What Shall I Do Over The Holidays? (Writing-wise, that is.)

1) Put the memoir on temporary hold.

True Confession:

At a recent pre-xmas lunch with VOW (Village of Women) Writers, when I started sharing what I'd been up to with my writing – specifically re poetry – several people said enthusiastically, 'And the book!'

For a minute or two I wondered blankly, 'What book?' then remembered – oh yes, the memoir. The story of my magical-mystical life. Wow, in the space of a week or two I had forgotten all about it! How could that be? And after I'd finally got a real start on this long-promised volume, following several previous abortive attempts. Such a mental blank didn't seem to argue any great dedication to this project!

Then I realised, my writing partner in this latest attempt, bestie Helen-in-Melbourne, had gone quiet on her own memoir too. The emails with her chapters, which always excited me and inspired new ones of mine, had stopped arriving. I checked in with her, to find she's exhausted after a particularly trying year – in fact many trying years as carer for a disabled (now adult) child, and with serious health challenges of her own.

I realised I myself have a lot on my plate just now. I have some health issues too – chronic, not incapacitating, but I need to take the time to consolidate the health regime which keeps them manageable.

We agreed to let go of memoir writing during the holiday period and pick it up again next year. It may not be the kind of writing we turn to spontaneously, but it still feels like something worth doing, indeed needing to be done.

All this made me realise:

Partners and Committed Listeners Can Be Vital

When taking on a new, long-term project, having a partner is a very good idea! It keeps you up to the mark. In this case, it took me a little while to notice my partner had gone AWOL, cos I had too – but when I was reminded, I touched base with her and found out what she and I both needed at this point in order to continue with our commitment. Left to ourselves without that communication, it might have been far too easy to drift into prolonged inaction. But because we did set up this particular writing partnership, sooner or later one of us would have thought, 'Hey, what happened?' and addressed it with the other.

I also had, almost accidentally, created a panel of committed listeners – people who take on the job of supporting you in a project, noticing when something is getting in the way of it, and encouraging you when you need a boost. Of course, any writers' group one belongs to has this among other functions, even in just the friendliest way: 'How are you going with the book?'. When I decided a little while ago to share my memoir project with VOWWriters to get their feedback on excerpts, I automatically made them my committed listeners – which meant the lapse in the memoir got noticed and acted on very quickly.

2) Continue the poetry project

(ordering and submitting)

I did something similar, more intentionally, when I decided to put my poetry backlist (or backlog!) in order and start submitting things to likely publications. I announced the intention on facebook and invited my readers to take on a witnessing role, to keep me honest. A number enthusiastically volunteered. (I have the best friends!) That is enough to have me report on my progress on fb from time to time – which means I have to make the progress first. Upon which my witnesses / committed listeners rally to cheer me on!

I enjoy mucking around with poetry, so I'll keep on with this project over the holiday period.

3) Take a vacation from (most of) the poetry groups and communities

The online community of writers who blog, Poets and Storytellers United, which I coordinate along with the wonderful Magaly Guerrero and Rommy Driks, will take a couple of weeks off over the Christmas break.

My offline writing groups are vacationing too. VOWWriters aforementioned, which meets fortnightly during school term and which I officially mentor, will also have time off. We started our holidays with that pre-xmas luncheon, and are not officially due back until Jan 28th when schools here resume after what is, for Aussies, the long summer holiday – but we enjoy our meetings, so those who can will start back earlier, on the 14th.

The LitChix, a small group of mutually-supportive writers who meet on equal terms (no leader, and all teachers of each other as occasion arises) is also taking a break. We meet monthly, so this just means we miss only two meetings, in December and January.

(Other online groups I belong to, i.e. various haiku, senryu and tanka groups on fb, don't require regular commitment, so I'll no doubt go on posting and commenting there as and when I feel like it.)

4) Take on a new kind of writing / journalling

I've just re-read Writing Down Your Soul: How to Activate and Listen to the Extraordinary Voice Within, by Janet Conner. (San Francisco, Conari Press, 2008.) When I first bought it, I flipped through and set it aside, meaning to take it up seriously 'as soon as I had time'. OMG! That was back in 2015! In March, to be precise.

I think it's not the time I've found, so much as the need – and even more, the willingness. (The will!)

This time I read it through attentively over several days. I found a suitable notebook. I decided what kind of pen to use, and the time and place to set aside for my daily 15 minutes of talking to God – or The Universe, as I have long called that overall Source of guidance, protection and wisdom.

[I do also say 'God' when praying, and in recent times have often addressed that same energy as 'Goddess'; also have interacted with specific angels, deities and guides. But for so long 'The Universe' was Who/What I called on in times of need, and also whom I committed to serve when I was called upon – as in my usual response if asked who I worked for: 'I work for the Universe, and the pay is good.' Now that I have white hair and wrinkles, I'm rarely asked that question, but the answer remains true.]

This kind of writing is different in various ways from other kinds of journalling. I'm excited to start, and also have some trepidation. The promise is that it will change your life. The catch is that if you ask God for advice, you're really bound to follow it when received. Which might be uncomfortable!

Why would I want to do this now, at this stage of my long life, when I have known much happiness and fulfilment, and have arrived at a place of great contentment, with as much security as anyone can reasonably expect (perhaps even a little bit more than most)?

Ah but, there are those health issues. There is my tendency to self-indulgence, often satisfying but sometimes regrettable. There are some areas of stuckness and procrastination. At 82 there is concern about my future, both in this life and beyond, and particularly during the transition. There is my care for those I must eventually leave behind.

Besides, it's time I had a new adventure!

~~~~~~~~~~~~

(Image by Jess Baily on Unsplash – where it's in colour.)

DUPLICITY by Rajani Radhakrishnan

Rajani Radhakrishnan, whose work I first encountered online some years ago, in poetry groups we both participated in, soon became one of my favourite poets. 

Hers is not the kind of poetry I immediately love and admire, go ‘Oh yes!’ and as quickly forget. Rather it’s the kind that – while I do both love and admire it – constantly surprises me with its complexities of language and thought. Born of deep reflection as well as intense emotion, it causes me to reflect deeply too. It can be returned to repeatedly without ever growing stale.

 The blurb of her latest book, ‘duplicity’, says that it ‘examines life and love in a big city, before and during the pandemic, tracing the transformation from chaos and dissonance, hope and enticement to silences and death, loss and helplessness.’

A sombre undertaking? Undoubtedly, but the poetry is so beautifully crafted, the language so original yet accurate, I feel lifted out of myself when reading. And then, perhaps, returned to myself enhanced.

Her craft is meticulous. She is a master of enjambment, and also excels when working in form. Her cherita sequence in this book, Word Upon Brick, is particularly engaging despite its sad subject matter, and the haibun, The stories I cannot tell, is stunning. Its closing haiku is nothing short of profound – even as its message, once stated, resonates as unmistakable truth.

Much of the book is about unhappy love, but it is also very much about the experience of the pandemic. There has been a LOT of poetry written about that subject, yet she makes the known new, e.g. ‘Hope too is curfew, hovering 1.8 metres / away, masked and gloved. … This city / reverberates with the loud silence of prayer.’ from This is the time, isn’t it?  Then there are details specific to her country, India, such as, in Summer: for those who never made it home, the horrifying account of the many who tried to walk long distances to their home villages early in the pandemic, often dying along the way: ‘This / summer of mangoes, red with blood, scattered / on a highway with the luckless dead.’

She is a very clever writer, as instanced in her section titles with their play on the word city: Duplicity (as in the overall book title) and Ferocity. It’s also seen in extended metaphors, e.g a piece called This city as punctuation, using punctuation and poetic language metaphorically to describe so much more, e.g. ‘The space between your arms. The space / between possibility and semicolon. Between / being and full stop.’ Or in The lover who never arrives in which that title begins as metaphor, e.g. ‘But want is this city’s other face. … Want is the litany buildings / hum when they pretend to sleep’ and moves subtly but inevitably to being about the literal interpretation of the title – an agonising poem in the end, in closing lines which manage to be both restrained and intense.

As you may gather from the lines quoted, she is never merely clever, in a facile or attention-seeking way. It’s always in the service of the deeper message, and presenting that in a way so arresting yet right that it first shocks me into fellow-feeling and then consolidate that with its truth.

I could go on and on. Re-reading finds always more to love, admire and praise. But I’d better stop now to let you enjoy this remarkable volume for yourselves.

Home by Kim Malinowski (poetry)

Book review

The ‘About the Author’ statement says,

Her work is disparate—ranging from writing about war and atrocities to the fairy world and pagan studies. She writes because the alternative is unthinkable. 

That was enough to hook me! (I’m a poet and a Pagan myself, with an eclectic range of topics, and making poems is the thing I can’t not do.)

It’s a substantial book – 84 pages – and not one that can be raced through and absorbed all at  once. That doesn’t mean the writing is inaccessible. On the contrary, I found it enthralling. But the poems tend to move in a leisurely way and to be full of detail; they demand lingering over, and it’s a pleasure to do so. They don’t always give all the answers (who? when? why?) and many have a haunting quality; yet they satisfy. 

After a while, after simply enjoying the pictures she paints and stories she tells, I noticed that it’s very accomplished poetry. It’s beautiful poetry, in very sure language which seems effortless. I look for one to quote, to show you, and it’s hard to pick one. Any one would be a good example. Well, I’ll go for a shortish one. 

Umbra 

My shadow deepens the carved name and dates,
grooves lovingly traced.
I’ve laid a picnic blanket 

over the neatly trimmed grass, saving a clump of buttercups near the stone.
There are mimosas to toast our anniversary. 

I am eating a rhubarb jelly sandwich, wearing a peach-colored day dress.
The cedar stands beside us,
its branches protecting, blossoms faded. A couple sits near, 

placing irises by dirt.
I see your face
gasping at the foot of your bed.
The wind ruffles the cedar,
the blanket,
your limp hair would blow in the breeze, my palm touches the grass and buttercups. I would like to uproot you,
my shadow obscuring your name,
and then you wouldn’t be dead. 

They are often like that – great emotion released slowly, so that the punch it packs isn’t a punch so much as a revelation.

There are some wonderful references to her grandmother, and various descriptions of the environment which seem as if they must be drawing in her roots. 

But the subject matters varied, and the home of her title, which in the title poem certainly seems to refer to the home of her family, her ancestors, might also be in art, in story, in Pagan ceremonies, in the memory of loved ones who have passed on (her grandmother, a friend…). In one poem (Falling) it is clearly stated as being with someone she loves. I like to think it’s all of the above.

The book finishes with a 16-poem sequence of poems to a lover or spouse who died, and about the journey of dealing with that. It might be fictional, but the authenticity in the details means it reads as autobiography. I relate to these poems most intensely, having been widowed some years ago. I find them deep, beautiful, moving, and strangely satisfying –perhaps because they culminate in a final coming to terms which I’ve also experienced.

Altogether a rewarding book, a keeper, one to go back to again later, and again, for the sheer enjoyment of poetry excellently written and with much to say.

The night is my mirror

My online friend Rajani Radhakrishnan, who blogs at THOTPURGE, asked me for my opinions on her new chapbook. She liked the reply so much, she asked if she could share it. I of course gave permission, and so she did, on Instagram, dignifying it by calling it a review.  

'Well, if it's a review,' I thought, 'why don't I put it on my SnakyPoet blog too?' So here it is:

Perhaps one of your best – but all your poetry is of such a high standard, it's hard to make such a value-judgment. As you know, your poetry always speaks to me deeply. Also, I am always admiring of the poetics. This is no exception. 

My initial, overriding reaction was, 'How sad!' But it's a valid and thoughtful sadness; when couched in such excellent poetry, not off-puting. Indeed, completely appropriate to the circumstances. I like your 'Things about the poems', explaining their genesis and nature. That's a prose-poem in itself! I also like the way the book is organised, and the Neruda-inspired 'Things...' headings. And the punctuating micro-poems! – exquisite and/or aphoristic.

As always, I enjoy your unique blend of intellect and emotion. I was going to say 'unique mix', but in fact it is a blend: aspects of a whole, rather than separate strands joined artificially.

And above all – again, as always – I love the language.

a sodden, inconsolable bass-heavy serenade.

in the thickening dusk / they fade one by one — / reflection, water, heron, I 

sorrow preys with yellow owl-eyes, 

and so on.

Rajani herself says:

A little chapbook to end a year that has been challenging in so many ways. This collection of poems came from the long months of lockdown and silence. The poems are personal and were hard to write. I hope you can connect with them in your own way.

Write to suspension.point@yahoo.com for your free PDF copy.

Review: Frank Watson's 'In the Dark, Soft Earth'

In the Dark, Soft Earth: Poetry of Love, Nature, Spirituality, and Dreams. 

By Frank Watson. 

(USA, Plum White Press, ©2020)

This is intriguing poetry, usually sparse and often reminiscent of Chinese and Japanese forms, but also full of a lyricism that can bring to mind the Romantics, and at times the old English/Scottish ballads.

The poems are almost entirely metaphorical.  This is as close as he gets to something that could be taken literally:

reflection 

she gazed at me 

unable to speak 

of her nightmare 

I gazed back
unable to speak
as I woke from mine 

Usually they are much more mysterious and dream-like – yet they are so successful in creating mood, and the metaphors are so understandable, that we feel we know what he’s telling us, in emotional terms at least, even if we couldn’t provide specific, concrete details.

The subtitle is accurate: all those themes are present – the universal themes which make it easy for a reader to identify with what he says, whilst at the same time expressing Watson’s personal experience of them.  

This volume is in 10 sections or ‘books’, prefaced by beautiful reproductions of famous paintings, each of which inspires poems in that section. One of the sections is illustrated/inspired instead by a piece of Japanese calligraphy. Another has 22 poems each headed by a Tarot card of the Major Arcana (the ‘destiny’ cards). Some pictures are from the Rider-Waite-Smith deck, most from the Visconti—Sforza.

It happens that I’m a professional Tarot reader and teacher, so of course was very interested in this section. It quickly became clear he was using these images in the same way as the others in the book, as triggers for his own ideas, rather than trying for interpretations consistent with the usual Tarot attributions. Which is fine, and perfectly valid for a book of poetry, especially this book. But I was fascinated to note that, while most were wide of the mark, as one might expect, a few poems were quite close to the meanings I would assign those particular cards. (That probably says something about the nature of archetypes, rather than indicating any prescience on the poet’s part.)

He’s very good at evoking the beauty and mystery of the natural work, with a delicate touch which, again, is reminiscent of haiku etc. Most of the poems are also strongly dream-like. For all the ethereal and fantastical qualities, and for all the metaphorical uses of nature, those descriptions are grounds din accurate observation. His natural world is very real and true – even if it’s also, simultaneously, standing in for a feeling, a mood, an event in a relationship, a search for God.

I was offered a review copy, and I'm so glad I accepted. (Which I did having already some acquaintance with this poet's work and admiration for it.) This book is not only a keeper but one to re-read – for its beauty, and because that beauty creates a kind of solace even when the mood is melancholy. 

The book will be released and available from Amazon on July 7.

Cross-posted from Goodreads.

ANNOUNCEMENT: New e-book

Oh, I am madly excited!!! My poetry collection, SECRET LEOPARD: NEW AND SELECTED POEMS 1974-2005, has just been reissued as an ebook, via my favourite publisher Content X Design. (Thank you, Delaina and Kristin!)

You can get it for only $2.99 USD in whatever format suits you (mobi for Kindle, epub for other e-readers or pdf for your computer).

Lots of wonderful poems, if I do say so myself :) and you won't find them on my blog!

(There are still a VERY few paperback copies left which I am now selling for $10 USD — and to Aussies $10 AUD — plus postage. You'll have to message me if you want one of them.)

Here is the link to the ebook.

Earrings (back story to a poem)

Some time after Andrew died, I found a frustrated little journal entry in one of his notebooks, wondering how he was going to manage to get $30 to buy me some earrings.

I remembered a time when he complained about not having access to money. By then he was so physically incapacitated that he couldn't go out without me, and although his Alzheimer's was mild, I had taken over the financial management. He had been making some potentially disastrous financial decisions until I did, getting us into situations I had to rescue us from.

I tried to reassure him that it was still our money, and if there was anything he needed or wanted, I'd get it for him. But he just became evasive when I asked what he needed money for. Pretty dumb of me! It was coming up to Christmas, and of course he wanted to surprise me. Instead, that year I bought Christmas presents we could enjoy together, with his agreement. Food. DVDs. I guess he decided to settle for that, as he couldn't figure out a way around his dilemma.

I wonder, had I admired some earrings somewhere while in his company? Had he seen some online or in a local shop that he fancied for me? He had very good taste, and bought me some lovely jewellery over the years, albeit suited to our modest budget. The brief journal entry was specific about the price, but didn't describe the earrings at all.

There came a time when I wanted some earrings to go with a particular bracelet and pendant. I chose some zircon studs, a little under $30, and told myself they were my present from Andrew, just a bit late.

During our life together, from when we were courting, he loved to present me with big bunches of red roses. After he became incapacitated, he would sometimes say to me when I went shopping, "Buy yourself some roses." Which I did, as a gift from him. He was happy enough, in that circumstance, to know it was our money, and to delegate the task to me. I guess that was because there was no surprise involved.

Occasionally I still buy myself roses, remembering how he liked to give them to me. Recently I came across some sweet little earrings carved in the shape of red roses. They were affordable. I had a fantasy that he had nudged me in that direction, to notice them. Of course I bought them. Again, I told myself they were from him. Now I always have that gift of red roses.

Another journal entry expressed his readiness to go on to the next life and see his father and brother again. He asked God to look after me when he was gone.

***

These things are all strands in my poem, Love's Winter, which doesn't explain them. The poem felt complete as it is, albeit a trifle mysterious. When I tried to add more clarity, it became clunky.

Some readers who are aware of my widowhood have understood what the poem is about. Others have, naturally enough, interpreted it differently. That doesn't matter in terms of the poem, but some also read it (correctly) as autobiographical and attach their suppositions to me and, by association, to Andrew.

Perhaps that doesn't really matter either. But it's unfair, although unintentionally, so I thought a bit of back story wouldn't go astray.

PALAEONTOLOGY FOR BEGINNERS by Helen Patrice

I've been waiting impatiently for this book! It is all I hoped and more.

Here is my review. It is also my Introduction to the book, which I was honoured to be asked to contribute.

This book is well titled. Helen Patrice is good at digging below the surface to turn up the bones of the past. She is good at fitting the fragments together to create illuminating pictures and stories. She digs deep, and brings it all out into the light. From memory and hindsight she creates insight, and shares it with us in ways that make it both warmly familiar and startlingly new. Above all, she engages our emotions.

We met through poetry decades ago and became lifelong friends. We have found many things in common, not least our love and respect for each other's poetry. I've seen Helen's writing mature into the confidence and power she exhibits here. The originality of her voice was always there.

I think she's a master of metaphor, e.g.

The year turns over in bed,
ready to become dark,
sleek with fat,
marinating itself deep within,
while its bare bones of oak and willow
beg the sun to return.

That's typical of her command of language — heightened and musical while at the same time clear and accessible. These poems don't put on airs, or yell, "Look at me, I'm so clever!" They're beyond clever: they are deep, brilliant, and totally authentic, whether she is writing of sexual desire, mothering an autistic son, or waxing humorous about her cats. She does humorous very well, by the way, as readers of her columns in Nova will recall, and has no trouble marrying it with the serious. (And yes, the verse I've quoted is a mixed metaphor, if you like — but not in a careless, messy way. Instead it's a progression, a segue from one image to the next, deliberate and effective, carrying the reader along with it.)

She can be uncompromisingly realistic too, as in

I catch my reflection.
Head to foot loose mismatched green,
with unintended bustle,
hair awry,
wild eyes.
My poetry writing look.

While Helen's poignant verse novel, A Woman of Mars, is one of my favourite reads, I've long wished she would compile a more representative collection of her poems. I'm delighted and honoured to have been asked for this introduction to the strong book she has produced.

-- Rosemary Nissen-Wade
poet, editor, writing workshop facilitator, and former publisher


My regular readers at this and other blogs will know that Helen Patrice and I are friends — a friendship which began through poetry. I would just like to make the point that I am not waxing enthusiastic about her poetry just because I am her friend. On the contrary, one of the many reasons I am her friend is because I am so enthusiastic about her poetry.

It's a beautiful production physically, too. The publisher has done justice to Helen's brilliant work. The book is available from Amazon.

Calling it Quits — Autobiography excerpt

When I look back, I see many reasons why Bill and I didn't stay together. Basically we grew apart. We'd been doing that for some time before we noticed. When the boys turned into young men and stopped living with us, it became apparent that parenting was the biggest thing we had in common. Without that, there wasn't much else. 

'What do you want from life?' I asked him, hoping to find some mutual aim and recover our sense of partnership. 'What are your goals and visions?' He answered, but I didn't hear him. 'I'd like to travel around Australia,' he said. Well, we'd already been to Sydney, Adelaide, Townsville, Darwin, Ayers Rock, Kakadu and Broome. Besides, to me a vision was big, like saving the world; a goal meant being a famous writer at least. After we parted, he visited Perth and Brisbane and explored more of coastal Victoria.  He was telling me loud and clear what he wanted all the time; I just wasn't capable of hearing it.

And I broke some unwritten contracts, although I didn't realise that until later. He was supposed to be the writer, and later the psychic and the healer. It was I who went on to careers in all three. 

When we met, he was writing a novel. He didn't know I was a writer too. He knew I was a librarian, and that I'd majored in English Literature at University. He told me with naive enthusiasm that he was drawn to me because I must be good at English. An odd basis for attraction, I think now, but I didn't question it at the time. 

Bill was 15 when his family migrated from Holland. His older brother John had learned English at school; his little brother Robert was young enough to pick it up easily here.  Bill missed out both ways. Maths was the only lesson he could understand at his Australian school. He taught himself English by attending movie matinees and watching the same cowboy film over and over. Surprisingly, he fell in love with the language. By the time I met him, his reading was quite sophisticated. His writing, though, had problems. The first letter I ever got from him was a huge disappointment. I couldn't read it! Finally I figured out that he was spelling everything the way it would have been spelt in Dutch if it had sounded the same. Once I had that clue, I managed to decipher it, but it took a long time for only two pages. I could see that he did need help.

He loved English because of its nuances, its subtleties, its fine shades of meaning, the fact that so many different words could be used for one thing. In Dutch, he told me, language is blunt and simple — one word, one meaning. Bill's father loathed English for exactly the same reason. 'You know where you are with Dutch,' he said.

Bill's written English improved considerably, but he put the novel aside for the responsibilities of providing for his family. If he'd stayed a carpenter, perhaps he would have written in the evenings; but abalone diving is one of the most physically demanding jobs there is. He rose early and went to bed early, and there was no guarantee of a weekend off. If the weather was right, you dived. You might not get another chance for a while. His father was a builder. When it wasn't diving weather, Bill worked for him. It kept us fed but didn't leave much time for writing. Luckily, abalone diving became his even greater passion. He loved the life. His story-telling impulse was satisfied by becoming a raconteur, telling wonderful tales of his experiences under water, which he never wrote down.

I was a poet, a very different matter. It takes a lot less time to write a poem than a novel. When I'm asked how long it takes me to write a poem, I usually say, 'Anything between five minutes and 20 years'. That's more or less true, but at least the first draft can be done quickly. But I was just a private scribbler. It was only when I was 32 that I asked myself, 'OK, you've got a good husband, lovely kids, a nice house, all the things you're supposed to want. Why are you still discontented? What do you really want to do with your life?' 

A light bulb lit up in my head and I knew the answer. It had always been there. I wanted to be a poet. I'd always wanted that. I just hadn't believed it possible. 

When I was little, my parents read me poems for bedtime stories, and bought me books like Now We Are Six and A Child's Garden of Verses. I started writing poems when I was seven. My parents were proud of me, but when people asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, and I said, 'A poet,' they explained as kindly as possible that it wasn't a thing you could 'be' in that kind of way. It would have to be a hobby.

I won some school writing prizes, and in my teens became brave enough to submit to Meanjin, the foremost literary magazine in the country (and the only one I knew about). My work was promptly rejected. I pulled my head back in and resumed scribbling so privately that few people knew. 

Now, at 32, I told myself, 'OK. Time to have a go for real.' Bill was appalled. 

'I've got friends who are artists and musicians,' he said. 'Any art form consumes you. It's a tunnel that'll swallow you up.' 

I argued vociferously. I wouldn't let it do that to me; I'd still look after the family. I wore him down until, grudgingly, he gave permission. (Obviously I had little understanding of feminism back then.)

Doing it 'for real' required much more crafting. Near enough wasn't good enough any more. But it seemed I'd learnt some things in those years of scribbling. I was published quite soon, joined the Poets Union, embraced performance poetry, and made a name. I even got to teach the poetry part of Professional Writing courses at various colleges, on the strength of that name plus my BA.

Bill didn't pick up a pen for another 12 years, until he retired and we moved to the country. I was amazed that his gift was still there, but he seemed to have lost heart. He wrote some good short stories but didn't do much with them.

By that time he'd become psychic overnight, lost it and partly regained it. [As recounted in my previous post.] Meanwhile some friends got me interested in Tarot. I started playing with it just for my own amusement.

At the same time as becoming psychic, in the same lightning-strike way, Bill developed healing gifts — part of the same package. He would get an inner knowing where to put his hands on someone and how to massage them to relieve pain and other symptoms. If he did this too often in a short time, he became drained of energy.  

'Who heals the healer?' I wondered. 

Also I was worried about the legalities. He was working on people without any qualifications. When I saw a Reiki course advertised, I persuaded him we should both do it. I'd experienced Reiki. I didn't know much about it but I thought it was a superior kind of massage. I thought he could get some qualifications to put to his natural gift, and that when he got drained I'd be able to look after him. 

But Reiki isn't like that. It's not massage but energy healing. You tap into the universal energy instead of using your own, so you never get drained. It's activated automatically by touch. 

I had no idea of being a healer myself, except to help him, which now he didn't need. But it was I who fell in love with Reiki and, in a major life change, decided to train as a Master (a teacher). As a start, I began seeing clients professionally. I also decided to advertise Tarot readings. To my surprise I got plenty of clients for both services.

Bill declared, 'I support you 100% in your ambition to become a Reiki Master!'  A few months later he thought the training took too much time and money. 'Unless you give it up,' he said, 'Our marriage is over.' I was rocked. But I was due to go to Sydney, to a conference of trainee Reiki Masters with the world Grand Master on her first visit to Australia. 

'Go,' said the Reiki Master who was training me, 'And then make up your mind.'

I walked into the conference, and into peace and acceptance. There was a large room full of people sitting on cushions on the floor. It was also full of the Reiki energy they all carried. I looked around. There were my brothers and my sisters; I was home. The decision was made. After a profound and beautiful three days, I went back and told Bill the marriage was over.

It was his turn to look shocked. I think I must have called his bluff, and then he didn't know how to back down. But I hadn't realised that he was bluffing. And by then it was too late. 

10/6/13

Note:  This post is part of my magickal memoirs, which may be found in full at their own blog.

TEXAS POETRY TOUR: National Poetry Month, Texas, then and now: San Antonio

First posted 10 April 2007

Here are two very recent video clips of Thom the World Poet performing for students and staff at Schreiner University in Texas. Watch both - the introduction is much the same but the poems are different.

[31 March 2019. Well, that would be great, only at some point these clips have disappeared! Nevertheless, read on.]

The woman introducing Thom is Dr Kathleen Hudson who conducts the writing course there. She's a formidable writer herself and a devoted chronicler of Texas music and musicians. Round about this time last year I was her guest, gave a performance for her students, discussed writing with them, and heard some of their own exciting work. That was while I was visiting nearby Kerrville. Before that, however, came more adventures in Austin and San Antonio, beginning with Gini's Tea Rooms in San Antonio the night after the Expressions gig.

On the way to dropping me off for the trip to the Tea Rooms, Neil took me to a reading called Poetry in the Arts. It was run by Peggy Lynch, a real Southern belle – at 83! Full of charisma, wit and joy, she welcomed me warmly and gave me two spots on her program as well as promoting my book launch. One of the musos from Expressions the night before was there, and when I was announced he called out loudly, 'She's a wonderful poet!' (I got to know him later: Chip Ross, the drummer who always plays with Roger and Clive when they visit Austin.)

Meeting Peggy showed me that the famous Southern charm is actually all about caring for people. I was to come across many more examples during my time in Texas.

Christine, whom I'd met at Expressions the night before, gave Patricia Fiske and me a lift to San Antonio – quite a hike from Austin. I don't do jet lag? Ha! It was late afternoon and I kept nodding off. Patricia was puzzled that I didn't want to look at scenery I'd never seen before, but I simply couldn't stay awake. It was Christine who realised it must be jet lag. Probably a good thing I gave in to it. I emailed Andrew later that I 'managed to put on a performance that had people remarking afterwards what a bundle of energy I am!'

Gini's Tea Rooms was like an English tea rooms with dark wood, white tablecloths, a big antique sideboard. I told Andrew: 'We all had tea or coffee, and amazing cakes. I was the final of 4 featured poets, high standard and hard acts to follow. Then there was an open section, all good. People enjoyed my stuff and said so later.'

I didn't wear The Dress; it was rinsed out and hanging up in the shower back at Neil and Dorsey's. Mim Scharlack, who was hosting the performance, had already heard about it and was disappointed not to see it. I'd been corresponding with Mim by email from Australia after Thom put us in touch. She was a slight, vibrant, pretty little woman with snow-white hair, who sang and drummed with gusto during her own performance. The drum strapped around her waist looked big enough to pull her over! But Mim is far more powerful than she looks, in all sorts of ways. I could have listened to her all night. Rupert was on the program too, and I was delighted that Roger and Clive were performing as well. It was a wonderful audience; the place was full and everyone was attentive and appreciative. For the first time, I heard the wonderful Patricia perform in public. At 79, she was glamorous, confident, talented and funny. I found out later she was a very seasoned performer with a theatrical background, who sometimes blends music, poetry, drama and dance.

It happened that that was the last night ever of the regular monthly poetry evenings at Gini's. It can be hard to sustain a poetry venue over time. The people clearly felt sad as they formally thanked both Gini and Mim, and no wonder – it had been going for nine years. I had a sense of occasion, a historic moment to have been a part of. The poets and musos finished the night with a party at Mim's house. I met her beloved old dog which wasn't well, and gave it some Reiki. It was late when we got back to Austin.

Next morning I was up early to return to San Antonio. Neil was due to pick up Dorsey from the airport, and I took a taxi to Thom's house to ride down with him and Rupert. This time I managed to take in the sights on the way. I couldn't get over it when Thom said, 'There's the Alamo,' and I glimpsed a tiny, pretty little white building overpowered by huge, glass-fronted shops and offices.

We were featured at Celebration Circle, a Sunday gathering for people of all religions. I wrote to Andrew later:

'I had the most amazing morning. We went to Celebration Circle in San Antonio: me, Rupert Hopkins from Bristol, and Thom. I wore The Dress, particularly for Mim who ran the Tearooms reading and had hoped to see it the night before. (Its fame had preceded me!)

Thom introduced me to Rudi who runs the Circle; he was younger than I'd expected. He gave me a namaste hand gesture which I returned, and a hug likewise. The venue was a theatre with tiered rows of chairs and a stage with two mikes and a couple of sound engineers testing levels. One of them greeted me "Hare Om," and after a moment of surprise, I replied, "Hare Bol."

Rudi showed us order of program, how to adjust mike, and so forth. I sat down and watched him rehearse. He is muso and poet, plays guitar and sings, and dances a bit. As I watched I went into total deja vu. He was now completely familiar to me, well known in fact, and so were the other musos who came on stage to join the rehearsal. It wasn't a dramatic thing, but very strong, and continued the rest of the time. I remarked on it to Rudi, who just laughed and was fairly matter of fact about it.

Celebration Circle is Sunday worship, of a very eclectic kind. One song he rehearsed starts: 'Come to the light. Come to Christ, come to Krishna, come to Buddha, come to the Father and the Mother Goddess too, come to Allah, come to Jesus, the Spirit that frees us ...' and goes on to ask us to remember who we are and that we are all one. I lapped it up! Partly because Rudi's energy is pure love and joy (not at all ostentatiously).

Although apparently many people had forgotten about changing to daylight saving and didn't turn up, the theatre soon became quite full. A man from India, who bought my book at Expressions the other night, brought his wife up to introduce to me. Before we began, Rudi took the musos and poets out the back for a quick prayer circle, standing holding hands and asking to be of service and to know that we are all one. It all felt soft, gentle, and nice – and genuine.

So there was music and singing. Beautiful slides of nature were shown on a screen all the time, without anything being said about them. Rudi's wife Zet invited us to honour the directions by standing and facing each direction in turn, while singing,'O Great Spirit' etc. – the chant I have so often played at my Reiki classes. At one point the several young children present were invited down on to the stage and stood there a few minutes while we all spoke love and blessings to them, very simply. Rudi gave a lovely discourse on one of Thic Na Than's questions. He and Thom did some 'word stew' combining poetry, music and discourse. And at three different places during the program the poets did a round: first me, then Rupert, then Thom. On Thom's advice I did again, as it was mainly a different audience, the 'down under' poem that has become my opener. It was a hit as usual. In fact, after that, Rudi played some music before putting Rupert and Thom on. The others I did were The Sword of Archangel Michael and Dancing for the Goddess.

At times there was a slightly gospel feel to the event, with people clapping and singing along – myself included – to things like 'This Little Light of Mine'. The whole feeling was friendly and joyous, but softer and sweeter than a gospel meeting. It had some flavour of a Hare Krishna celebration, but livelier and freer. I found it so totally nourishing I cannot tell you! I experienced it like some lovely acknowledgment bestowed on me for the path I have been following. I felt greatly blessed by the Goddess. When I gave Rudi a hug in thanks later, and told him how nourished I felt, he smiled and said, "Welcome home!" to which I responded, "Oh, absolutely!"

I am surely starting to get a sense of why this journey was so meant to be, and so serendipitously arranged despite seeming at first so impossible!'

The Sword of Archangel Michael

The sword glows
in my right hand.
My arm swings from the shoulder
wielding blue flame:
sharp light, the cut of truth.

Precise moves.
Economy. Bite.
These are the qualities.
These and blue light –
a laser that heals where it touches.

In the beginning
the word.
The word true,
the word precise,
the word deliberately aimed.

It cuts to the heart,
my sword in flight.
From the heart of God
to the point of now
exactly aimed,
quick light.

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 1995
First published Divan (e-zine) issue 4, Dec. 2001.
Also in Secret Leopard: New and selected poems 1974-2005, Alyscamps Press (Paris) 2005

Rudi onstage, and with Mim after the performance