Christmas
The lights of Christmas from the houses
Blink and wink with teasing ease,
Sweetest feelings this arouses,
Shines with tenderness for peace.
And the children holding hands
Are engulfed with tingling feeling
By the crib where hope expands
As overawed, they fall down, kneeling.
© Joe Lake
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Efficient Combustion
Our lights winked out so fast,
I'd grown accustomed to your warm song.
Your dusty prints
Around my spaces.
There's no proof, no record,
You're the dream -
These fading scents of filmy presence -
All the little whirlpools when my plug is pulled.
You swim now, on my ocular edge,
Distant with blur and
Sea salt to lash
Those horizons that we set,
It isn't hard to see,
We just –
Ran out of fuel.
© Andrew Hardy
After-image
To make it up to you
I close my eyes and
retreat.
I'll touch the endless
source of all want;
desire to be entirely
complete with the
after-image imprinted
when I open my eyes
Slowly, to hold as
long as it will linger,
Perfect in shadows
hiding in your eyes,
until you laugh
Again, with me.
© Chris Rattray
Our lights winked out so fast,
I'd grown accustomed to your warm song.
Your dusty prints
Around my spaces.
There's no proof, no record,
You're the dream -
These fading scents of filmy presence -
All the little whirlpools when my plug is pulled.
You swim now, on my ocular edge,
Distant with blur and
Sea salt to lash
Those horizons that we set,
It isn't hard to see,
We just –
Ran out of fuel.
© Andrew Hardy
After-image
To make it up to you
I close my eyes and
retreat.
I'll touch the endless
source of all want;
desire to be entirely
complete with the
after-image imprinted
when I open my eyes
Slowly, to hold as
long as it will linger,
Perfect in shadows
hiding in your eyes,
until you laugh
Again, with me.
© Chris Rattray
Shadow Lands
In the mysterious undiscovered Shadow lands,
Life is still.
You can hear the whistling of the wind
Through the trees.
The squeaking of the wooden steps,
As though phantom feet still step there.
The swaying doors
That open for ghostly hands.
Windows opening and closing,
As though the unseen are there.
The sound of the ocean
Rushing spookily in and out.
It is pitch black, I cannot see.
Suddenly, a blur!
It’s right in front of me.
I reach out.
I feel something.
As I yell in terror,
My voice echoes
Like a million screaming children.
The voices fade,
I realise I am the only one here,
Then the shadows appear.
© Nicole Viney
In the mysterious undiscovered Shadow lands,
Life is still.
You can hear the whistling of the wind
Through the trees.
The squeaking of the wooden steps,
As though phantom feet still step there.
The swaying doors
That open for ghostly hands.
Windows opening and closing,
As though the unseen are there.
The sound of the ocean
Rushing spookily in and out.
It is pitch black, I cannot see.
Suddenly, a blur!
It’s right in front of me.
I reach out.
I feel something.
As I yell in terror,
My voice echoes
Like a million screaming children.
The voices fade,
I realise I am the only one here,
Then the shadows appear.
© Nicole Viney
Joe Lake's View.
Christmas has rushed towards us and the emotions it raises are those of sacrifice and hope. Here in Tasmania we only feel the reverberation of the festive season’s intention. We are on the opposite side of this huge star’s cooled surface from where we first migrated. Isn’t it about time that we created our own festival for this time of year? But that’s too hard and in the meantime I’m happy to put an artificial tree into my loungeroom with artificial candles and artificial stars and artificial presents from an artificial bishop whom we call Santa Claus and by American tradition comes down chimneys just as in the soft drink ad or in the facetious poem, ’Twas the night before Christmas, where Santa and the reindeer are six inches tall, where he smokes a pipe and is overweight.
I would have preferred the European Christkindel, which is the Christ Child that flies in through the window on Christmas Eve and deposits presents by ringing a bell and where the Krampus, a kind of punishing devil, beats naughty children with a broom made of hazel twigs. But please bring peace to the Earth and love, and hope by the light that shines towards a forgiving and better future.
Merry Christmas to all!
Christmas has rushed towards us and the emotions it raises are those of sacrifice and hope. Here in Tasmania we only feel the reverberation of the festive season’s intention. We are on the opposite side of this huge star’s cooled surface from where we first migrated. Isn’t it about time that we created our own festival for this time of year? But that’s too hard and in the meantime I’m happy to put an artificial tree into my loungeroom with artificial candles and artificial stars and artificial presents from an artificial bishop whom we call Santa Claus and by American tradition comes down chimneys just as in the soft drink ad or in the facetious poem, ’Twas the night before Christmas, where Santa and the reindeer are six inches tall, where he smokes a pipe and is overweight.
I would have preferred the European Christkindel, which is the Christ Child that flies in through the window on Christmas Eve and deposits presents by ringing a bell and where the Krampus, a kind of punishing devil, beats naughty children with a broom made of hazel twigs. But please bring peace to the Earth and love, and hope by the light that shines towards a forgiving and better future.
Merry Christmas to all!
Breaking It Down
The road we travel on,
It’s paved with memories
I try not to leave behind.
We’ve come a long way,
From the awkward silences,
And blank stares.
Life is bliss,
Every day is sunny and bright,
We feel on top of the world.
Nothing could possibly break our spirits,
At least,
That’s what we act like.
But for some reason,
There’s always a small doubt in our minds;
I choose to ignore mine.
Then one day,
It happens,
The perfect reality becomes a shattered illusion.
Both happiness and closure take a hike,
And just like that,
They vanish.
We pretend to move on in our lives,
Act like everything's the same,
We fool everyone except ourselves.
I walk through crowded streets,
Past all our old hangouts,
And all I do is hurt.
© Samantha Colombari, Burnie High School
Forget
Hear the cry, girl,
As a gull call drifts
in echo across silent air,
Cherish it,
This tribute to youth’s energy,
For ageing eyes speak,
And wanton memory
walks summer days, long,
Dreams still lived,
Of brushed hands
and a fixed glance
that mouths aching words;
Hear the cry but a second,
And then forget.
© Michael Garrad October 2009
The road we travel on,
It’s paved with memories
I try not to leave behind.
We’ve come a long way,
From the awkward silences,
And blank stares.
Life is bliss,
Every day is sunny and bright,
We feel on top of the world.
Nothing could possibly break our spirits,
At least,
That’s what we act like.
But for some reason,
There’s always a small doubt in our minds;
I choose to ignore mine.
Then one day,
It happens,
The perfect reality becomes a shattered illusion.
Both happiness and closure take a hike,
And just like that,
They vanish.
We pretend to move on in our lives,
Act like everything's the same,
We fool everyone except ourselves.
I walk through crowded streets,
Past all our old hangouts,
And all I do is hurt.
© Samantha Colombari, Burnie High School
Forget
Hear the cry, girl,
As a gull call drifts
in echo across silent air,
Cherish it,
This tribute to youth’s energy,
For ageing eyes speak,
And wanton memory
walks summer days, long,
Dreams still lived,
Of brushed hands
and a fixed glance
that mouths aching words;
Hear the cry but a second,
And then forget.
© Michael Garrad October 2009
We must grasp at life, every unbelievable moment.
Savour every breath of fresh air.
Wonder at what we see.
Listen to the orchestra of birds.
Inhale every distant fragrance.
Taste the storm.
We must do all this if we are to truly live.
When none of this matters anymore, then we have ventured into nowhere.
Embrace companionship, hug close love, however that may be shown or expressed.
Who we are is what is so precious - to give and to receive, to accept each other as human beings.
To be happy with that.
Too often we seek the ideal that is nurtured in a wish.
Real
Real is behind closed eyes,
Behind skin veil,
Where sound is a picture,
Changing on mind’s whim,
Beyond this tired body,
Across every hedgerow
and treetop,
Far into the cool blue,
Faster than racing clouds,
To where it is,
And to where it belongs,
Power images that give life peace,
For it is the joy of every sense
played quietly,
Where this real is nourished,
And gossamer curtain is never raised.
© Michael Garrad November 2009
Savour every breath of fresh air.
Wonder at what we see.
Listen to the orchestra of birds.
Inhale every distant fragrance.
Taste the storm.
We must do all this if we are to truly live.
When none of this matters anymore, then we have ventured into nowhere.
Embrace companionship, hug close love, however that may be shown or expressed.
Who we are is what is so precious - to give and to receive, to accept each other as human beings.
To be happy with that.
Too often we seek the ideal that is nurtured in a wish.
Real
Real is behind closed eyes,
Behind skin veil,
Where sound is a picture,
Changing on mind’s whim,
Beyond this tired body,
Across every hedgerow
and treetop,
Far into the cool blue,
Faster than racing clouds,
To where it is,
And to where it belongs,
Power images that give life peace,
For it is the joy of every sense
played quietly,
Where this real is nourished,
And gossamer curtain is never raised.
© Michael Garrad November 2009
The Phantom Fox
Down Orford way, close by the sea,
The Simpsons ran a B and B,
For husband Bill and Jane his wife
It was ideal, they loved the life.
A dog they had, a clever pet
Of unknown breed, they called him Jet.
Now in the summer, trade was fine,
Soft beds, good food and local wine.
But in the winter months ’twas bleak
No travellers did their cottage seek.
But then one day, they had some luck,
When up their drive there came a truck.
Two men jumped out, bright eyed and keen,
The cottage signboard they had seen.
"We’re from the Fox Free Task Force, sir,
A fox round here’s made quite a stir.
Our boss wants us to check the ground
So we’ll stay here till he is found."
And daily more reports came through,
The tally of the sightings grew.
But in the hills and paddocks flat
They could not find a single scat.
And where he hid 'twas hard to tell.
Like fiction’s Scarlet Pimpernel,
They could not find him here or there.
Their patience then began to wear.
Some three months on and nought to show,
With budget blown they had to go.
Said Bill, "Our dog he loves a lark
When roaming nightly in the dark.
And ever since he was a pup
He likes to play at dressing up.
And if I give a little shove,
That fox pelt fits him like a glove.
Those extra bed-nights filled our bank
For that we have our dog to thank.
So now, my dear, I’ll book some flights,
At Burleigh Heads we’ll spend ten nights.
And yes, young Jet, you’ll have a treat -
You’re going to get some juicy meat."
© John D. Duncan October 2009
Down Orford way, close by the sea,
The Simpsons ran a B and B,
For husband Bill and Jane his wife
It was ideal, they loved the life.
A dog they had, a clever pet
Of unknown breed, they called him Jet.
Now in the summer, trade was fine,
Soft beds, good food and local wine.
But in the winter months ’twas bleak
No travellers did their cottage seek.
But then one day, they had some luck,
When up their drive there came a truck.
Two men jumped out, bright eyed and keen,
The cottage signboard they had seen.
"We’re from the Fox Free Task Force, sir,
A fox round here’s made quite a stir.
Our boss wants us to check the ground
So we’ll stay here till he is found."
And daily more reports came through,
The tally of the sightings grew.
But in the hills and paddocks flat
They could not find a single scat.
And where he hid 'twas hard to tell.
Like fiction’s Scarlet Pimpernel,
They could not find him here or there.
Their patience then began to wear.
Some three months on and nought to show,
With budget blown they had to go.
Said Bill, "Our dog he loves a lark
When roaming nightly in the dark.
And ever since he was a pup
He likes to play at dressing up.
And if I give a little shove,
That fox pelt fits him like a glove.
Those extra bed-nights filled our bank
For that we have our dog to thank.
So now, my dear, I’ll book some flights,
At Burleigh Heads we’ll spend ten nights.
And yes, young Jet, you’ll have a treat -
You’re going to get some juicy meat."
© John D. Duncan October 2009
Europa Poets' Gazette, No 68, December 2009
My Mother
Sparkling blue, her old eyes shine
Few wrinkles for 99.6 years but
There was beauty of truest joy
Lines like a velvet rose petal
Childhood memories come and go
Her lace shawl covers her tiny shoulders
Mother Mona Lisa smiles
Her eyes held mine, so much enfold
Sitting beside her I am privileged
My mother, by birth,
My life all belongs to you
The gentlest sweetest voice says, "Yes dear."
She speaks of dreams, hopes and yesterdays
Today, tomorrow, I see your peace,
Love and joy of life,
Your sparkling blue eyes are memory.
© Yvonne Matheson December 13 2001
A Place Called Fossil Bluff
Huge stones stand timelessly
Guarding their charge
A place normal yet not
A place like and unlike any ever seen
Decorated beyond compare by nature but
Holding deeper meanings and stories
Ready to be told for those who but ask
Untouched except for the Tommeginer who
Hundreds of years lived here but respected it
Since then sheltering people
Comforting, teaching, sharing, with people
It knows what each person needs
They don’t need to ask
No one could ever know all this place holds
The place called Fossil Bluff.
© Jess Hyde, Wynyard High School
Humming Life
tiny letters fill my mind
little faces to look
and find silly sounds
drift away gently
flowing through
my day
© Dripping Ink (Lauren Hay)
Sparkling blue, her old eyes shine
Few wrinkles for 99.6 years but
There was beauty of truest joy
Lines like a velvet rose petal
Childhood memories come and go
Her lace shawl covers her tiny shoulders
Mother Mona Lisa smiles
Her eyes held mine, so much enfold
Sitting beside her I am privileged
My mother, by birth,
My life all belongs to you
The gentlest sweetest voice says, "Yes dear."
She speaks of dreams, hopes and yesterdays
Today, tomorrow, I see your peace,
Love and joy of life,
Your sparkling blue eyes are memory.
© Yvonne Matheson December 13 2001
A Place Called Fossil Bluff
Huge stones stand timelessly
Guarding their charge
A place normal yet not
A place like and unlike any ever seen
Decorated beyond compare by nature but
Holding deeper meanings and stories
Ready to be told for those who but ask
Untouched except for the Tommeginer who
Hundreds of years lived here but respected it
Since then sheltering people
Comforting, teaching, sharing, with people
It knows what each person needs
They don’t need to ask
No one could ever know all this place holds
The place called Fossil Bluff.
© Jess Hyde, Wynyard High School
Humming Life
tiny letters fill my mind
little faces to look
and find silly sounds
drift away gently
flowing through
my day
© Dripping Ink (Lauren Hay)
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
members of the Europa Poets Society
Founding members: Joe Lake, Michael Garrad, Dr Vi Woodhouse, Judy Brumby-Lake, June Hitchcock; other members: Dr Mary Kille, Loretta Gaul, Neil McLaren, Peter Stratford.
Michael Garrad is a former editor, now retired of The Advocate newspaper and also the editor of the gazette. He was born in England but has spent most of his life in Tasmania. Joe Lake originally came to Australia from Austria in 1960 and moved with Judy to Tasmania in 1988. He is the publisher of the gazette and creator of self-help booklets. Vi Woodhouse is a retired M.D. and founder-member. Judy Brumby-Lake is the wife of Joe Lake. Judy was born in Tasmania. June has been with the society since its inception. Mary Kille is a retired M.D. and lives near Table Cape. She has been with the society some years. Loretta Gaul is an active contributor, so is Neil. Peter Stratford joined lately. The Europa Poetry Gazette is published by lovers of poetry and is distributed for free in the north of Tasmania.
Michael Garrad is a former editor, now retired of The Advocate newspaper and also the editor of the gazette. He was born in England but has spent most of his life in Tasmania. Joe Lake originally came to Australia from Austria in 1960 and moved with Judy to Tasmania in 1988. He is the publisher of the gazette and creator of self-help booklets. Vi Woodhouse is a retired M.D. and founder-member. Judy Brumby-Lake is the wife of Joe Lake. Judy was born in Tasmania. June has been with the society since its inception. Mary Kille is a retired M.D. and lives near Table Cape. She has been with the society some years. Loretta Gaul is an active contributor, so is Neil. Peter Stratford joined lately. The Europa Poetry Gazette is published by lovers of poetry and is distributed for free in the north of Tasmania.
No 67 Europa Poets' Gazette November 2009
Sonnet 24
I floated, skipped and danced among the throng,
Like a child’s anticipation of a joy;
Righting all around me that was wrong
And touching the world as if it were a toy.
Come see me walk on water through the night,
Then float across the universe on stars
And pluck the flowers of the sun’s delight
To hear the songs of paper-blue guitars
Where highs and lows touch as a lover’s tease
And Earth is just a fluffy ball of foam
Among the blues of other stars’ release,
The secret breathing of the dying stone.
Come to my ship and let us sail away
Towards that neverland where we shall play.
© Joe Lake
New Day
The sky spreads wide across farewells,
And the sun smiles,
No matter where the end hides,
Rain dances on distant pastures
against renewing, banked clouds,
Birds, joyous, sing
above mountain ocean waves,
Chorus resonating in the long still,
And air is sweet and calm, and angry,
Brushing atop trees in all lands;
The gap is close and a sparkle
breaches every new day.
© Michael Garrad October 2009
I floated, skipped and danced among the throng,
Like a child’s anticipation of a joy;
Righting all around me that was wrong
And touching the world as if it were a toy.
Come see me walk on water through the night,
Then float across the universe on stars
And pluck the flowers of the sun’s delight
To hear the songs of paper-blue guitars
Where highs and lows touch as a lover’s tease
And Earth is just a fluffy ball of foam
Among the blues of other stars’ release,
The secret breathing of the dying stone.
Come to my ship and let us sail away
Towards that neverland where we shall play.
© Joe Lake
New Day
The sky spreads wide across farewells,
And the sun smiles,
No matter where the end hides,
Rain dances on distant pastures
against renewing, banked clouds,
Birds, joyous, sing
above mountain ocean waves,
Chorus resonating in the long still,
And air is sweet and calm, and angry,
Brushing atop trees in all lands;
The gap is close and a sparkle
breaches every new day.
© Michael Garrad October 2009
No 67 Europa Poets' Gazette November 2009
The Slam is over for now. I’m not going to tell you who won. Guess.
We also had the Burnie Shines Europa Poets’ Gold Pot and that was won by a deserved person.
Christmas is my favourite time of the year as I like singing and playing my little organ to the tune of Silent Night.
No inkling of Global Warming in Burnie last winter and we can only take the scientists’ word for the fact that it will get better.
I did manage in a kind of way to get us onto Google’s Blog. You’ll have to type into the Google box, “Europa Poets’ Gazette”
and that should bring you a moment’s joy or you can expose yourself by telling us how bad it all is and that Shakespeare
could do better, or was that T.S. Eliot? Never mind. Write some yourself. It will open your mind to new vistas and horizons.
You will find that after a time, the brain will write your poetry for you and you’ll think that God did it.
Sonnet Undetermined
Deterministically, life is set
As genes and software-instinct wail for me
Where childhood horrors or my social debt
Drives unrelentingly life’s goal and key.
This rule, of course, means that I cannot change
The book of life as written at my birth
And I can only wriggle in its range
As nothing alters my life’s drift and curse.
But I pretend that I can make a choice,
That I can find the good rather than bad
If I can listen to my conscience’s voice,
Ignoring all projections that are mad.
By precedent we do what we must do
As we reject conclusions that are new.
© Joe Lake
We also had the Burnie Shines Europa Poets’ Gold Pot and that was won by a deserved person.
Christmas is my favourite time of the year as I like singing and playing my little organ to the tune of Silent Night.
No inkling of Global Warming in Burnie last winter and we can only take the scientists’ word for the fact that it will get better.
I did manage in a kind of way to get us onto Google’s Blog. You’ll have to type into the Google box, “Europa Poets’ Gazette”
and that should bring you a moment’s joy or you can expose yourself by telling us how bad it all is and that Shakespeare
could do better, or was that T.S. Eliot? Never mind. Write some yourself. It will open your mind to new vistas and horizons.
You will find that after a time, the brain will write your poetry for you and you’ll think that God did it.
Sonnet Undetermined
Deterministically, life is set
As genes and software-instinct wail for me
Where childhood horrors or my social debt
Drives unrelentingly life’s goal and key.
This rule, of course, means that I cannot change
The book of life as written at my birth
And I can only wriggle in its range
As nothing alters my life’s drift and curse.
But I pretend that I can make a choice,
That I can find the good rather than bad
If I can listen to my conscience’s voice,
Ignoring all projections that are mad.
By precedent we do what we must do
As we reject conclusions that are new.
© Joe Lake
No. 67 Europa Poets' Gazette, November 2009
Beyond Hunger
Beyond the hunger
it waits,
In the twilight,
Still,
Watching
as leaves rest,
Even the breeze
has vanished,
Silent stillness,
Ravenous in this
half light;
It can wait
as long as the eye blinks,
As long as the
longest day,
Vigilant,
With voracious appetite,
It listens to the rain
and counts every drop,
Seeks the weak
in a second of
crying passion,
And then pounces
when defence
is impossible.
© Michael Garrad September 2009
This Face
The sun cuts deep,
And canopy green submits
to shadow, stark,
Shaped by light and breeze,
Hollows of black are eyes,
Nose sharp in profile,
Mouth frozen in grin and grimace,
Trees and bush are this face
Mood dark, stare set,
A human image no more
than prism trick,
Silent, watchful,
Eager to play with broken mind,
Gone with the night,
Or was that the moon dancing?
Pray that slumber is peace,
When black has swallowed this shape,
By dawn, it will glare again,
As clouds clutter around this sun,
Fear the mask in green
For it moves in frightful pattern
with every whimsical element
that is the essence of tireless death.
© Michael Garrad September 2009
Beyond the hunger
it waits,
In the twilight,
Still,
Watching
as leaves rest,
Even the breeze
has vanished,
Silent stillness,
Ravenous in this
half light;
It can wait
as long as the eye blinks,
As long as the
longest day,
Vigilant,
With voracious appetite,
It listens to the rain
and counts every drop,
Seeks the weak
in a second of
crying passion,
And then pounces
when defence
is impossible.
© Michael Garrad September 2009
This Face
The sun cuts deep,
And canopy green submits
to shadow, stark,
Shaped by light and breeze,
Hollows of black are eyes,
Nose sharp in profile,
Mouth frozen in grin and grimace,
Trees and bush are this face
Mood dark, stare set,
A human image no more
than prism trick,
Silent, watchful,
Eager to play with broken mind,
Gone with the night,
Or was that the moon dancing?
Pray that slumber is peace,
When black has swallowed this shape,
By dawn, it will glare again,
As clouds clutter around this sun,
Fear the mask in green
For it moves in frightful pattern
with every whimsical element
that is the essence of tireless death.
© Michael Garrad September 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
October 2009 Gazette No. 66, Cameron Hindrum
At Storys Creek
Except for the ghosts of houses, an abandoned town
has no memory.
The footprints of man and building dissolve
into gathering ground.
An abandoned river with banks of rust
carries poison-weighted water
away from the rain off the distant bluff.
Rain is merciful, gentle here, no weeping
for open scars or lost fortunes.
The pillagers are gone, having reaped
what they could, leaving us to sow
while soft rain seeps into wounded earth
through piled waste, and taints itself.
Below the scars and wounds, and waste,
still waters in a forgotten river
watch the lazy sky.
© Cameron Hindrum
Except for the ghosts of houses, an abandoned town
has no memory.
The footprints of man and building dissolve
into gathering ground.
An abandoned river with banks of rust
carries poison-weighted water
away from the rain off the distant bluff.
Rain is merciful, gentle here, no weeping
for open scars or lost fortunes.
The pillagers are gone, having reaped
what they could, leaving us to sow
while soft rain seeps into wounded earth
through piled waste, and taints itself.
Below the scars and wounds, and waste,
still waters in a forgotten river
watch the lazy sky.
© Cameron Hindrum
October 2009 Gazette No. 66, Joe Lake
Sonnet 44
Sometimes you’re ugly; then you’re beautiful;
Sometimes you’re young and then you’re old as time;
Sometimes I fear you; then you’re wonderful;
Sometimes the world is chaos; then it’s rhyme.
I always love you even when I hate;
I always hate myself when I’m in love;
I always stop to ponder our fate;
I always wonder if I love enough.
I never thought to fall in love with you;
I never hoped for such a blissful life;
I’d never know the way, or what to do;
But always wanted you to be my wife.
Why do you now refrain from kissing me,
A lover down to earth and on his knee?
© Joe Lake
Sometimes you’re ugly; then you’re beautiful;
Sometimes you’re young and then you’re old as time;
Sometimes I fear you; then you’re wonderful;
Sometimes the world is chaos; then it’s rhyme.
I always love you even when I hate;
I always hate myself when I’m in love;
I always stop to ponder our fate;
I always wonder if I love enough.
I never thought to fall in love with you;
I never hoped for such a blissful life;
I’d never know the way, or what to do;
But always wanted you to be my wife.
Why do you now refrain from kissing me,
A lover down to earth and on his knee?
© Joe Lake
October 2009 Gazette No. 66, Joe Lake
The arts are not cumulative. Just when we feel to have produced the perfect poem or painting or installation, whoosh, the arts head off in a different direction.
Here are some traditional guidelines to criticism: Be interesting; make a point, be moral; expand the mind; no prejudice or lampoons; be serious and sincere; help the reader to change for the better; write simply; don’t be obscure; make it pleasent reading; have new ideas; help people to think; help the reader to make the right choices in their lives.
Congratulations to Mary Kille and Vi Woodhouse for jointly winning first prize, and the money, in the Burnie Poetry Slam; Peter Stratford came second and Loretta Gaul third. They go on now to better things and maybe to Sydney at the Opera House where the prize is huge.
Don’t forget Burnie Shines, Europa Poets’ Gold Pot which is a glass goblet filled with the gold coins of participants. It is to be held on Friday, October 30, at 5.30 pm at the Burnie Library. Vi has organised the musical entertainment and there will be a little supper.
My tulips have turned out huge; their colours are yellow, red and mauve. The vegetable seeds in their toilet roll centres in potting soil inside the icecream container have dared to show their little green sprouts tentatively and eventually will be planted into the garden. I’ll have to cut the grass again because it won’t stop growing.
We had a blogger, blogspot site that showed the month’s poems. Now I can’t find it. I’ll have to ask my four-year-old nephew. He’ll fix it. It’s hard in old age to do what the young ones do with their Facebook and blogs and websites, and what-not so easily.
At the library, when Elaine Harris broadcast on Harry Potter, a little boy came along and recited the whole first chapter of the latest book. I won’t tell you how much I could remember.
Here are some traditional guidelines to criticism: Be interesting; make a point, be moral; expand the mind; no prejudice or lampoons; be serious and sincere; help the reader to change for the better; write simply; don’t be obscure; make it pleasent reading; have new ideas; help people to think; help the reader to make the right choices in their lives.
Congratulations to Mary Kille and Vi Woodhouse for jointly winning first prize, and the money, in the Burnie Poetry Slam; Peter Stratford came second and Loretta Gaul third. They go on now to better things and maybe to Sydney at the Opera House where the prize is huge.
Don’t forget Burnie Shines, Europa Poets’ Gold Pot which is a glass goblet filled with the gold coins of participants. It is to be held on Friday, October 30, at 5.30 pm at the Burnie Library. Vi has organised the musical entertainment and there will be a little supper.
My tulips have turned out huge; their colours are yellow, red and mauve. The vegetable seeds in their toilet roll centres in potting soil inside the icecream container have dared to show their little green sprouts tentatively and eventually will be planted into the garden. I’ll have to cut the grass again because it won’t stop growing.
We had a blogger, blogspot site that showed the month’s poems. Now I can’t find it. I’ll have to ask my four-year-old nephew. He’ll fix it. It’s hard in old age to do what the young ones do with their Facebook and blogs and websites, and what-not so easily.
At the library, when Elaine Harris broadcast on Harry Potter, a little boy came along and recited the whole first chapter of the latest book. I won’t tell you how much I could remember.
October 2009 Gazette No. 66, Loretta Gaul
Under A Streetlight
Under a streetlight
a man croons.
His eyes older
than his body
will ever be.
He sways as he sings
with the intensity
of his memories
’til the light becomes
an inferno.
He flames and flares
brightly into Hell’s
uselessness.
We made love
just one time,
and as I lean
back into that memory,
I inhale his ashes
deeply into every pore.
© Loretta Gaul
Under a streetlight
a man croons.
His eyes older
than his body
will ever be.
He sways as he sings
with the intensity
of his memories
’til the light becomes
an inferno.
He flames and flares
brightly into Hell’s
uselessness.
We made love
just one time,
and as I lean
back into that memory,
I inhale his ashes
deeply into every pore.
© Loretta Gaul
October 2009 Gazette No. 66, Michael Garrad
We stare at death the moment we are born. So, tell us something we don’t know, you might be thinking.
Even as I write this, I am older. As you read this, you are older.
Every word, every character, every keyboard stroke, ages me. I am older now than when I started writing this editorial and the same for you.
Micro-seconds we cannot buy back, no matter how very much we might yearn for things to be different.
Age is the enemy.
Young and beautiful now, with dreams stretching into infinity - only what we have is finite. Childhood becomes teens, 20s becomes 30s and 40s, middle-age becomes old-age. No escape. We are in life’s trap.
We think we can defy the odds and that nothing will ever change - we will stay as we are but now, all of us, you and me, are older.
Are we wiser? Well, that’s another matter.
These are keystrokes I will never make again, for the words have been typed and I have aged, as you have. The second hand keeps moving on the clock-face and even if we wind it back, we cannot halt time’s movement.
Think about this. But hurry, you are getting older and death is waiting patiently.
Ungiving
Suckling from the one
who cannot give,
For this one has always been barren,
And does not give life,
There is no nurture in warmth,
Just a lure to the mother
who is never there, long gone
if she ever lived,
The suckle without satisfaction,
Desire and need in arid succour,
Flesh that does not yield,
As with fruit withering on vine,
We know it lies there,
Alluring, patient, ungiving.
© Michael Garrad September 2009
Even as I write this, I am older. As you read this, you are older.
Every word, every character, every keyboard stroke, ages me. I am older now than when I started writing this editorial and the same for you.
Micro-seconds we cannot buy back, no matter how very much we might yearn for things to be different.
Age is the enemy.
Young and beautiful now, with dreams stretching into infinity - only what we have is finite. Childhood becomes teens, 20s becomes 30s and 40s, middle-age becomes old-age. No escape. We are in life’s trap.
We think we can defy the odds and that nothing will ever change - we will stay as we are but now, all of us, you and me, are older.
Are we wiser? Well, that’s another matter.
These are keystrokes I will never make again, for the words have been typed and I have aged, as you have. The second hand keeps moving on the clock-face and even if we wind it back, we cannot halt time’s movement.
Think about this. But hurry, you are getting older and death is waiting patiently.
Ungiving
Suckling from the one
who cannot give,
For this one has always been barren,
And does not give life,
There is no nurture in warmth,
Just a lure to the mother
who is never there, long gone
if she ever lived,
The suckle without satisfaction,
Desire and need in arid succour,
Flesh that does not yield,
As with fruit withering on vine,
We know it lies there,
Alluring, patient, ungiving.
© Michael Garrad September 2009
October 2009 Gazette No. 66
Natural Forces
Natural forces are at work today,
Trees moan, arched in battle with autumn’s moods,
Leaves whirl in motley amber cartwheels,
Seas heave in defiance of summer’s death,
But all that concerns me is my long unruly hair -
Streamers in the wind.
© June Maureen Hitchcock May 2009
Natural forces are at work today,
Trees moan, arched in battle with autumn’s moods,
Leaves whirl in motley amber cartwheels,
Seas heave in defiance of summer’s death,
But all that concerns me is my long unruly hair -
Streamers in the wind.
© June Maureen Hitchcock May 2009
October 2009 Gazette No. 66
Invulnerable
You may think with my gentle smile
and appeasing way that I am invulnerable.
A steel girdle created in my infant year
from objurgation
from the cold hands of a nurturer
has camouflaged my true self.
Outwardly I may seem pliable,
Willing to be subjugated,
But inward I simmer with resentment
of you and others of your kind.
But then, again, who are the real vulnerable ones
For vulnerability has no class boundaries?
How often those who appear
invulnerable become religious zealots or socialists
To seek revenge and uplift their kind.
© Judy Brumby-Lake
You may think with my gentle smile
and appeasing way that I am invulnerable.
A steel girdle created in my infant year
from objurgation
from the cold hands of a nurturer
has camouflaged my true self.
Outwardly I may seem pliable,
Willing to be subjugated,
But inward I simmer with resentment
of you and others of your kind.
But then, again, who are the real vulnerable ones
For vulnerability has no class boundaries?
How often those who appear
invulnerable become religious zealots or socialists
To seek revenge and uplift their kind.
© Judy Brumby-Lake
October 2009 Gazette
Sonnet 79
When we are sleeping in our beds at night
We drift down different rivers through a park
Where peaceful creatures play in our sight
And rainbow colours glitter, dance and spark.
We float and spin in boats of soft design
Entangled as a single entity
Where we can melt within the poem’s rhyme
To set the spirit, mind and body free.
But then cold fear is gloating in the dark
And threatens when we open our eyes;
The wrench of hate may tighten our heart,
As flies the whale from too much sun and dies.
If you’d let go then surely I would drown
Away from life where I have played the clown.
Joe Lake
When we are sleeping in our beds at night
We drift down different rivers through a park
Where peaceful creatures play in our sight
And rainbow colours glitter, dance and spark.
We float and spin in boats of soft design
Entangled as a single entity
Where we can melt within the poem’s rhyme
To set the spirit, mind and body free.
But then cold fear is gloating in the dark
And threatens when we open our eyes;
The wrench of hate may tighten our heart,
As flies the whale from too much sun and dies.
If you’d let go then surely I would drown
Away from life where I have played the clown.
Joe Lake
October 2009 Gazette
At 3 am
Shapeless silver-shod moonlight splashes
the polished floorboards where I like to stand
with you
at 3 am
while your breathing follows an arc
back to sleep
in my arms
While I wait
for an arrival of steady rhythm:
rise and fall, rise and fall
and the soft weight of sleep
to hold your weight against me.
The curtain is half-open against the quiet world
where everyone is asleep in their own silence,
Except you
and me,
But I can wait,
I’ve got all night
And nowhere else to be.
© Cameron Hindrum
Cameron is the coordinator for the national Poetry Slam.
Shapeless silver-shod moonlight splashes
the polished floorboards where I like to stand
with you
at 3 am
while your breathing follows an arc
back to sleep
in my arms
While I wait
for an arrival of steady rhythm:
rise and fall, rise and fall
and the soft weight of sleep
to hold your weight against me.
The curtain is half-open against the quiet world
where everyone is asleep in their own silence,
Except you
and me,
But I can wait,
I’ve got all night
And nowhere else to be.
© Cameron Hindrum
Cameron is the coordinator for the national Poetry Slam.
October 2009 Gazette
Feature Poet
A Whistling Kite
Soaring - swooping - tumbling flight
Airborne grace - a joyous sight.
Earthbound me, wishing that I might,
Just for a moment - be a kite.
© Peter Stratford
Dementia
Decades spent together
As life’s great tune we played
The richness of love’s memories
Into our mind’s book laid.
But, slowly, as one ages,
It seems some evil grip
Reached in amongst the pages,
And from it volumes ripped.
Then a thought comes clearly,
"I need to walk the dog."
"Our dog’s been gone for years now."
This voice sounds through a fog.
The face looks vague, familiar.
Her head just slowly nods.
Beyond my comprehension
Is why she sits and sobs.
© Peter Stratford
A Whistling Kite
Soaring - swooping - tumbling flight
Airborne grace - a joyous sight.
Earthbound me, wishing that I might,
Just for a moment - be a kite.
© Peter Stratford
Dementia
Decades spent together
As life’s great tune we played
The richness of love’s memories
Into our mind’s book laid.
But, slowly, as one ages,
It seems some evil grip
Reached in amongst the pages,
And from it volumes ripped.
Then a thought comes clearly,
"I need to walk the dog."
"Our dog’s been gone for years now."
This voice sounds through a fog.
The face looks vague, familiar.
Her head just slowly nods.
Beyond my comprehension
Is why she sits and sobs.
© Peter Stratford
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Joe Lake's comment in the Gazette 65
Sleep Apnoea
Dreams come with bated breath
from lost memories in virtual reality
as obscure infinities.
You wake and shuffle to relieve yourself
(precise sleepwalking) then fall back into bed.
Those edifices, those early prisons
where one spends one’s working life
reward me with this restless, breathless sleep.
One would edit one’s life if one could.
The traffic moves on into the distance
as the digital camera records the landscape beyond
to focus on the dead tree of Golgotha.
On the horizon, low dark clouds creep
as the rain falls.
Joe Lake
Dreams come with bated breath
from lost memories in virtual reality
as obscure infinities.
You wake and shuffle to relieve yourself
(precise sleepwalking) then fall back into bed.
Those edifices, those early prisons
where one spends one’s working life
reward me with this restless, breathless sleep.
One would edit one’s life if one could.
The traffic moves on into the distance
as the digital camera records the landscape beyond
to focus on the dead tree of Golgotha.
On the horizon, low dark clouds creep
as the rain falls.
Joe Lake
Joe Lake's comment in the Gazette 65
It is spring once more. I sit at the computer where no birds sing but the rain dribbles down relentlessly outside to fill the farmer’s and Aurora’s reservoirs that have dire need for capacity. My tulips are out; timidly they rose from the earth to open themselves to the rain. The almond tree initially had only one blossom and now more and more dare to expose themselves to the world of kissing bees and blossom-eating birds. It has been a cold, wet winter. Judy said, "Turn the heater down, the electricity is expensive." I get my blanket and watch Family Plot by Hitchcock on DVD a couple of times then pause and read New Scientist about colliders and quantum and find that we don’t know where the universe is or how we got here or when precisely since the big bang nor what we are doing here. It’s all about the atom and quantum effects and into the infinitesimally small and large, and we spend trillions of dollars on war and research into the beginning of the universe and how to build bigger atom bombs, and the string theory, and only a pittance on the cure for cancer. Humanity isn’t very bright, I suspect. No, sorry, I don’t suspect, I know.
Michael Garrad, Sept 09 Gazette, number 65
End
To the end,
Which is the beginning
and the end,
When breath bursts
and gasps,
As supple body
is now flaccid, wrinkled,
When the paper
is fresh and clean,
And skin is parchment thin,
Such is the start
that finishes,
As it does with radiant sun,
And cool, damp dead air,
Where we are,
And where we are not,
The nothing
is the everything we fear,
The earth will have us
even as the womb rejoices.
© Michael Garrad August 2009
To the end,
Which is the beginning
and the end,
When breath bursts
and gasps,
As supple body
is now flaccid, wrinkled,
When the paper
is fresh and clean,
And skin is parchment thin,
Such is the start
that finishes,
As it does with radiant sun,
And cool, damp dead air,
Where we are,
And where we are not,
The nothing
is the everything we fear,
The earth will have us
even as the womb rejoices.
© Michael Garrad August 2009
Elaine Harris's poem in Sept. 09 Gazette
A couple of years ago I asked people to write a poem including the words lust,infidelity and spam. - Elaine Harris
Big Brother
In every shop the goal must beComplete consumer loyalty.
Big Brother
In every shop the goal must beComplete consumer loyalty.
For every product we may lustand place in each our total trust.
Without this goal they soon would seeConsumer infidelity.
Be constant and they'll send emails
With news of specials, gifts and sales.
But should you go elsewhere to shop
They'll send you spam mail till you stop.
© Elaine Harris
© Elaine Harris
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
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