Finches on Fender guitars
On a desert island
In the midst of the city bars.
Room to move and reflect
On the sounds created
By the feathered sect.
Women weeping for ruined relics
Iraqi's treasures scorned
No regard for history's chic.
War - the enemy of art
That seeks to destroy
The creative heart.
Uplifting of the soul and mind
Art is the panacea.
Where the milling throng can find
An outlet for their desires.
Cornered and corralled mostly
The masses encouraged to aspire.
Kym Matthews
1st March 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
The Skeleton Remains
Oil painting by Vincent van Gogh (1853-1890) entitled 'Skull of a skeleton with burning cigarette' Antwerp, winter 1885-86.
A man walked and wandered
Aimlessly around,
Absorbing all of natures art,
The light, the sights, the sounds.
A white sandy beach, the turquoise sea,
The long patterned trunks of the old gum tree,
The orange lichen, the greens and the browns,
The sparkle of a dew drop, the colours abound.
Suddenly a curled finger beckons
Through a dark shaded door,
A hand grabs his shoulder
And thrusts him to the floor.
As his eyes adjust to the darkness,
Shadows slowly appear,
A click of a switch spotlights
Artworks astonishingly queer.
The man stands up and wanders
Around and around and around
As he views each of the objects,
He wonders, is the artist's statement profound?
For the displays are human skeletons
Some painted, some jaded, some cracked,
Arranged in a multiple of poses,
Life so elegantly brought back.
Then he heard voices whispering
Chitter chatter obsessive and bleak,
Condemning the display as pagan,
Not insightful, enriching or unique.
The artist sat on a box
In a darkened corner of the room,
Absorbing the praise and the criticism
The long day would be over soon.
The man beckoned with his finger
On the other side of the door,
A hand grabbed the artist's shoulder
And thrust him to the floor.
His eyes flashed wide open
Scanning the surrounding show,
Of natures artwork on display
Unaltered, unchanged it flowed.
From mountain to sea and all inbetween
He closed his eyes and his mind's eye could see,
The image of his skeletal artworks
Alive, alone and free.
The man thought the artist brave
His intent he did not know,
Both men stood up and pondered
Silhouetted in the suns afterglow.
Ian Matthews
1st March 2009
Monday, March 9, 2009
Poetry Information
Attention! ExStanza Bloggers if you are keen to find out about poetry in the press. There have been some very interesting articles on poets and poetry in some recent copies of the Age. I found them very informative, sufficiently so, I wish to present details here.
The Age A2 Weekend Magazine Saturday, January 24, 2009 Page 25
Telling a Hawk from a Handsaw is a new book of poetry by Chris Wallace-Crabbe. It is Published by Carcanet Press, $25.95. The review is by Gig Ryan, the Age poetry editor. Download this article from the Age web page or order the book from the library or perhaps buy it in Launceston when you can.
The Age A2 Weekend Magazine Saturday, January 31, 2009. Page 21
The Ulster farm on which Seamus Heany was raised remains in him and in his work – assured, exhilarating but not complex, writes John Clarke.
Stepping Stones: Interviews with Seamus He any By Dennis O’Driscoll Faber & Faber $49.95. In this book Heaney shares his thoughts with O’Driscoll. It will be an interesting read for any one interested in the Irish, Nobel Prize Winner poet!
The Age A2 Weekend Magazine Saturday, January 31, 2009. Page 22
Poetry: There are voices of power and glory in Australian poetry and John Kinsella’s new anthology gives us a wide selection of them, says Peter Craven, Read the article then go and buy the book if you feel it might inspire your writing.
The Penguin Anthology of Australian Poetry
Edited by John Kinsella
Penguin, $35.00
The Age A2 Weekend Magazine Saturday February 7, 2009 Page 24
Anniversary: This month, one of the greatest poets of our age, Peter Porter, celebrates his 80th birthday. He tells Craig Sherbourne, about the crucial role poetry has played in his life.
Porter’s latest book, Better than God is published by Picadore at $29.95. Craig Sherbourne is the author of two memoirs, Hoi Polloi and Muck (Black Inc). His poem, Slipper appears below.
Slipper.
Slip your feet in the shoes of the water,
the fake-leather brown of it, and wear standing.
Your pair of red bunch of toes - eel boots in river - so current-long
the ends of them turn up like fashion.
Pebble and pop of caverns letting their fluid out where the banks burst.
Sea is miles away walking in its own pair of tides.
Here you can break in a horse of white water
and not be spilled where you trap it in your thighs,
it is froth-lame with rocks.
Name it Curry for its shandy-dirty sands.
Bareback it till your hands can fin no more, so cold and numb.
Then, leg after leg, you mortar and pestle back home over crunch,
though home is gone. Look all you like for someone there
they are loving in other places with another you.
Night lisps and warms in the pines
Craig Sherbourne
The Age A2 Weekend Magazine Saturday, January 24, 2009 Page 25
Telling a Hawk from a Handsaw is a new book of poetry by Chris Wallace-Crabbe. It is Published by Carcanet Press, $25.95. The review is by Gig Ryan, the Age poetry editor. Download this article from the Age web page or order the book from the library or perhaps buy it in Launceston when you can.
The Age A2 Weekend Magazine Saturday, January 31, 2009. Page 21
The Ulster farm on which Seamus Heany was raised remains in him and in his work – assured, exhilarating but not complex, writes John Clarke.
Stepping Stones: Interviews with Seamus He any By Dennis O’Driscoll Faber & Faber $49.95. In this book Heaney shares his thoughts with O’Driscoll. It will be an interesting read for any one interested in the Irish, Nobel Prize Winner poet!
The Age A2 Weekend Magazine Saturday, January 31, 2009. Page 22
Poetry: There are voices of power and glory in Australian poetry and John Kinsella’s new anthology gives us a wide selection of them, says Peter Craven, Read the article then go and buy the book if you feel it might inspire your writing.
The Penguin Anthology of Australian Poetry
Edited by John Kinsella
Penguin, $35.00
The Age A2 Weekend Magazine Saturday February 7, 2009 Page 24
Anniversary: This month, one of the greatest poets of our age, Peter Porter, celebrates his 80th birthday. He tells Craig Sherbourne, about the crucial role poetry has played in his life.
Porter’s latest book, Better than God is published by Picadore at $29.95. Craig Sherbourne is the author of two memoirs, Hoi Polloi and Muck (Black Inc). His poem, Slipper appears below.
Slipper.
Slip your feet in the shoes of the water,
the fake-leather brown of it, and wear standing.
Your pair of red bunch of toes - eel boots in river - so current-long
the ends of them turn up like fashion.
Pebble and pop of caverns letting their fluid out where the banks burst.
Sea is miles away walking in its own pair of tides.
Here you can break in a horse of white water
and not be spilled where you trap it in your thighs,
it is froth-lame with rocks.
Name it Curry for its shandy-dirty sands.
Bareback it till your hands can fin no more, so cold and numb.
Then, leg after leg, you mortar and pestle back home over crunch,
though home is gone. Look all you like for someone there
they are loving in other places with another you.
Night lisps and warms in the pines
Craig Sherbourne
Saturday, March 7, 2009
On Cathy's Theme
I wondered on this theme called art
And stumbled from the very start,
For deep within my beating breast,
It quick became a deadly pest.
I searched for words both bright and gay,
I searched for weeks if I searched for a day,
But none about this thing arrived and
Throughout that time I bare survived.
This art you see is a damn cool dude,
In lots of ways it can be might shrewd
And to me it would not dare present,
Until my creative juices I had spent.
For Cathy and John it was their call
And a challenging theme they threw to us all ,
O, it made me strive and sweat and toil,
It made my blood near bloody well boil.
Then one fine moment it there popped up,
In a golden orb like a brazen young pup,
Ah! Here, says I it’s my chance to show
Their chosen theme with an artful flow.
So these few words I wrote right well,
And for the theme of art they’ll ring the bell,
Yez can all cheer loud as I deliver my spiel,
And allow me now some applause to steal.
But Cathy please and John too I say,
For when it comes your next poetry day,
Do choose a theme with greater ease
For we poets like to shoot the breeze
And pen some lines with power and might,
Not like this stuff that appears so trite,
With simple couplets that crash and bore,
That’s not how I want to take the floor
But if these few words can make me shine,
Then that for art they will do just fine
And now I says this is your bloomin’ lot
For if I go on it will just be tommy-rot.
It’s over now you can take your ease
And clap or boo just as you please,
I have done my best you can surely see,
So who’s the poet that comes after me?
Get up now quick and speak a powerful line,
Cause you wouldn’t want to borrow mine, for
I’m finished here and I’ve done a quare ol’ job
Praising up the theme of art to this here poet mob.
Adrian Kavanagh,
February 13th 2009.
And stumbled from the very start,
For deep within my beating breast,
It quick became a deadly pest.
I searched for words both bright and gay,
I searched for weeks if I searched for a day,
But none about this thing arrived and
Throughout that time I bare survived.
This art you see is a damn cool dude,
In lots of ways it can be might shrewd
And to me it would not dare present,
Until my creative juices I had spent.
For Cathy and John it was their call
And a challenging theme they threw to us all ,
O, it made me strive and sweat and toil,
It made my blood near bloody well boil.
Then one fine moment it there popped up,
In a golden orb like a brazen young pup,
Ah! Here, says I it’s my chance to show
Their chosen theme with an artful flow.
So these few words I wrote right well,
And for the theme of art they’ll ring the bell,
Yez can all cheer loud as I deliver my spiel,
And allow me now some applause to steal.
But Cathy please and John too I say,
For when it comes your next poetry day,
Do choose a theme with greater ease
For we poets like to shoot the breeze
And pen some lines with power and might,
Not like this stuff that appears so trite,
With simple couplets that crash and bore,
That’s not how I want to take the floor
But if these few words can make me shine,
Then that for art they will do just fine
And now I says this is your bloomin’ lot
For if I go on it will just be tommy-rot.
It’s over now you can take your ease
And clap or boo just as you please,
I have done my best you can surely see,
So who’s the poet that comes after me?
Get up now quick and speak a powerful line,
Cause you wouldn’t want to borrow mine, for
I’m finished here and I’ve done a quare ol’ job
Praising up the theme of art to this here poet mob.
Adrian Kavanagh,
February 13th 2009.
In Homage To His Art
For Robert M Barnes.
What mastery of the brush and knife do I see before me?
Extravagant images have indulged my eyes with rapture.
Mountains and valleys of colour display an astute
construction only a gifted mind could conceive.
Pigment piled majestically upon pigment in such dazzling form,
the great Titan could not have thought to colour his own pallet.
In this sunlit room I bask, entranced and earnestly humbled
by the abundant splendor of so much careful pulchritude.
He stands nearby, unhurried, confident, quiet and smiling,
supported by his angular assistant, the veritable companion
on wheels, its strong frame firmly holds that other fighting
the advancing ravages of a cursed internal enemy.
I marvel at his hands, they have created, nurtured on to canvas
vigorous tones, subtle dashes of light and shade in patches
too numerous to decipher, those spacious havens of delight
creating images of our world to fill the hantle with pleasure.
One scene captivates, it is but a small example of his gift.
Eight trees stand, their tight trunks burnt with deep indigos,
rubicund sunset, absorbing me into their evening languor.
I am satiated with visions of happiness touching my soul.
They metamorphose into four broad barked giants, each
with equal colour telling me I have seen inside their sap.
He looks with amused detachment at his offspring,
waiting for a comment, a judgment, a commitment?
Questions come to me; I ask, the responses are delivered
with careful honesty in the gentle brogue of his Scottish ancestry.
He speaks in low tones, almost whispers, answering with easy
words of explanation, while making casual inquiries of my nous,
Exposing without rancor my limited knowledge of the medium.
I flinch at each query unable to raise my own answers to his
exalted level of understanding; he does not ridicule but
nurtures me towards his acquaintance of this age old agency.
He is an artist of unique talent marking his own space on
the universal canvas, awaiting the opportunity to depart
without grandiose recognition and euphoric clamour, for his
oeuvre will carry him unto the throne of remembrance.
Adrian Kavanagh. January 27th 2009.
What mastery of the brush and knife do I see before me?
Extravagant images have indulged my eyes with rapture.
Mountains and valleys of colour display an astute
construction only a gifted mind could conceive.
Pigment piled majestically upon pigment in such dazzling form,
the great Titan could not have thought to colour his own pallet.
In this sunlit room I bask, entranced and earnestly humbled
by the abundant splendor of so much careful pulchritude.
He stands nearby, unhurried, confident, quiet and smiling,
supported by his angular assistant, the veritable companion
on wheels, its strong frame firmly holds that other fighting
the advancing ravages of a cursed internal enemy.
I marvel at his hands, they have created, nurtured on to canvas
vigorous tones, subtle dashes of light and shade in patches
too numerous to decipher, those spacious havens of delight
creating images of our world to fill the hantle with pleasure.
One scene captivates, it is but a small example of his gift.
Eight trees stand, their tight trunks burnt with deep indigos,
rubicund sunset, absorbing me into their evening languor.
I am satiated with visions of happiness touching my soul.
They metamorphose into four broad barked giants, each
with equal colour telling me I have seen inside their sap.
He looks with amused detachment at his offspring,
waiting for a comment, a judgment, a commitment?
Questions come to me; I ask, the responses are delivered
with careful honesty in the gentle brogue of his Scottish ancestry.
He speaks in low tones, almost whispers, answering with easy
words of explanation, while making casual inquiries of my nous,
Exposing without rancor my limited knowledge of the medium.
I flinch at each query unable to raise my own answers to his
exalted level of understanding; he does not ridicule but
nurtures me towards his acquaintance of this age old agency.
He is an artist of unique talent marking his own space on
the universal canvas, awaiting the opportunity to depart
without grandiose recognition and euphoric clamour, for his
oeuvre will carry him unto the throne of remembrance.
Adrian Kavanagh. January 27th 2009.
Ode to Art
O, elusive muse pray tell, wherever do you hide?
In some dark cave beyond my reach, is that where you abide?
Or deep within the mind of man you make a scant abode,
In some golden valley or dainty fen, so we are often told.
Where you have gone to sulk within your hidden lair,
I will look, I will seek and endlessly I will hunt you there.
For others too have sought to know the magic that you hold
And thus create a work so fine their life will turn to gold.
But yet it is my pure desire to capture your elusive power
And make you subject to my will, for this the world I’ll scour.
Then when I have you where I need I’ll set you free to work,
Upon the tatters of my soul where some desires still lurk.
The joy will be my day of days to say I have you near,
As off to celebrate with mates and ample liquid cheer,
Though I must be weary for with all your flaming spite,
You will desert me in a flash while I enjoy my well earned skite.
There is no rhyme nor reason why I have to beg you so,
For many others write and paint and sculpt, it surely is the go,
But me, dear muse, I weep and gnash, in pain and anguish too,
As I wash all my writings and precious paper down the loo.
So have mercy, dear muse, on one so desperate to win a trick,
Which makes his friends declare that after all you’re really not a spoil sport.
It will be fine dear friend of mine when I can say you’ll not be bought
Then the two of us can have a laugh when on this poem we consort.
That’s all you have to say to me after such a battle royal,
Is it because you’d think the words I wrote would ultimately spoil
And turn to dust and wither on the arm that worked such toil?
Fear you not I’m no such fool my mind is like a tightened coil.
The very chance you took to hide in some dark hole below,
Had given me the reason to strike such a merry blow
And scribe the words I now do read, and read them rightly slow,
That when I’m done and praise be mine I will allow you go
Back to your haunt in dark and drear the place you like to hide,
So that folk like me with you in tow can never with you abide.
So fare thee well, o muse of mine, be free of me for now
And let me finish this wordy thing then I can take a bow.
It is off we go, the pair of us, you to hide and me to seek,
The where with all to write some more and passion well to keep,
Where writing is concerned I fear I am so mild and meek,
Then I will have to dream of you when I enter blessed sleep.
Adrian Kavanagh,
January 07, 2009
In some dark cave beyond my reach, is that where you abide?
Or deep within the mind of man you make a scant abode,
In some golden valley or dainty fen, so we are often told.
Where you have gone to sulk within your hidden lair,
I will look, I will seek and endlessly I will hunt you there.
For others too have sought to know the magic that you hold
And thus create a work so fine their life will turn to gold.
But yet it is my pure desire to capture your elusive power
And make you subject to my will, for this the world I’ll scour.
Then when I have you where I need I’ll set you free to work,
Upon the tatters of my soul where some desires still lurk.
The joy will be my day of days to say I have you near,
As off to celebrate with mates and ample liquid cheer,
Though I must be weary for with all your flaming spite,
You will desert me in a flash while I enjoy my well earned skite.
There is no rhyme nor reason why I have to beg you so,
For many others write and paint and sculpt, it surely is the go,
But me, dear muse, I weep and gnash, in pain and anguish too,
As I wash all my writings and precious paper down the loo.
So have mercy, dear muse, on one so desperate to win a trick,
Which makes his friends declare that after all you’re really not a spoil sport.
It will be fine dear friend of mine when I can say you’ll not be bought
Then the two of us can have a laugh when on this poem we consort.
That’s all you have to say to me after such a battle royal,
Is it because you’d think the words I wrote would ultimately spoil
And turn to dust and wither on the arm that worked such toil?
Fear you not I’m no such fool my mind is like a tightened coil.
The very chance you took to hide in some dark hole below,
Had given me the reason to strike such a merry blow
And scribe the words I now do read, and read them rightly slow,
That when I’m done and praise be mine I will allow you go
Back to your haunt in dark and drear the place you like to hide,
So that folk like me with you in tow can never with you abide.
So fare thee well, o muse of mine, be free of me for now
And let me finish this wordy thing then I can take a bow.
It is off we go, the pair of us, you to hide and me to seek,
The where with all to write some more and passion well to keep,
Where writing is concerned I fear I am so mild and meek,
Then I will have to dream of you when I enter blessed sleep.
Adrian Kavanagh,
January 07, 2009
I Wish I Could
I wish I could paint like Peter Paul Rubes
Or Freida Kahlo or some lesser mortal,
I would be content with the good oil.
O, I wish I could write like William Shakespeare
Or Simone de Beauvoir or some lesser mortal,
I would be happy with the ink in my veins.
I wish I could sculpt like Michael Angelo
Or Camille Claudel or some lesser mortal,
I would be satisfied with the block on which I stood.
O, I wish I could compose like Beethoven
Or had a voice like Callis or some lesser mortal,
I would trill to the trembling of the chords.
Alas it is not to be, I do not compare,
My efforts are miniature but wait, for I too
Can stand tall in the paddock with the great when
I complete my task in art, for I feel lifted that
I have it done.
It may not be grand. It may never win a prize and yet,
It is sufficient that I have made my own art. I do not care,
My art is for me and you my friends to share.
Adrian Kavanagh,
January 09 2009.
Or Freida Kahlo or some lesser mortal,
I would be content with the good oil.
O, I wish I could write like William Shakespeare
Or Simone de Beauvoir or some lesser mortal,
I would be happy with the ink in my veins.
I wish I could sculpt like Michael Angelo
Or Camille Claudel or some lesser mortal,
I would be satisfied with the block on which I stood.
O, I wish I could compose like Beethoven
Or had a voice like Callis or some lesser mortal,
I would trill to the trembling of the chords.
Alas it is not to be, I do not compare,
My efforts are miniature but wait, for I too
Can stand tall in the paddock with the great when
I complete my task in art, for I feel lifted that
I have it done.
It may not be grand. It may never win a prize and yet,
It is sufficient that I have made my own art. I do not care,
My art is for me and you my friends to share.
Adrian Kavanagh,
January 09 2009.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Sea of mystery
A work of art rests on the rocks.
The ocean placed it there –
High above the waterline
As though it sought to share
The beauty of a simple thing
The sea thought it might keep –
A treasure formed by wind and tide
And surging currents deep –
This work of art, this tree stump
Turned and honed and shaped
Takes pride of place upon the rocks
In shells and seaweeds draped.
Some stroll the sandy coastlines
To another ocean’s beat
And gaze in awe as wavelets
Scatter diamonds at their feet –
While liquid silver dolphins
Rise and dive and twist
And gulls etched high up in the sky
Soar above the mist …
The work of art is on the shore
As though on proud display –
But the cove is small and hidden:
And no one walks this way.
John McCallum 2009
The ocean placed it there –
High above the waterline
As though it sought to share
The beauty of a simple thing
The sea thought it might keep –
A treasure formed by wind and tide
And surging currents deep –
This work of art, this tree stump
Turned and honed and shaped
Takes pride of place upon the rocks
In shells and seaweeds draped.
Some stroll the sandy coastlines
To another ocean’s beat
And gaze in awe as wavelets
Scatter diamonds at their feet –
While liquid silver dolphins
Rise and dive and twist
And gulls etched high up in the sky
Soar above the mist …
The work of art is on the shore
As though on proud display –
But the cove is small and hidden:
And no one walks this way.
John McCallum 2009
Symbiosis
On The Son of Man by Magritte
René, I visited you once in a dream
but you, near death, failed to recognise me
– your best-known creation.
No matter. We’re the same, we two.
Beneath my varnish
each layer of pigment carries your DNA.
Each stroke of paint invests me
with your personality and the burden
of your ambition.
In my canvas world, I wear my bowler hat
as proudly as if I had been born and died.
Like you, yet not like you.
And life—or not-life—has its compensations.
When people remember Magritte it’s my image
that inhabits their mind, not yours.
It’s enough.
Cathy McCallum
Two poems on Art
Instant Fish
Instant Fish
by Phidias!
Add water
and they swim.
Peter Porter
Following is a commentary on the poem posted on a blog:
Note: Phidias was a Greek sculptor whose statues were so realistic that
they seemed to be alive.
Porter's take on Phidias is amazingly self-referential; like the fish
being described, the poem expands and takes on layers of meaning in the
mind of the reader. In just 9 short words, Porter manages to invoke the
ideas of life as art and art as life, the meaning of representation, the
role of the viewer, even the effects of time...
(Lest anyone think that I'm reading too much into what is actually a
piece of nonsense, let me add that I thought of many of the above issues
when I first read that poem; later (much later), I read a book of
criticism which had Porter say the same things about this poem. So
there.)
thomas.
Unbalanced
Fu-I loved the green hills
And the white clouds.
Alas he died of drink.
And Li-Po
Also died drunk.
He tried to embrace a Moon
In the Yellow River.
Denis Johnston (1901-1984)
Commentary from the web:
Li Po (AD 701-62) and Tu Fu (AD 712-70) were devoted friends who are traditionally considered to be among China's greatest poets. Li Po, a legendary carouser, was an itinerant poet whose writing, often dream poems or spirit-journeys, soars to sublime heights in its descriptions of natural scenes and powerful emotions. His sheer escapism and joy is balanced by Tu Fu, who expresses the Confucian virtues of humanity and humility in more autobiographical works that are imbued with great compassion and earthy reality, and shot through with humour. Together these two poets of the T'ang dynasty complement each other so well that they often came to be spoken of as one – ‘Li-Tu' - who covers the whole spectrum of human life, experience and feeling.
Instant Fish
by Phidias!
Add water
and they swim.
Peter Porter
Following is a commentary on the poem posted on a blog:
Note: Phidias was a Greek sculptor whose statues were so realistic that
they seemed to be alive.
Porter's take on Phidias is amazingly self-referential; like the fish
being described, the poem expands and takes on layers of meaning in the
mind of the reader. In just 9 short words, Porter manages to invoke the
ideas of life as art and art as life, the meaning of representation, the
role of the viewer, even the effects of time...
(Lest anyone think that I'm reading too much into what is actually a
piece of nonsense, let me add that I thought of many of the above issues
when I first read that poem; later (much later), I read a book of
criticism which had Porter say the same things about this poem. So
there.)
thomas.
Unbalanced
Fu-I loved the green hills
And the white clouds.
Alas he died of drink.
And Li-Po
Also died drunk.
He tried to embrace a Moon
In the Yellow River.
Denis Johnston (1901-1984)
Commentary from the web:
Li Po (AD 701-62) and Tu Fu (AD 712-70) were devoted friends who are traditionally considered to be among China's greatest poets. Li Po, a legendary carouser, was an itinerant poet whose writing, often dream poems or spirit-journeys, soars to sublime heights in its descriptions of natural scenes and powerful emotions. His sheer escapism and joy is balanced by Tu Fu, who expresses the Confucian virtues of humanity and humility in more autobiographical works that are imbued with great compassion and earthy reality, and shot through with humour. Together these two poets of the T'ang dynasty complement each other so well that they often came to be spoken of as one – ‘Li-Tu' - who covers the whole spectrum of human life, experience and feeling.
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