The Quick Brown Fox Jumps Over The Lazy Dog

// August 9th, 2011 // 1 Comment » // poetry

The Quick Brown Fox Jumps Over The Lazy Dog

Let’s go back to the lazy dog, afternoon sun

lingering on his tail, the warmth of that

disturbed by a fox shadow. Quick, the fox,

and brown, a showoff too by all reports.

What’s so great about a leap over–not

moon, not line of fourteen buses–just one

lazy dog. And the dog, all dreamy and warm

in the buttery sun at the back end of another

day, content, and not at all quick to leap,

cast shadows, or impress, just resting,

being, in that spot on the verandah, post-lunch

with his tail all laid out: now the occasional

twitch of a hunting dream, now the dark

of a shadow-fox crossing over. Yes, the fox

gets to business and the lazy dog naps

while the farmer is fetching his gun.

Killer Kiss

// February 17th, 2011 // 1 Comment » // poetry

Killer Kiss (Sonnenizio on a line from Regina Spektor)

You’re going in, in for the kill, kill. For the killer kiss
that tips the boat and flips the keel so it swings
like an ivory blade against blue sky and we, off-kilter,
unskilled sailors that we are, strike for the shore.

Sure, the waves are like mountains with killer whales
underground and we’re tossed like baby onions in a skillet —
high flung, dizzied and glistening. But here’s the deal killer:
that kiss was hotter than any KISS concert pyrotechnics:

the melting make-up and blood rush as fireworks kitsch up
the night sky and SSIK lizard demigod-would-be’s
kiss middle age goodbye for one more night. They’ll wake
up sinking tomorrow, like us mortal kissers — eyes shut,

lips pursed — hoping for that last blazing kiss that flings
them up through water to kiss the surface, sizzling.

(Originally published in ‘Mimesis’)

*******

Oh, the love in this poem!

The first line is taken from a Regina Spektor song called ‘Ode To Divorce’.

The poem is a ‘Sonnenizio’, this is a form of sonnet with some rules added by Kim Addonizio:

“The sonnenizio is 14 lines long. It opens with a line from someone else’s sonnet, repeats a word from that line in each succeeding line of the poem, and closes with a rhymed couplet.” Kim Addonizio.

I used the Regina Spektor song instead of a sonnet, and repeated a number of words from the first line instead of just one. Because I’m a creative scofflaw.

The illustration is a homage to my favourite Australian Artist, Garry Shead.

Regina Spektor’ s music, Kim Addonizio’s poetry, and Garry Shead’s art all share one thing in common: hotness!

Cultivating A Small Field

// January 28th, 2011 // 19 Comments » // Labyrinths, poetry

Journeying through the world

To and fro, to and fro

Cultivating a small field

Bassho (Trans. R. H. Blyth)

I love that Basho poem because it describes, in a few words, the essence of my ideal daily creative practice.

I’ve adopted it as my mission statement.

Only, it’s not just a statement. It’s a poem. It’s about fully loving this life. So, really, it’s a love poem.

For me, it’s a love poem about building labyrinths, and walking them, and creating labyrinth art. That’s my daily creative practice, it’s what I’ve committed to; it’s the small field I’m cultivating

Journeying Through the world

To understand the message the poem is trying to portray, it is important–not only for this poem, but all art we encounter–to understand the artist behind the work. Basho was a Zen priest and poet. He spent much of his life walking pilgrimages around Japan.

When he speaks of a journey he’s not referring to the kind of trip where you just amble along. He’s talking about a journey with definite intention set in place. It’s an intention to get somewhere specific, an intention to be awake while traveling, and an openness to being transformed by the journey.

Similarly, the way I walk the labyrinth is the way I walk my life. Setting an intention before I walk, combined with the magic of the form of the labyrinth, puts me in a receiving state to notice the patterns in my life and conveniently throws them back at me each time I walk.

To and fro, to and fro

There’s something in the to and fro line that reminds me of crafts. An ancient discipline of often repeated movements that become part of the body’s knowledge.

Calloused hands passing strips of grass through and over each other, again and again, weaving a hollow basket designed to hold unknown fruits or gifts.

A burnt stick being guided this way, then that along a groove in a stone, honing the edge of the stick until it sharpens into a spear for hunting, or a tool for planting.

A daily art practice can be like this, too. I always start my painting and drawing sessions by sitting and sharpening as many pencils as I can find. The repetitive movements, the scent of freshly shaved wood, the crunchy sound made as the shavings curve away from the pencil. These actions combined create a slow, un-pressured activity that is comforting and conducive to settling the mind before the work begins.

Coming back to a practice day after day is also a settling thing. It builds subtle rhythms that only you know, and develops a sense of intimacy between you and your art.

Cultivating a small field

My early labyrinth activities involved just drawing and colouring them in.

Then I got a book with instructions on how to make a rope labyrinth. I worked out a space in the yard, I got the rope and the stakes I needed. Then waited. For three days I would go to the window, look out where I was going to put the labyrinth, feel the dread rise up, then find something else to do.

After three days I finally went out into the yard with my ropes and stakes and instructions. The ground was a bit wet and I was shuffling around on my hands and knees laying the stakes out and I was really struck with the importance of what I was doing. By staking this small area for myself I was making a commitment, both to me and the ground. I was the one who would be working here, the one who would be responsible for maintaing the space.

I was expecting the odd flash of insight from walking the labyrinth. My books were thick with tales of people walking labyrinths and having insights into their life. It was what hooked most people into walking them regularly. I just was’t expecting my ‘hook’ moment to come while putting the labyrinth in.

When I walk the labyrinth I’m aware of the reciprocal relationship we share. I expect to get something out of the experience. The labyrinth expects me to keep the paths well maintained. I rake the leaves out of it, clear the snow away, re-straighten the ropes when my boys mess around in it. The space is kept beautiful, and the energy clear.

I get myself in a quiet state before I walk and always set an intention before I start. I’m very aware of the energy I put into this small field.

This sense of care and responsibility has started to cross over to my painting and drawing, too. I’m more aware of how poorly I treated my brushes. I am mindful of my wastefulness with paints and art supplies.

I don’t care about my materials just to save a few dollars here and there; I care about my materials in this way because it helps build a more focused state. When I’m in that state the scale of what I’m doing disappears; I’m just dealing with what is here, now. And what is here and now is my small field, my creative practice. Like an old friend, always there for me to take refuge in, to build and beautify, to walk and create in.

Love Poem For A Moon

// January 20th, 2011 // 8 Comments » // metaphor, poetry

***

One night the tide refused to turn

and the moon, distraught, abandoned

her orbit and wheeled away. Nights

fell darker and the tideline teemed

with confusion as the soldier crabs

waved their claws and wobbled off.

Rock pools, having lost their Cyclops-eye,

became invisible against the sea

and sulked as shallow-creatures

rolled blindly inside them. The trees

un-silvered then turned into shadowy

spears, the light at the end of the tunnel

left, and everywhere, lovers leaned

out of windows, yawning. Meanwhile,

the moon had warmed to another planet

and threw herself into orbit along

with eleven other moons, completing

a moon harem. Evenings were lighter

here, and the new planet responded

to each moon’s offering: laundry buckets

reflected a dozen orbs from their water,

tides flipped over hourly, and lovers danced

in the streets where cobblestones

shone like twelve-pointed diamonds.

***

Cloud doodle + poem = blog post

// July 19th, 2010 // 3 Comments » // doodle, muse, poetry

Singing The World Alive

// June 29th, 2010 // 6 Comments » // creativity, curiosity, singing

“… there never was a world for her

Except the one she sang, and singing made.”

Wallace Stevens

*****

At school we learned about the Australian Aboriginal concept of Song-lines, and the stories of Creator Beings who criss-crossed the continent singing the world alive.

I love the idea of the world being sung into life. Just holding the idea gives me a heightened awareness of the life pulsating all around me, even from supposedly inanimate objects.

*****

I was always self conscious about my own singing abilities. I told myself that I was unable to sing, the same way all people (in Western cultures, anyway) tell themselves they can’t do something.

Singing Memories:

Standing up as the old people sang hymns in church, and being struck dumb in a sea of fear.

The school choirmaster walking behind us, listening as we sang, and banging us on the head with his balled up fist if we were out of tune

Being in a band as a teenager and having to get fall-down drunk to be able to sing.

Hearing my wife sing for the first time. *Bliss*

*****

Singing the world into existence? Not my strong point. But I still love the idea, and think there must be an equivalent way that not-so-great singers contribute to bringing this world into existence.

When I think of singing, what comes to mind is:

The act of opening required in order to let the sound out.

Listening, adjusting the sound as it moves out into the world.

The content, what is being sung.

The effect on others as the sounds reach them, and shape their experience of the world, even if only for a moment.

If I think of singing in this way, then I can see how in some small way, my actions can become a kind of singing, too.

*****

So, in what ways do I sing world alive?

Through:

My drawings and paintings

My arms when I swing my boys around, and when I hold my wife

Words arranged into poems

Stories I make up for our older son

Cooking food for people I love

Reading, and what I choose to read.

Catching insects in cups and escorting them outside safely

Secret rock sculptures I leave in the garden, for people to see, or not.

The kind of work I spend my time doing

The kind of thoughts I spend my time thinking.

My serial failed attempts at maintaining Meditation/Yoga/Vegetarian practices, and my commitment to keep coming back to them.

*****

And when I do actually sing?

When I let my creaky voice come out it has its own wobbly charm. Babies smile, and it’s never really as bad as I make it out to be.

In what ways do you sing the world alive?