My Poem, “When Will It End?”

July 31, 2024 ~ Libby Sommer ~ 6 Comments

I hope you like it.

When Will It End?

The woman is weeping for her husband,

his ashes lined up with the unclaimed

urns at the crematorium.

How could this happen again?

The man is weeping for his dead wife

& unborn child stretchered out from

the bombed maternity hospital.

The woman says, “We had to flee. His ashes

were left behind.”

What use is a city of rubble?

The brother is weeping beside his mother at the grave

of his twin. The brothers had strapped on fatigues,

taken up weapons, knowing they may die—sons,

brothers, husbands & fathers.

Each day the mind grapples: no power,

no water, starvation,

but Ukrainians, bigger than their fears,

face the Goliath. Church bells ring

calling the world to stand beside them.

Look at this man in body armour on the news

saying farewell to his wife and child.

Last week a teacher of children, today a soldier,

when will he see his school again?

I Am Not the Stories I Tell

July 26, 2024 ~ Libby Sommer ~ 7 Comments

Sometimes when people read my stories they assume those stories are me. They are not me, even if I write in the first person. They were my thoughts and feelings at the time I wrote them. But every minute we are all changing. There is a great freedom in this. At any time we can let go of our old selves and start again. This is the writing process. Instead of blocking us, it gives us permission to move on. Just like in a progressive ballroom dance: you give your undivided attention to your partner—keep eye contact for the time you are dancing together—but then you move on to the next person in the circle.

The ability to express yourself on the page—to write how you feel about an old lover, a favourite pair of dance shoes, or the memory of a dance on a chilly winter’s night in the Southern Highlands—that moment you can support how you feel inside with what you say on the page. You experience a great freedom because you are not suppressing those feelings. You have accepted them, aligned yourself with them.

I have a poem titled ‘This is what it feels like’—it’s a short poem. I always think of it with gratitude because I was able to write in a powerful way how it was to be desperate and frightened. The act of self expression made me feel less of a victim. But when people read it they often say nothing. I remind myself, I am not the poem, I am not the stories I write. People react from where they are in their own lives. That’s the way things are. The strength is in the act of writing, of putting pen to paper. Write your stories and poems, show them to the world, then move on. The stories are not you. They are moments in time that pass through you.

My Poem, ‘Transience’

July 16, 2024 ~ Libby Sommer ~ 14 Comments

Have a read of my poem, ‘Transience’ first published in Quadrant Magazine. ‘Transience’ is one of the poems in my second collection titled ‘Flat White, One Sugar‘ (Ginninderra Press).

I hope you enjoy it.

Transience:

A luminous, tangerine, and blazing expanse

burst out to the left of the blue

from the harbour to the city as the western light

lowered itself behind concrete high-rises.

We watched from the hill,

took a seat on the park bench,

the lawn with its after-the-rain moistness

too wet to lie back on.

We knew we had to seize

this fleeting moment.

We were spectators of that sensational

display, after enduring the restrictions

that made us change and mutate,

shape-shifting during the months,

then the years, of the pandemic,

wearing us down, teaching us

adapt, adapt, adapt,

change, change, change.

Today we search for the brilliance

unfolding in the sky.

Writing Tip: The Feedback Sandwich

July 8, 2024 ~ Libby Sommer ~ Leave a comment

In the Saturday-afternoon feedback group recently, we talked about the ‘off with his head’ or ‘out-it-goes’ part of writing. We acknowledged that as a group we’d always been very supportive and encouraging of each others work. That was because we were all in it together. Our critiquing was not telling lies; it was from a place of open hearted acceptance. Everything you put on the page is acceptable.

Sometimes someone says, ‘I want a rigorous no-holds-barred assessment of my work.’ But what do you say to them when the writing is dull and boring? Don’t give up your day job? It doesn’t sit comfortably with most of us to be directly critical of someone’s writing. It’s like telling someone how ugly their baby is. All of us find it hard to separate our writing from ourselves, and are prone to take criticism personally.

The feedback sandwich is a widely known technique for giving constructive feedback, by ‘sandwiching’ the criticism between two pieces of praise or compliments.

hamburger with cheese and two beef patties

Yesterday, as we passed around copies of our work (just a page or two) we started to address what William Faulkner famously said:

‘In writing, you must kill all your darlings.’

First of all, we looked for the juice in each piece. Where did the writing come alive? ‘Get rid of the rest,’ we said. ‘Off with his head—out it goes.’ It’s very difficult to be this honest, and not everyone wants to hear it. ‘I simply want gentle support and a few corrections,’ some of us might say.

Be willing to have the courage to look at your work with truthfulness. It’s good to know where your writing has energy and vitality, rather than to spend a lot of time trying to make something come to life that is dead on the page. Keep writing. Something new will come up. You don’t want to put your readers to sleep by writing a lot of boring stuff.

Are you in a critique group to give you feedback on your writing? Do you find it useful?

My Poem, ‘Breaking Out’

July 4, 2024 ~ Libby Sommer ~ Leave a comment

Have a read of my poem ‘Breaking Out’, first published in the Canberra Times Panorama Arts Section. ‘Breaking Out’ is one of the poems in my recently released second collection titled ‘Flat White, One Sugar‘ (Ginninderra Press).

I hope you enjoy it.

Breaking Out

See that white terrace house?

You could live in the attic there.

Yes, I like an eyrie, looking

out on the world. I wanted to be locked

in a tower, a princess in a fairy tale,

when I was a child.

I’m still the girl dreaming of breaking out.

Maybe she’s learnt to abseil now.

Some terraces have small colourful gardens

at the front. I prefer fragrant cut flowers