Counting down to Edinburgh

At the start of August I'll be heading to the UK to take part in the Scottish Universities' International Summer School. I'm going to give the Creative Writing Course a red hot go.

I'm both nervous and excited by this opportunity. I think I'm feeling a little intimidated by it all and I'm not sure that I'm up to it. I tend to do this to myself - dash out onto the limb and then realise how far down it is, get scared, vow not to look down again, look down anyway, have a mild panic attack while I imagine myself splattered all over the ground below, then become frozen in place like those cliched cats that have to be rescued by the fire brigade (don't the fire brigade have anything better to do?) In this case, the 'frozen in place' part will actually ferry me swiftly and surely to Scotland since all the arrangements have been made and I'm now too scared witless to do anything about it. I'll be dragged along by a tide of my own making.

I hope they don't mind a metaphor, a simile or two in this course, I think I've got that under control.

Time

At the moment it seems that my time is like some kind of shifting sand monster and just when I think I have managed to grab hold of some, it slithers away and I'm left with nothing. The monster stalks me when it thinks I'm not paying attention and leaps in to eat up things I wanted to be doing.

All of that is just a waffly way of saying I have no time left for the things I really want to be doing and that I enjoy - like reading and writing. Instead my time is being devoured by work, tedium and busyness. I keep trying to squeeze time with my family and friends into my schedule but it is always rushed, there's more work or somewhere else I need to get to lurking close by.

I worry about time. I try not to wish it away but find myself doing so anyway. I worry that I will look back and wonder what I did with my life and regret that the time I spent on work and the value I place on the piles of correction and online reporting do not correspond.

Right now, I'm stealing a little bit of time to myself to write this. It's the break I have rewarded myself with after completing two of the four stacks of correction sitting on my lounge room floor. It's only a small amount of time that I can afford. For example, I couldn't afford to go out to our house site with Nic as he is planning on spending a couple of hours out there and I still have those other two stacks to get through.

Time interests me. I think we don't value it when we have it - usually as young people. And like any good supply and demand model of economics, it only becomes more valuable when we realise just how little we have.

underneath

underneath the mystery of half-truths

and meaningful eyes across

a mingling room of bodies

dewy with new encounters

of the close kind

kindling urges, stroking egos

ids left to drown in

an over stimulated soup of response

short-sighted, I needed you

up close and personable but

all you could afford

were your smoke and mirror balls

but underneath your tricks

and breadcrumbs dropped

for me to follow

your serial murdering clues

for me to sleuth

and your fruitless baying at the moon

who never returned your call

was only fear

after all

Click here to read Thuy's Review

Here's a review of Verandah 24 which featured my short story. It's a sort of backhanded compliment in a way but I'll take what I can get! :)

Three Poems Accepted

My latest news is that I've had three poems accepted for inclusion in a Regional Poets' Anthology Chapbook. Two of them have featured here; 'Little Pig' and 'After Wandong', the third is below.

Cheers,

Deb

Money for jam…

Like money for jam –

a stupid saying really

because I’ve made jam

and it’s not that easy

First there’s all that

chopping of fruit

into tedious pieces

then accurate weighing

and measuring

(never my forte)

matching fruit with sugar

and doesn’t that look like an awful lot

of sugar?

surely a bit less would be healthier

Then stirring-waiting stirring-waiting

for the right consistency

– the one that matches the vague

description in the recipe –

which can be difficult

if you don’t have a natural tendency for patience

and you think it looks right

(good enough anyway)

but when it cools in the jars

 – the ones you nearly scolded

the flesh off your hands trying to sterilise –

what you’re left with is fruity slop

which calls for some creative marketing

You transfer the sludge

into bottles

relabel it “Real Fruit Topping –

great on ice cream,

made with real fruit”

and give it to friends for Christmas,

they smile and say, “Thank you”

but they know it’s really

your failed attempt

at money for jam

Backyard Cricket

A glorious hook shot
Over his left shoulder,
A nod to his batting partner
They take off like sprinters from starting blocks
Runs on the scoreboard
Knowing nobody is fielding
On Risnich's front lawn.

I stand at the crease
Frozen
Watching the shiny new cricket ball
Leave my hand
Bounce once
And the hit.
The arc of the ball's flight
As it takes to the air
Over the letter box, front garden, lawn.
I could see before it happened
The disaster
Of broken glass. 

moongirl

there’s a girl in the moon
she lives there, she likes it
it’s quiet and she can see
for miles and miles
all the way to the stars and back

and the Earth looks like a ball
that she’d like to play with
if only she could reach
but she can’t so she contents herself
with wielding power over tides
and menstrual cycles

the girl in the moon
isn’t lonely or sad
and she likes her own company
and she wants you to leave her be
she likes it if you gaze
at her pretty complexion
but she doesn’t care if you don’t

and the Earth looks like
it could just fall out of space
and she’d not be bothered
by telescopes or lunar modules
by pimple-faced boys staring up
up, up, up at her in a cloak of black

she isn’t embarrassed
when they tell her their secrets
or whisper an Earth girl’s name
with such longing that would
break any promise

there’s a girl in the moon
she lives there, she likes it