Writers' group: Nan

Nan is the wicked one

who surprises newcomers 

whenever she reads.

It's not that she uses 

naughty words, or blasphemes;

it's her thoughts that are naughty,

her soul that's irreverent.

(More truly reverent 

than many a churchgoer,

she likes the Lord — she's just

not in awe. Her humorous tales

are in fact moral fables.)

And she's the effortless 

prize-winner:
in competitions always 

commended at least.

Underneath it all,

she appreciates

loving-kindness.



[Poem #102]

Writers' group: Anne

I once told her

I thought she'd write something

important one day,

or at least that she could.

Did that make her fearful,

give her too much

to begin to live up to? 

For months after that 

she found no words to write.

We missed her acerbic wit.

But she kept coming,

listened as others read,

offered feedback.

Then sudden fantastic beings 

poured across her page, strangers

revealing themselves

to her fascinated scribe.



[Poem #101]

Writers' group: Helen

Her smile is always

the first thing I see

as she enters the room.

She exudes a cosy kindness that belies 

the cool, precise, administrative intellect.

Now she is all about family.

When she can't come, it's because

she is baby-sitting grandchildren

(not the only one to do that, but

the one who does it most often).

And she writes about family,

exploring generations past

whose lives enthral like an epic novel.



[Poem #100]

Writers' group: Hebe

She's like some cousin

I never knew I had.

Indeed, in my youth,

unsuspected cousins migrated

from her land to mine.

The Anglo-Indian connection

Mum kept secret.

Her father's Scottish complexion

allowed that, and my Dad's

English heritage.

The dark I longed for

died with Nana, she

more Indian than Anglo;

that warmth....

Hebe arrives –

childhood stories

that might have been mine

had the family stayed

there: not Tasmania.

And, that warmth.



[Poem #99]

Writers' group: Eddie

Insists he believes in nothing;

really believes that. Can argue

in support of this position.

Is not vehement against

other people's beliefs,

simply adamant

that he himself has none.

He likes hot climates,

dark-haired women,

and playing guitar.

Arthritis cut the music.

We older women, and Eddie, 

gather weekly to write,

learning each other,

building mateship.

A friend, meeting him, remarks,

'He is at ease with quiet.

That's rare in a man.'



[Poem #98]

Writers' group: Cheryl

How can I fit her into

seventy-three words?

She'll think I mean

her physical abundance,

but no. It's her bigness 

of spirit — 

                   ready

with tears or laughter,

vocal with passionate rage,

quick to hug me

if ever I'm sad.

She faced down death

with prayer

and black humour

stays alive

in green pastures

with a man she loves

beyond reason

(and sundry pets ditto)

as a writer

fears no confrontation ... 

remembers singing.



[Poem #97]

Writers' Group: Jean

Jean is new to the writing group.

She fits right in at once.

I'm glad to be joined by another 

poet. (It gets lonely.)

After her first session, 

she asks, 'Will you have me?'

Our question is, will she 

have us? Yes! She comes back.

Retired English teacher,

good proof-reader, witty, polite ...

When I read my widowhood poems

she understands exactly.

I see her getting every word,

feeling them. Oh, she knows!



[Poem #96]

Writers' Group: Bron

Bronwyn has a lover,

likes to say it, likes the word.

She likes to play with words —

sensual, musical, 

shaping stories;

likes to write of deserts

of foreign landscapes, and 

the interior space of the mind; 

by inference the heart.

Her own heart is with the sea

and hints of tribal secrets;

makes of them poems.

In a friend's house I admired 

a sketch, a graceful nude.

She told me, 'Bron did that.'



[Poem #95]