This poem I am writing on a bumpy tablecloth
has the audacity to give itself birth at a workshop
dinner group, one which I was not really invited to,
but came to, all the same.
It claims to need its own height, up here
on our Fridays-at-Flaxton barn-storming,
our erudite poetry readings, with superb views
of hills, ocean, fields and more hills.
At this point someone sneezes, another wheezes.
It is April. On my second page with this thing
[and no one knows I am writing it … ]they think
I am checking finances and correspondence.
Truly, this is a work with a finger in its ear
and a tug at a beard. A work of delayed wisdom.
It has the stamp of a ring of Shiraz to tone down
sobriety, of which there is much as words spill.
The poem is becoming a liability, a fugitive
hiding beneath two villanelles and a bush ballad.
A guest speaker pipes up as I scribble: ‘Poetry
comes in the middle of the night’, she intones,
‘… even I have risen at 2am to get down my muse.
Poetic thought is a work recollected (in tranquillity?).
No, she insists ‘silence’. Well, I ... I am a midwife with
lots to write and little to say. I stop writing …
add these words later. ‘Your turn,” a lady insists.
I read a poem by Billy Collins. Australia will not
boast a poet Laureate so Billy suits my poem (and me) fine!
I read his “Today” and then gaze at “a larger dome of blue.”
This poem I have written on a bumpy tablecloth
may well disown me, but it is born. You read its words.
It is not a marvel. It will not move Shakers or Quakers.
Yet, despite me, it insists it is a poem and not doggerel.
As for me, I am a scrivener, hardly worthy of holding onto
the coattails of Frost, Auden, Eliot and Yeats.
They would never have given birth to a poem
at a poetry dinner in a rural barn.
Contrarily, this poem gave birth to itself.
Undress it once. Then cover it up.
It will otherwise blush for its nakedness.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A BIRTHING, EARLY MORNING
This poem I am writing on a Sunday morning
has the blessing of my wife, to give itself birth.
It claims to need its own height, up here
on the Range, in our cool mountain airs.
Nothing erudite, just a morning with superb views
of epithets, lines, stanzas and more lines.
At this point the radio bursts forth. A beautiful bass voice
sings, "The beautiful, the beautiful the River."
It is April. My words are gathering swiftly
at this river, flowing by the throne of Ted Hughes.
I am checking emails for any correspondence.
Truly, this is a work with a finger out of its ear
and a tug at a beard. A work of forthright wisdom.
It has the stamp of a ring of Shiraz to tone down
sobriety, of which there is much, as words spill.
The poem is becoming an addiction. I place it,
a fugitive hiding beneath two villanelles
and a bush ballad. It may be a poetic thought
recollected (in tranquillity?) Well, I ...
I am a midwife with lots to write and little to say.
I stop writing ... add these words later.
I read a poem by Billy Collins. Australia will not, can not
boast a poet Laureate, so Billy suits my poem (and me) fine!
I read his “Today” and then gaze at “a larger dome of blue”.
This poem I have written on a Sunday morning
may well disown me, but it is born. You read its words.
It could be a marvel ... move Shakers or Quakers.
Yet, as my wife assures me, it is a poem, not doggerel.
Contrarily, this poem gave birth to itself.
Undress it. Then cover it up.
It will otherwise blush for its audacity.
Oh! I am late for St. Mary's Communion.
Silver trophy winner
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