What is our being?
Why are we here?
Do we get to take a step further?
Are we coming near?
Do we smile now
And nod our heads to agree?
Is that the way we succeed
In contemporary society?
Does having the same thoughts
And aspirations intend
To make us individuals
Of which we heartily defend?
We're all just running in circles
Not sure of our direction
Hoping to meet up with it
Under conservative protection.
13th January 1980
Kym Matthews
Showing posts with label Cultural Identity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cultural Identity. Show all posts
Friday, February 20, 2009
Monday, January 5, 2009
Scaliger turns deadly pale at the sight of watercress. Tycho Brahe, the famous astronomer, passes out at the sight of a caged fox. Maria de Medici feels instantly giddy on seeing a rose, even in a painting. My ancestors, meanwhile, are eating cabbage. They keep stirring the pot looking for a pigfoot which isn’t there. The sky is blue. The nightingale sings in a Renaissance sonnet, and immediately someone goes to bed with a toothache.
Charles Simic
Cathy McCallum writes: This is a prose poem by Charles Simic, the poet laureate of the United States. It's from his book The World Doesn't End which won the 1990 Pulitzer Prize. I really like the oddness of his imagery, the way he sets up a thought visually. You don't need to know the people he mentions to 'get' it.
Charles Simic
Cathy McCallum writes: This is a prose poem by Charles Simic, the poet laureate of the United States. It's from his book The World Doesn't End which won the 1990 Pulitzer Prize. I really like the oddness of his imagery, the way he sets up a thought visually. You don't need to know the people he mentions to 'get' it.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Genocide and Culture
Genocide - Culture & Colour
A noble humble race?
No, not the whities, for
they devour the land
of ancestors and we,
we are the true owners of
Terra Australis.
What are our memories?
The serpent of the dreamtime
full of songlines, sings
the spirit of creation.
Ancient gifter of this land,
who brought our race to life.
Can we regenerate?
The madness of the stolen ones,
Culture shock and naming cruelly
peeled away, layer by layer.
Bleached bones in the desert;
Endless , mindless,worthless,
broken, promises .....of
nothing worth living for.
I have used this poem to identify with my Aboriginal friends.I apologise for any offense which this may cause to any of you.
Isabel Telford
A noble humble race?
No, not the whities, for
they devour the land
of ancestors and we,
we are the true owners of
Terra Australis.
What are our memories?
The serpent of the dreamtime
full of songlines, sings
the spirit of creation.
Ancient gifter of this land,
who brought our race to life.
Can we regenerate?
The madness of the stolen ones,
Culture shock and naming cruelly
peeled away, layer by layer.
Bleached bones in the desert;
Endless , mindless,worthless,
broken, promises .....of
nothing worth living for.
I have used this poem to identify with my Aboriginal friends.I apologise for any offense which this may cause to any of you.
Isabel Telford
Irish Weavers DNA
Irish Weavers DNA
I can hear the distant shuttle,
I can see the slanting light,
as it settles on the looms,
in the fading of the light -
a gene fuelled soup, propelling me along.
It’s the sum of history’s past
it’s the promise in the future
in it’s colour, shade and strands.
the weft and warp of life;
it’s the map scratched on my psyche
it’s the shade of
who
and what
and why...
I am
ME.
Isabel Telford
I can hear the distant shuttle,
I can see the slanting light,
as it settles on the looms,
in the fading of the light -
a gene fuelled soup, propelling me along.
It’s the sum of history’s past
it’s the promise in the future
in it’s colour, shade and strands.
the weft and warp of life;
it’s the map scratched on my psyche
it’s the shade of
who
and what
and why...
I am
ME.
Isabel Telford
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