Trust…No Love…Love.

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Sunrise driving…

Artwork © Jessica McCallum

ROAD RIBBONS TO FOREVER

still cold the orb lay low

quick glimpse then hidden

motor climbing to drown

crow’s haunting early wake-up call

blades of light chop dust and dirt

wheels trundle

bodies bounce

over troughs and ridges

 

silent stands of hewn wood

strangled by checked metal string

strung as divided zones

of labour or fields of food

for slow-moving wool-balls

unaffected by those

who pass once in a changing

between ghost gums

wind-dancing

 

don’t press the soft start

for raucous interruption

no technological intrusion

to spoil the quietness

of morning impressions

 

but watch silently

anticipating adventure

 

time seems to slumber

in camera shots

too fast moving past

before fully absorbed

an erect neck now tired

of turning back with regret

high sun and heat

decreasing

petrol gauge as low horizon

never nearer not revealing

road ribbons to forever

 

our slumberous gazes

glazed with scenes

of shadows lit

by white-moon shafts

squinting at the yellow

twin-tunnelled path

flexing muscles cramped

shivering with want

the first new glimpse

of home

 

Frances Macaulay Forde @ 1999

1st published  ‘Hidden Capacity ~ a poet’s journey’, Ireland, 2003.

 

#FrancesMacaulayForde  #Poem  #Poetry  #WesternAustralia  #SunsetDriving  #HiddenCapacity

 

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‘My Car’ video

 

Do you ego-search on the net?  You should.  It’s amazing what you find.

Just put your name like this: “Sarah Smith” into Google search and check where your name appears on the World Wide Web.

I’ve just discovered this reading of ‘My Car’ from ‘Hidden Capacity ~ a poet’s journey’ done some time ago which I had completely forgotten about.

I also discovered that Poemhunter.com seems to be doing really well out of the 52 poems I uploaded there years ago.

My poems seem to get a reasonable number of visitors and the site haven’t missed a trick in using them without formal permission.

Although perhaps their Terms & Conditions when I uploaded them originally, covered that – and who reads them properly?

Without my consent, there’s an e-book of the poems available for free.

Now that I’m selling my own e-books, it sort of clashes and makes me wonder if I should leave the poems on there for the publicity or take them down.

I decided to add the link to my KINDLE books on each page instead and hope it brings some sales.

Also each has been converted to a (questionable) ‘video’ some with automated voices reading the poems.  Here’s their version of my ‘All Stops’.

Amazing what you find…

 

#francesmacaulayforde  #VideoPoems   #VideoReadings

 

P.S. I’ve just realized I started the month with this poem…

 

 

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Inspiration

‘Inspiration’ was written earlier but appears on Page 1 of my book  ‘Hidden Capacity ~ a poet’s journey’  © 2000.

So I’m speaking here, directly from my heart, remembering my childhood in Africa and the struggles of my dearest Mum and Dad who died many years ago, who would have been so proud to see my words in print.

I’ve arrived at a time in my life where I’ve finally allowed myself to be utterly selfish.

My children had grown after my divorce into balanced, well-educated adults living their own lives, so I took myself to university.

It was my time to put myself first, my needs first, my dreams, soul and heart first, to follow my bliss.

I finally published the book in Ireland for them and for my brothers, children and extended family, just as much as for myself.

My bedroom © 2000

Inspiration 

Why do I now prefer writing in my bedroom when I have a perfectly good study – a space cleared for thought?

I feel inspired to dream while I’m awake in here – not there.

Is it because I’ve just coated the room and everything in it a lilac pink?

Is that the colour of my inspiration?

Or does it illicit forgotten memories from my childhood?

The baby-pink bedroom of my spoiled youth, the dear faces of my parents still missed after so many years.

I’ve been through so many colours since then.

But perhaps I need to visit them once again, in my imagination.

Maybe this shade is my mood-connection to the past.

I’m alone now, responsible for the world I live in and my painted walls.

Or could it be something to do with the womb – a protective colour – a safe haven for my dreams.  

Help that I need in a harsh world, often too over-whelming for someone totally unprepared or never expecting to be the ‘Bottom Line’.

This softness, which evokes feelings and comfort, allows my mind to wander and explore, knowing I’m enclosed and private, separated from others who see too much.

Or is it the large mirror with its elaborate edge reflecting my thoughts surrounded by soft, gentle, allowing colour? 

I look at myself in the frame and from the ‘truth’ of distance – an inner truth?

Is that what empowers my exposure?

Is distance enabling me to write such secret, forgotten feelings in my journal?

My teenage bedroom was a similar pink – total colour – enshrining girlishness and innocence… protection, before adulthood and reality hit me.

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2000

#francesmacaulayforde  #HiddenCapacity  #Inspiration

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‘Call Waiting’

‘Pauline’: Jessica McCallum 2002 #jessicamccallum #francesmacaulayforde

Call Waiting

 

I killed you!

I took away your power to insult.

Never again will your strident, insistent beeping
intrude on intimacies between friends.

No. I struck you off.

I pressed the buttons that devoured you.

I ended your reign of terror.

Then Pauline rang
‘A new baby? Wond….’

Beep – Beep!  Beep – Beep!

You didn’t die!

From happy jubilation
brain switches,
buttons pressed,
retreating  “Call me back.”

I lost the war.

I don’t blame Pauline.

Rudeness is forgiven under pressure
from the mighty  “I wonder who it is?”

Someday I’ll explain
and  continue my campaign
for courtesy.

I died a little.

Aren’t I important too?

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2002

(Another from my book  “Hidden Capacity ~ a poet’s journey”. )

#HiddenCapacity   #francesmacaulayforde

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“My Car”

Cover ‘Hidden Capacity ~ a poet’s journey’ #francesmacaulayforde  #HiddenCapacity

One from my book:  ‘Hidden Capacity ~ a poets journey’, Pub. 2003, Ireland.

 

My Car                                                                                    

 

Red used to be my favourite colour.

I’d just get Tinkerbell (my 1983 Mitsubishi Colt)

cruising nicely at sixty kilometres an hour

then red.

I’d have to slow down.

Pump the brakes.

Change gears gingerly in case her clutch drops out….

An old girl now, she needs TLC…

takes her time to build up speed,

then I see red. (Or orange.)

Bugger!

But, once she’s there (sixty K.’s) she sings like a bird.

I think it reminds her of her youth.

I’ve tried dressing her up (covering the rust).

The silvers don’t match and I know she feels the shame.

The petrol pump makes her feel better.

Once I insert that nozzle,

she almost smiles.

Her seat greets me tenderly

and we smoothly swing away,

high on fumes.

Yesterday,

a young man washed her windows.

She sparkled and purred.

Yes. Red used to be my favourite colour.

Now mottled shades of silver have loyal appeal!

 

 

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2003

#HiddenCapacity #francesmacaulayforde

 

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“Rail Tales” extract

Although I was invited to the inaugural Avon Valley Writer’s Festival last year, to speak and workshop with my screenwriter’s hat on, I wanted something tangible for the audience to purchase so (as mentioned previously) self-published three small books.

Since writing the poems in 1998-2000 on the train between the Northern Suburbs, to the City of Perth then on to University in Mt Lawley, they appeared in my first book published in Ireland ‘Hidden Capacity ~ a poet’s journey’ and more recently re-assessed and ‘tweaked’ to appear in the stand-alone chapbook for sale.  Some pieces have also appeared variously in publications and on the net.

Now I’m hoping to give it yet another life, to convert the chapbook to an e-book for purchase on-line.  Any suggestions?  The service at Amazon has been recommended although I’ve been told not to expect ‘many dollars’ it’s a chance for many to see the poems and a whole new experience for me so I’ll have a look at it.  As I’m not really clever technically, I’m looking for something laywoman easy 😮

Meantime I thought I’d share a story and poem from the book just in case you wanted to investigate further either by purchasing a hard copy from me  or perhaps later an e-book from Blurb, Issuu or Amazon.  These are the first couple of pages:

Edgewater Station, 7.45am.

 The first time I climbed the ramp to cross the empty freeway I thanked my daughter’s advice for nervous, first-time train-travel.

“Don’t make eye-contact and take something to read.”

Embarrassingly unfit; I was truly unworthy of riding to city steeples and naked greed.  However, I was able to slow my breathing before reaching the platform, populated by corporate black.

Like others in smart casual I waited unprepared, searching and praying that I had correct change.  No way would I approach anyone to help if my Target Special revealed only notes.  An extra minute to read the zones and I felt their impatience stab my shoulder blades.

First rule: be prepared.  Why doesn’t someone press the ‘Next Train to Perth’ button?  How long have I got?  Finally, the clunking use of coins and metal spit of ticket, loudly confirmed my lack of railway sophistication.

As I claimed my waiting spot, the gentle morning sun warmed my arms and I began to relax.

My head moved left to spy an approaching train. Then swung right, to relax the tension.  The violent clash of eyes focussed on the anticipated train, brought heat and colour flooding to my face.  Have I broken another rule?

I turned away. Moved left and slid around to a corner bench, hiding under graffiti steps.

A cleaner diligently wiped the dead remains of habit from a shiny steel surface.  As our eyes met, she smiled in understanding. My isolation lifted with the corners of my mouth. “Good morning.”

A distant sparkle from Joondalup Tunnel caught my attention.  Although I had lost my place for the central carriages, I joined the stragglers just as the last door swept toward my flat comfortable-s.

The unsmiling silent wave surged toward the precipice, eager to rest their feet or continue sleep.  We were swallowed with a whoosh.

All around people take off their Sunnis and don clear glass, casually opening their oft-thumbed pages: Time magazine, corporate handouts, New Idea, ‘Bondage – a love story’ the latest Patricia Cornwell…

I am starting my own new adventure – a new life.

No husband ~ he’s decided to share his bacon with a younger model.

No children to care for – they’ve all moved out, no-one who needs me, just me.

So I’m dealing with the empty nest, taking my new life into a different direction ~ a city job direction.

The first day of my new life: new job; new me.  Is it obvious?

No one speaks, except the odd un-sophisticate, who broadcasts gossip as if it elevates them.

I lose myself in Harry Potter and block out the other occupants, cocooned against intimidation.

Priority Seating.

Chivalry’s not dead.

Young man offers an older

person his seat, but

not the young lady. He stands

silently, matching her sway.

 

Freeway Sprawl.

relaxed – half asleep

compassionately floating past

overheated motors crawling

without air-conditioned silence

forced to queue as road workers

widen a future path.

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2013

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First dream, then follow…

For too long, I’ve ignored this blog totally unsure of how to proceed but yesterday, I plunged and wrote about Self-publication.  Well, I’ve had such lovely people sign on to follow me I’m now enthused and confident enough to do another post – the day after the last!  So here goes… One of my new followers is Charlotte Hoather with the voice of an angel, who welcomes readers to her blog via a message about following her dream.  So I thought I’d post a little piece I wrote  when a poetic friend and I met for lunch at a local garden center cafe and were discussing dreams.  As we left, these colorful sculptures captured my poetic sense of humor – the metaphor was too good to waste.  Enjoy!

Pigs might fly…

Who says they can’t?

Is there an omniscient

oinker monitor float-

ing in the same tree?

Who has the right

to tell watchers

who dream

the impossible

that pigs might…?

In deepest despair

we need hope,

need dreams

to fall back on.

A competitive spirit…

Who says we can’t?

I need to soar

above my world

sometimes, believe

there’s something

sizzling just

around the corner,

if I could only see ~

take a butchers

into the future

and grab

a curly tail…

Frances Macaulay Forde © 2012

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Self-published books

I spent 14 glorious months living and learning everything I could in the ‘Cradle of Storytelling’, Ireland.  I became a member of  Munster Literature Center in Cork and attended inspiring weekly workshops with masters of poetry and short story.  I also joined the Midleton Writers Group and attended their monthly meetings, welcomed warmly by local writers.  Anne, Joan and Mary shared many an inspiring pub lunch and writerly discussion.

The opportunity to publish my first book of poems arose and I took great advantage. The book was very well received and reviewed and I thank all those who encouraged me to go ahead, particularly my partner Padraig.  

Cover ‘Hidden Capacity ~ a poet’s journey’

Since returning to Perth, I’ve had the self-confidence to publish more:

Pages Cafe ’05

Pages Cafe ’05 a thank-you to the 60+ poets who participated at my Poets Corner events during 2005 National Poetry Week.

‘Rail Tales’ a chapbook of just those pieces written on the train travelling between Perth and the Northern Suburbs, previously published in my first Irish book.

‘Love’ a book concentrating on poems written about that universal theme of love.

‘Santa’s Swim’ a children’s story with pictures.

The last three were necessary to have something to offer when the invited guest of the Avon Valley Writers Festival as my first book was sold out.

I still have some copies of the last three book available – there’s further information regarding purchase here:  http://francesmacaulayforde.com/buy_books__postcards

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