2101
6.274
1.x.25
septembering first
a pinch
and a punch again
there's still someone in the wall
morning is
birdworthy
peopled
with song and soon
pouring
red belly out of the mulch box
there’s a
deep breath
we go our
ways
say spring
because
and I,
inside
woof woof
of fences
or a fire
takes off
21⁰ in the water
louder
than light
little
birds at the window
still want
in
blowfly
manages this
I look at
the notes from the dream
I can make
out all of the letters
I can’t
understand a word
2100
6.273
30.ix.25
see wonders
take a jog
around the place
not to see
work
see
wonders!
birds lit
leaf about
the pages
of a tree
see up
and see
the shadows fall
it’s
everywhere
no time at
all
friend it
with the cloud
come on
watch your
step as well
breathless
for the pull, up hills
then half
tumble down
day’s loud
with ink
and pen
inscribe if,
when
accept the
all unmattering
how far we
are in the vast
did you
know that this all
was never before
and never
will again?
I am becoming
a little
solipsism goes a long way
for Clark’s
exercise
I am
becoming
… most
(though
perhaps it is immodest to say)
…
invisible,
indivisible, impervious, omnipresent
omnipotent
(within strict bounds)
risible,
irresistible… and so on…
of course I
am kidding myself
kidding
you along
tragically,
every day less in a sense
every day
in every way, I’m
½ the what
I was, 1/4, any advance on that?
out here
on the spiral arm
little
blue dot in the storm
on spec
place is completely
surrounded
with all
of the rest of the universe
(why stop
at one?)
would you
believe a poodle and a popgun?
I am
becoming compost, ash, brittle
it’s
thought by thought
closer to
extinction
you too, I
suspect
though some
say there’s a wheel you don’t get off so easy
and some
were born to cling
tug this
loose thread, won’t you
I’m convinced
that there’s a use-by for
every blade
of grass
the tree
to point stars
the stars
themselves
though in
another cosmos
time runs
the other way
everyone’s
immortal
no one
gives death a second thought
(that would
be unbecoming)
you see
how still the mind runs on
I take the
pills prescribed
there’s
hope!
I may
finally get over myself
when I am
nothing at all
2099
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29.ix.25
set out
to find
myself in the picture
forget the
otherworlds
make light
so as to
test these assertions
duck for
the leaf laden branch
set out to
go under the radar
see what’s
to see
what’s
what
to be all
among your words
set song
to go
above and beyond
go in
go over
the thing again
set out to
lose myself
to break
the map
let the fences
away
run with
the river
to be
always somewhere else
just as
the sun sets out to find us
pond shows
a sky still as stone
'in early light ~ aubades' | ISBN 978 1 763825 994 | 106 pgs | May 2025 | $25 (within Australia)
These freewheeling Hopkinsesque, Dylanesque, fragmentary poems have the thrilling feeling of “the still wet canvas” of dawn with its “light that breaks down doors” and suddenly you see, waking again and again to the newness of world and “the firstliness of birds / born to the thin air chase”. With gentle brushstrokes Kelen “rubs back a primed sky” with an irradiating light: “It’s just these little prints I leave / barest of impressions” he says, but what an impression these poems leave us indeed: “the practice of just where we are”, the meditation of poet being poet being human being artist in this world right now – and how thankful I am for them.
– Anne Kellas
‘There’s weather in the head—its own world spinning’: in this exquisite collection of aubades, award-winning poet Kit Kelen brings his signature inventiveness and sidestepping of language convention, deep affinity with the natural world, metaphysical questioning and daily sunrise-inspired reveries to refresh the reader over and over again at the altar of time and truth. The poems made me think and dream and want to scribble!
– Jane Frank
https://walleahpress.com.au/Kit-Kelen-in-early-light-aubades.html
2098
6.271
28.ix.25
all these gifts and no one to thank
practical
guidance for the credulous
fresh air,
these hands and the rain to cup
a hunch
and tell what comes to mind
this with
just the words bequeathed
the
brilliance of the dream unbidden
the
portal, just my luck
just yours
tree and a
moon to fill branches
the rise
of day amongst us all
first thing
blue of
this, green of that
puzzle to
unravel
tremble of
the breeze lit leaf
joy of now
if let
the sometime
vanishing of itch, of ache
the here
we are and just because
ages were
passed down
rotation,
revolution
wisdom,
least of all
no
dinosaurs today
but happy
to have met the bones
they claim
that other stars may shine
say not to
get too close
who’ll call
any of this truth?
just happens
only happens
here
world’s
wide enough for me
2097
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27.ix.25
symmetric
a
reconfigure
first look
and then ask questions
upwardly
mobile the eye on a roll
what was
askew now jog on
a fine reflection
the
business of anywhere
slightly so
taken for
granted myself
you too
let sprawl
night
stumbles on with its miracle stars
till one –
and there’s our wisdom shone
let a tree
grow into the day
same in
the soil as up
so many
minutes to where we all were
a clock
disassembles time
off its
face
pet cloud
answers to
phone this
the
forested bird in its weather
a
truth-rise
sings
won’t you?
GAZA
The
current situation in Palestine/Israel is complicated and disturbing… horrifying,
really. As with the Vietnam War of my childhood, I see the horror unfolding
nightly on the news, and whenever I look at a newspaper or turn on the radio.
It seems, as the war in Vietnam did, endless and inescapable. Incomprehensible,
from our distance. And, frustrating as
our government’s inaction may be, the events to which we are witness would
leave us feeling powerless, whatever we or our governments did. Which is not to
say that we should stop calling for action – for a cease fire, first of all. To
cease adding fuel to the fire, to cease validating the aims and actions of
those who are motivated primarily by hate. My aim is not to promote apathy or nihilism.
It is merely to acknowledge, as writers/artists, the place where words fail us,
where the work of making art seems not to cut it in terms of bringing about the
change the world desperately needs.
But
what are we to do? Can the picture of a tree save a tree from the chainsaw? Surely
our work is to focus the hearts and minds. And in a world where care and
compassion and truth have been devalued to the extent we have seen recently,
maybe we do just have to keep bashing our heads against the wall of hate.
Political
poems are a tricky gig at the best of times. There is precisely ‘the
sledgehammer risk’ of bashing the readers’ head with a holier-than-thou ‘do
this!’ or ‘think that’ approach – disobeying, in other words, the dramaturg’s
prime directive – don’t tell me! show
me! I guess that’s what we have to do.
We have to show our readers the uncomfortable truths and facts … and
then, it’s over to them!
In
the current circumstances, a lot of the facts and footage required are already
at the reader’s disposal. But the reader is – as was the case with Vietnam –
numb from the constant barrage.
I
thought of the idea of writing a poem about Gaza, structured around a series of
questions. I’m not sure if these are the right questions (or in the right
order), and of course there can be many more.
GAZA
the
questions
What
is terror?
Who
is a terrorist?
Who
can protect us from terror?
What
is genocide?
Who is
a Semite?
Who is an anti-semite?
Who is Islamaphobic?
Why is one of these anti- and the other -phobic?
Who
has a right to defend themselves?
Which
states have a right to exist?
Should
we believe everything in old books?
How
did we get to here?
What
are weapons made of?
What
are weapons for?
When
is material part of a weapon?
Who
believes that more weapons make peace?
What
are the characteristics of a monster?
Who
are the best people in the world?
Who
are the worst?
Can a
cause be killed?
When
did this thing start?
How
long can it go on?
How
many more have to die?
To
whom should we be listening?
Who
has a right to the truth?
Who
has a duty to tell?
Will
truth set us free?
Will the Gaza Strip really make a great tourist resort when all the people who live there are gone?
What does it say in the Bible? Hw about Samson and Delilah?
Is
there anything I can do?
Can
words make a difference?
What
does silence do?
I’m
not sure whether the resulting poem would or should consist of only answers or
a combination of questions and answers, but I thought this might be a structure
with which to kick off the process.
