An Absolutely Ordinary Poetry Reader

I've been posting snippets of poetry on Facebook in an experimental attempt to inject some culture into the social network. It's been quite fun for me actually, scanning my school texts/anthologies and reading the scrawled marginalia of my adolescent self in all her conscientious earnestness (eg. On Keats' Ode on a Grecian Urn 'Tone: slow, quiet...Tension: immortality of the world on the urn, yet it's never lived...'). I think I went through a phase of trying to fit all the lecture notes in the margins of my poetry anthology. Good on my arts-student self; determined to do my bit to save the planet in truth and beauty.

But back to the poetry snippets. So far I've chosen bits from Dylan Thomas, Emily Dickinson, William Blake, WH Auden, Sylvia Plath, WB Yeats and Judith Wright. This next poem deserves a longer quote, so I thought I'd give it its own post:


An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow - Les Murray

There's a fellow weeping down there. No one can stop him.

The man we surround, the man no one approaches

simply weeps, and does not cover it, weeps
not like a child, not like the wind, like a man
and does not declaim it, nor beat his breast, nor even
sob very loudly—yet the dignity of his weeping

holds us back from his space, the hollow he makes about him
in the midday light, in his pentagram of sorrow,
and uniforms back in the crowd who tried to seize him
stare out at him, and feel, with amazement, their minds
longing for tears as children for a rainbow.

Obviously, it's best read in it's entirety - check it out at http://www.lesmurray.org/pm_aor.htm

But you can feel the raw emotion and sense of place, hey? I think it's a brillliant poem; it tells a story, pulls you in and makes you question what you would've said/thought/done.

Admittedly, poetry is probably the least accessible form of literature - much easier to read a novel or even  a play. But I'm discovering so many gems in the pages of these poets (Did you know that the line 'The heart asks pleasure first' was first penned by Emily Dickinson?) The best poems are like word pictures; even better, they capture sights, sounds, smells, emotions. 

So, hopefully I've inspired you to dust off your old 'Metaphysical poets' text or 'Norton Anthology of Poetry' and have another look at those poems that may bear more fruit for you now that you've lived a few more years on this dappled globe. Tip: most poems will make much more sense if you read them aloud and slowly.

Looking forward to bookgroup this month, where we all pick a poet and get to 'present' them to the group... Yeah, I know, I need to go back to torturing high school students soon or my bookgroup may have an uprising, Arab Spring style.

Meantime, what's your favourite poet/ poem?

Wishing you truth, beauty and rainbows,

helen xox

Mothers and Daughters

Emma's dolls

An old friend Emma has just posted some beautiful Babushka (or are they Matriushka?) dolls on Facebook, which reminded me of women begetting women. Hopefully she won't mind me stealing her image as the inspiration for this post...

The dolls lead me to look for a particular Gwen Harwood poem in my 'CrossCountry' book of Australian Verse. But on the way, I stumbled across a lighter, better one by David Campbell:

     Mothers and Daughters

     The cruel girls we loved
     Are over forty,
     Their subtle daughters
     Have stolen their beauty;

     
     And with a blue stare
     Of cool surprise,
     They mock their anxious mothers
     With their mother's eyes.

Clever, hey? And poignant, without being downright depressing, as Harwood's poems tend to be. You can always look up ''Mother Who Gave Me Life'' if you want to read an anguished tribute to a mum at the end of her days...

Me, PorPor and Mum, 1994.

Anyway, Happy Mother's Day to all those women fortunate enough to have carried, borne and nurtured offspring. It's the most important & precious job you'll ever have.

Special praise to my own Mum, who has nurtured and loved me these forty years; influencing so much of who I am today. I hope I haven't stolen your physical beauty, but rather I pray I'll increasingly reflect your inner beauty as I grow older and wiser.

And in memory of  my beloved Por Por, who cheerfully bore and raised 7 sons and 1 extraordinary daughter. If I inherit just half of her resilience and generosity of spirit, I'll be blessed indeed.

Reflecting on the Cross

This Easter I've been searching for things to help me reflect on Christ's death and resurrection. I stumbled upon this poem just tonight in a book Dan got for me ages ago called 'The Poetry of Piety'.

'Diagonals:Hands' is by a guy named Francis Reginald Scott, who was the sixth son of a rector (St Matthew's Montreal), dean of a law school and founder of the New Democratic party of Canada. Sounds like he was quite the Renaissance man!

It's quite an 'experimental' poem, cross-shaped in form. Interestingly it can be read in a number of ways, including horizontally from left to right; diagonally from top left to bottom right and diagonally from bottom left to top right. On initial reading I think I like the last way the best - cross arms driving nails fastening gods hands - I think it's referring to humanity's role in Jesus' crucifixion.

Reading left to right - arms open, the cross forever upon sky... I like this phrase also, but confess I'm not entirely sure what it means. According to the notes in my book, the poem examines the paradox of the cross and looks at it from different angles, so maybe the cross as viewed by God the Father? And hammer these glittering nails into the sky - possibly convey Jesus' feelings of anguish and abandonment on the Cross?

Let me know what you can see; it's a bit like working out a crossword, hey?

Easter table - new traditions

Meantime, wishing you a very happy and holy Easter - Christ has died, Christ has risen,
Christ will come again!
helen xox

Suburban Blues

It's been a strange week. My start of year enthusiasm has waned a little with the arrival of March and the official end of Summer - though you wouldn't know it from the weather we've been having! Domestic life with my boys has been challenging, with my 1 year old being sick/clingy for the past few weeks and my 3 year old starting kinder and struggling to adjust to the new routine and expectations.

When things feel a bit out of control, I tend to seek solace in my comfort literature - usually texts I read at high school - Jane Austen, Jessica Anderson, Michael Ondaatje and the Norton Anthology of poetry. I think I'm trying to find someone who can give voice what I'm feeling, or just escape into another world for a bit.

Anyway, here's a poem we studied at school - 'Suburban Sonnet' by Gwen Harwood. It captures the feeling of marking time as a housewife in the suburbs; of trying to find an outlet for your talents and creative energies in between looking after your kids and the housework.

She practises a fugue, though it can matterto no one now if she plays well or not.Beside her on the floor two children chatter,then scream and fight. She hushes them. A potboils over. As she rushes to the stovetoo late, a wave of nausea overpowerssubject and counter-subject. Zest and lovedrain out with soapy water as she scoursthe crusted milk. Her veins ache. Once she playedfor Rubinstein, who yawned. The children caperround a sprung mousetrap where a mouse lies dead.When the soft corpse won't move they seem afraid.She comforts them; and wraps it in a paperfeaturing: Tasty dishes from stale bread.

It's a bit depressing, I know. Be thankful I didn't quote 'In the Park' with its plaintive mother's cry 'They have eaten me alive'!

Unlike the woman in the poem, I love my life and wouldn't trade it for anything. But I do relate to her feelings of frustration and the nagging sense that life 'out there' is passing her by. As an 'at home mum' it can be a temptation to succumb to boredom, loneliness, petty annoyances, vein-aching tiredness and mind-numbing daytime TV. On the other hand, there is the privilege of raising your kids and watching them grow, the chance to make new social networks and the challenge of stopping your brain from turning to mush, even in the way you organise your house and garden (veggie patch, anyone?).

I've been at home for almost 4 years now and have noticed that about every 6 months I have a little 'crisis' over my identity and question my decision to stay at home with the kids at least til they go to 'big school' (have never put that down in writing before!). I'm trying to see these crises as a good thing - it's an opportunity to take stock of who I am and what I want from this finite life under the sun.

Zest and love, helen xox

Veggie Patches and Comfort Zones

Summer is over and Autumn has fallen. We've had a very hot, dry Summer in Melbourne, which means our garden, which is neglected at the best of times, looks like the Gobi Desert. My husband asked me the other day whether I thought it was possible our backyard was suffering from erosion. I was dubious, but couldn't rule it out.

Anyway, we have a wonderful friend Kath, who has green thumbs and has been doing a course on permaculture (not exactly sure what that is, but suspect it includes living sustainably, growing your own organic veggies and knowing the difference between compost, fertiliser and mulch). Kath came round last Sunday and helped me set up a veggie patch - yay!

red galoshes beside the baby veggies

It looks pretty good I reckon - we've planted lettuces, basil, parsley, coriander, chives, spring onions, mint, thyme and sage. I'm planning on sowing zucchini, snowpeas and leeks in Spring. If it works I'll be thrilled, but I'm trying not to get my hopes up. As I said, gardening is not my strong point. Kath recommends looking at it as an experiment and a learning process. Which sounds very wise. I'm always telling myself I need to get my hands dirty and try things which are a bit outside my comfort zone/patch;)

On a different note, I got locked outside the back door by my 3 year old yesterday. It wasn't a fun experience and we've since had a big talk about how his actions affect others and given him a controlled 'lockout' (don't worry, we didn't traumatise him). I think he has gained a better sense of what it feels like to be shut out, but I doubt we've seen the last of his 'adventurous' behaviour. All a normal part of growing up, I know. It's what the 'misbehaviour' brings out in me that rattles me the most!

So, I'm gathering that this parenting caper is FULL-time and requires more patience, wisdom and love than I humanly posssess. Thankfully, parents aren't born; they are raised. Much like my baby veggies.

Putting on my red galoshes and steppng out into unchartered puddles,
helen xox

If I was in the Kia Ad

If I was in the Kia Ad

I'm an ex-English teacher, married to a preacher who's partial to pizza and hates water features.
I'm a full time mum, wiping noses and bums,
Raising the rabble, teaching them to babble & scrabble;
avoid scribbling on walls, fighting unjust wars, keeping scores and slamming doors.
I can hum a tune, swoon, howl at the moon;
I'm melancholic, hydroponic, sometimes sardonic;
wouldn't say no to a gin and tonic.
I'm educated, dedicated, domesticated, syncopated.
I don't exercise, I prioritise,
synthesize, mesmerize, internalise, contextualize,
Detest goodbyes.
Love to create, love the Creator,
Imperfect in love, yet loved perfectly.

This was inspired by an old friend John, who was in my bible study group a hundred years ago in West Pymble. It was pretty fun to write. If you want to have a go at your own 'Kia Ad', I'd love to see it. I reckon we all have a bit of poetry in us, just waiting to bubble out...

Tasteful water features & limestone landscapes,
helen xox

Growing up Asian in Australia

I've been re-reading 'Growing up Asian in Australia', a collection of stories written by Asian Aussies and edited by Alice Pung (author of Unpolished Gem and Her Father's Daughter). I guess it's my way of re-visiting my own thoughts about race and identity around Australia Day.

When I first heard about this book in 2008 I was very excited. Here at last was a book written by and for people like me - who'd grown up as children of migrants with the challenges and opportunities of being part of two worlds. Reading it was a delight, with lots of 'aha!' moments where I really related to what the author was experiencing.  Some tales were strangely familiar, some were unsettling, some were funny and many were deeply moving.

The book is grouped around different 'Aussie' themes: Pioneers, Battlers, Mates, The Folks, The Clan, The Hots etc and contributors range from high profile personalities (Annette Shun Wah, Jenny Kee, Kylie Kwong, Shaun Tan, Anh Do) to normal run of the mill Asians navigating a world where they are too often viewed as a 'model minority' - working hard, studying hard, conforming to the expectations and ideals of the dominant culture.

One of my favourite writers is Benjamin Law (he also contributes to the very cool Frankie mag). His opening to the story 'Tourism' I found hilarious:

My family isn't exactly the outdoors type. Despite being raised right on the coastline, Mum detests the beach (all the sand it brought into the house), while Dad actively disapproved of wearing thongs ('It splits the toes'). We never camped. All those things involved in camping - pitching a tent; cooking on open fires; the insects; shitting in the woods; sleeping on rocks; getting murdered and raped in the middle of nowhere - they never appealed to us. 'We were never camping people,' Mum explains now. 'See, Asians - we're scared of dying. White people, they like to "live life to the full" and "die happy."' She pauses, before adding, 'Asians, we're the opposite.'

If you find that amusing or enlightening, you may well enjoy reading 'Growing up Asian in Australia'. I'd love to know what books you think capture the voice of your Australia too!


Happy to belong to this sunburnt country,
helen xox

Of French pots and Flatpacks

We've just come home from holidays up North, our station wagon laden with luggage, presents and bargain buys. I'm particularly pleased with my acquisition of a cast iron French cooking pot, purchased on the way out of Sydney. It was a bit of a surreal experience - the store was having a 'Grand Re-Opening Sale' and was full of frenzied women (and the occasional long-suffering man) stocking up on heavily discounted homewares and gifts for the year(s) ahead. The funniest bit was watching the Islander 'doorman' at the head of the queue trying to stop the customers from stampeding the cashiers.

 Birthday present from my super generous in-laws

Anyway, I eventually got my iron pot and we proceeded on the long journey back to Melbourne. Once we had recovered from the drive, Dan and I decided that our house needed a revamp. He's a bit OCD, so likes to have everything neat and orderly. I'm the one with hoarding tendencies, but even I agreed that it was time to declutter and get a better storage system happening.

So, off we went to IKEA and came back with flat packs aplenty and dreams of perfectly organised workspaces, front entrance and laundry. Love IKEA - you always spend more than you intended but atone for it by having to assemble your purchases. And amazingly they do usually help you 'Bring new life to your home'. If not 'Bring your home to life'. That would be downright creepy.

Waiting for the heatwave to pass so I can cook lamb shanks,
helen xox