Poetry Season #5 – The Stones in Virginia Woolf’s Coat Pockets

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The fifth piece of homework for the Andy Jackson course. The prompt for this week, greatly summarised, is to have a conversation with another writer, by alternating lines written by that writer with lines of your own in response. I took lines from “Figuring” by Maria Popova and, much to my surprise, came up with a poem that is sort of about Virginia Woolf.

The Stones in Virginia Woolf’s Coat Pockets

All of it, the rings of Saturn and my father’s wedding band

are beyond my figuring. If I had

Einstein’s brain bathing in a jar of formaldehyde

might I dissect the circuitry that would cause

A certain forearm I love

to one day author its own destruction?

 

One autumn morning as I read a dead poet’s letter

I saw that too much love can be destructive.

Are the imaginations of women less vivid than of men?

Are the dreams of women less portentous?

Every stone with which Virginia Woolf filled her coat pockets

was lovingly chosen for heft and effect.

 

Where does it live, that place of permission

to choose a life less ordinary?

Does genius suffice for happiness, does distinction, does love?

None of these inoculate against suffering.

There are infinitely many kinds of beautiful lives

but few beautiful ways to end one.

 


© Mike Hopkins 2019

Italicised lines from “Figuring” by Maria Popova 2019

image: https://pixabay.com/en/users/robinsonk26-6013603/

Poetry Season #4 – Tortoise

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The fourth piece of homework for the Andy Jackson course. The prompt for this week, greatly summarised, is “otherness”, which could mean, for instance, the world of an animal. In my case, a tortoise. Did you know that a tortoise called Harriet, supposedly collected by Charles Darwin in the Galapagos, reached the age of 175 years and died in Steve Irwin (the Crocodile Hunter)’s Australia Zoo in 2006. And the first living creatures to orbit the moon were a pair of tortoises, in the Russian Zond 5 mission. This is the second poem I’ve written about tortoises in recent months. Analyse that.

Tortoise

His clawed feet bear the weight of his world. He cares nothing for the impatience of youth. He is the original testudo. His skeleton is within and without. His scales proclaim his longevity. Breathing out, he retreats into his nerve-rich shell. He draws water from the well of his own waste. Smelling with his mouth, pumping air with his throat, he sifts sensations with nostrils and tongue. He has sub-sonic conversations with his neighbours. He circled the moon in Zond 5. His black eyes are picture pools of dark corners and warm concealments. His thoughts are antique. He knew Darwin and Irwin. He is utterly grounded. He holds the weathered memories of a century of deliberation. He hides his contentment behind a doleful mouth. He craves little – not affection, not food, but sometimes deep, cyclical sleep. I can promise food, water, shelter and warmth. I know his greatest fear is inversion. He disdains my bulk, my neediness, my hasty heart. He will outwait us all. His lines are not from worry. His tortoiseshell is not from vanity.

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© Mike Hopkins 2019

Poetry Season #3 – Burger

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The third piece of homework for the Andy Jackson course. The prompt for the this week, greatly summarised, is “love / lineage”, for which Andy provided a range of example poems. One of them was “Bread” by Brendan Kennelly, which really appealed to me. (There’s an interesting performance of it here.) I used this to write a parallel poem. I never thought I’d write a poem called “Burger” (I’m vegetarian). It probably needs a better title but that’s the title for now.

Burger

after Brendan Kennelly

Someone blasted a bolt through my skull

in a blood-red shed.

I was bled,

 

disassembled, ground down. This

fakery is more cunning

than a fox gone to ground

 

more tricky than a politician’s

dog whistle

or the patter of a pimp.

 

Even as it flaunts, it is

trickier than anything

in a conjurer’s bag of tricks.

 

My remains,

are mixed with a million others

and rendered as an illusion.

 

The shape I now inhabit

is a succulent mockery.

Willful fools drool

 

as I am flipped and grilled

with sleight of hand

and slipped into a bun.

 

The collusion, the deception is

absolute.

So I am cremated

and reborn

 

in a concoction.

In my way I am their best kind of beast –

processed for profit.

 

I will break their hearts.

 

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© Mike Hopkins 2019

image https://actualite.nouvelle-aquitaine.science/hassen-ferhani-dans-lintimite-de-labattoir-dalger/

 

Poetry Season #2 – “An Thuong 4”

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The second piece of homework for the Andy Jackson course. Not very happy with this one. It’s been a record-breaking, stinking hot week in Adelaide and I haven’t felt much like writing.

The prompt for the second poem, greatly summarised, is “place”. This is my response. The An Thuongs are a set of streets near where I lived in Đà Nẵng, full of bars, cafes, burger joints, street vendors, massage parlors, hostels, expats, drunks, drunken expats, Korean tourists, Thuốc Lào smokers (strong pipe tobacco), weed smokers, dogs, the occasional pig, loud music and all sorts of activity, most of which I could never figure out. But I did love the bars there, and a dull night was a rarity.

An Thuong 4

Each day is a riddle

Night is electric black

obscured by grey plumes

 

A short-circuit cracks the air

Locals make the “I have no fucking idea” sign

The fridge hums with Saigon Specials

 

A pig hoovers up peanuts

The Wifi password is “thankyou”

Police are midnight knocking

 

for permits and bribes

It’s Tet : Chúc mừng năm mới

A tattooed man steals a beer

 

The barman serves enigmas

The hostel is one shipping container

on top of another

 

The security guard is

like your favourite uncle

but answers no questions

 

Two white guys swap punches

Weed smoke hovers over the dog

Russian Roulette was a thing

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© Mike Hopkins 2019

Poetry Season #1 – “Shine”

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The Wavy Path

I’ve just started a course with talented poet and all-round great guy Andy Jackson. Andy is based in Castlemaine, New South Wales, so the course is run via email. I, and nineteen other lucky students, split into two groups of ten, receive a detailed prompt and poems to read on a Monday morning, and respond with our own poems by the Friday.  Then we give feedback on the other poets’ work in our group, and finally Andy gives us his detailed feedback. The course runs for six weeks. This is the end of week 1 and so far it looks like it’s going to be really useful and instructive. Best of all, it forces me to write, and I usually need to be forced.

So I thought I’d post my weekly poem here. They will all be first draft, though not quite as first draft and instantaneous as the poem a day napowrimo poems. And I’ll likely be concentrating on prose poems, which I want to write more of this year.

The prompt for the first poem, greatly summarised, is “summer”. This is my response:

capture
Image:COP Biodiversity and Landscape https://www.flickr.com/photos/copbiodiversityandlandscape/35687633296