Another of my poets’ gatherings has been and gone. This most recent, held again in the cellar door of Steinborner and Reynolds Family Vineyards, was a lively poetic romp. We are given prompts to take away from each session, to give us ideas for what we may write for the next one. As a result, there had been a suggestion of limericks.
Despite these funny little gems consisting of only five lines, they are not as easy to write as one would think. I mulled over ideas for mine for quite a while. I knew it should be humorous. And in such a short space, the required bouncy, rhythmic meter isn’t easy to achieve – not for me anyway. It’s how I felt about doing a commissioned painting back in the day – with a prescribed structure hindering my creative flow.
So, this was my offering – a limerick.
There was an old cocky named Hairy
whose cage was normally airy
but when it went dark
his first words were ‘Fark
I’d rather it glary than scary.’
Brought a laugh.
After we’d each read our limerick, it was back to usual format. At my turn to read, I forewarned the group that this next poem was pretty weird, and my only excuse was that it had been written in the seventies.
When I’d finished, someone in the room asked if I’d been on some hallucinogenic substance when I wrote it. Another room-wide laugh. I hadn’t, and never have been, but do remember and know that very often, with poetry, you just have to start, and the poem can give birth to itself. There’s a flow of words and thought that doesn’t stop until the poem considers itself finished.
I thought it was probably too long to write here, but now I’ve probably piqued your interest and you may be frustrated by its omission. Oh well, here goes. If you’re reading this on your phone, turn it sideways for my intended structure.
WASTE
Have you seen the rainbow
that tours America in a rainbow float
The retired tourist whose garden is overcrowded
with statues of liberty
grand canyons
London bridges
Eiffel towers
leaning towers
sunny showers
The elm tree in my garden
that whispers all through the night
about the perils of Batman
The half bright night that endeavors to hide
the faeces of dogs
and children
The faces adorning walls of galleries
when the caretaker urinates in the greenery
The funky junky who keeps his wares in a cookie barrel
and offers them to seeing-eye dogs every other day
The dancing monkey in shirt sleeves
who advises the blind on taxation tangents
The country road that offers its hospitality and fresh cream
to me
every third day
The painter who paints storks on the pavement
every time Superman flies by
The flying garbage unit that emits daisies
and chocolate syrup
where sewers belch and boil
The quizmaster who shouts ‘The garbage man must win’
whilst sitting on the edge of something pure
The underpaid philanthropist
who donates to seven animal charities
the Freedom from Terror fund
and the Save the Aussies from Fire-eaters and Potato-diggers campaign
The plastic traitor who offers penitent patriots to the enemy
The drunkard masquerading as a bus route
carrying prostitutes
to and from his park bench
in a sitting position
The vigorous evangelist
who drops flowery scriptures into immigrants’ uncertainties
The myriad mirror discussions that reflect
definitions of the universe
onto senators’ eyeballs
Have you seen the reasons that force
law-abiding law-enforcers
to reinforce their aviaries with electrified fences
The questionable statues that encourage good Samaritans
to take fresh violets to the nearest war memorial
and whisper ‘Something new something old
here the weak and there the bold’
The loud night people who make poets wish to inhabit Mars
The cross-roads that compel my cynical compatriots
to sum up red apples before they fall
The rotating technicolour dream
that makes the newest member of the seraphim realise
that a friend is someone who loved her own husband
The ominous hush that makes adulterous lovers see
descending darkness
descending
weeping
bleeding darkness
where eyes are meant to be
Have you seen the greatest waste
a cold infinite deadly waste
the waste of simple human love
that makes me want to cry in red
that makes me want to gouge Earth’s eye
that makes me want to lie down prone
and wither
as the force stampedes
The poem finished itself here.
I have been trying, non-urgently I must say, for months to gain access to reviews of my memoir ‘So Big The Land.’ Amazon put up twelve of them soon after publication six years ago, and those same twelve have sat there as the only reviews available for those wishing to know how readers have found my book. I’ve always thought there must be more, so yesterday I had a breakthrough. I found a site called ‘Author’s Profile’ and clicked on ‘Request more reviews.’ The response was that I should wait for an email with further information – probably to arrive within five days. I have no idea what this will bring – it could be another twelve, or hundreds.
I read somewhere recently that there is an app called Copilot – an AI-powered conversational assistant developed by Microsoft. I learned that I could request an AI generated review of my book, which I did. I was quite pleased with the result. There were some slightly critical comments (unlike the general comments in the twelve visible reviews on Amazon, which made me think that AI has probably used a broad sweep of all (many) reviews. Will let you know what transpires.
I find talk is rife now about AI. We can’t avoid it. It’s in our faces at nearly every turn. I no longer trust what I see on Instagram and the internet in general. All the lovely things that algorithms used to feed me – like the beauty of the animal kingdom, news of what my favourite musicians were up to, babies belly-laughing or making priceless observations or sucking lemons, politicians making speeches (now often preposterous and having AI words put in their mouths), are to be considered with suspicion, and even disbelief. All the joy has gone out of it as we no longer know what is real or artificially created. Sometimes I think it’s pretty easy to tell, but nevertheless pah!
I recently sent my son a photo of his father as a boy – taken here in the farm-yard – on his knees patting his dog of the day. My son returned to me an AI generated video of Warren, the boy, with the dog jumping all over him, and an audio of him saying ‘Good dog, Brownie, you’re my best mate. You’re a top dog.’ Perfect lip sync.
Look at how quickly this has changed the way we should view all internet content now.
We’ve been looking for life on other planets for decades, and also proof, as opposed to a promise, of life after death. What will AI help us find? Or will we find that life on other planets was there once but was obliterated by something like AI?
Oooh not a happy note to finish on, so I will put my feet back on the ground and tell you that we recently spent five days on the River Murray, at a small settlement called Wombat’s Rest near Morgan in South Australia. We had secured lovely accommodation in a beautiful home owned by one of my girlfriends. Right on the water. There are places like this on Earth where we can rest our minds and bodies, take in the hush of Nature, the soundless flow of an ancient river, over-toned with shrill, chirping or staccato bird song – until nightfall. Then perhaps crickets, the gentle rocking knocking of a boat against a small jetty, and the remembered daytime image of the quiet river on its way.
Outta my face AI.
Warmly,
Sue
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