National Poetry Month #31

 So, the last night by the Moonlit Campfire. Fittingly, there is the remaining "blue moon" from a couple of nights ago. The night is cool, but not cold. Frogs are loud all along the creek.

And here are the last poems. They're about poetry - well, about writing poetry, or not. Of course, the final one is the most significant for me.

But to begin, a paragraph of prose, taken from a short story, but infinitely appropriate for National Poetry Month, and every other month. You may know Henry Lawson's story "The Drover's Wife". Since then there have been a number of pieces written from the woman's point of view. This is from one of the more recent ones.

from The Drover's Wife by Barbara Jefferis

No-one knows what's coming after you die, or if anything's coming at all. Best you can do is stuff your head with words and poems and things to think about, just in case that's all you're going to have to keep you happy for ever and ever.

.................................................

I'm typing this "addendum" on the morning of 1st September, the morning after I typed all the other sections. You see, I'd forgotten to bring a certain book with me and I couldn't drive the ninety minutes to get it. I was in a tizz.

Technology and basic human nature to the rescue. I posted a plea for assistance on the amazing Chat10Looks3 Facebook community page. (If you don't know about it, you really should take a long, hard look at yourself.)

In a very short time, one of the more well-known members of that community had contacted her friend - THE ACTUAL POET! - who sent her a copy of the poem I needed. She sent it on to me.

Such kindness that makes me a bit sad that I'm surprised at such kindness.

So...

To The Children of Poets by Fiona Wright

To the children of poets,

on behalf of all poets,

I apologise.

I apologise for your obscure literary names

you'll spend a lifetime spelling out,

        or at the very least explaining,

        and helping people to pronounce.

I apologise for your vocabulary.

Your classmates won't find it endearing

or quaint.

I apologise for the unwanted help

        you'll get on your English homework,

and for the years of books as birthday presents,

when all you really want

is an X-Box,

        and how you might not have a TV

        or a microwave

        or be allowed to eat McDonalds.

I'm sorry for the evenings when you will have toast for dinner

        because your parents have been writing,

and the weeks where you'll eat nothing but black plums

        because they read about them somewhere

        and they sounded delicious.

I apologise for the nights

        their friends will wake you

with bad puns and arguments over a colon,

        and for the blue cheese left to fester

        on the table overnight.

I apologise for boring launches

        (even if you manage to snatch free wine),

and for the strange skin conditions

        you'll pick up in second-hand bookshops.

I'm sorry for the ugly boots

and textured jumpers

that will greet you at the school gates

        and for the endless cups of tea you'll be

so good at making.

To the children of poets,

I apologise

        for the imaginations you'll inherit,

        and hope you grow to be a dentist,

or a banker,

or a plumber

and will be able to afford good nursing homes.

................................................. 

A poem from an Australian poet, well known and respected in the poetry community. It is a poem that often surfaces, by different poets and in different forms, whenever poets collect poems.

The Poet Asks for Forgiveness by Fay Zwicky

Dead to the world I have failed you

Forgive me, traveller.

Thirsty, I was no fountain

Hungry, I was not bread

Tired, I was no pillow

Forgive my unwritten poems:

the many I have frozen with irony

the many I have trampled with anger

the many I have rejected in self-defence

the many I have ignored in fear

unaware, blind or fearful

I ignored them.

They clamoured everywhere

those unwritten poems.

They sought me out day and night

and I turned them away.

Forgive me the colours

they might have worn

Forgive me their eclipsed faces

They dared not venture from

the unwritten lines.

Under each inert hour of my silence

died a poem, unheeded.

.................................................

Dorothy Porter, on writing poetry. She has a way with words - simple, and to the point.

from Is it not the thing? by Dorothy Porter

...

Every poet wants to write the poem

that penetrates

with the ice-cold shock

of the Devil's prick.

The poem that will fuck you awake

or kill you.

.................................................

And now, dear Moonlit Campfire visitors, the last poem in this month of poetic offerings I've gently placed at your collective feet. You may have to work at this one. When you read it aloud, you must use your thickest, strongest Scottish accent. Ideally, perhaps, you should seek out a Scot to read it to you. It is a prayer, of course, so read it accordingly.

"...I'd have lived, once, like the gods, and once is enough." Ah me.

After reading this last poem prayer, we'll all raise our chipped cups of red wine and toast the health of each other and the written word. Bless!

Tae the Fates by Kathleen Jamie

(after Hölderlin)

Gie me, ye Po'ers, jist ane simmer mair

an ane maumie autumn,

that ma hairt, ripe wi sweet sang,

's no sae swier for tae dee. A sowl

denied in life its heevinly richt

wil waunner Orcus disjaiskit;

but gin ah could mak whit's halie

an maist dear tae me - ane perfect poem

I'll welcome the cauld, the quate mirk!

For though I maun lee' ma lyre

an gang doon wanting sang, Ah'd hae lived,

aince, like the gods; and aince is eneuch.

.................................................

OK, here's a rough translation and, like many translations, it loses some of the original's power. (Forgive me, Kathleen Jamie.)

Give me, oh Powers, just one summer more

and one mild autumn,

that my heart, ripe with sweet song,

will not be so reluctant to die. A soul

denied in life its heavenly right

will wander the Underworld dejected;

but if I could make what's holy

and most dear to me - one perfect poem

I'll welcome the cold, the silent darkness!

For though I must leave my lyre

and descend without song, I'd have lived,

once, like the gods, and once is enough.

.................................................

Keep on keeping on, and make the most of your day!