satyapriya

In long ago rooms,
in a suburb now crowded,
I'm told there are still echoes -
my voice singing Johnny Cash songs.
I withdrew my energy from that house,
but I go there in dreams.
Today, it's still an area
for young families,
and there's mention of a woman's voice
who sometimes sings,
and once in a while,
weeps so sadly
that even a Johnny Cash heartbreak song
would hang its head.
In long ago rooms,
I left a younger self
to continue a life
that no longer fitted.
In long ago rooms,
in dreams, I still walk the floor,
wondering how to dig myself out.


Dear Real Toads and Others:
DreamWidth makes it difficult to comment on my poems if you are not a DW member. Apologies. I am, when I can, reading your poems, even if I'm not commenting. Boy, launching a book is time-consuming!
More apologies for these poems being so late to the party. Between book, NDIS, and the short story course I'm doing, plus family, and all that jazz, well...WARGH!!!

Rhyme scheme: a, b, c, d, e, f, g, f.

Rhyme... ugh. Well, okay.

Making Magic Anywhere

Herbs to strengthen, boost, clear:
into the tea egg, into the cup.
Colour comes to the boiling water.
I stir counter-clockwise
to follow the sun's path.
Later, herbs into the garden bed
with the wish to bless and nourish.
My vegetables blessed, and well fed.


Thanks to any Real Toads reading. I'm sorry DreamWidth makes it so darned difficult to comment if you're not a member. I am reading your poems, inbetween madly proof reading my new book, and preparing for its launch.
4 stanzas? No hope. I'm thankful I got this skerrick.

Madly catching up on prompts from the Real Toads mob. Day 6: Today, let’s travel back in time, to feudal times in China, which began with the Xia dynasty in 2070 B.C., ending with the Revolution of 1911. In those times, girls and women, whose feet were usually bound, were oppressed, often living circumscribed lives of isolation.
In the Hunan province, peasant women developed a secret language of female writing, called nu shu. A young girl was matched with a lifelong best friend, or soul sister, called her laotang, with whom she communicated by letter.
Sometimes these messages were inscribed on fans, which were passed back and forth. It was not until the 1960’s that this secret language of women drew the interest of the authorities and scholars.
The story of one of these captivating relationships is told in the book by Lisa See, and the film Snow Flower and the Secret Fan.
Our exercise is to write a poem in the voice of another: in this case, the voice of a woman living in feudal times, addressing her laotang,
Or,
Write from the point of view of any living creature. The canvas is wide. Amaze me!

Sister, across the valley,
sister across the river,
sisters all spread through the land,
I write this in secret,
so that when the townsmen come for me
they won't think to burn the wooden stakes
that hold up my runner beans.
I will be gone to the stake,
to the wooden door laden with stones,
the ducking stool and the ice-riddled pond.
They know of me,
but none of you.
They will burn my broom,
but it has new straw.
Find the old in with the goat;
you will know it by touch.
It will sing to your fingers.
My shadow book is scratched
onto stones beneath the oak.
My cat is in the forest,
but comes to the sound of spoon on dish.
Find them, sisters,
find them, keep them.
Keep yourselves safe.
Burn these stakes to be sure.
Stay silent, as I will be
after today.


Many thanks to those reading, even if DreamWidth makes it difficult to comment. Be assured that I'm reading your poetry, inbetween madly proof reading my new book, and preparing not only for the launch, but travel shortly afterwards. Thankyou, Toads.

Which Witch?

I am one of the three
who trod Macbeth's blasted heath,
although these days,
it's the Australian couch grass
dry under me,
and my cauldron contains fire,
not toe of dog,
which I know, as an educated witch,
is hounds tongue, pest species of plant.

I am the one from the gingerbread house,
but mine's disguised by brown brick,
and red tile roof.
My oven doesn't work,
and it would be quite a job for anyone
to climb onto the stove,
wedge inside, and bake till crisp.
I eat fat little books,
and lie in wait for story ideas to trip past
after being lost in the suburban streets.

I am Willow who makes the world over,
letting a curlicue of magic into the Bible belt,
and tie-dye drift past the nursing homes.
I am Sabrina,
endlessly learning, studying,
but there are no aunts I can apprentice to,
only books, libraries, and the internet.

I have been Maiden, and Mother.
I am Enchantress.
I am Wise Woman, Healer,
Seer, Shaman.
I dance the world into being,
write it true,
set it free to Become as it will.
I have held newborns, labouring mothers,
the dying, and the dead.
Too many roles to name,
to conjure to a list.

I am a wind chime,
each facet ringing in turn.

Only a second to transform my own image
from odd girl
to witch.

Books unlocked her from the oven,
the cupboard, from the deep, dark woods.
She took my place in suburbia,
a cauldron for belly,
a hearthfire for heart,
a spitting black cat of a mind.

I Became,
spell by spell,
now that I had a name to call myself;
a regard for the Moon that went beyond
astronomy and science.

As the natural and unnatural world grew my backbone,
shaped me curved and sharp,
so those old Phoenician and Aramaic slopes and bowls
gave me what I’d hungered for:
a label, an understanding, something to believe in.

Inspired by MasteryGirl's latest book launch yesterday afternoon, yesterday morning I took myself to Le Wholefood Merchants café, to do some writing planning for 2018. This, of course necessitated, a new notebook, and new pens. Every new project needs new stuff like that. Which is why I have about 20 notebooks with 10 pages filled out.
All my new textas were pink and purple, because I was in that sort of mood. I even bought the Barbie-pink texta.
My new notebook is dusky pink with a gold pineapple on the front. It's very stylish, in a girly way.

So, I have three rewriting projects for 2018.
1. The spiritual memoir, which was dubbed, at the end of 2016, both 'witchy memoir' and 'how to be a new age wanker'. I thought they were separate projects They aren't. Last week I got chatting to a lass on facebook, in the Melbourne NaNo group, and she does book covers as a hobby. She offered to come up with a few for me, so I had to think up a title, lickety split. The working title is now 'In and Out of the Cauldron'. I'm not sure about that, but it's better than 'confessions of a witch'. I aim to have to offering to pro publishers stage by the end of 2018.
2. Children's books. A friend reminded me that I have 3 children's books I wrote circa 2002, when TwentiesGirl was in primary school, around Grade 3-4. Her friends enjoyed the books, and I thought little more about them. Prompted by this friend, and the interest of MothraBabe, I'm now looking these short books out. Rewriting, spiffing up, and out into the world they will go.
3. The short story collection, which now has the working title of 'The Communicant, and Other Stories'. That's in process with CDX Design. Launch aim date approx. March-April 2018.

Then there's new writing. To keep going to memoir group, I need to have memoir things written. I need to start something new, as I'm still not ready to tackle the rewrite of the TwentiesPerson memoir. I have the choice of writing stuff that is so hard, and so secret that it will never be a publishable thing, and a lighter(so I suppose) account of what I know of my mother's life, which is already titled 'What Lila Said'.
I want to participate in NaPoWriMo in April, too.

Writing all this down like this, I feel my stomach knot, and my mind whirl, and the panic set in. Too much, too much. Yet, if I take it slowly, and ask for help, I might just come through 2018 with at least 2 new books in the world, and a third with publishers. Plus new poems, and a memoir project done.
And retain my sanity.
It would make me feel really good to have done all this, and not copped fibromyalgia flare-ups, anxiety, or sleeplessness from the stress of what I'm going to attempt.
So, help I shall need. This means you, PizzaBoy, MotorCycleMan, MasteryGirl, OopsIHadABaby, SnakyPoet, and many others whose handles I can't remember off-hand(somewhere on my computer is a list of all your handles).
Please, please, help me get safely in and out of my shell.

Wholefood Merchants in Ferntree Gully has a café attached to the 'supermarket', and serves quite nice food, even if the menu changes on a whim, and every single thing I've ever liked there eventually gets supplanted by something containing wheat, quinoa, eggplant, or something I simply loathe.
I like to go there for brunch, to read, to shop, to browse, and sometimes to write. For that, I go in the non-rush times from 9.30-11.30am, and 1.30-4pm.
The café has a large water feature that's treated as a wishing well. It's a low, square pool of water, with a metal sculpture acting as waterfall.
Today, I gave a two year old three ten cent pieces to throw into the 'wish' for me, as she'd already emptied her mother's purse of all silver, and one gold coin ("Go all out, and make it a big wish!").
Whatever the poppet wished for, shortly afterwards, I finished the short story I've been mucking about with, and decided to have another crack at the idea of a water spirit living in the water feature. Two aborted short stories, and this time, a poem.
Well, that came tumbling out of me, and I thought I'd never find an end to it. I returned, yet again, to the idea of a female discovering she has a link to the water spirits.
So, thanks little girl, whatever your wish was. I feared that poetry had left me.
I'm so unsure of myself re poetry that I'll need to give a couple of people a look, and then I'll be brave and send it somewhere.
I have grave doubts about this. Every time I access Star*Line, the journal of the Science Fiction Poetry Association, I find 80% of the poems inaccessible. I just don't get them. And the remaining 20% are so sophisticated that I quail before their cleverness.
This poem I've just first drafted is very simple, and just says it. No obscurity, no high-falutin'. Both concepts are my enemy. Can't be doing with high-falutin' poems.
Anyway, maybe there's a home for it somewhere, once it's been tidied up. It would be nice to have one publication to my belt this year.
As for the short story, I'll also run that by a couple of likely suspects. And then see if the competition I aimed for is still open. I had an uneasy conversation with my muse on this story.
Satya: Here's the criteria: X, Y, two Z's, and a K.
Muse: Hmmm.... While you're in the bath tonight, riff on it to PizzaBoy.
Satya: But that's just silly riffing.
Muse: It's called brainstorming.
Satya: Oh.

Satya riffs to PB. PB gently eggs her on. Satya, as usual, takes it to weird places. Much giggling, and self-entertainment. Satya feels sparkly.

Satya: Um, Muse, how about that story....
Muse: You have the idea. The riff?
Satya: But that can't be the story, surely. It's...simplistic, silly. There's no logic.
Muse: Take it or leave it. That's what it is.
Satya: But Margaret Atwood is a judge. We've just finished watching 'The Handmaid's Tale'.... This isn't going to fly with her.
Muse: Want me to take it back?
Satya: No, no. It's just that....I thought our idea would be more....important.
Muse: You don't do straight importance. You go the Pratchett, Adams, and Asprin route. You use humour.
Satya: People don't take it seriously. They think there's no skill to it.
Muse: Must I remind you that those 'writer people' you're thinking of write shitbox clunky humour, and you don't. Now, here's a nice new notebook, and your favourite turquoise Lamy fountain pen. Get on with it.

Tomorrow, I start trying to transcribe my handwriting. Not as easy as it used to be. My handwriting is even worse, and my eyesight...well, I can see I'm in for a 'squint at the page, then type a few words, then squint at the page' session or two.

But that's tomorrow. Right now, I can tell you that all this chipperness is a smoke screen for The Sad, and The Exhaustion. I didn't sleep well last night, so fibro symptoms are rolling through me, namely joint and muscle pain. The Sad is nagging to consider images of hanging and being shot in the head. The Exhaustion wants me to lie down and die.
Yeah, well, not tonight, thanks. Now that I've realised that I'm on to my second World War II book, and I've been listening to another WWII book in the car, I've ceased 2/3, and am applying 'The Utterly Ultimate My Word Collection' by Frank Muir and Denis Norden. That should make me laugh, and I can forget about Nazis.
Full Moon in Aquarius, plus a partial lunar eclipse. No wonder my brain is messed up.

Poor sorting: I like that: that it all gets dropped, the big stuff enmeshed with the grainy soft stuff. The indiscriminate mess. That it forms a long train, so that seeing it all, one can trail events back. Guess at them. View time. And by way of the whole scattered and shifting pattern, by the gathering eye, make something of these loose details, collecting. - from "Glaciology" by Lia Purpura.

Imagine the bride down the aisle,
white train leaving behind her old life.
Along the curated carpet:
a Barbie here, a skipping rope there.
Over by the doorway, a tiny engagement ring
given to her by a boy desperate to fuck her
when she was eighteen,
the diamond speck scarcely visible
amongst light refracting off the rock on her finger today.
Her life revealed,
like a shock of ankle,
or a glimpse of 1913 stocking.
Heaven knows, now anything goes,
as old bikinis,
and a school uniform are kicked
by the mother of the bride
into a spare aisle at the back of the church.
And oh, over there, the body of her first dog,
old Aldo, who endured her toddler love.
Everyone pretends they can't see
her history sediment roughed up and exposed
by the glacier-white of her dress.
She streams past, hands trembling
ever so slightly,
and face frozen in a smile she's practiced
for years.
The groom, at the front of the church
yet to be ground down to rock flour,
as she approaches.
New territory open for both of them;
climate change, and going-away outfits.
The rubble is left behind
on the floor of the church,
as she looks ahead,
as though she knows what's coming.

The following are poems typed out from Jacquelyn Mitchard's excellent book THE MOST WANTED. The poems are by Sharron Singleton.
I have wanted to store copies of these poems for many years, but have never found a permanent home for them. This seems like as a good a place as any.

To Dillon For Our Wedding Day

Love is a season
for the migrant
heart to rest in.

Love is the wild
wind the heart
rides home on.

*****

Arlington

In some dumb wisdom your mama named
you, not after a person, but after a place.

Darling, you are all the lonely hometowns
in Texas, brown and sun-burnt, a little wild

a little sad. You are the high meadow
streaked with shadows of quick-moving clouds.

You are that narrow valley outside of town
where flowers bloom after a few drops of rain.

You are the place I am always moving toward,
the yellow light that spills from open

doorways, a darkened bedroom
with a dress thrown over the chair.

*****

Every bride

holds the future
in her mind
on her wedding night.

Here is the future
I want - enough
time to grow

ordinary and dull,
evenings
that settle

like moths,
you and I
on the porch stairs

in the dark, the glow
of your cigarette,
the smell of the first drops

of rain in the dust,
nothing to look forward to
but tomorrow

and the day
after that.

*****

The Sound of Bells

I'll always remember our first night
together, you so flushed and sky,
me knowing what I know but
scared too because you are the first one

I loved. We poured our loneliness
into each other and filled the emptiness
and dark corners of this place with joy.
Seeing you naked made me feel so tender.

I think of your long straight back,
your strong legs, see your hair on the pillow,
your dark eyes close, and say your name
over and over. Arlington. It is the sound of bells.

*****

The Terrain of Love

I thought love would be something so large
and bright I could not contain it, like an armful
of exploding firecrackers. I see now

that the terrain of love is small scale. There
are the fine golden hairs on the backs
of your hands, your voice as it thickens

when you say my name, your thumb
on the pulse of my throat, the day we first
stood together, not touching, just knowing.

*****

What's True

The hardest thing is to say what's true. You
aren't the first or the only but girl, when I think
of how you came to me, how your long dark hair
fell across my face, your skin rippled under

my hands, water-soft and water-cool, I am washed
clean, like Jesus said, and it seems to me
that if this is all I ever have, it is enough.

*****

Wind

This love sucks at me
like the Texas wind
that wants my clothes
that unbraids

my hair. It plucks
here and there
with strong fingers
pulls at the cords

of my wrists til
like a harp they
ache and sing
This love teases

unravels and loosens
til untucked
and love-struck
I open to you.

*****

Cell Dreams

Late at night: I am dreaming, something wind
pushes me along like a pebble in the path
of a dust devil, something unbroken in me -
or too much broken, crazed they say. My life
is a walk through an electrical storm - each hair
stands up, each cell is charged with this current;
there is nothing behind me and nothing ahead.

Later: cheap whiskey redemption scalds my throat,
brings peace in the night.

Later yet: headlights (now I'm dreaming
of you) and a thousand miles of highways, the night
juiced up with music - lonely cowboys, angel girls,
and death, a 2.00am country preacher,
testifying, rocking in the spirit (we have to),
stop at the motel, tear back the sheets, tumble
and tangle together, call out, "Oh,
Lord!" while above us stars burn
holes in the black night.

*****

Lullaby

Now I lay you down
my sweet, downy
head beneath my cheek,
to sleep your deep
and dreamless sleep.
The angels keep you
safe, I pray: my little one,
my Desiree,
and I will watch and I will wait
and rock this bough
that will not break.
No one will take
your soul this night.
I'm here.

*****

Chasing down more of Singleton's poetry, I find the following links:

https://www.sixfold.org/PoSum13/Singleton.html
http://streetlightmag.com/members/sharron/
http://www.rattle.com/ice-fishing-by-sharron-singleton/
http://richmondmagazine.com/news/winning-verse-03-25-2009/
https://rosinonmyfoil.wordpress.com/category/poems-i-like/sharon-singleton/

There are not enough of us to go
around:
those who chose to age,
to concern ourselves with tribal future.

We wise wimmin
travel the land along ancient lines,
healing with story, herb, bony touch.

Children explore our faces with wonder
for they do not know wrinkles,
the crevasses of the dark.

We are too few,
and needed too much.
Our stories are demanded,
but put it on the computer,
where I can read it later,
Old Woman.
Don't tell me truth
face to face.
The mirror of your eyes says too much.

So, we travel to where we are needed
but not wanted.
The adults hurry us on,
while children reach out their hands,
their mouths round O's of more.