Janis Freegard's Blog, page 16

New Pacific Studio Open Day

Poetry Reading – soon!

Later this month, I’ll be the guest reader at the NZ Poetry Society in Wellington.  It’s upstairs at the Thistle Inn (in Thorndon, opposite Archives NZ; you know, the oldest pub in Wellington where Te Rauparaha was rumoured to paddle his waka up to the front door before the coastline changed forever and where Katherine Mansfield used to hang out; no, not the one up the top of Cuba St, that’s Thistle Hall, this is the Thistle Inn) and there’ll be an open mic to start.  Hope to see you there!

NZPS: Poets’ Corner

Monday 17th February, 7.30pm
Thistle Inn, 3 Mulgrave St, Central Wellington
Open mic – all welcome to participate. NZPS welcomes new poets as well as those with more experience.  Guest Poet for February: Janis Freegard.

I’ts a good month for poetry in Wellington.  Marty Smith’s boook launch is on Saturday 15th and  Harry Ricketts will be reading at Meow on Sunday 16th. 

And I’m pretty chuffed at the moment because one of my poems was commended in the Magma Poetry competition.

 

Janis

The Poem As A Building

A poem must be painstakingly constructed, each word lined up alongside the next and tapped into place; line upon line stacked up.  A poem must have robust foundations, something sturdy behind its façade.  A poem may be a house to dwell in comfortably, a grand exhibition hall in which to marvel, a memorial chamber, a ballroom.

The Poem As A Pebble

Just as a male Adelie penguin must select exactly the right pebble for his  beloved – the size, shape, colour and weight that will convince her of his worthiness, so must you select the poem that is exactly right for you.  It may take a lifetime of effort, but oh! think of the joy it will bring!

Photo credit: es0teric/Creative Commons

(OK, this pebble business is something of a myth, although pebbles are definitely prized at nesting time.  For the whole scandalous sex-for-pebbles exposé, read this.)

The Poem As An Animal

Poems live and breathe.  They can be picked up and held – sometimes at your peril.  A poem may walk agreeably alongside you or may pounce from behind a fountain.  It may crawl inside your ear while you’re daydreaming and burrow into your brain.

The Poem As A Dance

Each poem is an individually choreographed collection of words that skip, slide and kick across the page/ether/airwaves in their own peculiar way.  Poems that follow form are waltzes and foxtrots; free-ranging poems are hippies at festivals, eyes closed, moving to their own beats and rhythms.

The Poem As A Furball

Every poem is a furball.  Strands of ideas, images, emotions and thoughts build up in the gut over time until they are sufficient to form a ball.  This must be expelled; you will feel better for it.  You will not be able to cough up your furball until it’s good and ready, but you can encourage it along with judicious applications of cod liver oil (or substitute other preferred liquid) and a tickle under the chin.

 

 

 

 

Happy 2014

I

May it be all you could wish for.

Cliff Fell poem at Mapua

Tuesday Poem – The Phone Rang

The phone rang: it was God.

We’re doing some market research, he said.  How do you find earth, these days?  Somewhere between Venus and Mars, I said, ha ha.  No, really, he said.  Well, I told him, we liked your original concept but we’ve workshopped it into something sexier, more happening, more 21st century. We’ve eaten most of the fish, cleared an impressive amount of forest and I’m afraid some species proved insufficiently competitive for the global economy.  I liked it how it was, said God.  That’s all very well, I said, but Progress, you know – can’t stand in the way.  You lot won’t be happy until you’ve used up all the good bits and moved on to the next planet in some kind of galactic Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, he said.  He sounded sad, so I hung up.

The phone rang: it was Janis Joplin.

You’re dead, I said.  And it’s half past three in the morning.  What do you want?  It gets boring on the other side, she said.   Sometimes we just dial numbers at random to find some-one to talk to; I died before my time.  Tell it to Elvis, I told her.  And I hung up.

The phone rang: it was Truth and Beauty, on a conference call.

Which of us do you prefer? they queried.  Do you want the honest answer? I asked.  Or one that’s exquisitely phrased?  While they argued, I hung up.

The phone rang: it was Zippy the Pinhead.

Are we having fun yet? I asked him.  I won’t ever put anchovies in the toaster again, he replied.  I’m trapped in a black hole with Mozart’s miso soup.  Thousands of orange polyester suits have invaded my brain.  He started making sense, so I hung up.

The phone rang: it was Death.

Wrong number, I said.  And I hung up.

The phone rang: it was me.

Now what’s going on here? I asked.  Am I trapped in an existential paradox?  Are you the past me, the future me, or an alternate universe me?  Are you my conscience, the inner me, the me I’d like to be or some kind of all-knowing über-me?  I just called to say hi, I said.  And I hung up.

The phone rang:  it was Hecate, Goddess of the Night.

All hail, Old Witch, I said.  You’re at a crossroads, she told me.  Which path do you take?  Well, I said, the earth is more or less spherical, so whichever way you go, eventually you’ll end up back where you started.  It’s the journey that counts, she cackled.  Put down that phone and get travelling.  And she hung up.