Poem a Day 2015 #15 – Last of the Bush Poems (continued)

Poem number 15 for April 2015. Following on from poem #7, or rather finishing it off. As noted, I’m not a fan of bush poetry.  Tonight (Wednesday 15th April) I’m a guest poet at “Poets and Platters” at Langmeil winery in the Barossa Valley. There is a well-known bush poet also on the programme. Last time I heard him, he was (tongue in cheek) ridiculing vegetarians, with some hackneyed lines about mung beans and rabbit food. Being a vegetarian myself, I didn’t laugh, though most of the audience did. I’ll return the (tongue in cheek) ridicule with this tonight. A world premiere!  As he’s after me on the running list, he’ll probably have the last laugh.

Last of the Bush Poems (completed – well first draft anyway)

A poem needed writing

for to please the winery push

and me usual stuff looked wanting

they might think a load of tosh

so I looked for inspiration

laid some thoughts for incubation

and I sought for information

on the poetry of the bush

 

First I grabbed an old akubra

then I dropped me accent posh

And I drank til in a stupor

and neglected for to wash

I dragged out some corny punchline

about vegans, sheilas, waistlines

and I read up all the guidelines

on the poetry of the bush

 

I bought a new Land Cruiser

You won’t catch me near a horse

Then I bought a new computer

Wikipedia is the source

Of all me information

About swags, and sheep and stations

Coz I get the palpitations

When I’m in the bloody bush

 

I drove down the supermarket

To stock up on bush supplies

I bought string and corks from Target

for me hat to ward off flies

softest swag and new Drize-a-bone

gas-powered fridge and satellite phone

I was well prepared to leave home

to write poetry in the bush

 

When I reached the wilds of Salisbury

Well me nose began to bleed

and the dusty paddocks scared me

when I saw some sheep stampede

So I stopped near Gawler Oval

dumped me swag and asked some yokels

Where’s the nearest comfy hotel

That serves beer here in the bush?

 

When I saw the pub landlady

well meself I introduced

as a widely known bush poet

who could keep her crowd amused

for fifty bucks and free beer

I recited in her front bar

I was feeling like a film star

so the lady I seduced

 

Now I’ll go back to the city

And no longer will I roam

I’ve memorized me ditties

and acquired a bush man’s drone

And me poems I’ll deliver

Like the man from Snowy River

Coz I get the sweats and shivers

If I’m ever near the bush.

 

Copyright Mike Hopkins 2015

Poem a Day 2015 #8 – This I’ll Tell Ya Brother

Poem number 8 for April 2015. I’ve expanded a fragment I wrote some time ago, based on an early childhood memory. Not necessarily my childhood. Not necessarily my memory.

This I’ll Tell Ya Brother

The Ascot boiler on the wall

the pilot light’s blue glow

a tin bath in the middle of the floor

 

I sit in the grey scummed water

My skin prune wrinkled

The people in the upstairs flat shouting

 

at my parents who are shouting

at each other over some revelation

I don’t understand

 

On the wireless

a voice says “This is the BBC”

 

Sinatra sings: “Love and marriage, love and marriage

go together like a horse and carriage

 

This I’ll tell ya brother

you can’t have one without the other”

Copyright Mike Hopkins 2015

Poem a Day 2015 #7 – Last of the Bush Poems

Poem number 7 for April 2015. I’m not a fan of bush poetry, or at least not in large doses. Next week (Wednesday 15th April) I’m a guest poet at “Poets and Platters” at Langmeil winery in the Barossa Valley. I suspect the audience may be bush poetry fans, so I thought I’d better write something which will appeal to them. This is the start of a bush poem which I will do more work on, and hopefully deliver next week.

Last of the Bush Poems

A poem needed writing

for to please the winery push

and my usual stuff looked wanting

they might think a load of tosh

so I looked for inspiration

laid some thoughts for incubation

and I sought for information

on the poetry of the bush

First I grabbed an old akubra

then I dropped me accent posh

And I drank til in a stupour

and neglected for to wash

I dragged out some corny punchlines

about sheilas, poofs and waistlines

and I read up all the guidelines

on the poetry of the bush

So I bought a new Land Cruiser

You won’t catch me near a horse

Then I bought a new computer

Wikipedia is the source

Of all my information

About swags, and sheep and stations

Coz I get the palpitations

When I’m in the bloody bush

I drove down the supermarket

To stock up on bush supplies

I bought string and corks from Target

for my hat to ward off flies

softest swag and new Drize-a-bone

gas powered fridge and satellite phone

I was well prepared to leave home

to write poetry in the bush

When I reached the wilds of Salisbury

Well my nose began to bleed

Gawler’s fields were scary

And I saw some sheep stampede

So I stopped at Gawler Oval

Pitched my swag and asked some locals

Where’s the nearest comfy hotel

That serves beer here in the bush?

… to be continued

Copyright Mike Hopkins 2015

Poem a Day 2015 #6 – 2666: Poem uno 1

Poem number 6 for April 2015. I’m reading the epic book “2666” by Roberto Bolaño. I’d say I’ve nearly finished it, but I still have about 150 pages to go. It’s a 900 page book. I’m not sure if it’s a work of genius, as some say, or an overly long ramble in need of severe editing. I’ll post a review when I’ve finished it. What’s for certain is that there is some stunning language in the book. And when you consider that Bolano was Chilean, and that it was written in Spanish, this seems to me to be even more impressive.

For today’s poem, I’ve taken some phrases, fragments from one part of the book, and played with them, to turn them into something that resembles a poem. Most of the words are Bolano’s. A large part of the book is concerned with an epidemic of murders of women in Mexico, called in Spanish feminicidio (“feminicide”), in a fictional town called Santa Teresa. In the real life northern Mexican region of Ciudad Juárez it is estimated that 370 women and girls were murdered between 1993 and 2005.

2666 – Poem uno 1

 

Where six roads meet

and buses head in all directions

my driver waits like an undertaker

 

A makeshift market

An old woman selling pineapples.

Out of politeness I buy one

 

In an island of light past the shacks

giant butterflies dance like cripples

reminding me of a sunset years ago

 

The streetlights bathe me in an aura of haste

My breath smells of scorched oil

I hear accordion music on the wind

 

She was a legend invented by inmates

I think I hear her laughter

like a prisoner’s nightmare.

 

I find her on the outskirts

behind the hundred year old walls

Her dyed hair curtains her face

 

Her skin is empty now

as if she has been drained of everything

except absolute fear

 

All that is left is a crater

the prisoners, the jailers, gone

“Don’t push your luck boss” says the driver

 

Copyright Mike Hopkins 2015

Poem a Day 2015 #5 – Do Not Hassle the Stall Owner

Poem number 5 for April 2015. At Port Adelaide Fisherman’s Wharf market today, there was a particularly grumpy man selling very cool looking toy steam boats. He claims that nobody else has them, but I’m pretty sure it’s the same as the one in the youtube video above. He has a sign saying “Don’t hassle the boat” – but I think it really means “don’t bother me unless you’re going to give me cash”.

It’s had a hard day

puttering around

the washing up bowl

 

Do not take photographs of the boat

 

Unless you are going

to buy one or at least

something from my stall

 

Do not interrupt me reading my newspaper

 

I can’t be bothered telling you

about my fascinating boat

unless of course you buy one

 

Do not think you can find a boat like this anywhere else

 

You won’t. I’m the only person in the world

who has them and I’m pretty sure

you don’t deserve to have one too.

 
Postscript:
For a far more poetic view of the visit to Port Adelaide, see here:

Copyright Mike Hopkins 2015

Poem a Day 2015 #4 – Three Mesostics

Poem number 4 for April 2015, consists of three (unconnected) mesostics :

 

Copyright Mike Hopkins 2015

 

Poem a Day 2015 #3 – Work Blues Sonnet

Poem number 3 for April 2015, following on again from Kathryn‘s suggestion that I should write more poems about work. I found a formula for writing a ‘blues sonnet’ at http://www.poewar.com/poetry-prompts. Following a formula saves having to invent a form (and usually ends up with a formula poem). And yes I know a sonnet usually has 14 lines and this one does – I’ve just repeated the last 2 lines as a refrain.

And it comes with a language warning.

Work Blues Sonnet

This job has almost brought me to my knees

This job it has me swinging in the breeze

It drains my soul it leaves me begging “please…”

 

The pay is fine, the people are ok

The cash is good, it meets the bills I pay

Monotony’s the theme of every day

 

The project plan, the cash flow, NPV

The costs and benefits, consultants’ fees

Have never saved a life or helped world peace

 

The bureaucrats spend all their days indoors

With whiskey bottles in their bottom drawers

Their pasty faces mark them out as bores

 

I said this job it drives me up the wall

A highly paid pastime that means damn all

 

Yeah

I said this job it drives me up the wall

A highly paid pastime that means fuck all

 

 

 

Copyright Mike Hopkins 2015

 

Poem a Day 2015 #2 – What if …..

Poem number 2 for April 2015, started off with a suggestion by my poet friend Kathryn that I should write some more poems about work. Then it sort of wandered off to adjoining rooms.

What if ….

this job is the job you’ll be doing for eternity

each day the same futile pursuit

the same argument

with the same tosser?

 

What if this person you wake up next to each morning

who bores you to tears

is the most interesting person

you will ever meet?

 

What if this day is the last day of your life

and is repeated tomorrow like a pair of mirrors

reflecting each other

into infinity?

 

What if this God you don’t believe in

really doesn’t exist

and the world blames you

for being right?

 

What if you were switched at birth

and your real parents are the war criminals

unmasked

in yesterday’s paper?

 

What if these things you think you see

are just the remnant brain activity

of someone who’s been in a coma

for 50 years?

 

What if they are right and you are wrong

the lunatics really are in charge of the asylum

black is white

and Jeremy Clarkson is a genius?

 

What if a man really is only as good as the car he drives

the mansion he lives in,

the beer he drinks,

the deodorant he wears?

 

What if this planet has an exact replica

on the other side of the universe

and someone is writing this poem

there, right now?

 

Copyright Mike Hopkins 2015

 

Poem a Day 2015 #1 – You, Anne Bradstreet

As if writing a poem a day for April isn’t enough, I’ve also just started an online course called “Ten Premodern Poems by Women“. It looks excellent. The first poem on the course is by a 17th century poet called Anne Bradstreet, a highly educated English woman who migrated to Massachusetts in 1630 as part of the Puritan exodus. She was the first North American female published poet. The poem being studied is “The Author to Her Book“, and it is her contemplation of the publication of her first book of poetry in her native England. She sees her poems as ragged orphans, unfathered children sent off in the world to find their fortune, whatever that may be.

I don’t write many formal, rhymed poems, but my first for April is inspired by reading Anne Bradstreet today. It uses some of the phrases from her original poem, and an ABAB rhyme scheme, 10 syllables per line; and it kills two birds with one stone – a poem for today, and my assignment for the course.

You, Anne Bradstreet

And then you are despatched to distant lands

A woman young, refined of wit and words

Midst frost and famine, danger, heathens damned

A place where poetry might seem absurd

A woman need not think, but work and breed

Yet still some sort of joy and love wells up

Though fervent faith constrains your thought and deed

A man adored and children given love

When work is done, and God is given praise

Your pen is put to use, your thoughts can spill

These offspring now are words, each one well raised

No man required, their seed is in your quill

And so they find their way back to your home

Your poems reach where you can ne’er return

In case of malice from the critics’ stones

Your virtue and your piety affirmed

Your feeble minded offspring, weak, ill formed

You let them go, with dirty cheeks and rags

To roam the world, unfathered, unadorned

Your irksome visaged, gangling, rambling brats.

Copyright Mike Hopkins 2015

 

Poem a Day 2013 #30: Face from the Past

Poem number 30.

I feel like a marathon runner limping over the line. 30 poems in 30 days is a great project, but I am now mentally drained. Here’s the final offering:

Face from the Past

I ran into him in the supermarket.

Older, but still that cocky look.

At first it felt good to see him.

 

We went to a coffee shop,

recalled memories

of laughs, of late night drinking sessions,

of shared trials and triumphs.

 

Then he launched into the same speeches

he used to make twenty years ago.

 

The one about how he hates Adelaide.

(he’s still here)

 

The one about how all Aborigines are useless

(he’s never actually spent time with one)

 

The one about how he’s broke

(he’s earned good money all his life)

 

The one about how women have always taken advantage of him

(he constantly scans the bodies of the young waitresses)

 

The one about how useless the Labor government is

(he’s spent most of his working life being paid by them)

 

But the final speech I hadn’t heard before:

how he’d been sacked for harassment

and was now having trouble finding a job.

That was a new one

but somehow it made sense.

Somehow it was all the others rolled into one.

 

We finished our coffees,

swapped telephone numbers,

promised to catch up for a beer.

 

I might see him again in another twenty years.

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Copyright Mike Hopkins 2013