More writing, but not poetry

 I recently found fanfiction drabbles I'd written between 2003 and 2005. Most of the writing was part of a larger story that was a crossover between the Chalet School stories and the Narnia books. I had thought I'd lost this one, so was very pleased to find it again. I originally published it on the CBB (better known as the Chaletian Bulletin Board), which has long since moved its URL and archived all those original posts from those days. It's still around somewhere. Anway, I've re-published my fanfiction stories here. There are five in total at the moment:

• "Out of a wardrobe" - my very first piece of fanfiction, 45 chapters worth.
• "Edmund and Stacie" - a Christmas standalone, in the same Chalet School/Narnia universe
• "Grizel" - a Christmas Eve story, also in the Chalet School/Narnia universe
• "Wendy of Winterton has a magical Christmas" - a weird sort of crossover with Winterton/Chalet School/Marmaduke and Margaret
• "Daughters of Billabong" - my new Billabong continuation story.

I'm enjoying getting back into writing again. Finding the stuff that I thought I'd lost has really spurred me on and I hope to get some new chapters written on my Billabong continuation written in the next few weeks. And perhaps some more poetry as well!

Fanfiction

So in a bit of a departure, this is not a post with a poem. I have also started writing fanfiction again, again after a very long hiatus. My last effort was in the Chalet School universe, about 8 or 9 years ago. I haven't yet found my original story from that time, but did manage to find the Christmas drabbles I wrote in 2005 and you can find those here and here.

I've had an itch to write a continuation story for Mary Grant Bruce's Billabong series and after trying to plan out how I wanted it to go, I finally managed to get the first chapter done today and have finally managed to load it onto the fanfiction site here.

In the meantime, I'm trying to get started on Chapter 2, but it's uphill work at the moment. I'm also a bit frustrated with myself because I'd planned to include a few characters from another standalone Bruce book, only to realise that that book was set during WWII and the Billabong books are set pre, during and post WWI, so that won't work. I suppose I could just use some poetic license and try and get away with including them that way, but I'm not sure if I'm ok with doing that and it also makes nonsense of the whole story they come from as well. It's very frustrating because without them, I've got a bit of a hole in the story I'm planning. Such is life ...

Not always safe

Water isn’t always safe. I always think it's beautiful, but sometimes it also scares me. Most recently, lying in bed in our tent on holidays and listening to the rain pelting down on the roof (fortunately not getting through) I was reminded of this. It was so loud I couldn’t hear my own breathing. I knew our tent was water tight, but I really didn’t want to get hit by all the water above us.

Earlier in the day, I’d been outside the tent, taking down an awning and pegging out reinforcing guy ropes to hold the fly further out from the tent, because a severe storm was on the way. The storm actually hit before we had finished this task and I was soon soaked to the skin (there was no time to put on a raincoat). It wasn’t long before I was shaking with cold (due to being soaked) and I couldn’t hear anything above the sound of the rain, nor could I think straight. I didn’t love water so much at that moment!

Changeable friend

A torrent of sound,

forcing its way through,

lashing me.

You stab me, beat me, shove me,

your fingers needle sharp,

as you push, prod, batter.

How can you be so hard now, 

before you were so soft, kindly, welcoming?

I am so cold, bereft of your welcome.

You strip away my defences and I am weakened,

take pity on me.

See, I am going now,

I know when I am not wanted.

But don’t leave me, truly.

I miss your soft caress.

Surely we will be friends again, later, 

when you are kinder, warmer, sweeter.

My changeable friend.

Cathy Bulfin,
January 2021, Lake Conjola.

River

No, the title is not a reference to River Song of Doctor Who fame. It's just another water poem. I did say I liked water.

When I lived in Canberra I used to spend quite a lot of time at Molongolo Gorge - it's actually closer to Queanbeyan (which is actually in NSW). If I was having a really bad day I would walk to the Gorge and plonk myself down by the river and feel sorry for myself for a while and generally I'd eventually get lost in the sound of the river throwing itself down on the rocks and forget what I was upset about. (Usually.)

River

Langurously,

she lets down

her hair.

It sparkles and shines in the winter sun.

She runs slender fingers

through its length,

watches it fall

and foam richly down jagged rock,

landing

in frothing confusion,

then escaping.

Invisible hands tease and pull

as the tangled mass

rushes by.

Waiting rocks, suffocated yet entranced,

catch and hurl it onwards.

Sometimes,

a stray tendril is trapped,

and bubbles up in delighted confusion.

Tiny golden fish,

anxious to please,

race through the foam,

fetch their graceful sisters

to help adorn the foaming tresses.

Others leap into the air,

wanting to prove

they are more handsome,

more agile than she.

Indifferent to all

she stretches lazily.

Watching

the rippling

strands,

so far away,

drifting,

slowly,

out of sight.

Copyright, 1990. Cathy Newberry

Chaos

This one was born out of the period of time I worked in a computer science department in Canberra and was surrounded by mathematicians obsessed with chaos theory. It was all I heard about for a while.

Anyway ...

Chaos

A sparkling raindrop,

drops,

drops,

drops.

A wonderful, crystalline tear.

A snowflake falls softly,

white,

starry,

porcelain thin.

In each are tiny worlds,

intricate patterns,

patterns forming,

patterns forming,

patterns forming,

patterns changing.

Chaotic order.

An eternal mystery.

Undying,

unborn,

enduring.

C. Newberry, July 1990.

Copyright.

Dad

I remember how hard this one was to write. Losing a parent has got to be one of the worst things that has ever happened to me. He slowly slipped away from us over the course of a year and this poem was written as I watched the brain cancer take him away from us and he was no longer the father I remembered. It really hurt.

dad

do you remember the time,
when i grazed my knee.
you kissed it better,
patched it all up,
sent me outside to play.

another time, i remember,
you helped me with my maths,
i never could do maths,
remember?

then i grew up.
you let me borrow the car,
gave me away at the wedding.

now you are the child
needing help.
you huddle in corners.
you won't fight.

i never even told you,
i owe you one for the maths,
you know what i mean.

Copyright, February 1990.

C. Newberry

Changes

This one was born out of changes happening to me - I think it's pretty self-explanatory. It was a very exciting time but also bittersweet because at the time my father was also dying of brain cancer.

When I posted this to rap I said "This is the first thing I've written in ages, but sometimes things happen that you just want to get down before you forget how you felt. Other babies will come and go I suppose, but I don't think I'll ever feel like this again."

Actually I think this might have been almost the last one I ever posted to rap - I was dealing with the changes brought by the pregnancy, giving up working (which meant losing access to Usenet anyway), buying a house and going backwards and forwards between Canberra and Sydney to see my father to try and make the most of whatever time he had left.

There are other ones I've found, so the next posts will be all out of order, but I don't suppose it really matters.

changes: nine weeks

how can this

part of me grow?

i can't feel it there

except in my mind i feel

different

scared and somehow

proud,

floating in a haze,

bunnies and bouncers

so sweetly pastel

Copyright, October 1991

C. Newberry