How to be a poet

A new idea and inspiration for this month's project.

A poem posted by Andrew from Wendell Berry

How To Be a Poet
(to remind myself)

i
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.
ii
Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
iii
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.

by Wendell Berry

Wednesday crows

I do miss the sounds of roosters crowing in the mornng. 

Andrew's crows do the same thing.

Here's his Wednesday lines:

Every Wednesday
they string-up
lines

all across
suburban skies
four black lines

before the blue
of a startling
clear sky

then birds come -
twenty-eights to crows -
to perch and

meditate

Andrew Burke

Ruby Tuesday

Feels like a red gem of a day.

A poem or two:

Tuesday morning wind
has blown the birds away
and plants sweep
the garden back
and forth.

He is inside his head
as usual
wind whistling in one ear
the other leeward
and nostalgic for

childhood holiday camps
by the Indian Ocean
dogs' ears pinned back
all eyes
on the horizon.

He leans
and turns the hose off
hand over hand
he wends it around
the half wheel rim
screwed to the porch.

Andrew Burke

Monday, Monday

Love that song with Mamma Cass's distinctive voice.

Monday on poneme...mmmm. More great offerings.

Monday means nothing
in China where
you work seven days a week.

Monday means nothing
much when
you're unemployed
in Australia.

This Monday I bring
the washing in from
Sunday and wake my wife
late.

Monday's mudlarks play
flying leapfrog over bins
out for collection
on brown summer verges

Andrew Burke

monday's wet notes

# in the furtherest place from height

discussion lower than everything else
so still now whatever wounded grunt
was ever free for all the talking
political tally doesn't catch the
message from the gun (a low day
then) talk lower than everything else
so still in the ground

# thought the poet had a pure heart

for all the rabid iniquity
thought a calm breath
filled need found hope was a willing
motivation towards relinquishing

thought the poet has her own perspective
thought that was clean thinking wiped assumptions
wiped the generalisms found a pure heart
only worked in first drafts

Louise Waller

Sunday reflections

Its Sunday and the church bells are ringing. Well they are if you live near a cathedral or church which still tolls the bell.

The start to the week, this day of the sun. A time for reflection on the week past, the week ahead.

Here's two reflections of Sundays past: 

The Old Methodist Hall 

I went looking for the old Methodist Hall. The one with the stage filled with boys and girls. The one where Eden’s apple could inflame; Jonah being washed by a whale; no rickety old ladder for Jacob’s climb. In my Father's house are many mansions. As a child, I knew mansions of the doomed, valleys of the shadows of death. I could recite the Psalms, and knew the songs of my father's religion. Give me that old time religion. It was good enough for my grandfather. It was good enough for my mother. It was good enough for my brother. No handclapping or dancing in the Methodist Hall, only Sunday School, catechism, the young layman's guitar - a modern hook for boys and girls. Hallelujah. Hallelujah, Praise the Lord and pass the biscuits. I learnt the Gospel, according Matthew; recited all the names of books of the bible. I would to go to Galilee and stand on that shore. I would walk my feet sore in the bosom of Abraham, if I could see his face. If I could see his face. Jesus was a mystery man who never had a face. I remember his soft hands, ginger beard, long flowing robe. He walked amongst thieves, murderers, tossed gamblers from a sacred temple. Yes, Jesus loves me. The bible tells me so. I went looking for the Methodist Hall, couldn't find that old time religion. It was late Sunday, no tolling bell, no organ, only a wagtail on a missing spire. Church supplanted with a section of shops. Old choristers and angels held in the body of wayward lotions, massage oils. Some keep the Sabbath in surplice; I just wear my wings, and instead of tolling the bell for church, our little sexton sings, wrote Dickinson. Gran used to say, "God lives behind our eyes, and all they see." I went looking for that old Methodist Hall, and found that little girl, still down on her knees.

Helen Hagemann

Presbyterian Sundays


My father strode briskly to church every Sunday
psalm book in hand, money for the collection plate
securely licked into a printed offering envelope.

My mother and I in matching straw hats
short white gloves and little handbags followed.

His was a family tradition of ministers and missionaries
where children and wives walked behind in duck formation.

I have photos of them all in hats sweeping along
the Presbyterian streets of Camberwell
not a smile between them.

Heather Matthew

A retrospective Saturday poem

Like Julie Christie at the Oscars this is a little bit 80s

Saturday horoscope with Crystal
(a good day for family activities)

now, as four, we travel
taking the 210 bus
over-full with race bound gamblers
we stop short of the race track
to indulge in the school gala
each of us tracking
our favoured activities
a kind of gambling
with different odds

returning home
with our winnings
three chickens
two bottles of wine
a pie plate
not to mention
one shied coconut
there is room
for conversation
on a less crowded bus
advice from an older woman
on how to make stuffing
recalling past experiences
of boiling rice in the outback
where no bread was available

we had bought bread
with lunches in mind
marmite sandwiches
& cheese on toast

this conversation
changes our plans
stuffed chickens
with fruit juice
& cheap wine
make their contribution
to family dinner party
while on TV, David Lange
our Prime Minister, gives
the best Oxford Debating Speech in years
& receives a standing ovation

Judith McNeil

Sunshiny Saturdays

Its a sunny Saturday morning. A day for eating pancakes and doing the Saturday wash.

Here's our Saturday poems:

American style,
Saturday pancakes with syrup
you fashion ears and limbs,
dough menagerie shapes.
Pancakes hot from the plate,
children swoop, as hawks wait
for prey to emerge from grass.

You spear one or two
for the plate, drizzle the maple
and look at me, our children.
Mention in passing that
the coffee tastes like cigarettes.

Kristin Hannaford


Saturday wash


up to my elbows in suds
doing the Saturday wash
dreaming of Mrs Beaton

all her some days finally realized
with the mechanical washing machine
no handle necessary

but the general principles of washing
set forth in her chapter on laundry work
naturally apply to machine washing

first the linen is examined for grease spots
damp stains, fruit stains, ink stains, tea and wine stains
removed according to the chapter on household hints

then each article is entered in the washing book
before soaking in a tub of lukewarm water overnight
to which a little soda or borax is added

early on the following morning fires are lit
hot water procured and the washing can begin
experienced washerwomen rub one linen surface against the other

I plunge into buckets and scrub with soap
doomed to turn all my clothing yellow
no bluing, bleaching or starching will improve their colour

outside the air is fresh, a good drying wind blows
I string out a line of smalls and socks doubling the pegs
sniff the sheets and towels, watch the shadows dance

Heather Matthew