This spider gave me a fright today, as I tried to hang out the washing. It’s a golden orb. Harmless, but still scared me. Later, though, it inspired a haiku.

by Sally
This spider gave me a fright today, as I tried to hang out the washing. It’s a golden orb. Harmless, but still scared me. Later, though, it inspired a haiku.

by Sally
It’s Poetry Friday and I am thinking about metapoetry. Did you know that metapoetry is a fancy name for poems about poetry or about trying to write poetry?
Anyway, the reason I am thinking about metapoetry is because my fabulous poet friend Rebecca wrote a fabulous metapoem. At our shared blog, Poetrytag, I gave Rebecca two words and challenged her to put them into a poem (that is how Poetrytag works).
The words I gave her, were: birth and together. Her response blew me away. You can read it here.
The image of a an idea being cocooned and cosseted like a baby is just so fabulous..
Of course, this got me thinking about other metapoems. Another favourite of mine is this Billy Collins poem, which expresses a quiet dismay over the way poems are over-analysed:
Lastly, I remembered a poem about poetry as an opening blossom, and found it after a bit of searching. It is Naoshi Koriyama’s Unfolding Bud which I think echoes what Collins’ is saying – that a poem is something to be treasured, held up to the light, watch unfold, rather than something to be nailed down. You can read “Unfolding Bud” by Naoshi Koriyama on Genius.
Why do poets write about poetry? Because we love poetry – and writing about something you love is pleasurable, enriching.
In the light of the genius above, I almost didn’t share any of my own poetry here, but then I remembered that my character Pearl is also a metapoet. She loves poetry, but isn’t enjoying the poetry unit they are doing at school, because her teacher wants all their poetry to rhyme, so Pearl writes this limerick:
There was a young lady called Pearl
Who was not a rhyming type girl
She said “I’ve no time
For poems that rhyme”
Which made her poor teacher go hurl.
Do you have a favourite poem about poetry?
The Poetry Friday roundup this week will be over at Refections on the Teche. Enjoy!
by Sally
It’s Poetry Friday and I have been thinking about repetition.
It’s Poetry Friday and I have been thinking about repetition. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist!).
I’m working on a new verse novel, which I’m not ready to share with the world, but yesterday, I realised that I had used the same two words a dozen times in one poem. Was it a mistake? No. It was very deliberate. See my character has just had some bad news, but instead of thinking about it, she is getting lost in distractions. So instead of focussing on what’s really upsetting, she is focussed on finding her water bottle, which she needs for a game of hockey. Thus the repeated words – ‘water bottle’.
So, in this instance, the repetition is an attempt to capture my character’s agitation (and no, I’m not telling what she’s agitated about. You’ll have to wait for the book).
This started me thinking of why other poets might use repetition. It didn’t take me long to find a couple of favourite poems. First, there’s Walter de la Mare’s gorgeous poem about the moon:
Silver
Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in silver-feathered sleep
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream
The repetition of the word ‘silver’ here is just one of the things I love about this poem. The repetition though really highlights that silvery luminescent magic of a moonlit night, and the way the moon lends that special magic. The use of personification here is also special and I love that the moon seems unaware that it is she that is creating the silvery magic.
Then there’s Walter R. Brooks’ joyful poem:
Ode to Spring
O spring, O spring,
You wondering thing!
O spring, O spring, O spring!
O spring, O spring,
When the birdies sing
I feel like a king,
O spring!
This one is silly, but it makes me smile, and while it may seem really simple to repeat the phrase ‘o spring’ so many times, it gives the feel of a happy song. As someone currently shivering through a cold wet Autumn, I would love to be singing in spring. This poem was also ostensibly written by a talking pig named Freddy, so the simplicity seems to work. (By the by, in checking my information about Brooks. I realised that his work was the inspiration of the Mr Ed television series.)
These examples have used only a word or two, but sometimes repetition can be in the form of a line or phrase, as in Merrill Glass’s But You Didn’t, which you can read in full here. Here, the repeated ‘but you didn’t’ draw us in to what seems a simple love poem – until the final ‘but you didn’t’ leaves us gasping with realisation about what this poem is really about. What a clever poem – though very sad, as well.
Repetition is a deceptively simple poetic technique, but when used well, it can really pack a poetic punch.
Have a wonderful Friday. The Poetry Friday roundup can be found at Michelle Barnes’ blog, Today’s Little Ditty. 
PS
After I’d written this post, I was working on a new poem for my Poetry Tag blog (which I share with my friend Rebecca), and managed to work a repeated word in there. You can see my poem Really Estate here.
by Sally
It’s Poetry Friday and it’s my mum’s birthday, so I thought I’d write a little poem for her. When I was a child I remember being pretty excited about her birthday and the feeling of wanting to give her a gift that would make her feel the way I felt on my own birthday.
Magic Days
I bet
when you were little
your birthday was magic.
filled with gifts and cakes
and love and squeals.
I know
when I was little
your birthday was almost
as exciting as my own
and I loved to show you that.
I hope
though we are neither little
that your day
still has the gentle thrill
of knowing you are loved.
(Sally Murphy, 2015)
Happy birthday Mum, and happy Poetry Friday everyone else.

The Poetry Friday roundup this week will be at Space City Scribes
by Sally
It’s Poetry Friday and, here in Australia, tomorrow is ANZAC Day. I have just returned home after speaking about two of my ANZAC-related books, Do Not Forget Australia and 1915, to schools in Victoria and Perth, s I thought it might be appropriate today to share a poem from 1915.
Stanley, the main character in my book, is a soldier serving in Gallipoli,and he finds writing poetry comforting during some very hard times. Although the book is written in prose, two of his poems are included. The one I am sharing today is quite sad, but also I hope shows the impact of war on those who fought.
Men Don’t Cry
Men don’t cry, or so I’ve heard
But here I sit and do
Because, dear friend this damned war
Has done its worst to you.
When we first met you made me laugh
You made me smile and more.
We became friends, we became mates
And together we marched to war.
Side by side we fought for months
And still you made me grin.
You were brave and tough, your mother’s son
Determined we would win.
When I was hurt you lifted me
And helped me toward aid.
That brave decision, sad to say
Was the last one that you made.
A shell blast took us both to ground
And you died a hero’s death.
Your only concern your mother dear
Her name on your last breath.
Men don’t cry, but if that’s so
Then no more man am I
As on your final resting place
I can only sit and cry.
(Sally Murphy, 2015)
A little girl in one of my sessions this week asked a heartbreaking question: Why do we have to have wars? I gave her an answer that I’m not sure fully satisfied her, because the truth is – I don’t know. I do hope that if we pause on days like ANZAC Day to remember those wars, and all that they mean, that it makes us aware of the need to strive for peace so that war will be a thing of the past.
Poetry Friday today is being hosted by Renee at No Water River.
by Sally

It’s Poetry Friday and, after a brief hiatus where life got in the way of my regular Friday posts, I’m back!
But I’m cheating little bit this week, and sharing a poem I have already shared – because it’s Good Friday, and I’m busy, and I’d rather repeat myself than miss another Friday posting. So, here is my poem about the last supper, which I wrote in response to a prompt at Poetry Tag earlier this year.
Last Supper
At that last supper
the men ate and drank
and hung on your every word,
little knowing it would be
their last meal together –
even when you, my heart,
told them one would soon betray you,
one deny.
Centuries later,
artists recreated that moment
showing your quiet virtue
their various states of adoration,
disbelief,
confusion.
What they forgot, those masters of the arts,
(or perhaps it was their priestly chiefs)
was that we women were there,
and children, too
not hangers-on
not underlings
but equals.
(Sally Murphy, 2015. All rights reserved)
Have a wonderful Easter weekend, whatever your beliefs. And if you’d like more poetry goodness, the Poetry Friday roundup is at the Poem Farm.