Frank’s Comments (group member since Dec 07, 2018)

Frank’s comments from the G.N.A. Publishing░N░e░w░ ░A░u░t░h░o░r░s░ group.

#9 - Behind the times.

I've been a bit distracted and have neglected the feature here, I'm afraid.

The post today is #40 from my current WIP.

a beat (to tell a pretty)

would that the past
were not
so broken

what present
we might have been

~

there is a
prettiness
to the view
of what has gone
before

something pastel
in the colours
I think

a softness

pretty hopes
and rainbow
wishes

I clung to them
as long
as I could

but dead leaves
and dried
petals
do not keep the colour
true

and the past
remembered
is just a pretty lie

told
by the heart
to
the heart

sometimes
to keep it
beating

~

If you would like to keep up with my poetry in between books. Check out my poetry blog. Follow along: https://frankprem.wordpress.com/

#8 - A poem from my current #WIP.

pan-time (is all the same)


time
is the same
everywhere

every
when

even though
the telling
differs

melbourne
sixteen twenty nine
nine hours ahead of

london
seven twenty nine
five hours ahead of

new york
two twenty nine

the telling
is different
but time
is the same

I sleep through
your waking

it doesn’t matter
not at all

such things
are just
details
that we wear
upon a wrist

consult
upon a wall

sleep . . wake . . .

die

what
am I
trying
to say

so suddenly clumsy
the wordsmith

five people
died
during each two minutes
of yesterday

died
of pan-epidemic
contagion
of plague

in not time
at all

they were gone

the news
was on my screen
when I woke
this morning

~

#7. I'm currently participating in the GR Maximum Review event, for which I'm offering a free review copy of my first collection, back in 2018, Small Town Kid.

Small Town Kid is the story of childhood in a rustic and insular rural town in Australia during the 1960s and 70s.

Small Town Kid

Outdoor toilets, and Nightcart men, bonfire nights, walking to school, rabbiting. All the things that had disappeared from childhood by the middle of the 1990s.

If you are interested, the landing page I created for the event is here. Sign up and download a copy!

https://mailchi.mp/c8851a7a544c/ubhog...

Sandra wrote: "Thanks for bringing this to our notice Frank."

you're most welcome, Sandra.

Whenever an anniversary comes around, I'm reminded of my encounters with the refugees from that conflict.

#6 Poetry to convey political/anti-war sentiment. To involve the otherwise unaffected.

I don't delve into politics or 'movements' much with my work, but I see poetry as a powerful means of delivering imagery and awareness, so on occasion, something stirs the poet, to try to stir the reader.

Today is the 25th anniversary of massacre at Srebrenica. In my professional work as a psychiatric nurse at the time and in the period after, I came into contact with escapees and refugees from that terrible conflict.

My poetic response- Zlata's Daughter - is below. Please forgive the formatting. It is a copy and paste job.


zlata's daughter

I met zlatica when I was young
on a visit to the old country
we held hands at the village dance
and walked evenings on the corzo

when I left
she gave me golden dice on a chain
and said osjećaj me - remember me

~~~~~

zlata is a mother now
a grandmother         a survivor of war
between croats and serbs

I don't understand what the hell
they thought they were doing
to places where we went to talk and dream
and hold hands as we walked
across the corzo cobbles

~~~~~

zlata named her daughter mariana
srce moj (my heart)
grew up an imitation americanka
but in a landscape painted small
with dinars instead of dollars
she met dejan on the corzo before a dance

mariana couldn't help herself        fell for a serb
and dejan chose wrong blood        mariana        a croat
there was hatred in the village for kids like that
betrayers of kin
consorts of the enemy
damn fool pacifists
he should have shaved her hair        put her out on the street
she should have cut his throat in the middle of the night

~~~~~

I met zlata's daughter        her dejan and their child
at a migrant place in dandenong

she told me it was better here
australians haven't learned to wear
the look that gets etched into faces
from living with war

she said she was a little lonely
no-one from home comes to visit
but they leave messages on the outside wall:

no place here for a croatian-serb
no place here for a serbian-croat
no place here for people like you
go away        go away        become invisible

she said they would leave in the morning
to go to a far away town
where no-one knows where they come from
who they are        what they are
leave the war behind them
and find a place where their child will grow
without an accent
without a heritage
without knowing hate

~~~~~

when I last saw her
zlata's daughter was wearing golden dice on a necklace
struggling with a new language full of strange words
and keeping up a job through difficult early times

I picture her now in my minds eye
walking with dejan and their daughter
on a dusty australian corzo
in a small town she calls moje oslobođenje

my escape to freedom

~

c. 2001

Bradley wrote: "Missed seeing your posts Frank"

cheers, Bradley. Life just gets hectic, sometimes.

I'll be trying to post something here most days till the end of the month, then probably fade away again.

#5 Musicality in free verse

I often mention, as a maxim of sorts, my personal belief that 'rhyme should be invisible, while free verse should be sung'.

What I mean is that, for me, there is a significant problem with much of the rhyme that I encounter. It is either too obvious, or too structured. The rhyme itself becomes a presence in the poem and, in my reading, detracts from the story or message the poem is intended to communicate. Not in all cases, obviously, but enough to jaundice my responses.

Free verse, on the other hand, is a little prone to density and being too prose-like. It is one of the deeper cuts in the critique of work done by a free-verser like myself.

My approach to dealing with this is to try to achieve a musicality in each phrase. Not necessarily connected through whole stanzas and blocks of work, but within the phrase. I will often have music running in my head - some sort of tune - as I'm writing. It allows me to achieve (on good days) a lilt, a rise and fall, crescendo or quiet.

On good days.

I recently resurrected a recording done by my local community choir (back yesterday, when singing in company was still allowed) of a song that started life as a largely free-verse poem and was then developed and arranged further. It actually features two instances of rhyme, and one strong repetition. I find repetition often serves in place of rhyme as a driver of emphasis within th e poem or a stanza.

I'll present the poem here, with a link to the YouTube clip of my choir singing it.

dog and mob

whistle home the dog
that trails the sheep
whistle home the mob
whistle the drover

whistle home the day
so long since sleep
whistle home the day
this run is over

and go round them again
we want no strays
come dark tonight

go around
hug them closer
than a lover

and go around them again
little dog go around
we want no stray tonight

~

Here is the link: https://youtu.be/wJpfPTkBy2I

#4 Small works

Early on in my writing career, I developed strong views about poetic forms, and shape constraints. I decided that mastering form - rhyme schemes, line and syllable arrangements, patterns of repetition and the like were all well and good, but required form mastery, rather than content mastery. Of course the best poets can achieve both, but that was not what I wanted to spend my time on.

As a result, I focused on telling stories within each piece of writing that undertook - however long or short. I chose free verse and aimed for a musicality (if that is an acceptable word) withing each piece written.

My mantra was (and is) that rhyme should be invisible, while free verse should be sung.

Along the way there was a point where I wanted to test myself by writing within limits, and I began to experiment with poetry of seventeen syllables. Not Haiku or other form, simply an attempt to tell a complete story within a strict syllable count.

I'm aware that my distinctions might seem highly self-serving, but it's what goes on inside my own head that shapes my work.

I found that this approach worked very well for me when using images as the prompt - clouds, flocks of birds and so on. Equally, though, a headline or article in the news could provide a background for my few thoughts.

I have a page dedicated to Seventeen Syllable Poetry here: https://seventeensyllablepoetry.wordp...

I'd be delighted to have visitors there.

For today, I thought I might present some work done to a single news item. It is in five parts and is intended to be read as a progression of ideas.

The original article is still able to be accessed online, here: https://www.abc.net.au/news/2018-02-1...

Sex and the sisterhood (1) – ‘in little lon’

these women
must live
somewhere

put them in
little lon

let them dance
there

~

Sex and the sisterhood (2) – immoral freedom

morals
v. money

freedom
v.
saved

moral?

no
no
avert your eyes

~

Sex and the sisterhood (3) – Mary hour

no champagne
at Mary William’s

absinthe
beer
cheap wine

Mary
one hour

~

Sex and the sisterhood (4) – Mrs Bond’s flash

mrs bond stopped
taking in
washing

she owns
houses
now
of her own

~

Sex and the sisterhood (5) – more than twelve shillings

twelve shillings
a week

won’t keep me
in boots

I can make
more
on my back

~

Grasshopper wrote: "Hearty Congratulations Frank!"

Thank you, GB.

Small works, today.

This morning's post is #3 for this feature, and I thought I might introduce my most recent set of publications - A Love Poetry Trilogy (https://www.goodreads.com/series/2849...) - comprising three collections, as follows: Walk Away Silver Heart
A Kiss for the Worthy
Rescue and Redemption

In this post I want to introduce the first in the Trilogy - Walk Away Silver Heart.

For this collection I have taken a wonderful poem - Madonna of the Evening Flowers - written by a marvelous American poet - Amy Lowell - over a hundred years ago.

What I have attempted is to take in, absorb the content, mood and feel of the original poem, and then, line by line and phrase by phrase to use the original work as the basis for creating my own unique new writing.

It was a wonderful project and resulted in a highly interpersonal, one-to-one oriented book of love poetry.

I'll digress for a moment by saying that one of my personal objectives with poetry writing is to ensure that the work is easily accessible to the reader ie that it can be easily read and understood without stumbles over timing or cord/phrase comprehension and the like. I want my readers to be able to understand the work in their own way immediately on reading. I also want the work to be able to be read aloud easily and fluently even without rehearsal. For myself, that is a test of the work.

So. I'll include one of the poems from the collection below, but also refer the reader to YouTube to become a listener to the work being read, unrehearsed, by myself.

The poem I've chosen is below (the format gives title, then the line or phrase that inspired it before the body of the poem follows.. The YouTube link to access a reading of this (and more) poems being read is here: https://youtu.be/c2hoAunhRAM

chiming a little tune (of you)

I think the Canterbury bells are playing little tunes

I think
that I heard the bells
as you
brushed past

playing little
tinkling
riffs

when they touched

one
into
the next one
rang

and one
again

into another

ting
tong
tang

as I listened
I believe I heard
a small tune
of you

yes

I believe
I heard them sing
your name

ting

ting-a-ling

tang
tong
tang

and ting

ting

tang-a-lang tong

they sang your name

at least
that
is what I heard

the breeze
when I closed my eyes
was like
your fingers
wandering
through my hair

and as it ruffled me
I heard the bells . . .

ting tang
tang
tong

. . . call aloud
your name

~

Genre overall is a problem for me, GB. Poetry is the preferred form, storytelling in each case is the aim.

Themes are whatever they are - sci-fi, ghosts, love, memoir.

A bit of a pain when it comes to promoting the work anywhere.

Still, not complaining. It's what I do.

Today, what has caught my eye is a poem from an unpublished series of Ghost-themed poems that I am personally quite fond of, but which haven't been posted anywhere, or made into books. In total, I think there are enough in the collection to become a book when it is their turn, but it may not happen.

The back-story to these is that I have attended a Writing Retreat in Queensland for the last couple of years. This year (2020) of the virus the retreat was cancelled in favor of a highly successful virtual retreat conducted via Zoom.

I can thoroughly recommend The Rainforest Writing Retreat, but would stress that places each year are limited to 50 places. Check it out here: http://www.rainforestwritingretreat.c...

One of the activities pursued by the Retreat is production of a themed Anthology each year. 2018 was my first contribution to Short Stories of Forest and Fantasy: Fantasy Anthology . The 2019 collection will be out before too long I think, and is of course, themed for Ghost stories.

In both years that I have been in a position to contribute, I've allowed myself to indulge in the theme and to write multiple poem/stories. In the case of the ghosts theme, I have a collection-worth of poems. From the previous theme I ended up with two complete collections. One of Fantasy and one Sci-Fi. I'll speak more of those another time during these few weeks.

For the moment, I'll post one of my favourite pieces from the Ghost themed work.

the first violin (I washed myself) away


the first violin
was the last one
to know

he stood
in his place

eyes closed

as he drew down

his weight on the bow
called a slow
trembling
note

I played along

until he
so
would I

there was no one
could be sure
of how it would end

so
while we waited

the tune
trembled on

and the waters
kept time
as they rose

level
by level

but his eyes
remained closed
and he held on
to his notes

I believe
now
that he knew
but his bow
drew again
and again
while it could

I began
weeping
from the song
or the flood

I don’t know

but I heard
his sweet notes
as I washed

and was washed

my own
self
away

some nights now
l lie
awake in the darkness

that will not be
as dark
as that night

not ever
again

and I think
I can hear

no
it’s more
I can feel him

a trembling note
held long
by one violin

the first violin
who played

I wash myself
away

~

Grasshopper wrote: "It's so good to have you back! We missed your poems ex- Poetry Mod.
Looking forward to a delightful month with you."
Cheers, GB. Thanks for setting it up for me and giving a nudge. Hopefully I'll find a few things of interest for the feature.

Beatrice wrote: "Welcome back Frank. That's a lovely poem. Thanks for sharing."

Thank you Beatrice. I hope to post a goodly number of both new and old over coming weeks.

Hello Grasshopper Bot and New Authors members and readers.

I feel I'm arriving a little late at my own party, but have been unavoidably detained from attending to any hosting duties, until now.

Thank you GB for introducing Rescue and Redemption, my most recently released poetry collection, and part of A Love Poetry Trilogy. I had quite a thrill a couple of days back to find two books of the Trilogy sitting #1 and #2 on the UK Kindle Best Seller list for Australasian Poetry.

It's a rarefied field and a rare moment that I accept gratefully.

I'll leave this post with a piece of recent writing, and come back with a few thoughts to add, tomorrow.

This poem is from an as yet unpublished collection of poems that harks back to the Wild fires of last Summer, here in Australia. The Working title for the collection is 'Koala in a Coalmine'.

and we become (the thing that we denied) a refugee


the thought I had
was a refugee

I’ve had these thoughts
before

once in a boat
upon the waters
of an ocean

sometimes
as an idea
in the sky

but lately
I’ve been watching flame
licking at the leaves
on the trees

bringing darkness
when the sun
should shine

and I see photographs
in my newspapers

I see pictures
on the TV screen

of mamas
holding it together
the best way
that they can

of papas
crying

like the world’s gone
mad

and I count
the creatures
that aren’t where
they should be
and my thought
is just a prisoner
to the knowledge
that the world has changed

there’s no koala
here

there is no blue-tongue

no wombat and
no kangaroo

I can’t see
a magpie

the kookaburra
isn’t laughing

no brown snake
or tiger

where is
the fairy wren

the wood ducks I remember
as a score

are there any left
I wonder

is there anywhere
that they might go

in my mind
I can see
a desert now
where rainforest
always swayed

I see
a land
that was once
my home

and my thought
becomes
a refugee

who am I
who are we
when the things that make us
we
are gone

who am I
who are we
when the air
we took so much
for granted
is brown
and
is the night time
of our lives

what am I
what are we

I don’t know
I don’t know
I don’t know

but in my heart
I feel
what I have to feel
and my thought

my poor thought
becomes
nothing more
than a refugee

~

I probably should, GB, but in truth, I still don't know properly how to navigate the wilds of GR.

I'll delete the post if you haven't already.

Bradley wrote: "I think it's appropriate Frank. How else do we hear about one of our favourite poets? 😊"

That's very kind of you, Bradley. Thank you.

Not sure if this should be posted here or on chat (or elsewhere) GB, but . . .

ff any one is interested this post links to 3 recent Youtube readings from my current set of releases - A Love Poetry Trilogy. https://wp.me/p7yTr8-7Ng

Please mov or delete the post if I've gotten it badly wrong, GB. I'll pop it elsewhere if that is best.

Grasshopper wrote: "Thanks Frank. That was exceptional.
Wishing you all a Happy Easter"

Hope you had a good one, GB.

Cheers.

To you also, Sean. Thank you.