‘There’s no perfect life. There’s always something going on behind the curtain that people don’t know about.’ Madelaine Petsch ( Read more at: Brainy Quote )
Longing for time’s
memory eye lids
open and shut
Yesterday’s grief buzzes in
through the window
of pain’s unraveled
The insider wills
yesterday to fly
decay of the
The sting of understanding
within the sun’s
streaming in through the
of the open curtains,
the curious outsider
into the room of the
(c) June Perkins
Developing the idea from Evening similes, I continued on with the curtain image.
1- I looked to a quotation for inspiration 2- I thought about the idea in my original poem the Pandora’s box of memory and worked on expanding that idea. 3- I went for metaphor more than simile. 4- I thought about the themes of healing, time and grief.
Dream is unpicking
the thread of
(c) June Perkins 27/ 04/2019
These blogs are to explore the editing process from initial idea to playful experimentation with both theme and form to create a piece
that the poet is finally happy with.
I am revisiting old notebook/blog poems and developing them
Today’s experiment with ‘Evening Similes’ involved 1- Extending metaphors of some parts
2- Playing with the lines
3- Thinking more closely about the links from stanza to stanza
4- Re-titling the poem to ‘Curtains of Mystery’
I hope some of my readers find this sharing of process informative
and helpful to their own poetic journeys.
Inspired by Ali’s post I am exploring some of my journal poems going back to 25 years ago. I found a black journal with a red spine with an index to poetry pages. The year was 1995.
push in around my soul
squeezing out the joy
I found in you.
Labels of types could
spring so easily to mind.
The thought of leaving this place
could rid me of this insecure need
for island borders.
Here I know people
who spend all their time in one town,
rarely venturing out 50 kilometres beyond
what they know.
I know people who will never experience
Here I know growing
country towns with pubs and
new shopping centres
young families broken
elderly people retired
at Sandy Bay. Young drunks
who hang out in Launceston’s City Mall
on Saturday nights
and at Milk bars along the Midlands.
Some people are kind
and others push you if you’re black
and your boyfriend is white;
they pull your hands away with such hate.
They still believe in the ‘Black line’
And they believe these lush green hills were
always theirs to own because of their birth right
because of their colour.
not yours or mine.
They can have their island borders
parameters and lines
and flat earth
their labels and types
their black line
their country pubs
I will find a joy
not in place
but in spirit
a new love
a new dream
where everywhere is home
there are no borders, no islands
lines on my map disappear.