There was shelter –
An upturned water tank
With an entrance hole —
My secret space
In the brittle summer bush
Where I’d hide,
Dark and bruised and splintered.
In those childhood days
I was an outlaw of sorts,
Travelling alone,
Not fitting anywhere,
Listening to cicadas throbbing
With song,
Beyond words,
Wanting nothing
But the arc of my mother’s arms.
Our cave we called the Keyhole,
we’d climb up there to see
the ferry carrying families
that drove out to the beach.
I’d sit there and imagine
floods rising high back then
to carve for us this keyhole
then rejoin the world again.
That door opened secretly
to millennia before
the cars, the ferry, boats and planes,
schools and rules and laws
And now…The ferry’s gone, and rust has taken
cars and boats and planes.
While I move on the Keyhole stays,
the secret place remains.
You’ll soon be walking through that door.
I can’t stay still a moment more.
I’m racing up and down the floor.
Can’t wait to say hello!
I’m here again with teary eyes
as everybody hugs and cries.
The air is filled with sad goodbyes.
Can’t stand to see you go!
Early this year when Australian Children’s Poetry founder Di Bates called for someone to take on the site she’d started so successfully, I tentatively put up my hand. I wasn’t sure I was the right person. I do occasionally write poetry for children and sometimes it’s published in magazines and anthologies. But I certainly don’t think of myself as a poet and taking on the role of site editor felt a bit presumptuous considering my approach to writing poetry is intuitive, not educated.
I’m so glad I ignored the niggling doubts. I’ve enjoyed reading the wonderful contributions for Poem of the Day by so many talented Australian writers of poetry for children. It’s been wonderful to have you generously share your work with others. Thank you. This site couldn’t continue to attract the interest it does without your support.
Since the site began in March 2014, it’s attracted more than 141,000 views and more than 42,000 visitors. I’m sure you’ll agree that’s rather impressive for a children’s poetry site. The Poem of the Day is the most popular of all posts, followed by the listing of poets.
Because I’m not always guaranteed to have a Poem of the Day to post every day of the year, I recently introduced the Words+Pictures creative challenge. These posts have inspired some wonderful contributions, with the snail theme by far the most popular. That’s prompted me to issue a more structured creative challenge next year. Throughout 2016, every Monday from January 4 I’ll post a poetry prompt for you. I’ll mix it up with words, pictures, themes and poetic styles. Are you up for the challenge? I hope so because I’m looking forward to receiving some inspired responses…and being inspired to write more poems myself.
Happy creative New Year!
Teena
I may not have a backbone,
But I’m brave as brave can be.
Just take time to observe me,
Then I’m sure you will agree.
My enemies are giants tall
And armed with hoes and spades!
They stomp around my picnic spots
And hurl their flashing blades!
Yet these will not deter me,
Since it’s clear that I must eat
The greens left lying in my path:
How beautifully sweet!
I bravely dodge the missiles
And the bomb-like boots from heights.
Such perils do not kill desire
To scoff down such delights!
When climbing I am carefree:
Though high may be the wall,
I cling to ledges upside down
And never fear to fall.
So do not doubt my courage.
Admire my spiral shell!
Call me “a mighty mollusc”
And “Supersnail” as well!
Home
The pigeon struts
along the ledge:
he never gets
too near the edge.
Like it or not
I am glued to this spot,
left in the lurch
on a perilous perch
exposed to all weathers,
bird-bombs and feathers,
no shelter at night,
a face like a fright,
with a monstrous chin
and a phony grin
that’s just an excuse,
a ridiculous ruse
for making a drain
to spew out the rain
away from the wall
of this cold stone hall.
Day in and day out
I do nothing but spout
the run-off and grime
and the muck and the slime
from up on this roof –
I feel such a goof.
In fact, I’m offended
at being wrong-ended
with backward digestion –
so here’s a suggestion:
if means could be found
to turn me around
I could hide my face
from the human race
and I wouldn’t need words –
I’d behave like the birds
and the message I’d send
would be through my rear end.
You might like the Crunchie, an excellent pick,
this miniature, choc-coated honeycomb brick
or what about something the colour of cream?
If that’s sounding tempting, then try out the Dream.
There’s Dairy Milk, Picnic and Mint Bubbly too,
all of them sitting here waiting for you.
If fruit mixed with coconut’s what you like best
the Cherry Ripe option is what I’d suggest.
There’s smooth Caramello and crumbling Flake.
It’s not such an easy decision to make.
This might be the last time we’re offered such treats.
You’d better choose wisely from all of these sweets.
But just let me warn you, we don’t want a fight.
So stay right away from that Turkish Delight!
On the highway to Appin
skies bled on summer nights.
The road hummed to town,
trucks sped coal to the coast,
and south of main street
silent on a bridge,
Fisher’s Ghost.
Weekdays we rose at five
blowing balls of warmth into winter air,
and milking the cows
I sang at the bails,
‘Rose Marie, I love you.’
Summer was blowies in the cream,
butter that melted,
eggs from gasping hens.
Mrs Tietzel brought the mail,
Campbell the bread,
the days moved sideways.
Saturday was cricket
or Menangle trots,
swimming at the Woolwash
and the Queen Street shops.
Bill was cockatoo for SP bookies in pubs
and kids lined up at the picture house,
game girls rubbing cheeks with bristling boys.
Paspalum brushed the sky
and we forgot ourselves.
In the showground cemetery
beneath the shadow of Ruse
who sowed the first grain
we made rubbings on tombs;
JOHN MACARTHUR, ELIZABETH, R.I.P.
In Mawson Park
the band played Matilda,
someone scribbled his mind on toilet walls,
and, beyond trains that steamed to Sydney,
I dreamed a freedom of cities and age.
© Dianne Bates
The scribbly gum is a eucalyptus tree with a very smooth, pale trunk. The distinctive brownish ‘scribbles’ are made by the larvae of the tiny scribbly moth.
Tall custodians of scribbled mysteries,
What can you tell us, silent trees?
What tunnelling scribes find sanctuary
within this covert library?
Mere larvae, small but diligent,
whose little lives are wholly spent
to leave these ciphers in your care
’til later times reveal them there.
What is the urgent need that drives
this tracery of transient lives?
What are the messages layered here
in darkness? Why, year after year
do you allow these prophets in?
Is there an itch beneath your skin?
Are you, tall gums, merely content
to give their need your nourishment?
Or do your lives and theirs conspire
to keep these riddles from our eye
’til when these poets take their leave,
you wear their heartsongs on your sleeve?
Australian Children’s Poetry 