Leanne Margaret

Introduction to Structured Poetry When I was a young writer, structured poetry didn't appeal to me. I was too busy getting the passion onto the page to stop and craft those words into a meaningful structure. But in 2011, a writing teacher introduced me to the idea of poetry structure. For six months, a group of Yarra Ranges writing students picked apart their work and put it back together again; into a range of poetry styles. I've always enjoyed rhyme, but I didn't think I'd appreciate being told how to order my lines.  But instead of being eye-rolling bored, I felt refreshed by the content. It gave me additional ways to express my words; that, to my surprise, I found intriguing rather than tedious. Since that course, I've written poetry in a range of styles – many of them made up – but I often come back to the villanelle poem. The villanelle is sometimes known as a villanesqe poem, and is of French origin. It is a six stanza poem of nineteen lines, divided into fiv...

The Poetic Portraits Project  Poetry Anthology It was the easiest pitch I've ever made. I was invited to write a short sentence that encapsulates how I feel about ageing. Now I could have gone two ways. Eighteen months prior, I had been diagnosed  with osteoarthritis of one kneecap, and a cyst inside the other one. So on a physical  level, suddenly age was catching up with me for the first time. My dance teaching career was over, and I was still struggling with knee rehab. But rather than  hobbling out a pitch about disintegration,  I focussed on what I perceived to be the meaning of my ailment. For many years, I'd struggled to juggle dance with writing, and the knee diagnosis freed me from that struggle; allowing my writing to take centre stage – finally. So my pitch was simple: I'm just about to peak!  It worked. I got in. Successful applicants were invited to attend a full-day poetry workshop at Yarra Ranges Civic Centre, where we would produce pieces of...

Erupting from between the cracks in my book writing routine, poems come like feelings: hot blasts and inspired renderings, exploding during times of peak emotion. For me, this is why I swiftly file each poem away, to get on the with intensity of the inspiring event. Life dramas stack up. Poems stack up. And the years pass. Suddenly, thirty-five years have passed, since I dropped tears on my first poem – scrawled onto school issued looseleaf paper, and neatly typed up for a typing assignment. My teen grief flowed out of me in effortless rhyme, the only poem I ever memorised. Like that first broken-hearted composition, as I felt my feelings, poems continued to arise in my mind. I began to think in rhyme! From time to time, I'd send one away to a poetry competition. In my early twenties, I even paid twenty-five dollars to have one published in an anthology. But so little did I value the place I had paid for, that I didn't even keep the anthology! During my mid-twenties, I got my f...

Music warmed my heart from birth Born half-sized, and boxed. I heard it play, maybe a nurse And to its beat I rocked. It held me earthed until the time Someone came to claim me. Soothed to sleep by song and rhyme I rocked out where they laid me. Quickened by the radio I learnt to dance alone. Moving in staccato I felt myself at home. Music was a blanket Dancing was a hug. When I could make a racket It made my heart thud. I danced with belly dancers Then I learnt to teach. I leapt all night with ravers The goals I set were reached. Dancing was my joy The beating of my heart. My soul’s ecstatic toy My vocation and my art. But now I halt – with trepidation Aches, and grabs, and bites. Patella, in disintegration A new knee-cap in sight. The dancer flops upon the edge Of cavernous despair. In the next life , is her pledge While writer holds her by her hair. Change is how things come to be It breaks us into parts. And in my soul I’ve always known The word would be my art. My restless, pacing...

An excerpt from book The Love of the Universe . Read it slowly, feeling the meaning of each word with each of your senses.  The power isn't in the words, but how you use them; let them settle—opening your mind towards extraordinary sensing.  Remember to practice your new craft, so that it grows stronger. An eg: With eyes closed, practice reaching into a bag of M&Ms, pick one and guess what colour you might have in your hand.  The results might surprise you, but if you are too sceptical, the activation of your left brain will distract from the right hemisphere. So please approach this exercise with an open, relaxed mind.  Page 206: Psychic Development Contemplation Poem  'See with your mind Hear with your mind Feel and touch with mind.  Feel with your hands See with your hands Hear and receive with hands. Hear with your ears Feel with your ears See and imagine with ears. See with your eyes hear with your eyes Feel and perceive with eyes. Listen with your...

Leanne Margaret © 2019

Lakeside calls my feet. I flow down the hillside, as Words fall into lines. Running up the edge Like eager children and dogs The breeze wipes me clear. Now the words are gone. Valley-green, Water-blue, lake view, Reeds rustle and squawk. Summer’s Fire sky. Dogs pulling people, toward Sausage smells and bread. When the Air is still The water turns mirrored So we see the sky. Sand-path, Earth and rock; Trees gather into forest Where swamp frogs bellow. Blankets on couch grass Up green hills - shaded by trees - Where the readers, read. Houses all surround Quarry ghosts and flour mill - People come like bees. Lakeside artist tribe Viewing from the edge of things, Living between worlds.  Above and below, Where the Water meets the Earth Stirred by Air and Sun We create the World. Leanne Margaret ©2018 P.S. A couple of years ago, 2014 I think, I read something about a style of Haiku that containe...

(I know she'll never read this ) If I were my birthmother, I would be proud Of my eldest daughter. If I were my birthmother, I would be curious And get on Google. If I were my birthsisters, I would want to know about The one who got away. If I were my birthsisters, I would want to see what My other sister looks like. If I were my birthfamily, A pregnant daughter Wouldn’t need to stay with a bad man. I’m glad I’m not my birthmother, Trapped within a new empire- Still bound to her tribe like a scar. I’m glad I’m not my birthsisters, Being flung around her orbit Like psychotic juggernauts. I’m glad I’m not my birthfamily, Bound by culture and genes To replicate the stories. Cast outside the tribe of birthmother, birthsisters and birthfamily- I am free.  Leanne Margaret ©2018

Yesterday has burnt. This nest is made of fire. Transfigured, I rise. Words by Leanne Margaret © 2018 Image from Pixabay CC

Another solar cycle shines its peak; The sun shines its brightest in the sky. The summer solstice build-up is released. Spring herbs and flowers start to go to seed. Storms have washed our world all bright. Another solar cycle shines its peak. Ripening strawberries scent the air so sweet. The plants peak tall with summer season’s might. The summer solstice build up is released. The butterflies as busy as the bees. We spray ourselves against mosquito bite. Another solar cycle shines its peak. Cicadas sing their love songs with their feet. Daylight savings gives us all more light. The summer solstice build up is released. Restless sultry nights in summer sheets. Christmas shopping late into the night. Another solar cycle shines its peak; The summer solstice build up is released. Wishing you all the light, love and abundance of this Summer Solstice. 🌞 Leanne Margare...