Now that August has officially ended, and Spring has knocked politely on the front door I can wrap up the last of this month’s pieces.
And now, as adults, at a family gathering around a meal of spaghetti bolognaise, abbreviated as ‘spagbol’ – one word, not two – we each cut our children’s spaghetti; fragmenting sentences into phrases, clauses and syllables caught between the tines of forks and uttered between lengthy pauses while conversation pools in puddles of sauce.
The temporality of whiteboards and their content, known to me as a teacher, also makes a great canvas or notepad. I can write on it, amend, and take a photo to preserve it then erase it as if it never existed.
I rub the scar tissue on my knee, the geography of brothers
a reminder of when I had pieces of gravel scrubbed from my flesh
after you had pushed me onto the bitumen
the playful violence having given way to silence in later years
because we never found the words to replace our actions
I’ve had this used drum head for a while and I loved the texture that happens when a coated drum head deteriorates and I wanted the texture to reflect the tone and content of the poem.
I finally got around to finding the right words. I’m not happy with the penmanship; maybe I should have used a different handwriting style. However, I like the content.
1 Object/2 Poems
tongues of flame above our heads
descending to our mouths, our lips
duplicating another tongue withthe anticipation of consuming
tongue-twisted ecstacies of abandonment
unto one another
burning twice, existing briefly
tongues of flame
the revolution of the insolent
ashes in the wind
fragmentary colour/blooms quickly then disappears/a father’s anger
Even though August is not yet over, a little over half way, here is a quick creative roundup.
Words have been in short supply due to work commitments (there’s always marking to do when you’re an English teacher) so in the interim, a bit of blackout poetry can fill the creative need.
Counting Words. Edging ever so close to the end of this novella. I added a little over 600 words in August (and read hundreds and hundreds more in student essays).
The “blank” canvas.
The finished version of the “blank” canvas. Not totally happy with the results but it was an experiment. Needs more experimenting.
I haven’t drawn in a while and took an afternoon to play around with pencils and pens.
after emily dickinson
the batteries in my torch died out early
in my teenage years when I tried to
illuminate myself so I fell to writing
epigraphical epithets in the moonlight
with a label maker, affixing them in lines
of chapter titles to catalogue myself
before others blacked out letters
leaving the white space like stars
new constellations to navigate the unknown
Posted in Ars Poetica, Creativity, The Writer's Life
Tagged art, creativity, experimental, fiction, fiction friday, flash fiction, Friday flash, handwritten pages, micro-fiction, microfiction, micropoetry, poetry, writers, writing
the rain begins falling on the footpath,
a polite smattering of applause
before the crescendo of ovation
rises, peaks, slackens and fades
watering the seed fallen on stony ground
while the petrichor rises in wisps
the incense to your leaving
and the beginning of the drought
Posted in Ars Poetica, Creativity, Short Stories
Tagged art, creativity, experimental, fiction, flash fiction, handwritten pages, poetry, writers, writing
to erase me is to wipe
away the graffiti as though
it can make up for the
late night tags written
under cover of darkness
where I wear the smell
of spray cans as deodorant
and the rattle of the ball bearing
the music of our minds
This came about because my daughters had this whiteboard in the lounge room when they were practicing dance and Physie routines. The board was clean and next to it was the whiteboard marker and eraser. I debated getting the black whiteboard marker from my pencil case (I am a teacher after all) but stuck with the purple and wrote this up on the spur of the moment, tapping into the impermanency of the surface and the content of the poem. Tonight the girls are using the white board to play games of Hangman.
As a side note, does anyone else have trouble spelling “graffiti”? I always mix up the number of “f’s” or “t’s” but thankfully I wrote it correctly.
I’m riding past the fibro houses linked like rosary beads, counting them as you would Hail Marys because only Mary understands housing commission. And everyone knows at least one teenage mum. I stole the bike from someone’s front yard but told mum I found it in a hard rubbish clean up. Gave it a coat of paint from a spray can. Maybe one day I’ll drop it back where it came from. Right now, I am king and priest.
No, not a weekend of debauchery but snaffling a few minutes for some creativity in the midst of a crazy busy week.
Meanwhile the novella lies neglected waiting for a brief respite from the chaos to get more words out and finish it. The end of it is so very close.
Anyway, blackout poetry is like little moments of clarity. Find the right words and erase the rest.