I find myself witnessing a ‘slow effacement’. As weeks slip by too quickly, writing becomes a workout rather than a journey. I find myself speaking to parents and students in mixed sports metaphors:

“The exam is a marathon.”

“You have to train for it.” 

“Write a little each day.”

“Time yourself. Make calculations of progress.”

There are still spaces for linguistic play, of course. But they have to be fought for, wrestled to the ground. Claimed. The moments of euphoria as we talk and breach horizon lines resonate, but are inevitably weighted with guilt. They are eroded by bells, dates, deadlines. 

Metaphorical end-stopped lines. 

Has Jake worked well, well well enough for Jake

Reports are relative

To the time I have, Jake’s behaviour that day,

How messy the house is, how much wine I’ve consumed

No, I never drink when I write

She says as she gulps down the glass of Yarra Valley Cab Sav

The good stuff’s kept for relaxing on a Sunday night, not for report writing

What has Jake done this semester?

What evidence is there that he has done well?

Well …
He’s attendance has been great

And …

He regularly contributes to class

I tagged a train station on the weekend miss – it was ace

Is that relevant or random Jake

Oh totally random Miss

Jake could pay more attention.

Jake could pay more attention to his writing

(perhaps writing in his book rather than writing, tagging everybody else’s book)

He is a lively member of the class

I want to kill him most days, if only he would shut up

Is it wrong to put a student in the icy cold room that sits between two classrooms

He may actually work without distraction

It might work. Locked my cousin in the wardrobe once for a couple of hours he turned out okay. 

His language analysis showed some improvement and he is now able to identify rhetorical questions and build in key aspects of the article into his response such as the title and author’s name

Jake … well Jake should, Jake could improve, Jake shows, Jake demonstrates … Jake needs to,

Jake needs to continue being Jake, his mischievousness and sense of humour brings much needed lightness to my class. Even though he doesn’t do any real work in class, and he rarely puts pen to paper Jake will be fine, provided he doesn’t end up in jail.

A student asked me yesterday- why don’t you write a book? 

I told her- the world doesn’t need another book from a middle-aged, middle-class white bloke. There’s enough of them already. 

It’s true, in some ways.

Maybe not true, in another. 

It’s largely an excuse, anyway. 

But these days I’m writing for fun, again. 

I met Ellen at the AATE conference in Hobart. She was helping out, and I was attending, and somehow we ended up out for drinks late that night with a bunch of others, enthusing over song lyrics and poetry we love. Somehow, the conversation continued online. Talking about the books and poems and songs you love just seems vital. And then, somehow, I started writing poetry again, something I hadn’t done since I was a teenager. Writing for fun.  So here’s one I wrote recently.

 

There isn’t one way to write a poem

Since a good poem, if performed correctly, is a response to a situation

And situations vary.

Nevertheless, there are a few general principles which it does well to remember when composing a poem. 

First, you need to remember that the poem draws its strength from your balance and your stance upon the earth.

Centre yourself; your whole body should be involved. 

Let the power of the poem rise from your feet, through your legs

Through the twist of your torso 

and the turning of your shoulders 

and extension of the arm. 

Try to stay relaxed until the moment of impact

The moment of connection

And don’t forget to breathe, exhaling as you release the poem. 

Remember that a good poem can fulfil a number of different functions. 

It could be a way to measure distance

Or it could be a feint, intended to test reactions.

It could be a distraction, a setup, creating an opening for another more powerful poem to follow. 

It might be an attack in and of itself, or a defensive move, to cover a retreat. 

Always keep in mind that the poem might land on target, but it might not-

You need to be prepared for both eventualities. 

Beginning poets often forget it, but returning to guard is a component part of composing a poem,

And, the poem done, you should aim to be relaxed, yet poised, ready to strike again-

present to the moment, attentive.

The poem done, don’t stand still

Move away

Adjust your stance

Readjust to circumstances.

Look for openings

For another poem.