December #1

e.g this is enough

Apt.

Beautifully put.

Concise, convex.

Drama dominates.

Everything expires.

Futures fizzle.

Grandiose, giggly, grunting.

Heavy-handed.

Interesting.

Just judicial.

Kitchenware.

Lampooning, lightness, & lexicon.

Magic.

Never? Not now?

Obtuse, obviously.

Patience!  Purity! Passion! Performance?

Quietly querulous.

Rubbish! (Roundly)

Sensible, sound and snappy.

Terrorism.

Uprisings, unguents.

Visual & Vital Verbs.

When?

Xasperating …

You?

Zithering …

That is enough.

Tough.

— Jennie Fraine

November #1

Or Any Other Kind Of Pen: a Romance

One word lingers over a blank page

ephemeral, almost transparent, fading

as it wafts away uncaptured.

A second word strays in its wake

vanishes beyond thought, distracted

by a fascination.

There is a mild stir. 

A sentence appears.

For how long? And what was the crime? 

Dragging itself out into the open,

dangling voice and story in front of a jury?

Off the page with you!

Don’t even think of it!

Out!

But: mightier than the sword, a pen 

strides into view, leaps to hand, brandishes

ballpoint, strikes a blow for freedom and

in one frenzied dash crashes across paper

leaving a stream of consciousness

full of mixed metaphors

and darlings needing

to be murdered.

Words tremble as the world they’ve created

comes to a full stop.

— Jennie Fraine

October #1

Memories to Gather Later

As if the Past truly exists.

For Auld Lang Syne.

What’s done and said

Arms. Linked. Singing.

The songs of sirens.

Long fruitless journeys.

Shipwrecks. Survivals.

On the rocks. Let’s drink!

To that, and take a break.

There’s no tomorrow

Literally. The future?

Also non-existent.

Trapped here, now.

What? This moment?

This? And this? This

Endlessness of Now?

No! Conjure: artful enemies.

Betrayals. Caesarean.

Lies and tragedies.

My own one-Act plays.

Banish meaninglessness.

Watch commercial TV.

Old episodes and new ads.

All images spark memory.

Spirit of Tasmania.

Access to adventure.

State of beauty. Remember.

Sick trips with two kids.

Retirement. Caravan. Sunset.

Son’s birthday lego pirate ship.

A plank across the towbar.

Blindfolded, walking forward.

Gather friends who teach.

Encourage my reaching.

Voices entertain. Enrich.

Only the Past tells me

“I” exist.

— Jennie Fraine

September #1

All That Terror (grin) Provides the Thrill

And the worst of it

is standing there

knowing you all need to know

that I know you, care.

Larynx glued, immobilised,

breath choking off the apt word—

words big enough to leap

the chasm between us

have tumbled, their syllables

echoing long after

we break eye contact.

This is La Grande Peur

more masterful than Death,

binding lips, sealing off

all possibility of love

for all fifty of you, myself.

This paralysis cannot be

permanent. I must lose

my self now, take that step:

create, speak, surrender.

— Jennie Fraine

August #1

Knowing it is right

makes it

legitimate

if it fits

wear it

also sets

you up

for a fight

some call that

civilised debate

the thing is

it pulls you

off centre

you have to

grab hold

to regain

balance

anything

will do as

long as

you get

through,

both feet

firm, body

up right

— Jennie Fraine

July #1

Does this mean I’m ready to wake?

Was there an earthquake?

A tremor, even?

A slight jolt?

Is my body in revolt?

Will this darkness last forever?

Oh, get a cup of tea, give me a break!

Relaxation music – imagine a lake:

its beauty, not the depths,

keep breathing!

Ah, stillness,

empty mind, not mind-full,

call upon the Dreamtime, the snake.

How many planetary rotations will it take?

Revolutions? Rebellions?

Interrupted sleeps?

Laughters and weeps?

At least I know I’m alive, tossing.

Until the bed becomes something

to leave, to love, to make.

— Jennie Fraine

June #1

Muscle and Bone Subside

Here. Let me help you.

I struggle to lift the chair.

We move side table too.

Now you can swing

where once you would swivel.

Now it’s only your eyes turning

to watch the birds, the seasons

the garden tossing or still

its feet unmoving. You miss

the dancing.

You sink and settle. The chair

cuddles you; its many cushions

enclose muscle and bone.

Desire, too, subsides.

And faith in a better future.

There are many you scorn

who sink to a lower level –

The men. The budget makers.

The wealthy liars and cheats.

Whilst you might have become

less active, I wouldn’t call

your disgust with the TV news

less violent, your heart quiet.

In fact, despite the chair’s

security, I see you believe

we are all cast down, falling

headlong.

— Jennie Fraine

May #1

When we go deep

I will change we to they.

Let the young and agile

do that caving thing

squeezing through

narrow clumps of rock

interring themselves in

the dark recesses

of my imagination.

I just have to shudder.

Then there are the divers.

At first writhing like fish,

later holding a spear

ahead of the face while

beginning to morph

into shark and octopus.

Heavier, dropping into

denser currents, hot water.

I take quick deep breaths.

There’s just too many depths

available on this planet.

You have to be truly committed

to plumb them, feel the fear,

act anyway, free-falling, sinking.

There is so much other pleasure

in skimming surfaces, dancing

like a dragonfly between

leaves, over river water.

Is my aversion past-driven?

Too many storms at sea,

midnight runs at gunpoint,

surgery, anaesthetised?

Luckily, memory is like

a skating rink: such grace

on thick ice! strung between

that frozen surface and

the furnace of the sun.

— Jennie Fraine

April #1

“that oaf who tried to hit on me”

Dredging memory

for oafs

looking for louts

who chose me

as victim

wondering

who hit on whom:

Was it I

with my lust

for impregnation?

Or they, addicted

to seek-and-destroy tactics?

My daughter

could probably invent

a few pithy stories

on Facebook

but I

can only stare

out the train’s window

hoping for reflection

searching instead

a flat dry developed

landscape

for clues.

— Jennie Fraine

March #1

Their Song

Corellas?

They tell me of lost

country, of

stolen generations:

once in this town

they were thousands

now counted in dozens.

Silent Spring? Not yet

but soon.

I listen to their screaming

keenly, translate

their screeches into

my own outrage

my fear of stealth and story

that justifies theft.

Their community voice

pierces the certainty

of self-interest.

“Too many!”

“I hate that noise!”

“They destroy my orchard,

everything!”

“I hate them!”

Their dispatched  feathers –

fluffballs, quills, faintest

orange or lemon on white –

I stuff in my pocket.

Their views are aerial

and urgent; they shake

elm and eucalypt

with equal fervour

having careered across roads

and paths above

hostile tribes.

I prevent collected feathers

from drifting away.

It is that insistent

commentary, their claim

to country – unreconciled,

unrecognised – our ears

do not want to receive.

It is a wordless song

a treetop rant

we have never

learned to assimilate.

— Jennie Fraine

February #1

Their branches sharing the air

I should have thought
she says
I would have asked you
she whispers
to bring - you know -
we both mouthe it
pads
They're in the bag, Mum,
I say
You're a mind-reader
there's wonder in her voice
as the nurses laugh
Thanks to your fey Scots mother
I say
but already we're past that topic
because she's been
sat up
to receive dinner.

At home I understand
why it is I can
stand in her shoes -
mostly
they're smaller than mine
but the slippers
I forgot to pack
have been stretched
to breaking point.

— Jennie Fraine

January #1

Late, but here it is ...

Daylesford Singers Festival Volunteer

Mixing money with music, we come
to a Town Hall built from rock-solid
golden funds. Even the rococo brackets
holding up the balcony speak of
independent thinkers, believers
in the power of possibility, faith in
excavation, running water, the wealth
of the underground bringing riches
beyond wildest expectation.

As seats fill with choirs of anticipation
the voice of "a heartbroken angel"
anoints us with love song and longing.
Raffaele Carboni comes to life as
dissenter happy to seek refuge in
London, then Ballarat, pleased to literally
be translator: making available
the language of rebellion, faith and belief
in a future not obviously apparent then.

We are rewriting history.  Music is a
lingua franca, and the generations raised
with it at festivals like this have us
stamping our feet and wildly clapping.
So much comes to light in songs of
repression, liberation, victory.
The Town Hall, 160 years old, rocks.
My raffle-ticket seller's bumbag rattles
with coin, crackles with  paper currency.

— Jennie Fraine


Over to you, # 2!