Crayon poetry

engulfed

bethini — Mon, 23 Aug 2010 07:05:29 +0000

Engulfed:
by bliss and peace and beauty;
I lose my faculty of reason
and crumble into a cliche pulp-mill.

What I can say is nothing new
and yet the feeling of moment
of sudden flawless concatenation of circumstance
drives me to strive to show it;
but the subtle shadowplay,
of the scents the air the light:
I haven’t any words
that are not pre-chewed and a waste of time.

So I surrender to moment, to moment,
to movement, the flicker and dance; instead
of trying to speak, I listen.

solved

bethini — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 23:23:02 +0000

half a bottle down and the mysteries of the world
are smoothed over; we untangle and unkink:
you stretch backwards in your chair,
arms above, wings triumphant.
laughter and words run
soup-thick and fragrant
as jasmine rice.
we have found the worthy,
we have found the stupid, the cruel,
and know how to avoid them.

How To Read A Poem

bethini — Wed, 18 Aug 2010 07:12:58 +0000

stare at the clouds until
your neck hurts and then nudge the earth
with the toe of your shoe
and do not step on bugs that wriggle
across the pavement — they are epic heroes.

when the air is wine go into it
fully, soul-skinny-dipping
and feel corpuscles dancing.

when muscari appear in the crooks of roots
and mushrooms bubble out from loam
nod to them but do not stop — they are private.

speak nothing but “I love you”
or “that is not true” and
side-step committee meetings
and garage sales.

sit up late; but only when
the talk of the night
the words of the night
spin you both into one silver thread
that never unravels.

and when you see a poem:
there will be no letters;
only the fire and the force.

Drinking spring

bethini — Mon, 16 Aug 2010 07:17:34 +0000

My lust for the year sated, I thought,
Dulled by the excess of winter nights
and frosted dawns. My appetite
waned and I, drowsy and bored,
wearied of the year’s continuation.

Until I stumble upon a spring:
I stub my toe upon a spring:
I discover an unexpected spring:
it gushes, flushes, rushes at me;
foam washes over ankles and feet
and wakes me, stirs me,
electrifies my blood;
the champagne of the seasons bursts its banks
and excites me with a flood.

Running summer

bethini — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 01:07:47 +0000

Running on tearing dry footpaths
and through the house
in a herd of cousins,
feet cut on drought-dry grass
and bindii patches,
Into the scrub up back.
Between the splintery back fences of the suburb,
Big bad dogs in that yard,
Don’t go too close to that one
(he’ll throw stuff at us
and tell Mum we were trespassing).
Look out for snakes and bunyips
and the bad kids from school.
Follow the scrub and fenceline maze

To the promised land
The soccer fields
Glorious green space
We run and run.

Emergence

bethini — Fri, 13 Aug 2010 00:41:39 +0000

Twisted up and a little soggy,
I start to feel too cramped and caged.
The door splits,
Spilling sunlight,
I uncoil and turn unsteady eyes to the glare.

I push against the gap,
Gentle, gentle, don’t go too fast,
The door smoothly swings,
Gentle, gentle, not too fast.

I’m sticky and hopeful,
Porcelain fine and baffled;
Gentle, gentle, don’t go too fast,
The drying light, the wind,
The smell of evaporating damp;
Gentle, gentle, not too fast.

I stretch, unkink, I ease outwards;
I pulse, I throb:
Dizzy drunk on daylight.

Steady me, one hand between my wings,
As they unwrinkle, foil-thin and cellophane-crackle;
(Gentle, gentle,)
Hungry, empty, dry and winged:
Naked in the light,
I begin.

An Earlier Conversation

bethini — Mon, 09 Aug 2010 08:15:52 +0000

With some confusion, I asked again,
`But what makes your feelings real?’
She gestured vaguely, a sandwich in hand,
`One doesn’t know: one feels.’

Resisting the urge to roll my eyes,
I asked her to make herself more clear,
But immediately regretted it
As she obviously held the topic dear.

`I think you should be governed by the heart:
It’s the highest, truest form of guide;
And to force it under the reign of the mind
Is to let your best happiness elide.’

(She didn’t speak quite that clearly,
She was both inarticulate and eating lunch,
I’m paraphrasing, generously, the above,
Based on an interpretative hunch.)

I decided not to press it further,
Not sure my eyes could take more rolling,
I promised to give the matter more thought,
And so I set off a-strolling.

While we don’t share philosophical ground,
She’s a rather endearing, arrogant elf.
But I don’t think I want, anytime soon,
To repeat lunch with my former self.

Three black birds

bethini — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 07:04:47 +0000

Three black birds
and one white — I lay
exhausted and flattened
on the grass
— three black birds
and one white;
no wing beat;
only for a second —
and I stamped
clumsy rubber meaning,
optimistic mysticism:
three — a trinity, a triad, a triptych;
(what about the white one following,
what could the white one following mean)
I lay exhausted and flattened
on the grass
and read between the lines of birds
and looked for hope
from some Divine Force:
in whom I only didn’t not believe
because I had never heard of.
Three black birds
and one white
gone before I could
twist them mystic.

Widow

bethini — Wed, 04 Aug 2010 06:55:03 +0000

(1)

Slashed and gashed,
and rawly torn,
grief’s sirocco burns.

(2)

The dust is settled thick;
Chokes up the books and coats
that don’t get used
and slide from weary fingers.

Wine to cook with; an
early start but who’s counting;
she’s chatty with The 7:30 Report,
talking with her mouth full
and dozing after.
The hollow house sealed:
she’s a coin in an empty Milo tin.

(3)

A half-turn of the orb: she’s on it.
The assumed-salted soil
grows a coil;
Green and tightly wound,
unsought, but after all, why shouldn’t she
and why not; plans root down.
And come spring rains will
push up out on out of dust, litter
out up out toward light.

from a chipped glass

bethini — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 09:03:31 +0000

I could hear my mother’s chorus of one;
if it’s chipped you could slit a lip.

For you, the wine
splashes
against my slit lip
and only heals
what could have stung.