Almanac Poetry: Poets’ Lunch Reviewed

 

 

What a brilliant day our Poets’ Lunch turned out to be last Friday!

 

Congratulations, and a huge thank you to the participating poets; Damian Balassone, Robyn Black, Haiku Bob (Rob Scott), and Michael Pardy for enabling the cracking success the lunch and readings turned out to be. Unfortunately, two of our advertised poets, Kevin Densley and James Walton were unable to make the event due to unforeseen circumstances. We look forward to hearing both their voices and poetry at a future event.

 

Helen Fithall, Campbell Bairstow, and Meryl Ritchie

 

The room buzzed with an energy forged by the talent and creativity as each poet presented their work. Their words, whether many or few; in forms common and diverse were utilised to great effect. The words expressed so wondrously drew the listener into that realm of magically creating sensory images in one’s mind of the perceived work.  The readings so brilliantly instilled the spirit of poetic fellowship and brought the room together in a strong sense of camaraderie.

 

 

We laughed out loud with Michael as he performed his ‘aviator’ poem, we shed a quiet tear or two as Robyn read her heartfelt and poignant poem about a mother she never knew, we nodded and smiled along with Damian as we remembered first loves at school, and Haiku Bob mesmerised us with his brevity of words expressing so much with so few words. Hearing the poems via the poet’s own voice added an extra dimension to the presentation of the individual poems.

 

The passion and the authoritative convictions conveyed by each poet was palpable  and clearly reflected their confidence and ability to successfully communicate the context of their poetry.

 

Michael Pardy, Paul Noonan, Robyn Black, Jen Worthington, and Haiku Bob (Rob Scott)

 

We enjoyed learning about the individual influences, the various techniques and processes employed  by the poets to evolve their thoughts and imagination into the works they so creatively crafted and constructed.

 

Andrew and Helen Fithall

 

At the end of the session some of the attendees shared poems of their own with the audience to raptous delight. These will be published on site in the near future.

 

Thank you poets and all in attendance for your participation in our very first Poets’ Lunch, it was a fantastic day – we must do it again!

 

 

Here are a selection of poems read on the day

 

 

 

Damian Balassone

 

When the School Bell Chimed

When the school bell chimed and the shifting sky

was dimmed by brooding clouds,

I hastily timed a brilliant lie

and escaped the schoolyard crowd.

 

Through the woodlands like a maverick mare,

I crashed past autumn leaves.

Dark turned to light when I saw her there,

when I found Jacindavieve.

 

Her green eyes danced like butterflies,

her hair swayed to and fro.

I stood entranced, transfigured by

her alabaster glow,

 

her elegant Arabian nose,

her skin so rich and rare,

her cheeks that glimpsed a red, red rose,

her loom of jet-black hair.

 

While schoolboys puffed cheap cigarettes,

we fled to sparkling streams,

and soon enough our silhouettes

were locked in a synchronised dream.

 

In the black of night, she walked me home,

hand in hand on midwinter’s eve.

Her face, like a light, lit the path we roamed,

the face of Jacindavieve.

 

 

The Lighthouse

When night has fallen from the sky

I light the dark with loving eye.

I stand above the angry sea,

above the gulls that circle me.

 

I stand above the angry sea,

yet sailors cannot fathom me;

ignoring my rotating light.

I shine on them from lonely heights.

 

Ignoring my rotating light,

they drown themselves beneath the night,

but still I long to set them free;

if they can fix their eyes on me.

 

I stand above the angry sea,

a thousand miles from Kilmore quay,

and though the world just passes by,

I light the night with loving eye.

 

Blind Boy Dreaming

From the humble Murrumbeena,

past the ever-flowing Yarra,

through parades of autumn Moomba,

            he aspired to golden sands.

Rode the waves of Gunnamatta,

dreamt of golden Coolangatta,

wooed the girls of Wangaratta,

            in this Anglo-Saxon land.

 

Left his darling in Yallambie,

watched the sunset at Kilcunda,

netted prawns in Mallacoota,

            travelled west towards alpines.

Pinched tobacco in Porepunkah,

fought the flames in Yackandandah,

caught the view from Warkwoolowler

            on his way to Jindabyne.

 

Cruised the curling Murrumbidgee,

dined with crows in Wagga Wagga,

heard the mocking kookaburra –

            which he did not understand.

Passed the swamps of Cootamundra,

climbed the mountains of Katoomba,

paced the fields of Goondiwindi,

            in this Anglo-Saxon land.

 

Saw the lofty peaks, Kuranda,

lurking crocodiles of Daintree,

blushed at stories of the yowie,

            hitched a ride to Kakadu.

Stood in wonder by Nourlangie,

fished for giant barramundi,

crossed the desert of Tanami

till he came to Ningaloo.

 

Fled the ghost towns of Kalgoorlie,

trespassed through the Maralinga,

took a breather in Kapunda,

            and a well-earned sip of wine.

Stomped the grapes of Coonawarra,

chased a pigskin in Dimboola,

gathered apples in Mildura –

            his life a pantomime.

 

Swam the waters of Echuca,

paddled-steamed to Yarrawonga,

stretched the boundaries of Wodonga,

            here the boy became a man.

Dreamt of darling in Yallambie,

headed home to Murrumbeena,

past the ever-flowing Yarra

            in this Anglo-Saxon land.

 

My Nonna

When I started playing Aussie Rules,
my nonna’s face turned red.
I asked her what the problem was,
and this is what she said:
‘An oval ball, an oval ground,
for men with oval heads.’

 

 

Positional Change

When a player’s down on confidence,

when a forward’s shooting blanks,

there is an ancient remedy:

it’s called the Half-Back Flank.

 

 

Adam Goodes vs. Daniel Wells

When Goodsey played on Daniel Wells,

Who won out? ’Twas hard to tell.

The duel was close from where I stood:

Goodes played well and Wells played good.

 

Lewis Melican

To label Melican

the ugly pelican

   is just not on,

because Melican

is not a pelican,

   he’s a swan.

 

Flying Doormat

It seems that since the dawn of humankind

the bearded bald man punches from behind,

then tiptoes off his man without a trace

and somehow finds the ball with time and space.

 

Strange Game in a Strange Land

The Catholic has the Vatican,

the Jew, the synagogue,

the Buddhist has the temple,

the Aztec lauds the dog,

 

every culture looks towards

a supernatural force,

Australians have their footy fields…

oval shaped of course.

 

While conquered nations play the games

their captors make them play,

‘Let us play a different game,’

those quaint Australians say.

 

And watch them play their different game

on quagmire, grass and sand,

from orchards of the Apple Isle

to cliffs of Arnhem Land.

 

 Grand Final Weddings

There’s one sin in Victoria that can never be forgiven,

that even in the tightest clans can cause a sharp division.

A sin that is preposterous in every kind of way:

it’s when a stupid couple plan their wedding for that day.

 

The dream of every couple is a wedding in September,

but when they see that vacant date, the lovebirds don’t remember

that the reason why the church is free is not because of fate

but rather ’cos the granny is a ritual in this State.

 

September’s final Saturday is not the time to wed;

such an act will make a pair the object of much dread.

Eccentric uncles won’t turn up, cousins will not show,

even your best man will find a reason not to go.

 

 

 

 

Robyn Black

 

finding me

I stand at the angle best seen by my mirror

strain to catch the lean lines of form

but they have been consumed, swallowed

by the rest of my body, swelled to enormous

ambushed, I press myself into the dusk

try to disappear into the dark, but I am bulk.

He touches with light tongue, insistent

flicks his way through the flesh,

skin whispers on skin, tracing slick promise

on a body that cannot remember itself.

I once fitted neat, side-saddle on the bar

of my boy’s bicycle, his lithe form

curved protectively at my back, his breath

fluttered hotly, sighing sweet promise

we flew through warm summer night

on strong legs and teenaged eros

now his mouth challenges and I feel

he has coloured outside the lines.

 

 

Changeling

“…Parliament expresses our formal and sincere apology to the

mothers, fathers, sons and daughters who were profoundly harmed

by past adoption practices in Victoria.” – Parliamentary Apology

[by] Government of Victoria,  Australia, 2012

 

My mother never knew my face

no touch of tiny fingers

counted toes or holding close

yet she felt me

insistently, I would have pushed

against soft membrane

fluttered, elbowed and booted

gently swelling against convention

maybe I announced myself with

hiccups and heartburn and a sadness

too empty to describe

if she had been allowed;

the succour of mouth and nipple

denied, how she must have cried

with only imagined imprint of

touch to scar empty palms

the years have now ticked

full lifetimes and yet

the mirror traps echoes,

each glance a question

 

A changeling, amorphous and unconnected

our shadows do not touch

I have no measure, nor memory

just these hands that I watch.

 

 

 

 

Haiku Bob

 

Footy haiku:

 

round one packed house music to my ears

 

drowning sorrows

my game face

slides off

 

scores level

the same look

on everyone’s faces

 

beating Carlton –

my daughter sees another side

of her dad

 

casually

making mistakes

this team I would die for

 

we miss the finals –

enough grog in the house

to kill me

 

Other Haiku:

 

licking flames –

the last of the ice melts

in my whisky

 

drifting off

to another century. . .

cricket on the radio

 

last leaves …

the slow burn

of a single malt

 

winter trees –

making stock

from the bones

 

draining the bottle

the blazing log

collapses

 

long summer. . .

the creaking neck

of the electric fan

 

night cap

the clink of melting ice

brings my father back

 

 

 

Michael Pardy

 

Not a Metaphor For

“life is golf in miniature.”

      —Stephen Potter, Golfmanship, 1968

 

9
Life or even chess is a worthwhile

Way to whittle away the empty

Hours between one game and the next.

Or after a poor round you might turn

At last to painting that architrave

Around the small window that has sat

Waiting patiently for years to look

The same as every other window

In the house, but you know it’s too late

8
A bridge too far. It’s best to pretend

You first must attend to normal things:

Fit in, go for dinner, talk with friends,

Let golfish thoughts slip in now and then,

Especially out walking with your dog

Choking on his chain, swishing his tail,

Spalding Hot Dots winking right at you,

Making it obvious—like a smile.

7

Now it’s impossible to live life:

Have a car breakdown, visit a row

Of shops, attend a birthday party,

Wake up, catch a train, go to work—

Without sinking in and drowning on

An overflowing palette of thoughts

About the latest Ping or your swing.

6

Then when you squish some ants, you realize

This “impossible-life” is not much.

It’s there in your browsing history

Or shopping trolley full of things,

Missed calls and dismissed reminders,

Which can all be rearranged anew.

5

On days when everything feels alright

Life mistakes itself for the main game

But life is an unsatisfying

Pastime shoved in between tee offs:

A day, a month, or ten years apart.

4

Life is an often-used metaphor

For golf, but golf cannot say the same.

Golf is nothing at all like this life.

This life heads toward a dead end, but

3

Golf follows along endless shore lines,

Linking eternal experience

To unattainable perfection.

2

The new moon, it hankers to play golf,

To be a dimpled sphere in motion.

1

In your car boot, your clubs lie in wait.

 

 

A Boy and His Football

 

He trots in

head low, licking

the four fingers on each hand

his thumbs rubbing in the spit

that’s how you make the ball stick

Up on his toes, winding

past the bodies in the pocket

border collie eyes

looking at the smells

on the puff of wind

The umpy’s bounce smacks high

the crowd murmurs,

they’ve spotted him

panic rises in the box

who’s on Hird, who’s on Hird?

The schoolboy in long sleeves

doing his ordinary schoolboy things

even now, in the main arena

against the seasoned hard men

Juggling a mark

falling among tangled limbs

leaning up on his shoulder

climbing out of bed

running away into

an open goal

Listen to Gabriel, the arch angel

sitting behind you on the wing

she whispers in your ear

did you see that…

did you see that…

there’s your boy

pure innocence

James Hird was crucified

the gentle angel on the pitch

lured into a fast car

and thrown into a ditch

Watch it… on youtube

or in your memory

over and over again

James Hird

trotting down the field

in some other world

licking his fingers

trusting the Sherrin

to come to him

See the oval ball

hit a tuft

veer sideways

heed the call

of its lifelong

best friend

A boy and his football

 

 

 ‘Go see Joe’

 

Smokin’ Joe from West Altona
Drops hot chillies in his Corona
Eats mint peas and roast potatoes
Always wears these: Aviators

 

You don’t need to bring karate
When you’re wearing Aviators
They keep everything cool
Same as car radiators

 

You don’t need to do Hatha Yoga
When you’re wearing Aviators
They take you to a higher plane
Same as escalators

 

So if you want a new persona
Go see Joe in West Altona
Home of mint peas and roast potatoes
And most particularly: Aviators

 

 

Winter train to Balaclava

 

The Sandy train got stuck at Balaclava
Something broken, the door stuck open
My ears cold, my nose and toes cold too

 

So I hopped off and found a menswear shop
Spied a woollen beanie pink and warm
But it wouldn’t stretch below my ears.

 

The shop guy snatched it back. I said
I don’t suppose you sell balaclavas?

 

We sell beanies and mittens
and scarves and hats but not balaclavas.
Just because we live in Balaclava
doesn’t mean we have to sell them.

 

I read his badge and said – just because your name
says Trevor, doesn’t mean you’re not a moron.
His eyes blazed, his ears steamed

 

I made a run for it, across the street
into Zorba’s café, straight down the back
took a newspaper, and hid behind that.

 

Over floats a curly long-haired waitress
I said I’ll have a strong curly long black
Anything else? she said.
Perhaps, something sweet?

 

I don’t suppose you sell Baklavas?
Of course, she said. We’ve got the best
Baklava in Balaclava.

 

I’ll have two, I said
Two of the best Baklavas in Balaclava
One for each ear.

 

Paul Noonan

 

Damian and Michael

 

 

 

 

More from Col Ritchie can be read Here

 

More poetry from Almanac Poetry can be read HERE

 

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