Category Archives: Ars Poetica

Post It Note Poetry February 5

February 5 – Virtual Reality

Post It Note Poetry Feb 5

Unwrapping the doughnut

from its paper bag

and savouring its aroma

he draws it towards his mouth…

A blank screen

and green cursor blinking

GAME OVER

Please insert $2 coin to continue

Post It Note Poetry February 4

February 4 – First Day of School

A themed #postitnotepoetry submission today as my youngest, Little Miss #2, starts her first day of Kindergarten.

Post It Note Poetry Feb 4

Excitement chases nervousness

Across the asphalt of the playground,

Following the painted lines

Of hopscotch squares and swirly snakes

And jumping over cracks.

When the bell rings

The chicks are gathered ‘neath Wisdom’s wings

Post It Note Poetry February 3

February 3 – WARNING: BALL PIT

Post It Note Poetry Feb 3

His young feet dangled over the edge

longing to swim amongst the plastic

blue, red, green, yellow and purple balls;

to tumble inside a kaleidoscope

to climb the matrices of molecules

to throw planets like a Titan

Yet he dared not move

scanning the surface for the fin

of the Ball Pit Shark

Post It Note Poetry February 2

February 2 – The Ritual of Tea

Post It Note Poetry Feb 2

Two cups,

Handles turned inward

Towards each other.

He pours a question

She lets it draw.

He pours the milk and stirs the words.

She adds sugar and a question.

Spoken in sips

Deeper thoughts as it tempered and cooled

Drained to the dregs

Remainders of words at the bottom

Post-It Note Poetry February 1

I set myself a challenge of writing a poem a day during the month of February. A poem on a Post It note.

Each day I’ll post a new poem*.

I have also set up a permanent page on the blog where I will collate all the poems.

You can also follow me on twitter @revhappiness and follow the hashtag #postitnotepoetry

* Results may vary and you can probably expect dog-awful, spleen rupturing, Vogon-inspired poetry. You have been warned.

February 1 – Fear

Post It Note Poetry Feb 1

I emptied my pockets

of all my fears

A handful of stones

dropped into still waters

Lost amongst the darkness

of the depths

But I keep one in my shoe

That I may never forget

Putting Fingers to Keys

It used to be “putting pen to paper,” but now, the instant access to a broad audience means that we throw ideas and words out like old underwear, not really caring who sees them.  So, here is some underwear for you to watch as it spins around the clothes line.

It has been so long since I actually wrote something and I invariably have a number of excuses.  The most honest excuse is that I have been afraid to commit to something that I feel passionate about.  Fear of failing, but wanting to be successful.  Feeling inadequate, but seeking recognition.

I want to write.  I want to communicate.  I want to tell stories.  I want to create a photograph with words.

Fear is a great motivator and a bastard of a thief.

So here is a recent kernel of an idea.

I took a piece of paper and folded a paper crane.

I breathed into it the sacredness of life.

Transforming still flesh into a gentle rhythm

heard first in the darkness, a hymn of praise

A sharp intake, an exhalation

It took wing and I blessed it as it flew away,

an emblem of fragile beauty.



Time to take that piece of string I tied around my foot, pull it over my shoulder and give myself a good, swift kick up the bum.  Time to simply write, even it is rubbish.  Especially if it is rubbish.  A good analogy I once heard in relation to songwriting, that also applies to writing, is to “pump the well.”  At first, all you get is mud, detritus, but if you keep pumping, you will find clear, clean water.

I won’t be away for so long.  I promise.

Outside the Box

Each way I turn I am confronted by

conditions, restrictions

definitions, contradictions

tick this box

place a cross here

sign below please

The individual is categorised and correctly catalogued

for the supermarket shelf

so the discerning consumer may browse

the conveniently processed and packaged

new and improved, 97% fat-free

low cholesterol, salt-reduced people

I am placed in the bargain bin tagged “For Quick Sale”

a broken commodity

I will not fit their neat little boxes: I defy description

The little box created for me

will not restrict me, confine me

nor define me

I will be known

I will be understood

I will be found

outside the box

 

This poem was originally written for the opening of an art exhibition by a group of disabled artists called Studio ARTES.  The studio operates to assist people with physical and intellectual disabilities in a range of endeavours: work skills, travelling and finance, art and creative pursuits.  The title of the exhibition came out of continued discussions with government bodies for funding, but because their focus was varied, they were not able to be neatly categorised for government paperwork.

The metaphor of a box being used to define and categorise a person is not uncommon; the box being a metaphor of how we define ourselves, or have others define us; or how we make judgements based on preconceived ideas.  Thus the exhibition and this poem were an exploration of the preconceived boundaries that are placed upon people with physical or intellectual disabilities, about what they can or cannot accomplish.

Don’t dis my ability.