You have the attention span,
he said,
of a gnat.
I thought [briefly]
about that:
the skim
the look;
the review
not the book;
the single
not the CD;
a movement not
the whole symphony;
the single poem—
a story won’t do—
especially if short
think haiku.
Life’s short.
Try this, that.
Stay light,
says the gnat.
Quilton Loves My Bum
I know it’s clever advertising
but it’s kinda creepy too
the idea that some stranger called Quilton
‘loves your bum’.
Going by his presence on the supermarket shelves
he seems to love a lot of bums.
I’m sure it’s Platonic
but couldn’t they have used ‘like’?
wouldn’t that have been preferable?
It’s sort of reassuring that Quilton ‘loves’ your bun
but it’s kinda creepy too.
I wash myself with transcendental soap,
it makes me shine, lathers my hope,
rinses away all my petty needs,
you know the ones: the urge to pee,
to have three square meals, to sleep
it lifts me high, takes me deep
whenever I feel that I’m on the ropes
I wash myself with transcendental soap
When I can’t figure things out
& I seem to have lost my way
you always know the right things
the right things to say
I know words don’t come easy
that meanings go astray
but still you know the right things
the right things to say
I may have the learning
the diploma and B.A
But besides you I’m inarticulate
lost for what to say
At the end of each morning
at the end of each day
you always know the right things
the right things to say
O
the voluptuous girth
of you
yr full mouth
yr
tiny tiny waist
I love
to twirl
between forefinger and thumb
yr long tapering body
rich aromas
the blush
of yr beauty
the swill
of yr full-bodied flavours
down
my
gullet
Do you find that? That you are lying on the bed, buried in a book when suddenly you come across a passage that is so striking, so delightful you must write it down? And then you dash to your laptop and keyboard your excitement so others can read when you post it to your blog? Do you do that?
Here is the passage I found quite early into my voyage of ‘The Last Voyage of Mrs. Henry Parker’: ‘on the shelf above the clothes rail were two identical life jackets lying side by side like a canoodling couple …’ Even more apt when you learn she is waiting for her beloved husband to board.
It was an extra pleasure to be able to GO INTO the library, roam around the new book shelves, and strike up conversation with the librarians whom I had not seen for over seven weeks.
Do you do that? Do you copy out passages? What’s the last book you were really excited about, particularly regarding the quality of writing?
Being a lazy shopper and wanting some books to read in lock-down, I wandered to a bookstore which had a sidewalk sale. I found a section of broad interests that could offer some joy to me and my partner and purchased them all.
I don’t know who Jo Wood is but it’s a catchy title —‘Hey Jo’ — and it’s a story of a ‘Rock and Roll Fairy Tale’ so it sounds promising. Don’t know about ‘The Rum Cock Guide’ though. That sounds a little priapic. As for ‘Adelaide’, well, that’s my home town Still, there may be some hidden spots we don’t know about.
Have a glance over the titles. Which do you reckon you’d go to first? Do you think it’s a healthy selection?
Which book/s will you take with you during lock-down?
I know I should be reading Defoe’s Journal of the Plague Year
or Mann’s Death in Venice to prepare me for what’s ahead
but I don’t want to be infected any more than I am with the virus
of Fear and Dread. I need something light to calm my farm,
something like If I Had A Sleepy Sloth or that old perennial Possum Magic
to put a skip in my step, a lilt in my heart.
[ for Cathy ]
It used to be good here .
Had plenty of company .
I doubled as a fort ,
the deck of a pirate ship ,
the keep of a medieval castle ,
always the last refuge where they
fought off the enemy .
Things got pretty noisy at times .
But when the dust settled ,
they’d settle down to a meal
of cookies and rasberry cordial .
In winter , though , things got quiet .
I’d hardly ever see them .
They were like bears hibernating
in the cave of the house .
Then spring would come
the sun bursting through the clouds
and they’d race outside
and it’d start all over again .
But then one day —-
though it must have taken longer ,
they stopped coming at all .
I guess they though I was too babyish
for them .
For years I sat out there all alone
with just memories for company .
But then one day a sound
that made the sun rise in my wooden heart .
A baby’s cry .
It wouldn’t be long , I thought . Less than a year .
And I was right .
I had company all over again .
It was a girl baby so the games
were a little different .
Less noisy . Less rambunctious .
But I was getting older anyway
so I didn’t mind .
Now we keep each other company .
Sometimes her friends come over .
It’s like the old days .
It’s good .
A writer disappears into his books.
It is a familiar story.
And a familiar paradox.
If a man does not disappear into his books
They will not be written.
A judicious voice says, a balance must be struck.
But we are talking Creativity.
It is in the same category as Love and War.
If a man is to write a million words
Then he must disappear into his books.
He will not always be available.
Marriages will strain, children be neglected.
A woman can disappear into her books too
But not as readily.
Maybe she is more tethered to the world.
Maybe that’s it.
