In turgid water with arms outstretched,
each determined stroke a bold act to
move within the grip of its cold embrace,
trying to temper the body in its motion.
His naked buttocks quiver in the dark
chilled sea; an endless soaking purgatory.
From squeak of dawn he has waited with
keen determination for this ritual hour.
Can you see him dive deeply into the
darkness, eyelids closed tight like a clam
as he travels the path of least resistance,
a silent fear of lost direction his only thought.
Tendrils of kelp torment his pale flesh,
their elongated swirls make his efforts
a sad imitation of the sea’s inhabitants
as they tease this inept, late-come mariner.
He has baptised himself in the ancient mother
with scant regard for her fluid validation
while he travels through her pulsating womb,
awaiting the chance to crawl into to a new life.
Blurred vision allowes shards of virid sunlight
guide him towards the sanctuary of ancient
granite, warmed and awaiting his shivering,
lumbering form; he slither slowly ashore.
Droplets of living moisture evaporate upon his
invigorated self, allowing those other travellers
begin their own cycle of life on this strange orb, as
did the ancestors of all through the mercy of time.
Adrian Kavanagh
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Travel So Unwisely Undertaken
When all is trouble and time
is taken from within our grasp,
it is only then we can fly to
the farthest reaches of ourselves
And find that place within,
which opens to our own world
of truth and quiet understanding.
A travelling clock ticking forever is
The untimed, jumbled, countless thoughts
painting mindless pictures we are
least likely to see or comprehend
until we stop moving and observe,
Quite clearly that those images
too have moved on and left us
bewildered by the constant travel
we have so unwisely undertaken.
is taken from within our grasp,
it is only then we can fly to
the farthest reaches of ourselves
And find that place within,
which opens to our own world
of truth and quiet understanding.
A travelling clock ticking forever is
The untimed, jumbled, countless thoughts
painting mindless pictures we are
least likely to see or comprehend
until we stop moving and observe,
Quite clearly that those images
too have moved on and left us
bewildered by the constant travel
we have so unwisely undertaken.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Viewfinder
At 18 I was gauche, looking for a destination
Not a tram ride to St Kilda.
My father and I, both innocents abroad,
Woke after our first night overseas
To a different light, an out-of-sync perspective
And hopefully, heartbreakingly,
The beginnings of wisdom.
Years on I remember most the air–
Aromas from the city at dawn. Thin elusive wisps
Stay with me, lingering exotically
Until in some suburban street
Passing, say, a local takeaway they rekindle
And fill my mind with heat and markets,
The sweaty crush of foreign bodies
And sweet desire for saffron-scented skin.
I rarely travel these days. Back home and cloistered,
My father long dead,
I look at faces in Polaroids and hope those few
Who planned their own escape
Survived the journey. Too late for me.
Tonight I eat my fragrant Vindaloo
And mourn my lost love, a young boy
I glimpsed once in a crowd in Karachi,
And never forgot.
Cathy McCallum
Not a tram ride to St Kilda.
My father and I, both innocents abroad,
Woke after our first night overseas
To a different light, an out-of-sync perspective
And hopefully, heartbreakingly,
The beginnings of wisdom.
Years on I remember most the air–
Aromas from the city at dawn. Thin elusive wisps
Stay with me, lingering exotically
Until in some suburban street
Passing, say, a local takeaway they rekindle
And fill my mind with heat and markets,
The sweaty crush of foreign bodies
And sweet desire for saffron-scented skin.
I rarely travel these days. Back home and cloistered,
My father long dead,
I look at faces in Polaroids and hope those few
Who planned their own escape
Survived the journey. Too late for me.
Tonight I eat my fragrant Vindaloo
And mourn my lost love, a young boy
I glimpsed once in a crowd in Karachi,
And never forgot.
Cathy McCallum
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Jobs
Two poems from the April 4 session of the Aldinga Poetry Group written around the theme of ‘Occupations’:
BEYOND ALL DUTY
‘Home duties’: how banal, how beautiful.
So cold a phrase yet it defined
the enriching life-work
of a generous-hearted mother.
She loved her home so that the duties
it imposed on her were transmuted
into acts of joy or satisfaction
and infused that home with her heart’s warmth.
The bleak official term conveyed
none of her great qualities:
her unselfishness, her humour
her power to heal grief and sadness.
Instead, it cast her as a servant,
working through a dull routine;
just a domestic automaton,
devoid of spirit, wit or passion.
But to her children, looking back
on her long and committed life,
‘homemaker’ not ‘home duties’
best sums up her brilliant career.
Bill Guy, Adelaide, April 2009
JUST ANOTHER JOB
I am a people smuggler.
I see your face wrinkle in disgust,
you recoil as though I am a leper:
you have stamped me with the stereotype.
You view me as a mercenary
sucking money out of misery,
a trafficker in desperate souls,
a profiteer and ugly parasite.
But wait! You call yourself humane;
you support all good causes:
whales…old-growth forests…refugees.
Ah, yes – let’s go back to refugees.
Consider how many thousands
Ffeeing execution or torture
would fail to find their refuge
without the aid of people like me.
Not just now but throughout history:
cotton-field slaves escaping north,
Jews on the run from the Gestapo,
or Kurds hunted by Saddam’s gang.
It’s not refugees who condemn
those who smuggle them to safety;
it’s the politicians and bigots
who want to keep them out.
Sure, the smugglers are getting paid;
they’re doing a job; it keeps them alive.
Sometimes, though, it triggers their death;
no refugee can be a greater victim.
All I ask is you don’t judge me
solely by my occupation.
Though not brave myself, I know
some in my business to be heroes.
Bill Guy, Adelaide, April 2009
BEYOND ALL DUTY
‘Home duties’: how banal, how beautiful.
So cold a phrase yet it defined
the enriching life-work
of a generous-hearted mother.
She loved her home so that the duties
it imposed on her were transmuted
into acts of joy or satisfaction
and infused that home with her heart’s warmth.
The bleak official term conveyed
none of her great qualities:
her unselfishness, her humour
her power to heal grief and sadness.
Instead, it cast her as a servant,
working through a dull routine;
just a domestic automaton,
devoid of spirit, wit or passion.
But to her children, looking back
on her long and committed life,
‘homemaker’ not ‘home duties’
best sums up her brilliant career.
Bill Guy, Adelaide, April 2009
JUST ANOTHER JOB
I am a people smuggler.
I see your face wrinkle in disgust,
you recoil as though I am a leper:
you have stamped me with the stereotype.
You view me as a mercenary
sucking money out of misery,
a trafficker in desperate souls,
a profiteer and ugly parasite.
But wait! You call yourself humane;
you support all good causes:
whales…old-growth forests…refugees.
Ah, yes – let’s go back to refugees.
Consider how many thousands
Ffeeing execution or torture
would fail to find their refuge
without the aid of people like me.
Not just now but throughout history:
cotton-field slaves escaping north,
Jews on the run from the Gestapo,
or Kurds hunted by Saddam’s gang.
It’s not refugees who condemn
those who smuggle them to safety;
it’s the politicians and bigots
who want to keep them out.
Sure, the smugglers are getting paid;
they’re doing a job; it keeps them alive.
Sometimes, though, it triggers their death;
no refugee can be a greater victim.
All I ask is you don’t judge me
solely by my occupation.
Though not brave myself, I know
some in my business to be heroes.
Bill Guy, Adelaide, April 2009
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
ART
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
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
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
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