behind us the ocean

I have been terribly remiss in not posting this a long time ago. As many of you are aware I am a huge fan of the poetry of Katia Grubisic. The fact that she is a dear, dear friend is a huge bonus but it doesn't alter the fact that I am blown away by her poetic voice.
This is, as far as I know, the second of her poems to be featured on the Canadian Parliamentary Poet Laureate's website - It's been there for about a year and I've been meaning to post a link to it for about a year, but my good-intention-paved-road is well worn. Anyway, read and enjoy.


Behind Us the Ocean
by Katia Grubisic

Imagine arms you never want to get out of; imagine
a road that rises up to meet you and knows
exactly where you’re set to

before it comes. At the start of the highway, behind us the cliff
and the ocean’s creeping furor,
we photographed the mile marker of atlassed places.

Cardiff or Liverpool? you asked. On the sign the mermaid
laughed and we could not help
but follow. Now I can smell you

coming back, the trace in the shirt I wrap around
each same wavering time of night.
Is it a ploy to keep me

going? Meanwhile we never visited the local saint;
he still waits in his cave to slap us upside the head, wise
guy witness to my misplaced faith in a letter

posted from the mouth
of the river. I'll just put man in a car
possibly with troubled eyes, somewhere

between Cardiff and Liverpool. It is night I'll put
and they’ll find you. Would you believe
that, meticulously, fate would have someone else

at that junction, bizarrely suntanned arms
typing in the darkness? There is a typewriter
at the corner and I have been looking.

I can smell thunder beginning. You were there
when I dervished slow-mo in my wedding dress;
you saw me iridescent

like a street in the rain’s silence. Again the mermaid laughs;
we are drowning in it, her upside-down peals of lightning
and thunder that pass, but only diffusely,

into a misspelled late-nite coffee shop someplace
in the southwest. Where for?
Make your car comfortable, I say, take another

notion. Outside it is written
bikers welcome. Nope, we’re here
for the diffusion. I wouldn't worry too much; I accept as true

all kinds of things I shouldn't, you say. When I leave
I take the still-white sheet from the typewriter,
with its carbon and square familiar letters;

I take it all. Off we wander
across our respective suspension bridge
sat opposite ends of the world. Light stabs

through. Our shadows together on the rock face
indicate we are with each other. We are trespassing.
We have not decided for certain. Will we

recognise ourselves? Wear a fake yellow rose,
a mink stole. I will know you. The letters blow off, catch fire
on the way and one more time

the mermaid laughs. The storm has started, I type.
Possibly stormless, I put; in need of wrack
and calm, and you’ll be found. It has started. Enjoy your storm.

________________________________________
© Katia Grubisic.

from page to stage

“Some things are just designed to be read aloud I guess.”

That was a comment from one of my year 12s earlier. And it was one of several events which restored my faith in Literature this week – well, maybe ‘restored’ is the wrong word; maybe ‘reaffirmed.’

Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18. Don’t tell anyone but I’m a sucker for a good sonnet. Even one as popular as #18 - Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer’s Day. Normally I try to forgo the popular choice in favour of a path less trod but I like this one.
Of course I got the usual groans when I handed out copies to my year 12 literature class. They tell me they’re not Shakespeare fans. They tell me that they find his language a barrier rather than a selling point. They tell me he is rammed down their throats so much that they can hardly breathe and they feel under undue pressure – that if they don’t like the bard they believe they are seen as lesser beings. I try to understand, but I can’t empathise. After they read through this particular poem, making first impression annotations, their mood was no better.
“It’s gay!” announced one of my more vocal girls. “If some lad said something like that to me I’d finish with him there and then.” There was general murmured approval and so she continued, “I’d worry greatly about his sexuality.”
“Because he writes poetry?”
“Because he wrote a poem about a type of love that doesn’t exist. It’s sickly sweet and unrealistic”
I found it hard to argue against that – so instead I took them through the poem a bit at a time and looked at the mechanics – I find this an uninspiring task but it has to be done. And finally, as a parting gesture I read it aloud – well, I didn’t read it; I recited it. Eye contact makes a big difference you know. I gave it everything. I put my all in to it. I gie ‘er Dixie.
I’m not going to tell you I am a good reader, I am under no illusion that my public speaking is anything other than average; but twelve lines in I paused, looked them in the eye, and read the last couple of lines,
As long as men can breath, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, [dramatic gesture towards the poem projected on the wall behind me]
And this, gives life to thee.
Then silence. Everyone was looking at me - it was unnerving. The silence seemed to last an age. Then a collective exhale. They were rapt. I think I may even have heard a slight "awww" coming from one of the rugby players sitting at the back of the room.
Of course it was all ruined when I pointed out it was written to a young man and the rest of the lesson descended into a debate about whether Shakespeare was gay or not. Well at least I had them for a moment.
Do they love Shakespeare now? Not even a bit. But they enjoyed that one little bit of Shakespeare. I think it helps when you understand that he understands us. Wow that last sentence was pretentious – superb!

Set in Stone

Set in Stone

I once put a stone up,
A standing stone.
Just me and 699 other people;
There was meant to be a thousand
I guess 300 people weren’t told
Their presence was required.

47 tonnes, 10 metres high,
All to the tune of 2001 a Space Odyssey.
It was a symbol, an emblem
Of the Millennium,
Although it was actually raised in 1999;
June 26th.
I know some people think the Millennium is 2000
And some who believe 2001,
But no one thinks it was ‘99.
I guess the stone pullers hadn’t been told.

“In the spirit of the future”
Peace and reconciliation among the youth
In Northern Ireland.
Punishment beatings a month later,
Homes burned out, children killed,
Riots, victimisation, fear, hate.
I guess no one told the rest of the country about the stone.


© Sam Campbell. Unpublished poem

two short planks

Two Short Planks

They sat me in the classroom

And said I had to wait.

They gave me sheets of paper

And said, ‘Now write the date.’

And when I said I couldn’t,

‘I’ve got a special need.’

They sat me in the corner

And gave me books to read.

And when I said I couldn’t,

They laughed and took the mick,

The teacher sighed and shook his head.

A kid said I was thick.

So then they said, ‘Fill in this form,

We have to know your name.’

I said, ‘Well, I can TELL you that.’

They said it wasn’t quite the same.

They sharpened me a pencil

To write out my address

And then I said I couldn’t

When the page became a mess.

I don’t know what my problem is,

I’m lost and all at sea.

A book’s a bolted, padlocked door

I just can’t find the key.

The words don’t click, the letters fuse,

The flash cards never speak.

‘Break it up and sound it out!’

They tell me twice a week.

And when I say I cannot,

‘It doesn’t seem to work,

’The head of Special Needs gets cross,

And screams and goes berserk.

I can’t think what the answer is,

Believe you me, I’ve tried

To learn that blasted alphabet

Most nights I’ve sat and cried.

But still they give me spelling lists,

Stuff paper in my hand.

And still I’ll feel the utter shame

Till the day they’ll understand.

Unknown

Love Song for the End of the World

This is a poem that has been posted on the Canadian Parliamentary Poet Laureate's website as one of the poems of the week this week. I'm especially interested in it as it was written by a friend of mine. I can't say I necessarily agree with some of her philosophical views on grace but I think she is a wonderful poet who can write no wrong. And so I give you Love Song for the End of the World by Katia Grubisic.

Love Song for the End of the World
by Katia Grubisic

Don’t worry — this is a poem
entirely without grace. Instead we will conceive
together of the possible ways
to end the world. Since we have managed
to make even fission
banal, let me design something like
scorpions, like vociferating recklessly
into a sandstorm, or like the sudden discovery
that a mole on your hip is a
detonator. Let us have
all of our hands and fingers cut off, be disfigured
by acid and thrown into a pigpen
in the manner of just so many concubines;
let us be the victims of the flailing
of our limbs against our own limbs,
until we tire of the carnage and walk away.
Let us die of mange, of blues guitar, of very bad puns—
whatever I come up with will never be worse
or more spectacular than the dark,
where our bodies should be left at angles—graceless,
though with some perspective
the whole pile of us could be read
like tea leaves in an inverted china cup.

If I dreamed your death
it would be in a great wind (nothing
like what you have feared)
and you would swing out like a crane
over the world, grow a skin of feathers and go
to ashes—
________________________________________

© Katia Grubisic. Unpublished poem