's a shame we need gimmicks, as it is so important to keep focus on how we can help the world in which we live. This is really just a grain in the silo. I suppose every grain helps though - right?

Rapunzel

Blocks of polished, black marble hauled by an endless procession of silent figures -

Who, guided by assumptions and rhetoric,

Mistook the blindfold as a gift from the insightful libertarian.

Wordlessly, they built the turret around the child.

The towering walls subtly adorned with a decoupage of lies,

That mirrored the litany of grievances chastising her intellect.

She watched, eagerly at first, as the figures began to recognise her presence -

Realising, too late, that they saw no reason to place a ladder within her reach.

The barren soil, cultivated by the disregard each stonemason had allowed to flourish,

Swallowed and gulped at her tears, leaving her soul weak.

Unbarred, the window taunted her with laconic persistence.

"Break free, break free," myriad incantations, worthless without the means.

Rapunzel waited, but none that she saw stopped.

They looked, and contemplated, but walked on -

Hoping that as a distance grew between their heels and the moral burden,

Responsibility would fade.

The air around grew silent as people ceased to pass by.

It was the window who continued to beckon -

A haunting dirge that mocked with an unyielding lucidity.

Over time, the masonry's edge grew jagged and notched.

An understanding burgeoned within and prompted swift movements -

Lest her courage should retreat and leave her truly lone.

She tore her braid, back and forth - across the lip of the fortress,

Separating her hair from the nape of her neck.

The loosened tendrils offered footholds to soil

That had grown salty and wretched under a torrent of anguish.

"Get out, flee, be gone," emancipation solicited with enthralling force.

It was only as she looked around, relishing her new found freedom,

That Rapunzel saw that she was not alone.

Forming a desolate quadrangle, in conjunction with her prison,

Were three other, identical minarets.

Can you write without the letter e?

It was a task that I asked my Year 12 class to complete today. They will be working on their one and only creative writing piece for the year, and I really wanted to push them into understanding the importance of description. It was a hard task, and they groaned and moaned when I asked them to begin.

They did, however, complete the task, and did quite well. I especially loved how one student, desperate to use the word enemies resorted to villainous shadows. It was more than I could have asked for, and was an apt example of the power of words. It was a marvelous way for the class to see the power of language - as they realised that enemy did not do justice to the concept that he was trying to put across. They reflected that the image of villainous shadows was significantly more menacing and evoked much stronger negative emotions; that his original choice (enemy) seemed weak in comparison.

Just to see if I could also do the task that I had set, I wrote one sentence describing a shipwrecked vessel. Here it is:

A rusty hull lay jutting with diabolical abandon.

It's a lot harder than it sounds, writing without the letter e; I'm glad to have it back in my life ♥

I would love to see your attempts at writing without the letter e :)

PS - Rapunzel poem coming soon. It's in the final editing phase.

Now where did that idea come from?

On my many travels through cyber space, I came across a very interesting point. It is here that I must apologise to the person whose blog I read, because I'm not able to find it now, so can't link to it.

I haven't done anything untoward, so please don't let your imaginations run riot and assume (you know what 'they' say about making assumptions ...) that I have been engaging in that awful crime plagiarism - 'cos I haven't. To cut a tedium length story into a really short one, the blogger in question discussed how she was really fascinated by the idea that all women were born with, in fact grew in the womb with, all of the ovum that they would ever use during their lifetime. With this in mind, a woman, pregnant with a daughter, can essentially hold many generations within her womb at one time. She likened this idea to the Russian Nesting Dolls (Matryoshka Dolls - Thanks Big Frank). I will have to go on a bit of a hunt, but it is only fair to link to her blog, so I will do that as soon as I can find it.

I loved this thought, and it seemed so fitting as I had a daughter. I loved that I had held so much inside my womb for that time. I loved that my mother would have also held Emily, in that when she ( my mother - not the cat's) was pregnant with me, my little foetal body already had inside it the egg that would grow to be Emily. It was such a wonderful idea. I was really glad to have something nice to write about, and saw it as an opportunity to thank my mother. 'They' ( 'They' really do come up with a lot of sayings), say that after you have had a child you thank your own mother, because you finally have an understanding of what it was that she went through.

If my poem was going to be a thank you, I also needed to thank someone else, My Aunty Linda, who took me and my siblings in - on and off, together and separately over a period of 5 years, after our mother's death. No-one else did that, and just after Emily was born, it was my Aunty Linda who I wanted to thank. At 32 she had four children of her own, one of whom was only 12 months old, and it was she who took in four motherless souls. I was always grateful for what she did, but did not understand the magnitude of her act until I had Emily. This poem is dedicated to her. I hope my cousins don't mind that I feel that I have something to thank her for, and to be honest I should thank them too, for sharing their mum with us.

My sister, Mon, went to Russia last year, and bought Emily and I set a set of the dolls each. This was another lovely little link to the poem, and you can see the dolls in the photo attached to the original post. I love them, hence the linking of the colour red to the character in the poem.

The poem is essentially about me, even though I have siblings, it is my personal tribute. I am the little red doll. My Aunty Linda is the blue doll. The colours represent a genetic link, and Aunty Linda was not linked by blood, but by marriage. To me that made what she did all the more important. The third line relates to the idea expressed in the other blog. The idea of a woman, pregnant with a daughter, essentially nurturing her lineage in the cocooned safety of her womb. The fifth line links in the scientific knowledge of mitochondrial DNA, which is passed down through females only. That is, each of us has the mitochondrial DNA of our mother. If we are a female, we pass this DNA on to our own children. If we are a male, our offspring have the mitochondrial DNA of our partner. Yet another link to the Matryoshka theme, and runs smoothly into the next line which discusses the strength of the mitochondrial bond, as opposed to the surnames people have (more often than not passed down from a child's father). It is interesting to note, that when looking for familial ties, scientists and archaeologists look for mitochondrial DNA, which is a better way to determine decent and much more accurate than tracking genealogy through names. I particularly liked the irony of this, living in a society that sees men as the stronger of the two sexes, yet it is the DNA passed on from females to her offspring that is the most enduring. It is this genetic link that I see as a pledge. A pledge to look after the offspring of those in your family, should the children's mother be unable to do so any more.

The second stanza brings in the idea of thanking your mother after you have given birth to your own child. The first line asks the red doll character (me) who I would thank now that I can see a child of my own. The dilemma is that I had lost my own mother, so looked to thank someone who had offered something of value to me. That person being my Aunty Linda.

I hope that you enjoyed the poem, and that the explanation wasn't too long winded. I would love to hear your feedback, so feel free to comment. ♥

Russian Dolls

Little red Russian doll,
Temporarily housed within a blue.
A lineage of women; generation upon generation.
Tenderly nestled; reciprocal shelter within a maternal cocoon.
A sorority reliant on mitochondrial ties,
Bequeathing sanctuary to myriad daughters.
An invisible pledge stronger than the paternal names adorning each.

Who will you thank, little red doll?
Now that you can see you own?
The one you would like to acknowledge is lost.
Yet the hand of another was extended.
It was she who took up the oath that others forsook.
It was because of her that you did not break,
Inexplicably protecting daughters not yet borne.
And for that you must be eternally grateful.

Some questions for you ...

Firstly, a disclaimer. I wrote this post for a blog competition, but it wasn't chosen, so I am using it here. No point letting it go to waste, and I am quite interested in what you all have to say about the ramblings.

The Russian Dolls poem is still coming. It's been a tough week, as you can imagine, but I've been working through a fair bit of stuff, so it's been good in that respect.

Here is the 'actual' post.

Why do you write? I mean really. Is it just to become famous, to purge your soul, or is it for yourself? The answer so many people give is that writing is for their benefit only. However, they are secretly hoping that fame and fortune will come, that someone will realise who it is writing away in that little room down the back of the house, extend out a hand and an invitation to the top of the pile.

Why don't you get published? Excuses, excuses, excuses, excuses. A myriad really. I can't find an agent, I'm too tired, I've probably written a load of rubbish anyway. They're not excuses. They are a set of golden mantras to live by, and live by them is what so many do. There are hundreds of unknown writers, of which I am one. What can I do to make myself stand out from the crowd? How can I write 'the one'?

Uuh. Too hard. Too scary; and so the mantra starts up again, filling the void that should be recognition.

The hardest question of all ... What right do you have to keep it to yourself? A new train of thought, a new direction to take. What right indeed?!?!?!?! It's my writing and I'll hide it if I want to.

Why do you write? Let's get serious now. To answer that question truthfully, without rhetoric or fabrication, you really need to answer the question - why is it that you read?

I read to experience life. I get a tickle of delight when I come across a wonderfully profound way of expressing an emotion or image. I read to expand who I am; to be challenged with new thoughts and ways of living. I read to delve into the psyche of another human; to break through the cryptic messages that are contained within the string of words placed delicately across each page. I read to see the world in a different way; to take a step back and reflect on what has been said by another, and marvel in how effectively things have been given a life of their own. I read to find out who I am, to push myself into being Gandhi's 'change in the world that I would like to see'.

What sort of world would we live in without Dickens, Bronte, Shakespeare, Rowling? What sort of person would you have been without the printed word? That is why it is selfish to write and to keep it hidden away.

This is why I write, because something I say might just make a difference to someone's life.

After all, isn't that what we are here for?

Rest in Peace

It has been a terrible couple of days, and I am still reeling. Joel Brimble, Riyani Lowen and Anja Miler all students from my school, died at 1.30am Sunday morning an an absolutely horrific car accident.

Rest in peace wonderful children.

Joel's death has affected me quite a lot as I taught him in 2005, when he was in year 10. I had him for ten hours a week. The school's way of ensuring that relationships were built. Today I wish that hadn't happened. I have wonderful memories of Joel, he pushed and pushed and pushed, trying to convince me that he was 'dumb' and couldn't do things. So I pushed right back. He wrote essays he never thought he could. He dressed up and laughed while studying Shakespeare. He told me of the dreams he had about becoming a fitness instructor (did that happen?- I don't know). He told me that he had to babysit his two younger sisters, the youngest of whom was 3 at the time and drove him nuts like all three year olds do. He spoke of his girl friend and about how he and his friend Terence would go out together with the girls. He was excited about life, and I know he grew up to be a wonderful person. He would get passionately angry, and wonderfully animated. He was intelligent and insightful. He was absurdly naive about so many things. I remember clearly the day he reached out to touch a pendant I often wore around my neck, He just wanted to touch it, he thought it was beautiful. He was so surprised when I jumped back a mile as I thought he was reaching for my chest. We laughed about it then, and his friends teased him. Every time I wear that pendant I think of the time I was freaked out by him, and I know that now that he is dead, I will remember him even more.

Children should not die. 19 year olds should not die. 15 and 16 year old girls should not die.

I wish I wasn't so hurt by my past so that I could cry.

I can only hope that the part I played in his life was positive.

Rest in peace Joel, Riyani and Anja

The end is nigh ...

The end to an utterly exhausting term is nearly here. I am quite excited, mostly due to the fact that I will be able to spend some time with the wonderful Emily, but I also have big writing plans.

I am drafting my next poem, inspired by something I read online about Russian Dolls. I look forward to sharing it with you all.

Who am I responsible for?

Fallacy is my long winded answer.

There is a lot in this one, so I will explain. The first step was realising that the responsibility that I felt, was, in essence a fallacy. I should not have felt it. It was an untruth that I had been told; I was now responsible for others. An untruth that I was not able to see for the lie that it was, as I was eleven years old at the time.

As I grew, I began to see the untruth that lay in the notion of responsibility. However, it still had an impact on my life, as would any lie told to a child during the formative years. It is too late to go back and live a different life, but it is time to heal. Come with me as I explain the lie that I was told.

With little thought for children, the children, a child, me - many adults, touting words of wisdom, stepped in soon after my mother's death. They stepped in to help our father, my father. They did not step in to help us. It was he who now needed help. It was he who was now burdened with four children. It was he who had lost a lover, wife, partner. It was up to his offspring, whom he didn't really know at all, to ensure that this burden did not become too great.

How is it that children can be asked this? It is a random thought, thrown out into the world. Out of sight, out of mind.

"Your mother is dead; it is your responsibility to take on her role."

Words. Abstract, tainted words. Repeated over and over again.

And so I did.

The words, the role itself - silenced freedom, silenced play, silenced childhood fantasies inspired by Enid Blyton and the Magic Faraway Tree.

What would you have done in my situation? Would you have refused? Does an eleven year old have the option to refuse?

There is no choice. The only option is acceptance, and what an unbelievable burden that is.

It was a betrayal, an expected role for the eldest daughter to take. Willingly accepted by my father, but given to me by adult females who should have known better.

What right did they have to cripple a family so? What right did they have to perpetuate the archaic principles of care; that only a woman is able to do a job like that so well.

It was a tainted gift. One that I was expected to nurture, and, when the time seemed right, pass down to the next in line. How opportune that the stately position of the Monarch can be passed from Father to Son, but the lowly considered nurturing role from female to female! To think that the Suffragettes worked so hard for equality, for the vote; the irony being that it is women who work so hard to undo.

I especially like the image, 'Gilt-edged maternal instinct'. Firstly, for the fallacy that it turned out to be. Trussed up as something wonderful. Yet, like a sword, it had the ability to cut a life in two. I was particularly excited to find that the word 'gilt' also refers to a female pig who has not borne a litter. Quite an apt little pun, and I enjoyed the phrase all the more because of that.

So ... who am I responsible for? It has taken a long time for me to learn that I am only responsible for me.

Thanks for reading, please feel free to comment on the poetry (it might be a little easier now that it is less cryptic).

Fallacy

Accursed obligation cast forth on a whim.
The silencer of long-forgotten childhood dreams.
Acceptance, tainted with guilt and confusion.

If the only choice is the road less travelled, which road would you take?

Archaic burden, betrayal of suffrage,
offered at the junction of independence.
It is for you to take, safe-keep, pass on.
Your milestone; your right of passage.
A diamond heirloom that cuts through
and leaves sinewy scars.
Hidden from prying eyes,
an invisible yoke around your neck.
A legacy of words, disproportionate
to the stature of the child.

Gilt-edged maternal instinct, worn as
a heavy cloak that did little to alleviate the chill of shame.
Accepted reluctantly, despite recognising it for the ghoul it was.

An expensive price to pay for love?
Ask yourself - who is responsible for this?

What were they - those precious last words?

Ironically, to have endured and lived through pain and suffering is a welcome thing. It is a test of mettle, and it takes great strength to move on; to look for what can be taken and treasured from each experience. I would not wish it upon anyone.

A goodbye of sorts, though that will never be. I look for her presence in every nook and cranny of my life, I wonder what she would have done, and if she too, would have thought my child a precious gift.

There I was, a child. Leaning over my mother's bedside. It was four days until her death, but no-one was to know that at the time. I whispered in her ear.

'I love you Mum.'

'I love you too.'

These were her last words to me. The lasting words ...

It is a test of mettle.

Goodbye

Once joined by cord
Mother to child
Just as the body is to the soul
heartbeats were one.

With the mind's eye closed
I travel on
Ignore the abyss
chose to be lone; lonely.

Insignificance in time
Brought forward with words
Lasting words
The last words.

I am grateful ...

I live in a wonderful, glorious and magically beautiful country. I am grateful to have lived a life here and not there.

We sometimes forget these little things, and then somethings happens that wrenches us from our foundations; reminds us that we are not as stable as we first thought.

I am grateful that I can reflect and grow - learn from other people's mistakes as well as my own. I have a unique opportunity to influence and inspire, to open up a world of new horizons to the array of people I see everyday.

I am grateful for friends, who did not misinterpret the wave, who saw it for what it was and threw out the buoy, reeled me in; allowed to me to feel safe enough to take the next tentative step.

I am grateful that I can look back and ask, 'who am I responsible for?' As opposed to others asking, 'who is responsible for this?'

That is my homework, to find the answer. As soon as I've worked it out I will share with you all.

Thanks, once again, for your invaluable support.

Nature called

And so, we have the elements; fire, wind, earth, water.

A wonderful trip to the beach with my equally wonderful little girl. I really wanted to catch the essence of the day, and to be honest I don't think I quite hit it. The day was made up of so much - so much that I really don't think I managed to get into the poem at all. I am glad that at least two of you liked it, as it was a bit of a struggle to put together.

I think that the struggle may have been caused by my desire to write in Haiku form. If you note it really is a series of Haiku. Four in a row, three lines; five, seven, five, syllable sets with a change in tact or punctuation device in the second or third line. Check - yep it's all there, but I am not. It's not really me. I like my usual free falling prose ramblings, so will stick to that for a while.

I do have a 'little' assignment that has been set, and as soon as it's done I will share.

Thanks for reading.

Elements

A gentle breeze sails
across the dunes; rippling grass
flickers in its hold.

Subtle, foaming edge
prompts the slate grey tide's advance;
erosion beckons.

Watered horizon
reflects a tremulous gold -
subdued, bronzing light.

Salt crusted expanse
punctuated with flotsam,
discarded crab shell.

Why is it we feel bitterness?

Anger, frustration, hurt. A desire for someone else to feel the same; but it is internal, insipid and eventually hurtful to yourself. Yet we, (humans that is) continue on, hoping that someone else will feel this pain. That they can look into a mirror and have the pain that they cast out, reflected back at them.

In reality, it is this hope, this desire, that is cast back on the hopeful. This bitterness that burns with acidic force, and damages those who can least afford it.

Bitterness

Let it rain.
Bombard me with your tears.
Let your eyes weep with never ending sorrow.
Fill the room with your woe
As I have done, many times before.
Let your eyes speak for you
As always.
But remember, you can not be understood.

I'm making a difference

I received a really uplifting email on Friday. It was from a student I taught last year and she is now following in my footsteps and becoming an English teacher.

I became a teacher because of my English teacher in year 10. She was amazing (thanks Ms. Bosnic), and now the cycle continues. I feel privileged beyond belief to have been able to be a part of these people's lives and to show them something that they thought was worthwhile.

It's fantastic!

Who is Pandora's Box?

My beautiful mother died on June the 8th, 1986. I was 11 years old.

This poem describes the scene where my siblings and I were told of her death. The emotions are interspersed with the thoughts I had at the time. I found this quite a powerful way of writing as I could describe the scene, and allow you insight into the sequencing of thoughts that had occurred.

I have chosen to personify death, yet use an inanimate object to describe my mother. This was mainly due to the connotations associated with the story of Pandora's Box. The pain of losing someone so wonderful is intense, and the description only just begins to illustrate the feeling.

Lastly, it is a lesson. On the impact that adults can have on children. We were left to support ourselves and left to whisper words of comfort to each other in the night. An incredible burden was placed upon us, and it is only beginning to lift.

Thank you for allowing me to share this burden with you. Please feel free to post comments about any of my poetry :)

Pandora's Box

The children watched as the mis-shapen fingers ambled forth and prised open the lid.
Like stagnant, noxious air, the words filled their lungs,
grew hooks and barbed themselves in their throats.

Swallow, breathe, forget.

Insidious curse preyed upon the quartet.
Moving effortlessly between their faces,
anointing each with shame.

Were you alone?
Did you fear?

Dark wraith suckled at the rivers flowing from each child's heart,
grew strong and crawled into the opening;
extinguishing what remained within.

I did not know you.
I cannot smell you.
I long to hear you.

Cast aside, the children left.
And so began their life.

We all have them, but some are darker than others ...

Secrets that is.

Is it a betrayal of yourself to reveal what is deep inside you? Those incessant whispers, prompting you to share with someone else can so often turn on you, and the world we live in doesn't look so kindly on the little things best kept hidden.

Or is it that to keep those secrets buried allows them to betray you, as they morph into something totally unknown and unwelcome deep inside your very soul? And those whispers are you, trying to break free from a vice like hold?

What do you do with someone else's secret? So often we relish in this new found knowledge, not thinking of the pain we are causing the original owner with our joy. How much of a traitor have you been?

Little wisps of information, barely visible, let alone audible, but so powerful; deadly. Is that because we let them be so? Or because we want them to be so?

Points to ponder as you deal with other people's lives, consider your own, open your mouth and then close it. It is the betrayal that we all fear, and it is that which keeps our secrets mute.

Secrets

There in the darkness
Waiting to be revealed
Hiding behind laughter
Sinister with pain
Mute through time
Now speaks uneasily
Destroys with its power
'Tell me', whispers urge
Fleeting strands
Too difficult to grasp
Begin the betrayal

Live it - own it

Today, thankfully, is Friday. I am utterly exhausted from the week, and yet it all continues over the weekend. But I have learned a few lessons this week; that is, with reflection. I am working through Hannie Rayson's 'Hotel Sorrento' with my class, and despite the fact that I have read it four times now, I am only just seeing some links to myself. One of her characters MARGE, asks whether truth was more important than loyalty. And that is an important question. In reality, being loyal to someone else, often means hiding the truth and therefore, being disloyal to yourself. Sometimes in order to move on, to reconcile life, emotion and the past, one has to acknowledge it, 'own it'. So this is a beginning; I will own it all, and while some may see it as giving credence to those who made me feel this way, I see it as giving credence to myself. In acknowledging my life, I am affirming who I am. To use another, oft used cliche, 'the truth shall set you free'.

Insomnia, what does it mean? It is both literal and a nice little allegory for many, many childhood years. It is the lack of sleep I contend with each and every night, it is the memory of my childhood, often played out at night. It is the fear, the crashing, the banging, the cowering, the crying, the pain, the sorrow, the hell of the night. It is the relief of the quiet, unassuming dawn. It is my life, and I own it.

Insomnia

Nocturnal silence hunting the dawn,
pacing through the night;
waiting for sleep's intermission.

A fear evoking summons severs the fitful slumber.
The indistinct sermon does little to placate.

An inevitable sequel to the metred voice
are the caustic endearments,
and the crevasse cut with familial shards.

And the child waits, treading lightly-
seeking the tranquility of daylight.
A welcome paradox, despite the fatigue.

It's the little things you don't think of ...

No poem tonight, sorry guys. I will have one for you tomorrow. I have it now, if the truth were to be told, but I think it's important to address something that happened today. I have Lorraine to thank for this, some lovely feedback on my writing and she really made me realise what other people can take from each of my poems.

In saying that, Lorraine also made me see something else too, a message that I can also benefit from, so I am going to share it with you. For me the poem 'Momentos', is a little bit like an angry catharsis; a message to the person who did this to me. It is so often these negative memories that we carry around, allow to haunt and plague us, so much so that we are crippled. What of the good memories? They are pushed away, not allowed to have as much of an impact, and what an impact they could have if we only let them. This is what Lorraine saw - this is what she told me. She sees this poem as a reminder to focus on the good, and allow these memories to have the same power we give to the bad. It's also a reminder to us all to ensure that the momentos we give to others are good, as so often we can offer the negative ones without thought, and it's these ones that can be the most damaging.

Thanks for all your feedback, please feel free to post it as a comment on the blog, so that everyone can see :)

More than memories

So what is a momento? Something you can hold onto, something to remember an event by or someone with. When you hold the item, close and dear to your heart, you can remember the joy you felt.

I found it interesting to invert the nature of the word, and describe something totally different; something not nice at all. Each of the items described in the poem is a memory, but it is more tangible than that, they are diary entries allowing anyone who reads to relive the time.

For those who lived through this, with this, it is something more. It is the scars left on your psyche. Scars that itch and burn and never heal. Scars that remain and remind you of the torment. These are the momentos that some offer to their children, that husbands offer to their wives, that wives offer to their husbands. These are the momentos that were offered to me for years at a time, and I work very hard to forget.

Momentos

Your repeated scorn broadcast in an impromptu commentary.
Demoralising laments inciting grief; but never for you.
A mirrror of words that revealled the abhorrent.
My tears, deplorable in your eyes eventually dried; ceased to flow.
Your verbose nature, imbued with Hyde's judgement,
was ignored by those who could.
Frenzied strikes enforcing a despotic authority, were offered
like rocks to be carried in my pockets for a lifetime.

Forget, forget, forget; and yet they are there.

It is for you ...

(Little cups of Marigold flowers and a simple flame, offered with a prayer on the Ganges)

I am the child was written for my daughter. She is the light of my life, and I am priveliged to have her.

Each stanza represents something that means something to me in our relationship, or something special about her. The last stanza, in particular, tells the story of how she came to be.

When I initially drafted the poem I was trying to describe what she was like and link the qualities to the earth in which we belong. It just didn't work. I then realised that with children, they just are. They are so in tune with the world; not yet influenced by negativity and turmoil that they live as a part of the world, as opposed to alongside it.

The four words in the second line of the first stanza are qualities that she displays every day. I felt that when I thought about these qualities I could imagine a delicate dew drop, dripping, and determined to make an impact on the earth. Children are definitely unwavering in their desire to take on the world.

The next stanza describes the love that that we have for each other, that is shared and communicated through touch. Sometimes, she just warms my heart as she reaches out and strokes my face.

As she breathes, she brings me peace and happiness. Something I have sought for so long. Each breath that she takes, makes me grateful for my own, and gives me hope that the future will be worthwhile.

She dances like nobody is watching, she laughs like she will never have a care in the world. She trusts me implicitly to love and protect her. I can imagine a snowflake would be like this in a gentle breeze.

She calls out without shame. She observes and asks about details that we, as adults, often miss. Her passion for life is like an untamed storm, and I can only hope that quality remains with her forever.

I was so worried I would never meet her. I walked around the Nandi Bull and prayed on the glorious river Ganges. I set forth a lit candle, hoping against all hope that the river would deliver a miracle. One month after my return, she entered my life. That river is a part of her story.

I am the child

I am the dew drop falling from the leaf;
rhythmical, steady, demanding, determined.
Unwavering trickles streaming through the earth.

I am the delicate fingers of the sun;
reaching out, longing to touch,
entangling themselves in your heart.

I am the wind; breathing in, out.
Healing, eliciting hope.
Aloft and tended are the dreams of man.

I am the crisp snowflake;
drifting without concern,
waiting to be held by you.

I am the thunder;
echoing, rejoicing in the world.
An unfurled tempest throughout eternity.

I am the river;
illuminated soulful, miraculous.
Courageously forging a path through the rock.

To be consumed

This poem has been sitting in my little draft book for a while. I have reworked it and given it a title. I could never name it before, as I was worried that the name might betray the person who made me feel this way.

Loneliness is a hacking, domineering emotion, and especially sad when you really shouldn't be alone at all. It eats me up, like the disease consumption, and isn't easily overcome.

I feel that the last line is the strongest, and that the whole poem builds to this moment. The silence of loneliness isn't that quiet at all. It allows your own brain to go into overdrive, and it's all of the terror, sadness and longing that is felt that can get too loud.

Let me know what you think

:)

Consumption

Come and get me
I plead,
I am over here;
lonely.

Please hear me
I repeat.
Your inundating deafness
ravages me.

It is enveloping,
indomitable,
too loud.

Origins of 'The Dead Sea'

This poem is a recent one. I thought that I may as well start here. A few people see the title and instantly read too much into it. I guess some poeple are not sure how to deal with the word 'dead', especially in the title of the poem. However, the poem is not describing death, or dying (or being dead, if we really have to go there). Ironically, it is very much describing being alive. Drudgingly alive. It's the other stuff that's dead, and that's the sad part about it. Emotion, dreams, secrets. Trapped in a life that really isn't what you wanted it to be and feeling down right sorry for yourself that you got caught up in it.

I am particularly proud of the vulture imagery, I really felt that I hit the nail on the head with that one. Depression: a predatory, stalking emotion, that pecks away at your soul.


I have posted this poem first, as it was in writing this that I realised I needed to go back to my original goals. To remember what I wanted out of life in the first place, and take steps in achieving them.

Like I said in my profile, I am particularly interested in feedback, so feel free to comment. If you like what you read here, become a follower, and invite your friends.

:)

The Dead Sea

Ebbing water traces a path to my throat.
Rests, taunts, beckons fear.
Hands rise up, gnarled tree roots clawing at my face.
I am silently overwhelmed.

Merciless current renders me paralysed; stifled.
Caught on on the bough that could not weather the storm.

Sorrow assails with a vulture's precision;
Relentless pecking from the inside,

My dreams are forsaken, rippling echoes; a mishap of time.

The water's reflection beguiles those not yet trapped.

I linger with a futile longing.