Thursday, January 29, 2015

A Sentiment

How do they all know each other?
Various friends in the house.
Time to write/grieve your father
Ought to do something about that.
(HINT: it is not enough for beer)
1 can of crescent rolls. What?
Me reading is intrinsically social.
I'm sure we can sort something out.
Made using #poetweet, whereby random bits of my tweets are put together in a poem by a robot.

Wednesday, January 28, 2015

Regular life

Days come back, a long list of to-dos:
get up and live, eat breakfast, feed them,
count the hours or make the hours count,
write your name on the back of an envelope,
sit on the bed while the children call,
ignore the dog at the door,
watch the leaves make shadows on the bedroom wall,
get around to something and begin it,
make a phone call, a sandwich, a decision,
boil the kettle, let your tea go cold,
turn on the television for the kids,
go outside in the sunlight,
look at the leaves, look at the sky,
throw a stick for the dog and wait.





Sunday, January 25, 2015

like a memory

We sat next to the kitchen garden, on the brick paving that held the warmth from the day (like a memory). Tiny bats skimmed close over us (like a memory), we peered up at them in the indigo dark, and everything (like a memory) was settling in deep. From the hills we heard steady techno beats (like a memory), distant enough that it did us no harm (like a memory), it could have been the pulsing of the stars. 

Saturday, January 24, 2015

How do you find time to write/grieve your father

I do it after the kids go to bed.
I wake early in the morning and do it when everyone else is sleeping. Sometimes I do it in my dreams.
I do it in public, discreetly, so no one knows what I’m doing, because I don’t want anyone to ask me about it. I do it on public transport, or in cafes. The best place is the library, because books make good camouflage.
I don’t. I neglect it. I put it off for later. I procrastinate. I bake a cake or watch TV. Then there is guilt and shame.
I’ve learned to do it in scraps, five minutes here or there, those bits of time when you suddenly find yourself alone.
I do it standing up at the kitchen bench. I do it at the cost of everything else. The laundry piles up. The kids run feral. The saucepan burns.
I schedule time for it. I put aside a morning, a day, a weekend. This isn’t foolproof. All it takes is a sick child, an emailed request, a knock on the door, a mechanical fault and this time diminishes as if it was never mine at all.
How do you know I’m not doing it now? I’m doing it all the time. It’s not an activity. It’s a filter through which I experience the world.

Sunday, January 18, 2015

I have lost nothing

He used to give me lemons to bring home on the plane,
He ate the soft insides of things, velvet brown organ meats,
He had no central vision but he painted a world he saw: colour, light, form.

I have lost nothing. The past is not yet sealed.

Saturday, January 17, 2015

Driving Dreams

When I was a little girl
my father would be at the wheel
of our orange Renault 12
me sliding around
the leather bench seat
with the silver buckle undone.
I'd look up and he'd be gone.
I had this dream often.

Last night I was the one behind the wheel,
I dreamed
of driving too fast
around corners.
It was late, there was traffic,
a flood,
policemen, road blocks, an overturned car.
I got lost.
I dreamed of driving up escalators
of leaving the car
then not being able to find it
in a Melbourne-Hobart
hybrid city.
I woke up
frightened, then relieved.



Friday, January 16, 2015

Notes towards arranging a funeral

a found haiku

They hold the ashes.
Hot catering for fifty.
BYO booze.