Rightio, time to give away some more magazines. In honour of the start of winter (usually my most productive of the four seasons), I’m offering:
- Imago 13:3 (2001) – a now-defunct Australian mag
- The North 44 (2009) – a British mag
- Poetry CLXXVI:3 (June 2000) – an American mag (yes, that one)
- Takahe 58 (2006) – a New Zealand mag
.
I’m willing to post these anywhere, so non-NZ readers, this is open to you as well. Your challenge is to write a short(ish) poem – no more than 31 lines – somehow using the following line:
out here in this solitude smelling of cedars
In case you’re wondering, the line comes from a poem by Barton Sutter, called “Night Fishing, Lake Polly”, which appears in the issue of Poetry that’s up for grabs.
Post your entry in the comments section, and a winner will be selected on the morning of Friday July 1st. (Yep, you get a whole month.)
Have fun!
A Dark Feathered Art 
Soliloquy
amazing how
out here in this leafy democracy
out here in this solitude smelling of cedars
treating me as any tree, the sky draws me up
Greg O’Connell © 2011
Nice opening move Greg!
Oh, you know me too well!
The Anthologian (spirited wood)
“Split a piece of wood, and I am there.” [– Jesus, Gospel of Thomas]
Out here in this solitude smelling of cedars
I am fanned by the thumbs of transient readers
who chop at this block; split, then seal it again;
wearing the secret of binding thin through the grain.
Oh! how I have suffered indeterminate nights;
all in the hope that their eyes might alight,
and respond to the yearning, in me ever turning
to the tick of the shiver of my Maker’s quiver.
. . .
But now I’m arrested in steadier light,
as the binding has split (all within their sight),
so now I must peep at this curious pair;
I study them from my shelf :
all unaware.
Yay, a last-minute challenger to Greg! Oooh, this might have to go down to a vote.
Brother Kawaka
BY GREG O’CONNELL
Out here in this solitude
smelling of cedars
he is a twisted monk
his skin, the hide of a flagellant
yet his wounds exude
a fragrant chrism
natural high
BY GREG O’CONNELL
as sure as the moon, the truth will out
here in this solitude smelling of cedars
we inhale their narcotic and don’t care about
repercussions; we are languid as lotus-eaters
How many votes does Greg get?
Good question! One, same as everyone else.
I just have the One Vote to Rule Them All …
Whoever’s elected ‘Clutter Winner’ – it’s been fun! Thanks again, Joanna. And thanks, Dwayne for ensuring that I was not just out here in this solitude…yelling for readers. 😉
Little Song of Solace
BY GREG O’CONNELL
Out here in this solitude smelling of cedars
an hour stretches as long as the coast,
far-removed from the mall-engrossed:
bigger! brighter! smarter! sweeter!
or the suburbs where life is boiled, litre by litre,
and only shops that are coffins are closed;
where the ground itself is diagnosed
malignant, in that season when the city is a soul-feeder.
But here in this wild isolation the fractured self, so long unaddressed
revives, expands to encompass flesh and bone
and earth and sky, and spaces where raw forces coalesce;
where the rain is in the breath is in the stone.
You can find yourself out here, somewhere west
of disorder; discover that certain stillness, discover home.
Hi Joanna, just thought I should mention that the last line of my poem should be offset to the right of the colon, but still under it. Otherwise it came through in pretty good shape. Glad to see the autocracy is still in place
Hi Dwayne,
unfortunately I don’t seem to be able to make it stay that way – the html for comments doesn’t seem to be translating through past the edit screen.
But ooooh, the autocracy jibe could cost you!
😉
Yeah, as hard as I try, I just can’t keep my mouth shut 😉 Lynne Truss calls my condition “self-appointed virtuous contrast”; it’s a bit like having Tourette’s, but for people who know some long words that annoy everybody. Whatever happens, “Out …”, was a lovely phrase to work with, and I look forward to the next one. 🙂
… and hope that I’m not a vindictive woman …
😉
Why! Milady! such a thought would surely be beyond the scope of possibility, and indeed, inconceivable to such a humble doggerel peddlar, as myself; and verily, in all effulgent pith, in the very depths of my own effervescent, and revelatory, brevity, I must confess my innocence 😉
It’s usually at this point that Ian chimes in …