A Poetic Achievement

I recently entered a poem that has featured here in a competition run by DeScribe a Deakin University Writers' Group. The competition was organised in conjunction with Verandah, Deakin's literary journal, and was judged by the Verandah editors and "Little Pig" came in Runner Up.

I have never won anything with my poetry before so this is a very exciting moment for me!

Cheers,

Deb

Dark places and shadows

Here's a poem from a while ago. It's one of those ones that when I read it now it makes me think, "Gee, who wrote that? Couldn't be me, makes my skin crawl a bit." I'm not really sure where it came from, one of those dark places we all have I suppose...

On a pleasant note, I have my first 'follower'! (Sounds rather cult-ish doesn't it?) How exciting. Hello, Mara, thanks for joining.   :)

Cheers,

Deb

corner shadows

cowering in the corner

of our winter’s discontent

lime legs spider-crawl

creating elongated silhouettes

flies stick in honey and eyes

nose

mouth

open hunger creeping in the shadows

elusive sleep shivers

a death rattle, maybe

later buried in a pine box

scratching at the corners

fingernails

splinters

tips numb, rubbed raw in a frenzied effort

a dash for freedom

dashed hopes and resignation

crumpled

in the corner

Nikaura Nakamal & Kava

Nikaura

The low thunk – thunk – thunk is reassuring. It means the kava I have been invited to share at the nakamal tonight is being pounded rather than prepared in the more stomach-churning traditional method.

The nakamal in the village of Nikaura, Epi Island, Vanuatu, is a nakamal in the original sense. Unlike the “nakamals” in Port Vila, the country’s capital, which are no more than kava bars, Nikaura’s acts as a public hall, an overflow church, the village court and an education centre. It is also somewhere for the men to meet, when the sun dips behind the volcanic hills that flank the village, and drink kava.

The men sit around the wide opening to the building, or in the open window frames either side of the central doorway. The walls are constructed of rough, upright tree

 fern logs built around a frame that will stand the test of time, space, any dimension you want to throw at it. And I wonder where the crane came from to lift the roof beams into place.

“No, mifala liftem evriwan*,” replies my guide, Joshua, “We sing them, we sing the wood to make it light.” [* No, we lifted all of it.]

The women weave the thatch for the expansive roof but otherwise are not involved in nakamal-building. There are some clear distinctions between men’s and women’s business in Vanuatu, the strictness of which depends on where you are. In Nikaura, women do not generally drink kava. Being a white woman I am not only exempt; I am also a special guest and therefore expected to participate when invited.

The thunk – thunk – thunk continues in the dusk, as the mosquitoes begin biting and the changing tide turns up the volume of the waves. The squeals of children playing in the shallows and running barefoot on the coral beach carries up into the cooler darkness of the nakamal. The men talk quietly; in Bislama to me, in local language to each other. They have spread out a pandanus mat for me to sit on and I have respectfully chosen to wear a garishly coloured island dress.

I am thankful for the sound of pounding kava because the traditional method is to have young boys chew and spit out the root of the plant used to make the narcotic drink before it is soaked in water and strained through a cloth. It is the muddy-looking solution that is drunk as kava. It tastes similar to how it looks, although the visual image cannot prepare you for the bitterness, or how it might catch in the back of your throat, or how your gag reflex may respond to such a foreign encounter. All of these reactions are heightened if you know it has been in someone else’s mouth already.

Of course, you take the good with the bad. Kava is a relaxant and you may find it gives you the opportunity to recline on a pandanus mat, contemplate some amazingly large nakamal roof beams and wonder,

“Just where did they get the crane?”

Little pig, little pig...

Here's another of the poems I was working on earlier on the year. I presented it at the reading I was part of and I've since sent it off to a journal... I'm still waiting to hear. I thought I would share it here in the meantime.

Cheers,
Deb
________

Little Pig, Little Pig...

There was a fourth little pig
a ‘black sheep’ the others don’t like to talk about
didn’t buy a bundle of twigs
or even straw
certainly wasn’t into conventional bricks and mortar.

Instead he wove around himself
walls of words
in the fashion of a wordy igloo.
Transparent passages formed windows,
dark thoughts became heavy drapes to cover them
and keep out peering Curiosity.

And far from being blown away by the ravenous Wolf
the little pig lived safely cocooned
in stories,
keeping the world at bay.
All potential intruders began reading
and before they knew it they were searching
to find out how it ends.

Looping calligraphy papered the walls
of his imagination-warm living room
and the fourth little pig reclined
hidden
behind bewitching literature,
writing poems in the air
to keep the Wolf out.

Fires - Saturday 7th Feb, 09

I don't want to write very much about the fires, there are already so many stories out there much more important than mine. My role was a very small one; as a member of the Mt Camel Brigade of the CFA, I joined a stike team to patrol the town of Wandong on Sunday night. It was already dark when we arrived and it was difficult to understand how much damage had been done. I wrote the following poem as we left the town via the Hume Hwy just before dawn.


Wandong early Monday 9/2/09

The predawn light
makes the white gum trunks
stand starkly from the dark
silhouette of leaves
and ground

Amongst them there are
houses
with only a slight
shift in their shape
no lights in the windows

The predawn tells
a kinder story than
the one we are going
to hear
because when dawn
breaks
the blackness remains
and the shapes don't
shift back

Not the usual NYE

My New Year’s Resolution: There are peaceful, harmonious people in the world and I am going to try to be one of them.

This New Year’s Eve found me with a group that expanded and contracted like a breath. We were camped on the banks of the Yarra River at Longridge – at its smallest, the group was eleven, at its largest, twenty-five. People came and went in dusty bare feet, spending the time that they could, sometimes going to work from the camp and returning in the evening. And there was an endless trickle of new arrivals embraced and held while the children ran off together despite age differences. For the most part, these people were new to me. Two of them were old friends, they had introduced me, invited me here to join the group, they said I would fit in, that I would love it; but there had been subtle warnings about the ‘alternative’ nature of some of the people I was likely to encounter.

I have trouble with the term ‘alternative’. When applied to music in a music store rack, it suggests a level of uncertainty about where the particular artist should go, or else it seems to be a bit of a cop out. Either way I don’t like the implied lack of effort – music shouldn’t be so passionlessly pigeonholed. When applied to people or communities, it’s a bit strident, as if the need to label the community ‘alternative’ takes something away from the community in question.

“What will they expect of me?” The question harassed me as I packed my new nylon tent and wondered if perhaps it wasn’t suitable, maybe they’d all be in biodegradable tipis, or building bark humpies, or in simple swags. The eskies brimming with crushed ice and the perishable food went into the boot next. Would the others have eskies? Maybe they’d make Coolgardie safes or nestle the vegies into a cool spot in the river. Even the car boot that I was packing came into question – rather conventional, wasn’t it, a sedan? They probably all drove comby vans or mini mokes with the tops down no matter what the weather was like.

When I nestled my car between a comby van and another sedately white sedan in the carpark of the Longridge Campground, and looked out into the camp to see a mixture of swags, old canvas continental tents, tarpaulins strung between trees and new nylon domes the nervousness that I had wound like a tight coil in my neck without even knowing it released like a spring.

I was introduced and welcomed as if I had always been there.

This New Year’s Eve, instead of drinking too much chardonnay, I wowed the gathered crowd with my limited skills in fire twirling because I thought they would appreciate them, despite the stumbles and faults. This New Year’s Eve, instead of everyone ‘bringing their own’, they all brought something, put it together and cooked and ate communally; modifying old favourite recipes to cope with the dietary requirements and tastes of the group without a murmur. This New Year’s Eve, instead of music at an obnoxious volume and illegal fire-crackers, there was spontaneous singing, chants and humming and sparklers for the young and young at heart.

This New Year’s Eve, instead of making rash resolutions whilst under the influence of the afore-mentioned chardonnay, or regretful lamentations the next morning about “never drinking again”; this year it was a process. While sitting around the campfire, drinks in hand, somebody suggested the group might like to do something about making New Year’s resolutions; did everybody want to talk about the idea? An older woman with short red hair that stood out at irregular angles said she had been at a workshop before where they imbued their drinks with a thought or a resolution they wanted to make and drank it down so it became a part of them. The group generally liked this idea but some didn’t want to speak their idea or resolution aloud, so instead just focused on it and channelled the idea into their drink. Waiting, slightly open-mouthed for the opportunity and the courage, I held my thought in my mind for a couple of sips as I toasted the wishes and dreams of others around the fire. Then I breathed, “I want to take every opportunity to find joy and laughter in 2009.” Everyone raised their glasses and drank. “Cheers! I’ll drink to that!” And a peaceful smile has been playing at my lips ever since.

Season's bleetings

This time of year always brings out a little bit of the bah-humbug in me. Don't get me wrong, I love the catching up with friends, good food and good cheer but is it necessary that we do this to amongst whiny, tinny-voiced Christmas carols?

Not being an advocate of Christian festivals, I appreciate that maybe I'm being a bit biased but they're everywhere and they're HORRIBLE. Either 'canned-laughter' cheery or morose and I can't decide which is worse.

With that little rant off my chest, I should add that I've had a lovely 'season' so far. Friends and family joined us at our block for a Summer Solstice barbeque, we exchanged presents with family yesterday and Christmas day will be spent with my sister-in-law's family, after which I will really need to join the gym and watch my kilojoules! I'm also planning on a little pre-New Year's resolution because I have to submit some poems to the literary mag, Going Down Swinging before the end of the year. Deep breath, here goes nothing!

Season's greetings to everyone, whatever season you're celebrating!
Cheers,
Deb