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Archive for the ‘aging’ Category

In this raw and honest poem Suzanne Edgar captures that moment when reality walks all over the assumed image of the imagined-self.

…………………………………………………………………

GONE MISSING

Suzanne Edgar

……………………………………………….

I was at a noisy partymirror

in a laughing, drinking crowd

telling anecdotes galore

mixed up with hissy gossip

and frequent risqué jokes.

When I did a mirror check,

I received a frightful shock.

Someone had taken my face!

I’d come there brushed and sleek

with lips of deepest pink,

my shining auburn hair

framed eyes like summer pools.

The effect was rather youthful,

I’d supposed when I arrived.

This was not the face

that met me in the glass.

Where had my image gone?

The cheeks I saw were red,

the bloodshot eyes were smudged

and my hair had lost its sheen.

I looked about in panic,

there was no one else in view,

could it have been borrowed

or taken by mistake?

That face I liked to wear

has never been returned.

…………………………………………………………………………

Suzanne Edgar’s book The Painted Lady is available @se-book3
the bookshop of the National Library of Aust and the
Paperchain Bookstore 34 Franklin St Manuka ACT.

Read extract here.

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This poem by Zoe Deleuil captures a rare moment of intimacy in a relationship made distant by the generations and then made intense again by a simple act. The power of the poem also lies in its simplicity. 

Sometimes, not enough,

I’d really look at you

and say: Let me clean your glasses.

You’d take them off.

Blink. Hand them over.

Pull out a folded handkerchief

from your trouser pocketglasses

and give that up, too.

 

It’s always the edges that get blurry.

I’d work on those the longest, teasing out

flecks of leaf and breakfast smudges and wattle pollen

until the glass was clear. Like making them new

again. You’d put them on – just as slowly

as you took them off – look around

at your familiar world and say:

There’s no doubt about you.

by Zoe Deleuil

zoe-deleuil-2 Zoe Deleuil grew up in Perth, Australia, studied Communications at Murdoch University, and now works in London as a sub editor and features writer. #mce_temp_url#

Her first novel is, She Left, You Came, a teenage love story set in Western Australia. This poem first appeared on the Cordite Website: #mce_temp_url#

B & W pic: Accent on Eclectic’s Photostream: #mce_temp_url#

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Poempig lives in the epicentre of Australian Swine Flu hysteria…. duly catching one of the lesser bugs. Going to the doctor suffering from flu-potential was a new experience. I was met out the front by a receptionist and given a mask and then escorted into a back room. Tamiflu was prescribed by a masked doctor. Being isolated in a back room had its advantages. I was, of course, saved form the germ fest in the waiting room. Nevertheless, the achy, breaky flu-like symptoms put me into a poetic if-dulled state of mind.


There is a certain age

When the doctor – still shuffling his notes –

Looks up at you and says

You have the -tism.

And, ah, some -itis too.


To deal with the -tism

You must forgo youthful indifference, late night indulgence and chaotic inattention

Embrace a more monastic, ordered liferocking chair

And eat green vegetables

(Grown, out back, in the monastic garden, no doubt!)

The -itis also demands a rigid, rule-based existence

With different coloured pills.

Pink this time.


Keeping company with the -tism

Is like living with a crack-cocaine addict

It flares up and attacks you

For no reason and with no warning.

The -itis hangs around your life 

Like a depressed house mate

Moping and moaning and turning every  simple chore

– like getting out of bed – into an epic quest.


At some point the realisation dawns

The crack addict and the depressive

Are now your companions for life.

It is not how you imagined it

Sitting on the porch

(Note to self: Get a porch)

The three odd amigos

You, the -itis and the -tism.

Kerry Cue

Clip Pic comes from the tragically appropriate Lie_inourgraves Photostream: #mce_temp_url#

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Here is a poem from award winning Australian Poet, Peter Goldsworthy, which captures that fleeting feeling each day  of time passing through us. It is simply called Razorgoldsworthycroppedlarge

Carving his same face

out of soap , each morning

slightly less perfectly.

Peter Goldsworthy’s latest book is Everything I Knew (Hamish Hamilton, 2008)pg-book-cover

You can find more about Peter Goldsworthy’s writing at #mce_temp_url#

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