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Sally Murphy, Australian author

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Poetry Friday: No, Thank YOU

May 22, 2015 by Sally

It’s Poetry Friday, and I’m a little weary after three full days at a young writers’ festival at Rosalie Primary School in Perth. But, while I am weary (I drove up and back each day, making for loooong days), I am also feeling really inspired, after three days of talking to young readers and writers about what I do. It really is one of the best parts of my job, and I am blessed to do what I do.

So, last night, after I got home, I jotted down this little poem, for the kids of Rosalie and for the audiences everywhere I go, who keep inspiring me to write.

No, Thank YOU

Before I leave

You clap

Thank me for coming

Say nice things like

‘You’re the best author in the world.’

I tell you it was my pleasure

But I’m not sure

You’ll ever know

How much visiting your class

Reading my books

Telling my stories

Sharing what I know

Gives me

The drive

To keep doing what I do.

 

Have a great Friday. For more Poetry Friday goodness pop over to Matt Forrest’s blog where, a little later today, he’ll have the round up of everyone’s posts.

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Poetry Friday: The Owl and the Pussycat

May 15, 2015 by Sally

I was very spoilt on Mother’s Day last Sunday: with company, with phonecalls, with flowers and chocolate and gifts. And, of course, if I had to pick a favourite out of those, I couldn’t: except I guess that my favourite thing about Mothers Day is remembering how very blessed I am to have six such wonderful children.

But I did want to share a picture of one of my gifts today, because today is Poetry Friday. Here is what my daughter, Emily (otherwise known as Murphlet 2) made for me:

Aren’t they simply divine? And isn’t she both clever AND thoughtful?

In honour of my magnets, I wanted to share the poem they of course represent.

The Owl and the Pussycat

by Edward Lear

The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea
   In a beautiful pea-green boat:
They took some honey, and plenty of money
   Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
   And sang to a small guitar,
“O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
    What a beautiful Pussy you are,
         You are,
         You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!”
Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl!
   How charmingly sweet you sing!
Oh!  let us be married; too long we have tarried
   But what shall we do for a ring?”
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
   To the land where the Bong-Tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
   With a ring at the end of his nose,
             His nose,
             His nose,
   With a ring at the end of his nose.
“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling

Edward Lear’s original illustration. Source: Wikipedia

   Your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will.”
So they took it away, and were married next day
   By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
   Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
   They danced by the light of the moon,
             The moon,
             The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.
Almost 150 years since it was first published, this poem still makes people young and old smile. Pretty good, huh? And, it occurred to me as I wrote that last sentence that there is a lovely link here: not only have I shared this poem with my daughter and she with me, but also my own mother shared it with me, and probably her mother shared it with her. So an appropriate way to celebrate mother’s day.
Poetry Friday this week is being hosted by Random Noodling, where you will find a round-up of all the Poetry Friday goodness.poetry-friday-logo

Poetry Friday: Repetition

May 8, 2015 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

(Walter de la Mare)

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!

(Walter R. Brooks)

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. poetry-friday-logo

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.

Poetry Friday: Magic Days

May 1, 2015 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.

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The Poetry Friday roundup this week will be at Space City Scribes

Poetry Friday: A Personal Poem

April 24, 2015 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.1915

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.

 

Poetry Friday: Last Supper

April 3, 2015 by Sally

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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.

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