'I need a new photo,' she says,
'To replace that one you took
nearly twenty years ago.'
On her website the new one
shows her whiter-haired,
still smooth-faced and lovely.
Upper Yarra Valley
Neighbourhood Centre.
Educators, enablers.
Our shared philosophies
expanded each other’s
gifts: teaching, writing.
Life moved us;
we never forgot. Now
her best friend turns up here.
Rapturous reunion
via email. We swap
news, our latest books.
[Poem #81]
This began as a game some bloggers played in 2008, to write about people who'd made an impact, in the same number of words as one's age, every day for a year. I did them less often and went on longer, adding one word each birthday. I stopped in 2016 and incorporated them into my main poetry blog. In 2019 I resumed the project and gave it its own blog again, with a new name, where it may unfold at its own (slow, intermittent, lapsing and resuming) pace. I've labelled these verse portraits, but they're more like quick sketches: mere glimpses, impressions....
Showing posts with label COLLEAGUES. Show all posts
Showing posts with label COLLEAGUES. Show all posts
Tuesday, 6 October 2009
Sunday, 14 June 2009
Schemer
She greets me in the shop
as we stand at the counter.
Startled, I respond too warmly.
She makes the cow eyes at me.
Pale, dishevelled, she’s lost
her sleekness along with her game.
(Some are still fooled, most stand
with her intended victim.)
I look away and place my order.
Later her man whom I’ve never met
sends me drunken emails. I feel
intense rage – his or mine?
[Poem #77]
as we stand at the counter.
Startled, I respond too warmly.
She makes the cow eyes at me.
Pale, dishevelled, she’s lost
her sleekness along with her game.
(Some are still fooled, most stand
with her intended victim.)
I look away and place my order.
Later her man whom I’ve never met
sends me drunken emails. I feel
intense rage – his or mine?
[Poem #77]
Thursday, 13 November 2008
Occupation, Poet
Disappeared three days
after high-grade grass,
just wandered off
into the dark.
But mostly drunk and rude.
Forgiven for talent.
‘Soul of an accountant,’ remarked
the portraitist, painting that.
Mistook me once
for acquiescent. Disabused.
Poetry was blood and breath.
His words could sing or kill.
Moved, seeking the son
abandoned years earlier.
I came across his elegy
for the young man's drug-death,
telling their whole story
honestly ... wept.
[Poem #63]
after high-grade grass,
just wandered off
into the dark.
But mostly drunk and rude.
Forgiven for talent.
‘Soul of an accountant,’ remarked
the portraitist, painting that.
Mistook me once
for acquiescent. Disabused.
Poetry was blood and breath.
His words could sing or kill.
Moved, seeking the son
abandoned years earlier.
I came across his elegy
for the young man's drug-death,
telling their whole story
honestly ... wept.
[Poem #63]
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