Tuesday Poem

It's been a day of minor computer frustrations, culminating apparently, with this blog which doesn't want to accept a poem of Robert Louis Stevenson talking about winter. That may be due to the real temperature outside, which has hit 40 degrees celsius once again this summer. Thinking poems about snow might be antidotes to the heat, I did some research and was all prepared with a wintery Stevenson poem when everything failed me.

So, instead, I bring you three summer haiku:

Mid-life sports car

his bald spot

burns.

One goth at the bus stop

mascara weeping –

heat wave.

At the outdoor cinema

mosquito slaps

punctuate  dialogue.

When you've poured yourself a tall glass of something cool, head over to the Tuesday poem blog where you can read 'Eastbourne' by Helen Jacobs, full of lovely cool imagery. This week's Tuesday Poem has been guest edited by Mary McCallum. 

From the hub, check out poems from other Tuesday poem bloggers.  Come back here next week when I'm featuring a guest poet, Dennis Woodley.

It's bISummer fading, winter comes— Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs Window robins, winter rooks, And the picture story-books. Water now is turned to stone Nurse and I can walk upon; Still we find the flowing brooks In the picture story-books. All the pretty things put by, Wait upon the children's eye, Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks, In the picture story-books. We may see how all things are, Seas and cities, near and far, And the flying fairies' looks, In the pictyure story-books. How am I to sing your praise, Happy chimney-corner days, Sitting safe in nursery nooks, Reading picture story-books? - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21243#sthash.DGBFcuW9.dpuf

Picture-books in Winter

  by Robert Louis Stevenson

Summer fading, winter comes—   
Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs   
Window robins, winter rooks,   
And the picture story-books.   
   
Water now is turned to stone
Nurse and I can walk upon;   
Still we find the flowing brooks   
In the picture story-books.   
   
All the pretty things put by,   
Wait upon the children's eye,
Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks,   
In the picture story-books.   
   
We may see how all things are,   
Seas and cities, near and far,   
And the flying fairies' looks,
In the pictyure story-books.   
   
How am I to sing your praise,   
Happy chimney-corner days,   
Sitting safe in nursery nooks,   
Reading picture story-books?

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21243#sthash.RBnaCrFX.dpuf

Picture-books in Winter

  by Robert Louis Stevenson

Summer fading, winter comes—   
Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs   
Window robins, winter rooks,   
And the picture story-books.   
   
Water now is turned to stone
Nurse and I can walk upon;   
Still we find the flowing brooks   
In the picture story-books.   
   
All the pretty things put by,   
Wait upon the children's eye,
Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks,   
In the picture story-books.   
   
We may see how all things are,   
Seas and cities, near and far,   
And the flying fairies' looks,
In the pictyure story-books.   
   
How am I to sing your praise,   
Happy chimney-corner days,   
Sitting safe in nursery nooks,   
Reading picture story-books?

- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21243#sthash.RBnaCrFX.dpuf

Tuesday Poem

All Our Seasons

At the kitchen table I made paper dolls

extravagantly dressed, cotton wool fur edging

their green crepe skating dresses –

ice waltzes in a landscape so far from the mango tree -

my ship’s lookout – and the couch grass

of our backyard. A fragile succession of Charlottes

and Beths danced through winter seasons and on

to summer, water-colour stained empire frocks,

all out of historical whack,

until I packed them up for the colonies,

quoits and romance on the deck

of the sixties laminex, and at the other end,

the tea, the buttered white bread.

There are four cloth doll heads

smiling in a bowl at the flea market.

I touch each in turn, buy velvet ribbon,

a powder compact,

gilt slightly rubbed,

and some silky stuff that once

I’d have plaited and twisted into a knot

for Charlotte’s coming out.

Hey, queen of the kitchen kingdom

in your summer palace

waltz with me – 
your lead.

I never left you behind

we are always the same story

all our fragile seasons.

Catherine Bateson, 2013.

Check out the Tuesday Poem at the Tuesday Poem hub - this week, guest edited by me! It's a poem by award-winning Australian poet, Jill Jones. It's a powerful poem and I admire the way it skirts narrative, something I find trouble doing, clearly. I was going to offer a handmade haiku lino-print card  all the way from Paris to the first person who commented on both this blog and the Tuesday Poem blog - who knows I still might.

The Tuesday Poem - on Wednesday - we're on the road!

Crow
becomes O for omen
Highway 39 eyespy

by Catherine Bateson

Forest Ginko with Lysenko

Yesterday I went on a forest ginko. It was my first ginko with Myron Lysenko - I'd been trying to get to one and failing either through illness, busyness or clashing commitments, but yesterday's was around our part of the world so I knew I had to go.

It was fabulous! A group of us met at Earthly Pleasures - where we wrote haiku and Myron critted them and told us the rules for this particular ginko as well as some useful reminders about what haiku were about. Then we headed up to Grant's picnic ground where we all took it in turns to read summer haiku from The British Museum Haiku. After these rather awe-inspiring examples we ventured into the forest to write.

On one path I was on, a small wren started calling from one of the tree ferns. I love wrens and always look for them. So I was particularly delighted that this one was so close to where I was sitting.

Then, a couple with a squeaky stroller wandered past and the wren stopped instantly.

I'm posting all the revisions of this haiku to demonstrate both the writing process and the editing process - it's amazing the revisions one tiny poem went through!

1.

couple wheeling a stroller -
squeaky toy
the wren is silent

I edited this myself to:
2.

couple wheeling a stroller -
in the ferns
the wren is silent

By the time we sat down at Grant's cafe this had become:
3.

A couple wheel a stroller
along the fern path -
the wren is silent

After Myron questioning me about the experience that had lead to the haiku I suggested:
4.

a couple wheel a stroller
along the fern path -
the wren falls silent

I had a sense that Myron thought falls was a little too poetic for a haiku, but I didn't mind it. However he did point out that there was a lot happening in the one haiku.

There were some further questions - not by Myron but other members of the ginko and I came up with
5.

A couple wheel a stroller -
the wren stops calling.

which became:

6.

the wren stops calling -
a couple wheels a stroller

But I didn't really want to lose the ferns so the seventh draft read:
7.

the wren stops calling -
a couple wheel a stroller
through the ferns

Finally someone said something like, 'I don't get what actually happened.' and I said, 'Well there was this couple wheeling squeaky stroller along the path and this little wren stopped calling.'

Myron said, 'Why don't you just write that?'

Final version: (and eighth draft!)
the wren stops calling -
a stroller squeaks
through the ferns

It was a great afternoon - good company, generous workshopping, and the afternoon was both inspiring and productive.