Showing posts with label Menolyrical. Show all posts

Menolyrical; Duck! (Boomerangs...)

A boomerang post, in that I have posted both these poems previously, but on separate posts. Finding myself without much else to offer today, I bring both together, for they are connected, albeit through forty years of life. Although I don't have an exact date for the first, it was certainly 1980ish, as it is from my 'little black book' of compositions that were entered between 1979 and 1981. The second arose during the trauma that was 2020. I have had cause to revisit them this week as I again wrangle with a few knots...

And Still The Knots

So much unwound

by dint of deep search

of bare-heartedness

Of facing-up and

gritting teeth

and getting real

Knots released

not without pain

surrendering

Are they ever gone?

Menolyrical; Menomemories

Some of you have been around long enough to recall this blog at the height of its menoloopery with respect to the effects of menopolyxinaemia. At one stage, I had a separate page which contained the menoctionary so that you could keep track of definitions. I gave up on that. I started all post titles with "Meno" because I could... I continue to use that format because I can. And it's my blog 'stamp' now. For newer readers, you may have wondered about it - though it is to be hoped you had at least read the bio page to learn the basis of it all. It is also to be noted that Dioscorea - aka Wild Yam - is of acknowledged benefit in the relief of some symptoms of meno. My initials, therefore, have become my remedy as I witter away at the interwebs like a lone sailor waving from the ship over the horizon... Anyway, am recycling a poem from about three years back. Some may recall it, others may not. Even if they did read it before.

GETTING CREATIKUL

… words from the menoctionary

Getting diskolexikul,

happens regalsy

With the menoxikul;

Oh yes, my dears -

Menopolyxinaemia

That curse of the femalines

Comes with menosoup...

And the menoloops

The menokakkuls the

Menorise and Menosukhs.

It comes not alone

But brings its friends;

The menosukhis

The menoystericals

The menoparches and

The menopunkals

(which result in whirligiggles)

There's menophraise

And menogitationals

Menospovelling and

Risk of menoxication.

Then let's not forget

The menosomnia,

The menotrikal and

Menopolysocksication.

It makes one menoquizst

(yes, the hiss and spit)

Menopuggled as well as

Menovoidal… but then,

Too, it provides an impetus

For waxing creatikul,

Getting menolyrical.

Nuff sed.

©Yamini Ali MacLean 2019

Menolyrical; Poetry Of The (Broken) Heart

I am very conscious that I need to get back onto the menoculayshunal posts. However, February has provided challenges as it often has throughout my life and apart from intermuttsus, there have been visitations and sports to delay my focus. Thankfully, nothing excessively distressing - so far...

Do you have a least favourite month? Mine is definitely February, for many and varied reasons. I have always held my metaphorical breath as we approach this part of the year. If there is going to be anything go awry and make life uncomfy for yours truly, it will almost always - though not, it is to be admitted, exclusively - be in February.

Despite being the shortest month, it always seems the longest. In the years that I have resided in the UK, this is partly due to that long haul out of winter and into spring, where Feb tends to be the bleakest of months. This year is proving to hold true to this experience.

For me, it marks the time when, if there is to be some poor news, poor news will make itself known. As those paying attention will have noted, this year, it was on the technological front for me. I also, as one on a narrow pension, find it getting narrower as the cost of living rockets upward, and there is a global threat on the horizon to make this worse for all who walk that particular line. One suspects many people (and not just in the UK) are starting to take stock and re-budget... but back to my personal point about Feb the Fearsome.

On the non-human front, apart from tech issues, there tend to be things like the day when my wee cottage in OZ was hit by a major late summer storm, and half an enormous gum tree did everything bar bring the roof in. God bless Allianz Insurance... yes, late summer in OZ means February. Here in the Hutch, it was when I arrived back from OZ in February 2017 that I was hit with the news of the need for re-roofing and other heavy maintenance with frightening costs... and I landed up being the key organiser. That was one of the lowest years of my life, mentally speaking. Then in Feb 2019, as I prepared to take the biannual trip Down Under, the recognition that by the time I returned, dad would require much-increased care, and I'd have to prepare for that. How in Feb 2020, I landed in bed with the worst thing I'd experienced since the Hong Kong Flu in 1968 - I've never forgotten being ill that summer and I will not forget what I now know was a thing called SARS CoV-2. As well as dealing with the physical and mental strain of full-time care, I had to handle Coviditionitis...

This was the month in 1969 when news of my maternal grandmother's death shocked us all (it was unexpected - but to pass in one's sleep might also be considered desirable - though she was only five years older than I am now...) The same month six years later, her husband, that grand old shepherd of the hills, took his leave. Both these grandies were much loved and are still missed. Though our paternal grandad left in June (1971?), granny MacLean departed in February (1987). A close friend in Sydney attempted suicide twice on two Febs, one year apart. (I am pleased to report she survived and has thrived, but still, I could have done without being the one on call for those events - a selfish reflection, I know.)

I have not led a hugely romantic life, not that I have been immune to the charms of men. Only two were ever serious, though - and both managed to create emotional havoc in February. You might therefore understand that I am utterly ambivalent regarding today's date!

One of the things I uncovered in that 'arts folder' from the attic was this writing. It is dated April but relates to the first of the big disappointments, and it clearly had taken me several weeks to start excising the angst! I trust most of you have fonder Valentine memories...

Menolyrical; Insomniacal

Yesterday, in the 'wee smalls' this is what transpired - and the muse finally returned...

I sleep not

and gaze upon the turtle cloud

a gaseous shroud

and watch it turn

at the gale winds behest

become blue whale

shark

seahorse

mermaid

I sleep not

and gaze upon the wolven moon

that winter light

so piercing bright

making a mockery of night

and of my will to fight

Somnambule

I sleep not

and gaze upon the scudding bank

of cotton candy

white bulbous billows

the stuffing of pillows

in which I see more

critters

gargoyles

waving hands

I sleep not

and dream upon distant lands

know these words I must jot

lest they be forgot

and are lost

on that long road of

fragile mentality

mental fragility

lost to the land of crumbling grey where

I sleep not

©Yamini Ali MacLean 2022

Menolyrical; Let Me Set You A...

Scene

There was a place once

I saw

It sat upon the sea

Where sky was blue

The water too

And the building twixt was three.

It was white I think

Or grey

But took the bluish hue

The tide was out

some crowd about

A distant and mingling queue.

Out upon the strands

Bare feet

Bent backs and metal pails

Time opportune

Harvest of noon

The whelks, the cockles, the snails.

Rocks and black-brown sand

It was

That sea-bed now exposed

Man misses naught

A fish is caught

As the sleeping dogs reposed.

Ephemeral scene

It is

Reliant on nature's whim

When water turns

The liquid churns

And the building seems to swim.

Inspired by TAKE ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY FOUR © Yamini Ali MacLean 2013

Yes, it's a boomerang/repost... I've got Mac1 staying and needed to schedule some posts to make life easy. Anyway, this is also the time I need to remind you that next week is, once again, FFF time!!! Golly gee it sure does flee...

Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction

Is it really four weeks since the last FFF? I really must have a word with the timekeeper!

I apologise for using last year's badge in my reminder post. My bad. Have deleted that file now so can't fall into that trap again. I must admit, also, that the day has come upon me a little unawares, due to all the load mentioned yesterday. That said, let's see what I can make of the following...

WOULD YOU...?

Dear madam, would you please

just a little portion,

nothing more.

A roti, some rice, an idli or two?

Dear sir, would you please

just a spoonful,

's all for now.

A cauliflower or some dahl would do.

Dear student, would you please

Bring a poori

or chana, just that.

Or pawhaps, more than that, a few?

Dear kitchen-wallah, please

whatever is left

would be fine.

And from all, just a little coochy-coo?

©YAM 2021

Kaneya was one of the ashram residents - tolerated for his excellent guarding duties and soft nature towards staff and students. As with most of the Pariah dogs in Mumbai, there was a bit of something else mixed in there - I strongly suspect Golden Retriever! He certainly knew about food and how to wheedle it out of us all. Despite regulations...

Menooooorrrrrlllinngggg... When You Wish It Was A Dream

It was one of those mornings, yesterday.

You'll read about it tomorrow.

Which leaves me with today and very little to say.

Peering at the state of life, at the way of things just now, one wonders whether to take off, or simply take a bow.

The in-between is no one's land.

Which way to turn - perhaps not at all.

Simply look and take a stand and await the upper hand.

Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction

HOMAGE

Beside the white

walls

Standing in the

rain

A red horse

sculpture

Stands free of

dependence

Menoreturnagain; A Menolyrical From Yesteryear

Over the years I have made attempts to write outside the pentameter, anapestic, the trochaic. Mostly failing. Poetry by its very nature requires rhythm, no matter how haphazard. Even where no rhyme exists, it can appear to, simply by the flow. 'Free-styling' poetry, is not at all easy. ... no, take that back. It may well be easy; any number of words can flow onto a page. However, it can only prove itself as a poem if it can be read, or listened to, holding the reader or listener to its final syllable. If they are lost as it goes along, then it too is lost.

This, perhaps, is true of all artistic endeavour. Be it visual, verbal or musical, it must hold the participants to its conclusion and leave them pondering its effect upon them.

Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction

Off colour

would not be overstating

neither under-rating

or even hyper-inflating

the state of play

around here

yet

true colours never fade

only need a little shade

a sprinkle of water sprayed

to bring them back

into blossom

then

the wholeness starts to show

there returns that little glow

the twinkle and the 'the know'

bringing purpose

through again.

©Yamini Ali MacLean 2020

Menolyrical; Low In The Sky

NEXT FRIDAY!!!

Menolyrical: Make - or Break?

Menolyrical; New Year Lines

Menolyrical; Final Friday Fiction

There is no place to begin~~

no place to complete~~
no place to rise or fall~~
where, oh where to land within~~

to shelter, rest feet~~
to feel worthy, stand tall~~
It is all very tiring~~

this labelling with names~~
claiming identity~~
and what's all this aspiring~~

the playing of games~~
to be one thing or three~~
unnecessary dancing~~

artificial lines~~
desperation tactics~~exaggerated prancing~~
"look-at-me-now" signs~~ expostulatory antics~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Be. Just be. You are you. I am me. We are we.

Don't stare. Don't compare. Don't glare. Don't flare.

Flow. Smoothly go. Life's too short. Don't snort.

……………………………………………………………………………………..

Sometimes when we are looking for our spectacles they are on our head and we just can't see them |

Sometimes we think our keys are lost, but they were in the pocket all the time |

Sometimes we are looking for wood but see only trees |

Sometimes we are digging for gold, missing the value of earth |

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(first published on Medium in October 2019)

Menolyrical; Seek

If you feel that you are having a surfeit of menolyricals this week - prepare yourselves, there will be more! Using items already written is saving me a little hassle as I have to trek back and forth to Edinburgh just a wee bit more with some festive things to attend as well as cares for the father...(he's doing okay, just normal progression of age and disease, requiring a bit more TLC than he's really ready for but which we are all too ready to give!)

...and before anyone gets antsy, no, I have not misspelt the last word - it is a reference to the duality of existence. Big philosophical stuff.

Menolyrical; Love Blossom

Menolyrical - Current Condition

Menolyrical - and about that...

GETTING CREATIKUL

… words from the menoctionary

Getting diskolexikul,

happens regalsy

With the menoxikul;

Oh yes, my dears -

Menopolyxinaemia

That curse of the femalines

Comes with menosoup...

And the menoloops

The menokakkuls the

Menorise and Menosukhs.

It comes not alone

But brings its friends;

The menosukhis

The menoystericals

The menoparches and

The menopunkals

(which result in whirligiggles)

There's menophraise

And menogitationals

Menospovelling and

Risk of menoxication.

Then let's not forget

The menosomnia,

The menotrikal and

Menopolysocksication.

It makes one menoquizst

(yes, the hiss and spit)

Menopuggled as well as

Menovoidal… but then,

Too, it provides an impetus

For waxing creatikul,

Getting menolyrical.

Nuff sed.

Menolyrical; The Passion

I wrote this piece last Easter and have kept it to myself. I was thinking I could improve on it.

I couldn't. It's a funny thing that the inspiration which comes from my 'core self' rarely requires more than a typo tweak.