With the release of my first book earlier this year I was dreaming and living bigger than I imagined was possible. For several months the adrenalin rush energised and sustained me through bouts of panic. I discovered I wasn’t a coward, people received me and the book and…hey, this is fun!

                Then a fresh wave of inadequacy dumped on me. Exhaustion set in. Scouting for prospective speaking engagements became the equivalent of a hike along Kokoda. Could I keep doing this? And for how long? I wasn’t getting any younger, so did I really want to push myself this hard?

                This was alarming enough, but when it began to affect my longer term dreams, I knew I was in trouble. Will I be able to continue short term mission trips to Cambodia? Will I have the energy to go, one more time, to Finland? Will I ever visit the Pitjajinjara Lands and sit in a circle with its women? Will I ever finish the novel that’s been in my heart for nearly twenty years? Contemplating the last one brought me to my knees. And I’m still not on my feet, not really.

                But the truth is I have come too far to go back.  Like the Australian soldiers on the Kokoda Track, it’s down to one foot in front of the other, keep up and keep on, or lie down and die.  The only shame is in giving up.

                It's time to stop gasping for breath and put on a shark suit.

On Cinquains and Sixties Satire

At a recent workshop meeting of my writing group I learnt to write a cinquain – a poem of eleven words over five lines: first line of one noun; second line of two adjectives to describe that noun; line three of three verbs; line four, a four word phrase (a poet’s comment on the noun); last line, a noun relating back to first one).  I can write a cinquain while I wait for a bus. Cinquaines may replace crossword puzzles as my brain gym!

            It set me to wondering; why don’t I write more poetry?  It’s so satisfying, playing with words in ways that delight me and which are so different to writing prose fiction. At school - somehow, sometime - I was infected with the idea that real poetry rhymed and rhyming was hard. Also, poetry was deep, meaningful and serious, which meant it couldn’t be fun.  I had not yet been introduced to the irony and satire of the likes of John Donne, and Roger McGough and Bruce Dawe weren’t in school texts yet.

            Fast forward to 2014. Current time constraints mean I can put together a poem for my monthly writing group more readily than I can write a short story and so I‘ve been ‘having a go’ at verse. It’s also interesting to me that I find it easier to be more light-hearted and amusing in poetry that in prose. Perhaps I can put this down to exposure to the lyrics of Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, which were so enjoyed by my mother.           

            Today I unearthed another possibility: rummaging through some second hand CDs I found “Tom Lehrer in Concert” and was instantly transported back to the 60’s. A fellow boarder in the church-run hostel in which I lived had managed to get her hands on a copy, despite the fact that his recordings of satirical humour in verse - accompanied by some clever piano playing - were banned in Australia at the time. Lehrer’s cleverly observant anarchic satire was typical of 60’s uni student humour. Listening to his songs today made me grin with pleasure. What fun they are and how tame by modern standards. 

            

    

           

BENIGHTED

Kez frowned and twirled a strand of hair round one finger.

            “I feel as though I’ve forgotten something. Can’t think what it would be.”

            Martin lowered the book he’d just opened and contemplated his wife over the top of his glasses.

            “Of course you can’t. You’ve forgotten it, remember.” He returned his attention to the book, shaking loose papers from it onto his chest. “Someone’s forgotten they’ve left all this stuff in here.”

            “Looks like library receipts,” said Kez, reaching over to snatch up the nearest. “Gosh! Who borrows nine books at once?”

            Martin pretended to snatch it back, but Kez held it out of reach, reading out book titles at arm’s length.

            “ ‘Old Filth’. There’s a title to conjure with. ‘Eros Defiled’, ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’, ‘Love in a Cold Climate’, ‘Nights in Rhodanthe.’ Whoever it is, she’s definitely reading to a theme. I suppose it’s a her.  Oh damn!” She swung her legs out of bed, tossing the receipt to one side. “That’s what it is! Supposed to meet the White Knight for coffee this morning. Damn! Have to rush now. I’ll turn up looking a right mess.” She disappeared into the ensuite.

            As usual, Martin smiled at his wife’s name for her friend, Barb. It was an apt nick name for a woman who affected an all-white wardrobe and a reputation for marrying lame ducks. He picked up the other pieces fallen from the book and unfolded the largest. It was an overdue book notification, complete with name and address.

            “Hey, Kez,” he shouted against the noise of the shower. “Guess, what?”

***

Kez lowered her latte to its saucer and asked, “Read any interesting books lately, Barbie? Like…visited the library?”

            “Silly. Book groups are your hobby. When do I have time to read? Real life is much more interesting.”

            “Just wondering. Thought your ‘latest’ might like you to read aloud to him.”

            “Not like you to be catty, Kez. He hasn’t had a great education, but I’m proud to be Mrs. Roger Black. He’s got charisma, and he’s willing, and with a bit of help from me he’ll turn his life around and make something of himself. He’s got real potential.”

            “As what?”

            “As a writer, that’s what!” Barb flicked her blonde mane and adjusted the lapel of her cashmere jacket. “Oh, Kez, he shuts himself in the study for hours, won’t let me interrupt. And then, at night, he reads it to me. He’s got talent, he really has.”

            Kez wasn’t convinced, but Barb had once worked in the publishing world, and she used to be a reader, before she started collecting husbands. It’s possible she’d recognise a potential best seller. 

            “Well, I’d be happy to read the manuscript. Copy edit, too, if he wants,” she said, stroking a few ruffled feathers.

            “Would you? That would be wonderful! Especially as I’ve got a publisher who’s agreed to look at it.”

            “Not Bernard?”

             “Yes.” Barb giggled.  “At least one of my exes came up trumps.”

***

By the time his book hit the shelves Roger had moved on to join Barbie’s list of exes. Not only did he still have a library card in her name, he had signed a contract for further titles to be published under the pseudonym of B. Knight-Black.

            “Barb should have him for identity theft,” said Martin.

            “Yep. Right after Bernard sues him for plagiarism, I reckon,” said Kez.

© Rhonda Pooley  4.6.14                                                                                

CHOICES  

 (inspired by a cafe name)

In the Garden of Eatin’

Dining sparse and wise leaves us bereft,

Crying “My genes aren’t my fault, it’s not fair!”

So with devil’s desire we eat, as we please, from the sinister tree on the left

And the result we must suck up and bear.

In the Garden of Eatin’

Choice is undeniable,

Though its root is more pride than need.

To shy at fences of self-denial we’re liable,

Opting less for nutrition than greed.

Too soon in the Garden of Eatin’

We’re faced with a widening girth,

Gut-groaning regret, and reflux at night.

With a wardrobe now useless, we ask “What’s it worth?

Time to dine from the life-giving tree on the right!

For it’s true…desiring a devilish tree

Is to eat inappropriately.”

© Rhonda Pooley  30.4.13

CHANGE

Pigeons rachet from a branch,

Like brittle pages, wind riffles leaves,

Low, bruised nimbus are summer’s thieves.

A change is on the way.

Blinds rattle, a door slams,

Raindrops in dust find sudden death,

All that lives holds its breath.

A change is on the way.

Wind-whipped wrappers, like baubles, on gates,

Ink lines of ants homeward scurry

Gaggles of children from schoolyards hurry.

A change is on the way.

Hatches are battened, chairs flattened,

Hasty unpegging of laundry to plunder,

A howling dog competing with thunder.

A change is on the way.

A ripping lights the sky,

A smattering, a splattering

A drizzling, a mizzling

And zigzags rend the sky

A rivulet, a brooklet

A-streaming, a-teeming

Rush, gush, lush

Cool change.

 © Rhonda Pooley  2014

My Writing Process Blog Tour

Melissa Gijsbers Khalinsky invited me to My Writing Process blog tour. Link to her at 

Melissawrites.com.au

What am I working on?

At the moment I only have time for short story writing because I’m busy making a platform of speaking engagements to showcase my book Cambodian Harvest which will be released in April. I’m looking forward to getting back to working on my novel which has an historical premise. You can read my latest short pieces, Of Mice and Angels, on Rhonda Pooley - Writer (blog)
 or A Day At The Beach  on https://www.facebook.com/rhondapooleywriter?fref=ts   

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

In terms of the biography, Cambodian Harvest, I have aimed for a journalistic approach which is not common among Christian biographers. I particularly admire Peter McSimons’ style (although not necessarily his politics!). My short stories and novel might be termed ‘literary fiction’ by some, but they aren’t so high falutin’ as that - trust me!

Why do I write what I do?

I’m interested in how the past impinges on the present - for better or worse – and how people handle that. My stories reflect this even when I haven’t set out with that consciously in mind. I write from a biblical world view, but with a non-Christian audience in mind.

How does my writing process work?

Slowly! And I’m a very linear sort of fiction writer. I like to start at what I think is the beginning and then work with a particular ending in mind. But in practice it rarely works out like that. Achieving a good ending is always the hardest thing for me.

Next week you will meet Anusha Atukorala on the Writing Process Blog Tour. Anusha is an accomplished public speaker as well as a writer of encouragement and warmth. Visit her at ‘Dancing in the Rain’:  anusha-atukorala.webnode.com 
I have invited two more writers but I haven't had confirmation and information from them yet.

OF MICE AND ANGELS

Murial Mouse, in black beret and red smock, paused, paint brush in hand. Friend Merry gave an admiring sigh.

            “How come you’re so famous, Murial?”

            “Pull up a cushion and I’ll tell you,” said Murial, wiping a speck of paint from her nose with the back of her paw.

            “While I was still a bump in mummy’s tummy, she dreamed a dream about me. At the time, she was eating cheese and reading about Mike the angel who painted his sister’s chapel, so she…”

            “Don’t you mean…?” interrupted Friend Merry.

            Murial raised an imperious paw and made a mouth zipping motion.                            

            “…So she knew about big dreams. She dreamed I would paint…heaven.”

            Murial closed both eyes and paused as though waiting for a drum roll to stop. “When she told me about it, it became my very favouritest bedtime story. ‘Merle,’ she’d say, ‘Merle…’

            “But your name isn’t Merle,” frowned Friend Merry.

            “How do you expect me to finish this story if you keep interrupting,” snapped Murial.

            “’Merle’, she’d say, ‘Anyone can dream big dreams, but they come to pass little by little. You must remember that.’ So I practised painting, first on a mouse pad, then on a mouse tarp.”

            “Do you mean a mouse trap?”

            “I mean one of those big plastic sheet things that cover mouse holes and keep out the rain. Where was I? Oh yes,” Murial continued, “One day it occurred to me that if that Mike angel chap could paint ceilings, I could paint walls. So I painted my bedroom, the bathroom, the long wall in the hallway…”

            “Different colours or all the same?”

            Murial raised one eyebrow.

            “I painted white horses and thrones, and rainbows and a huge crystal sea. I used all four walls of the kitchen to do the angels, of course, because of there being thousands of them. And that, dear Merry, is how I came to be famous.” She twitched her whiskers. “And how I got my new name.”

            “How so, Murial?”

            “Because of painting all those Murials, of course.”

            “But, but, but…” squeaked Friend Merry, jumping up and down, “You mean a…a… mural!

            “Exactly,” said Murial, striking a pose at her easel.

NB: Murial’s mum was a big fan of the Bible. She knew about Joseph and Abraham. That’s how she knew about big dreams. Murial knew about heaven from reading the Book of Revelations chapters 4, 5 and 19 and also Ezekiel chapter 1. And if you read Revelations 3:12 you will see she is not the only person to get a new name.

© Rhonda Pooley 2012