Tuesday poem: Oppressing the gnomes
July 11, 2016
Oppressing the gnomes
The garden gnomes are downing tools
all over Australia, and whimsy is plummeting.
No more riding snails and pushing barrows,
or fishing for strangely ecstatic cod,
who gape for hooks in a pornography of cute.
The gnomes are turning nasty, attacking
the flamingos who continue to strut —
elegant pink scabs over the quirky lawns.
Gnomes piss on succulents and smear
foul gnome shit on the guinea pigs.
What do we want? they ask the air.
But they don’t know what to chant back —
their dissatisfaction is merely existential.
Even their industrial action raises a laugh,
with their crooked green caps slipping,
and their endless pipes twixt ruddy lips.
Their signs are egregiously misspelt.
Nome’s R Us is at least legible,
but the kerning is much worse than that,
and the punctuation speaks volumes.
Get back to it, gnomes, I say, imperiously.
Ply those forks, and play that accordion.
I bask in my elevation to exploiter,
swaying in a complacent hammock.
Surly yet amusing, the wee green men obey.
The ringleader rides a frog to the pond,
and casts in his line like a sigh.
P.S. Cottier
This is probably a weird commentary on the zeitgeist. Either that or the gnomes have been putting things in my tea.
Tuesday poem: (haiku)
July 4, 2016
Blue eye of the sea
flutters white eyelashes —
wet sand flirts
P.S Cottier
The poet vows that she will be nastier next time after an unaccountably pretty haiku
Tuesday weirdness: All I know about poetry
June 28, 2016
All I know about poetry
(Part 1)
1. A rural location can easily slip into nineteenth century pastiche.
2. Some people still worry so much about form that they forget the poem part.
3. Shouting is neither good nor bad, but thought is quite worthwhile.
4. Better Byron than Wordsworth (see 1. above).
5. Those who avoid politics like herpes are often boring —
except for your rare and surprising, Emily-grade genius.
6. Birds are usually to be avoided like the word ‘roseate’ —
why write a poem about a feathered poem inevitably more complete?
(Exceptions include galahs, budgies, swamp dwellers, vultures, and anything else.)
7. Even an Irish accent doesn’t guarantee a good poem.
8. Gatekeepers are attracted to the mundanely beautiful.
9. Bathos is easy.
10. Most people regard poetry as a weird type of embroidery —
at least you only prick your soul on it.
Everyday Canberra scene
Now I hope you have been taking notes. There will probably not be a quiz next week, but still…In another life I was a hideous teacher in an old-school school.
Project 365 + 1, or my involvement in it, is drawing to a close at the end of the financial year, which is purely coincidental. 30 poems in 30 days. There should be a law against it!
Anthologies
June 24, 2016
This week I received two anthologies in which I have poems. They are First refuge: Poems on social justice (Ginninderra Press) edited by Ann Nadge, and Suddenly Curving Space Time: Australian Experimental Poetry 1995-2015 (non-Euclidean Press) edited by Gerald Keaney and Hal Judge.
Switching between the two is an interesting experience. I have just started to read them both.
I especially like the ‘non-Euclidean spine’ of the experimental book, which is working its way through the binding like a space-worm. Well, what do you think makes wormholes?
Tuesday Poem: Walking out of the bar (Seventh…)
June 20, 2016
Walking out of the bar
(Seventh in a long series of nasty little poems)
There is a place that humour goes to die
like superannuated elephants.
The three part joke:
first this
than that
then punchline.
No final mild tingle
can ever atone
for the violence done to the ear
the appalling cringe of taking time
and parking a huge lump of
premeditation there.
People, mostly men,
dump these jokes like turds
to mark the boundaries of thought.
This is a funny! It moves like a funny!
So it must be funny!
You never shed boredom, m’dear.
You just packed it into a new shape;
a triangle of sludge, which you call
a joke. There is no jazz
to such a thing; no quip.
You play your lardy triangle
with a tardy limping tongue.
I listen for inadvertent puns,
or simply walk away.
Far better rude than bored,
says the woman in the beret,
unbearably self assured.
She’s walking out of the bar.
P.S. Cottier
Over at Project 365 + 1, I just posted a poem about the gym which I like quite a lot. It has the optimistic name ‘Four times a week’. Aspirational, one might say. This was poem number twenty for that project, so I will do another ten days. It makes the gym seem easy, I must say.
PS Cottier 