toast for tea

My poetry has taken a back seat this year. I’ve been concentrating on writing articles and finishing my novel. But it’s nearly there! Only a few chapters to go. It’s a children’s novel for older readers. I’ll tell you some more about that another time and maybe even share a snippet or two from the text. Meanwhile – thank you next-door-neighbour poet friend, Helen, for reminding me about poems! Here’s some from my poetry archive: forgotten two shadows merging stark and soft like falling petals turning in the breeze dancing a death waltz till they lie still on cold earth life blown silently away like irrelevant thoughts discarded forgotten Minou Aware of the clock that yesterday ticked in silence I have learned to savour these moments; you curled on my lap, nestled close, relaxed. I watch the rise and fall of your small body, each breath a memory of feline mischief. I stroke your ragged coat, trace the skeleton landscape under my fingers, aware of the slightest twitch of whiskers, curl o

I’m still absorbed in story. (When will I not be?) I’ve spent the past week listening to different people’s stories, in one way or another. People from within my circle of friends, people I’ve happened upon during my day to day activities and others who have intentionally sought me out to listen to them professionally. All in various states of happiness and unhappiness, some content, others yearning for something more. And all with a common thread to their stories: What has been told is sacred. Last night I finished reading This is Not my Beautiful Life by Elly Varrenti. I know Elly, who heads up the Professional Writing and Editing course where I’m studying. Well I sort of know her. I’ve met her a few times and had a couple of conversations with her on campus. And she signed my copy of her book at a recent book reading. But I feel like I’ve known her for ages – after reading her book. After hearing her story. It’s a no holds barred story. And it’s transparent. Sometimes you feel like

Story is far older than the art of science and psychology, and will always be the elder in the equation no matter how much time passes. —Clarissa Pinkola Estes I’ve been reading memoir. I’m in awe of anyone who can write memoir. How do they remember all that stuff? When I think back to my childhood or young adulthood, or five years ago – or last week – if I tried to write it down, I’d struggle to fill up a chapter, let alone a book. I do remember certain events, obviously, but never the detail that the memoirists I’ve been reading lately seem to. They write as if they’re talking about yesterday. When I try to conjure up my early past, it’s hard to tell if what comes to mind is an actual memory or whether I’m remembering my mother’s version of what she’d remembered about it. Or if I’m remembering a scene captured on Dad’s old movie camera – like me tap-dancing on a picnic table at the Maroondah Dam when I was about seven. How do you know whether you’re inventing a memory or actually