Poems about places, faces, races, and things, by Cliff Shankey.
Here’s a collection of poetry by Nara’s poet laureate, Cliff Shankey. Cliff’s been writing poetry professionally for over twenty years now, and he’s been contributing a fortnightly column on poetic technique to the Nara Debater for the past several years. So put on your creative caps and break out your pentameter–you’re going to need it to measure how much fun you’ll have in Cliff’s Poetry Corner!
This is a classic example of traditional rhyming, plus, it’s a personal history of a series of pets I had as a kid.
Try a cat
Once I had a pet rock,
It rocked.
When I lost it, I tried a pet stick,
but it didn’t stick.
So Mum bought me a pet handle
It was the shedding she couldn’t handle.
Next we tried a pet sign,
What happened to it was probably a sign.
Finally we got a pet lemon,
But we returned it ‘cos it was a lemon.
Mum gave in and got me a dog.
And he died.
***
I’m just an old softy, really. This one’s for my love.
Roses are/Rose is
My true love’s name is like a rose,
In part because her name is Rose
Also each letter is a petal
Like a rose composed of petals.
With soft white skin and flowing hair,
That shines like just conditioned hair.
And lips of red like a red rose,
These are the features of my love, Rose.
***
Just a simple rhyme I thought up the other day. As much as I experiment with non-traditional poetic techniques, I still like to return to my roots every now and then.
origins
As a child I played in the hay.
Until one day I said, “Now hey,
That’s a word that rhymes with ‘hay’.”
Later, I became a poet.
***
This here’s an expression of mathematics through poetry. I read somewhere that a lot of these old blokes were polymaths, which meant that they could write poetry and plays and draw, but were also really good at maths. And not just maths, lots of types of maths. Now, you could fill a book with what I don’t know about algebra, but I figure I can count well enough to write a bloody poem, even if it doesn’t rhyme.
Can’t you count ya cunt?
One night
I saw two eyes
from the darkness and took three breaths
I waited to see if the eyes had four legs
Perhaps was some gruesome creature from the fifth dimension
Or maybe just Nan out well past her six o’clock
bed time. Turned out it was seven rabbits
That were all in various stages of blinking.
And their many eyes shined wide when the dog barked and then he ate them.
***
Here are some thoughts I had the other day when I was hanging around the fruit trees. It’s not so much a poem as a poetic musing, but I reckon I mused the shit out of it.
Bees
To be or not to be,
I bet one person who never said that
is a beekeeper.
Because every day, bees.
***
This is the first poem I wrote. I’m a bit beyond haikus now; they’re mostly for kids and Asians, but I reckon this one’s pretty good.
A haiku on boots*
Two big bloody boots
Both bloody covered in mud
Mum’ll take care of ‘em
***
*Best Alternate Form Poem, Youth Category, Rural Division, Royal Adelaide Show, 1985.
The following poem explores man’s relationship with nature, as experienced by nature.
Hare
Stutter step stop stand still swift hare
Something on the autumn wind
Makes his nose twitch and his ears turn and his hair
Stands on end
Cautious creep keep quiet but quickly out there
Boot thuds, creaking buttons
Clouds of breath and the smell of powder in their
Hunting guns
Fast now fly fair over fallen boughs until you’re far gone
Breaths drawn, guns shouldered,
Eyes narrowed over sights and crack the gun’s gone
off and his hair stands on end.
***
As you might realise, nature’s experience of man often includes being shot at. I tried to capture that experience in this poem, mainly in the part where the man shoots at the rabbit.
I’ve tried to leave the ending ambiguous, and this is a technique you too could try to develop in your poetry. Rather than the straightforward, descriptive poem where you’re telling the reader what happened, ambiguity lets him wonder and expire this uncertainty. Even a small and obvious mystery creates a relationship between you, as you’re writing the poem, and the reader as he experiences it. It draws the reader deeper in to your poetry and makes him question what he’s reading. Here, the reader is forced to ask “What happened to the rabbit? The gun’s gone off but did he survive?”
Of course not, you fucking galah! Your rabbit’s fast but he can’t outrun a gun! What are ya!?
Now, this one I wrote for my dad. He likes his bloody telly, I can tell you.
Stand
Last year dad bought a colour TV set,
A wooden stand and a matching set
Of end tables for the couch.
They’re a handy place where he likes to set
His can of beer when he’s upset
And needs both hands to wave at the ump.
He’s got his remote with channels preset
For footy, cricket or tennis. Game, set,
and match on Saturday afternoon.
***
This next one’s more of a romantic poem to tug at your heart strings. Now I’m no romantic, but sometimes a bird takes off her dress and I can’t help but think, “Bloody hell. I bet you could go a good root!” I’ve tried to capture the complex eroticism of that moment in the next poem, but with more rhymes.
Dress
My love in a dappled yellow dress
Lips of honey, skin of silk, and thighs strong but supple to my touch.
My love tells me to undress
And the quiver in her voice betrays the practiced act of cool sophistication.
The folds of her crumpled yellow dress
Are soft curves and ripples and hidden valleys on our bed.
***
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