carolyncordon

Thoughts On Things

February 26, 2019 carolyncordon

I went to a speaker event today, a speaker with many intelligent and empowering things to say. The speaker was a writer, television person, and a deep thinker too. The speaker was Jane Caro, and even though it was a hot day today, I, and many others, were happy to travel to the Burnside Library, in the eastern suburbs of Adelaide.

Jane has a book out, hence the Speaker gig, but she also had many relevant things to say, and she held the audience captured in her story, and then happily answered the many questions asked, from members of the mostly female audience.

The relevant ‘new book’ is Accidental Feminists, and while I haven’t begun reading it yet, I was more than happy to part with my money, to get myself a discounted, and author signed copy. Feminism has been cast as a bad guy, by some, and it’s difficult to see any rational reason for that. Plenty of irrational reasons though, holders of white male privilege would have more than a few of those.

Private single sex schools seem to produce the kind of politicians who have little knowledge of the ‘real world’, as can be seen in Canberra at the moment, where ideas of fairness are thrown out of the window, and ‘merit’ seems to be gained by the size of your bank balance, and the number of similarly privileged ‘friends’ you have. When feminism is ignorantly or purposely misunderstood, and those who are feminists, called ‘ball-breakers’ and other names, that’s when you know our society is still a very long way from being equal, which is what feminism is all about.

Equality, what is so hard about that, to have a society where all are treated equally. Same pay for the same job, but also understanding that the society we currently have is far from equal. Universal Basic Income was talked of, and the reality that women are poorly served by the mish mash of working life options most go through in their lives. The further reality of homelessness of mature women also was talked of, and ideas on how things really are, even though we’re less likely to see homeless women on the streets.

Jane spoke well on the subject of schooling, firmly standing on her belief that co-ed and public is the best way to go, for many reasons. When children play together, they learn from an early age how to deal with others, and gender issues can be dealt with well before the messiness of raging hormones ever come into the equation.

I certainly agree with that one, being co-ed and public all of my way through school system, I even went public with my tertiary education, and am glad of it. I’ve been toying with a vocational course of some kind, but unless I can go through TAFE, I probably won’t do anything more, unless it’s Uni SA. I am certainly not going to go to a private college, I don’t think, they seem far too interested in getting me signed up, and grabbing my money …

OK, where was I? Ah yes, several times, Jane Caro reminded us that Climate Change was happening, and if we didn’t get going, we may not have anywhere left to live … A sobering, but necessary reminder, I feel. Too many people are pretending Mother Nature isn’t hurting, and they’re taking no action at all to assist in the healing that must occur, As Soon As Possible!

This event was well worth the money, and I hope I have learned some points I may be able to use, when I move further into the Public Speaking realm. Getting the audience to add content, but giving them the opportunity to ask questions is a good idea, and especially if you have a handy person to provide the microphone, if you have a large audience!

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A New Poetic Form

February 26, 2019 carolyncordon

The poetic form I am to write today is a new one, to me anyway, although it has actually been around, in Japan for over two hundred years. This form is the Dodoitsu poem. Like other Japanese poetry forms, this one relies on syllable counts, rather than rhyme or metre.

The Japanese language though, is different to the English language, which I and many others use. Japanese sound units for each words are shorter than many English words. And in English it can take multiple syllables to make a word, so in reality, it’s a little misleading.

Where the Haiku and Senryu both have 3 lines each, and a 5/67/5 syllable count, and the Tanka has 5 lines, with a syllable count of 5/7/5/7/7 syllables, the Dodoitsu has 4 lines, with a syllable count of 7/7/7/5 syllables.

This website gives a much clearer description of this, and more information about the form.

Traditionally, Dodoitsu was used for love poems, or ones relating to work, and with a humourous slant to the poem.

I wasn’t sure I liked this style when I first began playing with it here, but I’m changing my mind, as the words have come to the page.

These are three of my efforts:

When you’re playing politics,

shouting’s now an adult tool

rather than sensible talk.

Temper tantrums rule …

Deciding which I like best,

it’s a pointless thing to do,

when both purse and bank account

say, just window shop!

The writer’s life – write, then think

then write some more, sit and think

wait, think, write, re-read, write more.

A book may happen …

poetry

Not Throwing Stones, Watching My Words

February 25, 2019February 25, 2019 carolyncordon

In the past, and probably into the future too, I have said things unwisely, the wrong thing at the wrong time, or the wrong thing for any time. I have managed to get through the troubles caused, and they have never been too terrible anyway.

But for some people saying the wrong thing, to the wrong people has been fatal, a terrible thing, to die because you said the wrong thing to the wrong person. Religion, football teams, families, just life in general, these can all be things where words uttered without thought can kill.

Poets use words, and for the most part, they are not in danger of any fatal outcome from what they write, but certainly, some journalists have faced death, or indeed died, because they were using their words, and someone took offence, and acted, killing the offender.

I live in a small country town, and realised that small country towns are quite closed in places, with very close links between most of those living in them, or near them. Several times, I have narrowly avoided making a faux pas, by remembering which woman was actually the sister, or cousin of another woman.

It’s easier with the menfolk, because they don’t change their surnames, but with women, they lose the name that marks their heritage, and shows their connections to others. I’m very much more careful these days, having sussed out at least some of the connections, and being aware that anyone could be related to anyone else!

Anyway, my poem today is about watching words, and consequences when words are ill spoken, knowing those consequences can mark you as, ‘not one of them’.

Stone’s Throw

Throw a stone into the water, stand & watch –

ripples radiate out, from where stone hit water

& beyond. Peaceful, serene, gentle, as that stone

disappears from view, forgotten, as the ripples too

will disappear from view, & be forgotten. Throw

misspoken words into a conversation, though,

realise your error, cringe, & try to hide, knowing,

too well, the ripples may never stop; radiating

endlessly out instead, far & wide, each connection

causing more ripples, & still more, never-ending.

Like the stone and the ripples, misspoken words,

may be forgotten, but the name of the one attached

to the stone, to those ill spoken words, may be

remembered by many, until the very end of time …

poetry

Grateful for My Life

February 24, 2019February 24, 2019 carolyncordon

For today’s poetry prompt – #poemadayfeb (pillow), I thought about my life, and the lives of other’s some more fortunate than me, others, less so … I have always had a comfy pillow, and as much bedding as I need to keep warm through the night. Others may not even have a room to sleep in, let alone a pillow.

The world can be such a cruel place for some people, while other, more fortunate and privileged people have everything they could ever want or need. It isn’t ‘fair’, the way these things are allocated, but it’s what we have, this life. All we can do, if we are not at the top, is to find the best way to live our lives.

As I indicate in the poem, I am one of the fortunate people in the middle, having enough of everything I need, and quite a bit of what I want too. I have a home, electricity, food, water, enough money to run a car, with more money to attend events I wish to attend. I am grateful for this, and certainly realise my lot in life is a fortunate one indeed.

Is it luck that dictates of life’s position? I was lucky enough to have been born to a comfortably situated middle-class family, hard-working parents, working to give their children all they could. I gained my education, then easily got a job, and went on to get married, have a child, and could leave work, with a good life-style …

Now, my son has left home, and I can continue living a fine life, getting all I want and need, not splashing cash around, but definitely comfortably well off. I realise I am lucky. Earlier today, at a poetry event, we were talking about people who are definitely not well off. They are the poor people, destitute, poverty-stricken.

These people live in the same towns as us, but live their lives differently, in the same places and at the same times, sometimes, but in different ways. I pay for my flat white coffee, the poor person receives their drink for free, both of us have free water available to us at the same hotel, that we both visit from time to time.

I drive my car to get there, my home being many miles away, they walk, their own home being somewhere within walking distance, always, because walking is their only option. I paid my taxes, when I was a worker, my husband did too, we both pay GST for what we buy … Society is there to make sure all can get enough to survive, or it should be. Life is a weird gamble, and I got lucky …

Life’s a Gamble

I wake up every morning –

with pillow, sheets, blanket.

I bathe, dress, breakfast

& coffee available to make …

I think on others, who

after a rude awakening,

scramble out from their

uncertain resting place –

No food for them, not until

the charity workers arrive

and they can search out

their allotted rations.

Do any of us deserve

what life has, or hasn’t

given us? Is it a gamble

some win, others lose?

Privileged few, with much,

many more with some,

the sorry few with little –

that’s life’s cruel lottery …

poetry

Rusty Thoughts

February 23, 2019February 23, 2019 carolyncordon

I can’t believe it, I just accidentally ditched my blog post again, before I’d finished creating it! This is getting beyond a joke. I haven’t done today’s poem yet though, but I know the poetry prompt for #poemadayfeb for the 23rd of the month is “Rust”. I am now heading off to a word document, so I can do the rest of this post, including a poem, and won’t lose it again!

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Back again, with my thoughts and poem for this new poetry prompt. Phew!

Rust is there in the lives of us all, to some extent, I’m sure, out in the country though, I’m sure there is more rust. We live on a small rural zoned property, with a fair bit of mostly bare earth, and sometimes find rusted horseshoes, great big ones, far bigger than the ones my horse training dad put on his harness racing horses.

The paddocks around here, of which there are many, would have been ploughed, and sown and reaped, with the services of the trusted Clydesdale horse (or similar heavy horse). Those great big horseshoes would have come from such a horse, as the land our house was built on would have previously been farmland, as is all of the land around our home.

Rust is what happens to metal when it oxidises. So when metal is exposed to moisture and oxygen, it oxidises and degrades (goes rusty), and rusted bits flake off. Or something vaguely like that – I’m neither a clever researcher nor a scientist …

Another fact in my life relating to “rust” is that the horse my father had at one stage in his stables, was a gentle plodder, former harness racing horse, named (I think) Rusty Roads. I think Dad may have saved Rusty, as we called him, from certain death at the knackery, and gave him to us kids to ride. It was fun for a while, but I can’t remember when it was we had him, or when he went, the facts of it have rusted away. So many horses came and went at the stables, as always happens …

Graham and I now have a ‘decoration’ on the front veranda. It is about the size of a dog, and is in fact the shake of a dog, made out of corrugated iron. There is a collar around the neck with the name “Rusty” attached to it. We bought him on a trip to Sydney, because we had a little bit of money to spare and both liked the look of him. Rusty guards our front door, from where he sits, chained loosely to one of the veranda posts.

I still don’t have a poem yet though, do I? I’m thinking haiku or something small like that …

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No, I wrote a thoughtful little poem about a terrible thing, and hope others may find it as interesting as reading, as I found writing this. It’s about some things I’ve been thinking about, the possible reasons that men commit suicide, a terrible way to end a life, I feel, awful for anyone to feel so low that death seems a better thing to them.

If the poem to follow sparks problems for you, please call:

Lifeline tel:1-800-273-8255 or seek other help

Anyway, here is today’s poem, and I have caught up – back again tomorrow with a new blog post about the new poetry prompt:

Rusty Horseshoe

What was the suicide rate

for farmers in the olden days,

I wonder? As high as nowadays?

One horse powered farming

compared to the massive

machines used now –

I’m thinking about

the gentle task of tending

to the gentle giant who’d pull

the plow, & take kids for a ride –

big brown eyes, solid

& dependable, always …

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