Do You Like Spiders?

February 15, 2025February 15, 2025 ~ Libby Sommer ~ 9 Comments

Have a read of my poem ‘Weavers’, first published in Quadrant Magazine. Let me know what you think. ‘Weavers’ is one of the pieces in my second poetry collection ‘Flat White, One Sugar’ (Ginninderra Press).

Weavers:

A well-hidden spider

created patterns

outside my office window

against the wooden frame.

I’d see the new progression

of her magnum opus

from my writing desk.

I’d be weaving plot entanglements

and she’d have shown off

her vision

to fast-moving days

as the year raced to its ending.

In the afternoons I’d be outside

hanging washing

picking up broken branches

watering herbs

and she’d have converted

moths and small flies into

sticky brown blobs.

A kookaburra laughed

from the clothesline.

Daily spider prompts helped drive me,

our compulsions to create on either

side of the glass.

One day the cleaner

sprayed the windows,

splattered and splashed,

with his power-hose.

By noon all surfaces

shone brightly.

Did the spider live?

Did she find a different hideout?

Her masterpiece is imprinted

on my brain:

its scaffolding

beginnings,

endings.

My Poem, ‘Flat White, One Sugar’

November 15, 2024 ~ Libby Sommer ~ 2 Comments

Have a read of my poem ‘Flat White, One Sugar’ first published in Quadrant Magazine. It is the title poem in my latest collection ‘Flat White, One Sugar‘ (Ginninderra Press).

I hope you enjoy it.

Flat White, One Sugar:

Up above is special to the birds.

A new craft beer is special to schooner-lovers,

who know it will have a unique aftertaste

before they’ve even had a sip.

The beanie warming the newborn

is special to the mum

swaddling her in hospital.

The cough is special, wretchedly, to the throat.

The wish you hold secretly inside yourself

is special to your being.

The gumboots are special to dry feet,

more special than the joggers,

which are special only in the gym.

The video of the runners

is not special to the owner of the phone

but is special to the competitors in the race.

I don’t want to be special to baristas

who ask how was my weekend,

or people bent over hand-held devices,

not special to those who don’t listen

when I answer their questions.

I want to be as special

as a morning coffee addiction,

but in the way a scarf is special,

or warm gloves,

not because they stand out from the crowd,

but because they know

they give comfort to others.

My Prose Poem, ‘When the New Boyfriend Nearly Died’

March 4, 2024 ~ Libby Sommer ~ 4 Comments

Have a read of my prose poem, ‘When the New Boyfriend Nearly Died’ first published in Quadrant Magazine. The poem is included in my second poetry collection titled ‘Flat White, One Sugar‘, released this month by Ginninderra Press.

Hope you enjoy it.

When the New Boyfriend Nearly Died:

In the hospital’s public toilet, your face pleads back at you, white and worried. Far as you know, your new boyfriend had a heart attack while bouncing between your child-bearing hips. Too much of a strain. It’s not your fault. When he was admitted to Emergency you didn’t know if you’d ever see him again.

After five hours of waiting, you ask the receptionist if you can go in. When she asks you, you can’t pronounce his Polish surname. You spell out the letters. She considers you through the gap in the partition. You tell her you’re his new girlfriend. So you’re the one, she must be thinking before pressing the red button that lets you in.

He is lying in bed, a canula in his arm. His eyes are closed. You sit in a chair beside him and hold his hand. This would never have happened if it weren’t for you. Nurses and doctors hurry past clutching clipboards.

Don’t die on me, you plead.

If he dies, what you will miss are his text messages of love, the thwack of his body, and the pots of Japanese tea you shared. In bed you’d sip from tiny ceramic mugs.

You make a mental list of your strengths and weaknesses: you’re good at hedonistic pleasures, bad at Cryptics, bad at lonely Sundays, good at making new friends, bad at staying in touch, good at making loose-leaf tea after sex with an addict, good at falling for men who can’t stop swallowing uppers and downers. Good at loving your new boyfriend who took too many pills and now you’re worried he’ll die. Are you dreaming, or did he just squeeze your hand?

Photo by Kvs Sidhu on Pexels.com

COVER REVEAL

February 22, 2024February 22, 2024 ~ Libby Sommer ~ 10 Comments

‘Flat White, One Sugar’: 51 new poems by me, 21 illustrations by my granddaughter, Natasha Sommer, a graduate of the National Art School. Cover drawing by Natasha – out soon.

Australian Poetry Book Publishers 2024

February 1, 2024 ~ Libby Sommer ~ 2 Comments

Australian Poetry Book Publishers 2024.

Click ‘Australian Poetry Book Publishers’ to read the 2024 list from Poetry Sydney.

‘Useful if you have a ms eagerly awaiting an outlet, but it’s also a guide for the reader. Explore what’s out there in this country as the press listings also have web page addresses. It’s not all bad news!’ Poet, Les Wicks.

Poetry Sydney is an independent literary organisation committed to a presence for poetry in our culture.

My Poem ‘Jogger At My Heels’

January 10, 2024 ~ Libby Sommer ~ 5 Comments

Have a read of my poem ‘Jogger At My Heels’ first published in The Canberra Times. It is one of the poems in my second poetry collection, ‘Flat White, One Sugar’ due for release by Ginninderra Press this year. 51 new poems by me, 21 illustrations by my granddaughter, Natasha Sommer, a graduate of The National Art School.

I hope you enjoy this poem.

Jogger At My Heels:

Each morning he races up the steep

steps of the gully and then down again

on the path I take

to buy my daily newspaper.

I recognise his exhalations just behind

and apologetic grimace running back,

urging me to move aside

to let him through,

but today I understand him

more fully than before.

Hearing my own heavy breathing

as I walk up the gigantic slope

I’m sure he’d like to say, Don’t rush

don’t rush.

… but he’s in too much of a hurry.

Copyright 2024 Libby Sommer

Photo by Nathan Cowley on Pexels.com

My Poem, Safe … The Pandemic

November 28, 2023 ~ Libby Sommer ~ 1 Comment

Have a read of my poem, ‘Safe … The Pandemic’ first published in ‘Milestones’ Anthology (Ginninderra Press). It is also one of the poems in my debut collection, ‘The Cellist, a Bellydance & Other Distractions‘ (Ginninderra Press).

I hope you enjoy it.

Safe … The Pandemic:

Everyone needs order,

clothes rehung,

cut roses secured in

a vase.

When we move,

when we place one foot

and then the other,

we can put small things in place,

an email to a friend in another country,

bags of rubbish carried out

to the bins.

Our brains, wired this way,

want the winter doona

smoothed squarely across the bed,

the freezer stocked, and remotes

in position.

After we get out, we have only to move

cautiously, surrounded by so much space.

My Prose Poem, “The Backpack”

May 18, 2023 ~ Libby Sommer ~ Leave a comment

view of Villefranche sur Mer harbour from Mt Baron

Have a read of my prose poem, ‘The Backpack” first published in Quadrant Magazine. Hope you enjoy it.

The Backpack:

What can a man who meets you at the station and offers to carry your backpack mean to a woman traveling the world alone?

I was scared, like anyone who has no sense of direction. The journey was a series of stops and starts. Whether to use the Eurail pass or post it back home and ask the kids to get me a refund. Giovanni appeared one European winter, thick padded jacket, woolen beanie, scarf and gloves, tall and imposing, I’ll carry your bag.

I was small, the backpack the length of my spine, the zip-off bag on one shoulder, the daypack positioned in front like a nine-month baby bump. That evening, as we climbed the steps of the Corniche – the wind bitter across the Mediterranean, the metal stairs covered with slippery ice, the railing melting beneath my hand. Soon it would become my railway platform, my steps, and Giovanni my landlord.

We walked there in the crisp night air. My own place. It didn’t cost much. No-one yet knew I was here. I could ask Giovanni if I needed any help. I knew my children would be pleased I had a base. I didn’t want them to worry. It was the thing I wanted the most secretly, studying maps, absorbing travel books. To be safe, a desire whispered to the moon that moved behind my shoulder at night. If you guide me to a safe haven I promise to be happy. And the moon listened. I did my best.

The winter sky closed down and the spring began its flowering. I took photos and painted and rang the children every week. Watch your money, don’t talk to strangers, be careful walking at night – you know the drill. The pebbly beach, the weekend markets, it was all there for the exploring. A glimpse of the sea between terracotta roofs – a vision in turquoise. The cobbled streets could show which way to follow – and none of them wrong. A room at the top of the stairs – till June I stayed reading the English books Giovanni had left in the bookcase, shopping for food, telling my kids and friends they should come for a visit.

Where had the months gone? Almost two years on the road. Summer approached. The rents would go up and the tourists arrive. Time to move on. I could only take with me what I could carry on my back. A Jewish gypsy they said. One more step into the unknown. Pack up, give away what I couldn’t manage, but keep the palette knife and miniature easel. There was stuff happening back home. The boys were grown and earning a living. Their sister turned twenty-one. People were reinventing themselves all over the place then coming back home. A thousand train rides later, my mother nearly eighty. I won’t be around much longer, she cried.

His was a helping hand in a world that says, but what are you doing there? What are you doing?

My Poem ‘My Friend Is Swiping & Scrolling’

July 10, 2022 ~ Libby Sommer ~ Leave a comment

My poem ‘My Friend Is Swiping & Scrolling’ is published in this month’s Quadrant Magazine, July-August 2022. I wrote the poem during the first year of the pandemic. Have a read. Hope you like it.

My Friend Is Swiping & Scrolling:
My friend in the dark hour before dawn. My friend with the ragged stomach who had a bad night. In a different hemisphere he is turning on the bedside light, rolling out of bed, pouring a cap of antacid at the kitchen bench. My friend who hasn’t left his neighbourhood all year. My friend in London pining for how things used to be, for the Eurostar crossings to speak German and Spanish.
My friend scrolling through Facebook to see the faces of his family. My friend living alone who aches with aloneness. My friend the glass-half-full-kind-of-guy listening out for the early morning train thinking, we’ll get through this, in time. My friend who sits through forty Zoom meetings every five days. A rush of nostalgic reflections but is everything nostalgia? We’re all in this together.
The extroverted friend and the introverted one scrolling & swiping at home, the teenage friend whose father is hospitalised for a third time, my friend in China who sends me a red envelope, my friend in France dunking a croissant as she swipes left in greyish gloom, my friend in kurta pajamas beating a tabla drum, my friend in activewear driven to over-exercise, my friend who is addicted to social media like I am.
My friend in Israel my stressed-out Barista friend behind a coffee machine my friend with only one kidney my friend in palliative care under a sign I do not want visitors my young friend who was warned at school about swiping & scrolling my friend next door, who wonders if we are complaisant already my friend who is feeling lethargic my friend who hopes everyone will go back to work soon my friend who tells me she has a problem wearing a mask my friend who pretends not to see me on the street, even she must be on Zoom with others by now, so I let her go.
Scrolling will distract me from uncomfortable emotions as the cafes near me say takeaway only and the stores where I used to window-shop have empty frontages with To Lease signs and the famous writer I wish I’d had the courage to speak to when I had the chance, is diagnosed with dementia in another country, I snatch at memories of post cards sent back and forth. So who else should I pick up the phone and dial and say, Are you okay? Who else might I never see again?
All of us scrolling & swiping in the mornings and the afternoons and in the evenings near the hotel with the old TOOTH’S SHEAF STOUT Keeps you fit! poster telling us a tantalising beer with a dry finish and a medium body.
Copyright 2022 Libby Sommer