Non-renewable: A Poem

do not put your faith in falsenesses

in those renewables that are not renewed 

through death birth and unfolding life 

but through the uprooting of earth’s bones

blood flesh and guts the very heart of 

things that will stop beating stop being

even when the sun keeps shining and

the wind keeps blowing though there 

are no longer leaves skin or lungs

A Dark Place: A Poem

I’ve done a lot of stream of consciousness writing over the last couple of months—most of it absolute drivel—but even when I think I can’t write, out comes something that has some meaning, and becomes a found or accidental poem. It may not be the best writing, and I do hope it’s not too self-pitying, but it is true writing, and so worth sharing.

I wish I had some words

wish I could write                   poetry 

something to make sense

of where I am

but I don’t have words

don’t have understanding          at all 

I can say nothing 

can put nothing down

and I read novels

these dystopian tales 

by women             and I think 

I will never write because

I will never be able 

to make sense of my thoughts 

like them                those brilliant women

will never have the imagination 

to write as they do

the courage to embrace ambiguity

to face such           difficult things

I guess I have been avoiding 

looking into the eyes 

of the death mother

even though I feel 

such an affinity 

with her

I keep wishing to 

return to the earth 

because I don’t know 

how to go on

yet I will change my thoughts 

when my energy changes

that’s what always happens 

and I become new 

and different

and it’s so stupid

that I am not                   myself

that I am more than one

that there are selves inside

and they come out 

at different times

I know 

this is just a mood

that will pass

I know

still there’s some truth 

in how I feel I feel         I feel 

I wish I felt more           and better 

knew when I was           distorting 

telling myself lies

I wish I understood

learned faster

was a better human being 

for a line I read in a book 

told how feeling terribly 

about yourself 

is just a kind 

of narcissism 

and so I really wish 

I could stop thinking 

about myself at all 

and just get on with life

but the problem is that 

I can’t do anything 

except this                   here

(and badly at that)

so all I think about 

is myself and my feelings 

a world of grief 

and I wish I could go  elsewhere 

be something               different 

new and reborn

transformed 

something 

anything

but I am stuck in          no woman’s land 

a dark place

the emptiest of     shadowlands

Memories of Spring

Since finishing my last painting, which I thought was returning me to a more sustained state of creative flow, I have not been able to do much. Another painting was begun, but then abandoned. Another idea was scribbled into my sketchbook, but has not progressed. Susan Griffin’s quote about the illusion of wellness has never seemed more apt.

The imagery and words that had started to spill out have now retreated within, tangling inside me, with no outlet, no freedom. Such are the seasons of illness, I suppose. I must simply endure, and wait.

Still, I can at least share with you some memories of spring …

A silver-eyed Australian raven.

Reading my story published in the second volume of Heroines, from the Neo Perennial Press.

Showy blossoms and new green.

The beautiful fabrics I bought for (yet to begin) sewing projects.

Mist on the mountains, and the pitter-patter of rain—particularly sweet memories in these dry and dangerous days of fire around the state.

Two red wattlebird chicks, waiting patiently for their next feed.

This handsome little man, strutting his stuff—a superb fairy-wren.

A fast growing wattlebird chick feeding herself from one of the thirteen waratah blooms we had on the bush in our front yard.

Expansive skies.

And sweet little gifts.

It looks like a long, hot and very dry summer is ahead of us. Rain would be most welcome, but in its absence I will keep seeking what small, succulent gifts I can find.