Sally gave me the words NOW, GORGEOUS, and GAUDY. And I came up with this (rather cumbersomely-titled) poem.
LEAF LITTER ORGANISMS
Far below the gorgeous blossoms of spring branches
and gaudy summer blooms —
hide in a world of golds and browns
and seed pod husks,
bits of bark and damp and dark.
Hide away.
Now take the bushland’s songs and stories
taste them, test them, tear them,
bury them,
then
deeper
still …
until they turn to earth.
Sally gave me the words CRUSH, STORM, WHEN, NO, YES and I was super slow getting this poem written. (It’s been awfully busy in my household.) But here I am! Finally!
After a storm, when you run through the garden,
crushed nasturtium leaves
smell strong and peppery,
snails hide under their green glowing canopy
where no-one can see.
Willy wagtails shake raindrops from feathers,
they swoop and play,
they call to each other —
Will you dance?
Will you dance?
Will you dance?
Yes! I will dance!
I will dance!
I will dance!
Sally gave me BLUE DRINK SHINE YES.
You can see I’m a little late posting this poem. But I’m sure it’ll work just as well for starting term 4 …
The school break is over.
It’s time to prepare,
re-set the alarm clocks,
start brushing my hair.
My hat smells quite musty,
my shoes need a shine.
I can’t find my jumper —
this one isn’t mine …
I’ve got those
Term 3 back-to-school blues.
What’s this in my backpack?
My lunchbox is black.
I think it’s gone mouldy and
my drink bottle’s cracked.
Back to boring old sandwiches,
apples, (no cake).
How many sleeps
’til next holiday break?
I’ve got those …
yes I’ve got those …
I’ve really got those
Term 3 back-to-school blues.
Sally gave me these words: TOGETHER SEA TONGUE TO
In the end I decided not to fight the sea setting, so here’s what I have.
Together they rise to the surface of the sea.
With salt on their tongues, their lips,
they sing
of treasure.
Where? Where?
Deep down there
in the dark and cold, where barnacles hold
to shipwrecks —
glass and shells
and pirate gold.
Read some of our earlier poems featuring the sea:
Sing by Sally Murphy
Summer Swim by Sally Murphy
Cottesloe Beach Skipping rhyme by Rebecca Newman
A spooky poem for 31 October. (Sally gave me the prompts GHOST, ALMOST and USE.)
GHOST TRAIN ON PLATFORM 2
At 6.05
the ghost train pulls in to platform 2
but there’s no getting on
and there’s no getting off.
Maryanne scans the station
until she finds the woman with the pram.
Though she knows it’s no use, Maryanne knocks at the window —
“hello? hello?”
The baby looks up, alert.
He kicks his legs.
As the train pulls away Maryanne stares;
she’s almost sure …
next time.
Next time.
It’s been so long since Sally left words for me that you will have forgotten what the words were.
Here they are: HOPE SCULPTURE EDGY CONTEMPORARY.
And here’s the resulting poem, called ‘Hope.’ (I found this word combo the hardest Sally has given me. But I’m sure she would say that I deserved it after the Shakespearean tag I gave her earlier … )
Where the shadow of the house meets the lavender pots
is a contemporary sculpture made from boots.
Out in the street someone calls, come on!
but the boys are edgy —
they’ve done this before.
They pull boots from the pile
and shake them
and hope the cobwebs are old.
Method:
Sally at the beach <— Replace ‘Sally’ with skipper’s name.
on the caramel sands,
hops to the water
with a hot sand dance.
Along comes Tran <— Second skipper runs in & skips too.
looking for fun —
one cold splash!
Run, Sally! Run! <— Sally exits.
Tran at the beach <— Tran keeps skipping.
on the caramel sands,
hops to the water
with a hot sand dance.
Along comes Rebecca <— Another friend runs in & skips too.
looking for fun —
one cold splash!
Run, Tran! Run! <— Tran exits.
Rebecca at the beach <— Rebecca keeps skipping …
on the caramel sands …
Sally gave me the words BENEATH, CLOSE and WEEKEND. The non-human character featured in this poem was inspired by a willy wagtail, a frequent visitor here, and I kind of wished I’d taken a photograph of him so I could have included it with the poem. But if I wait till I get the photo, the poem will never get posted …
There’s a weekend bird
that chats to me
beneath the front yard lemon tree.
He hops on rocks and
pecks at leaves
and tells me all his joys and woes.
We watch the sky
and feel the breeze
beneath the front yard lemon tree.
And spelling lists
and mental maths
seem far away and long ago.
My weekend bird
hops close to me
beneath the front yard lemon tree.
Though he’s a bird
and I’m a boy,
we swap our stories; off he goes.
Can I tell you a secret? Today is Sally’s birthday. So, herewith — a poem written for Sally’s birthday using the prompts she left for me: TAKE, FELINE and CLOUD. (Happy Birthday, Sally!)
—
As Winter slinks out with feline disdain,
Spring elbows past her.
In her wake:
blue skies
cumulus clouds
yellow blossoms.
She takes a step into September
and breathes into the day.
Sally gave me the words birth and together.
I read an article once called something like: Writing tips from the Great Writers. One of the tips was ‘don’t write about trying to write’. Here’s a poem where I blithely ignore advice from the Greats. (Sorry, Greats.)
What should you do at the birth of an idea?
Swaddle it in muslin,
sit together in the dark
and rock;
whisper in its ear
with joy in your heart
and a spark in your eye;
then set it down
on its legs
and let it go.
© Rebecca Newman, 2015
Poetry Tag 