The Burnie Gold Pot Poetry Cup has been an unqualified success. Congratulations to Tim Heath, who’ll take it back to New Zealand. Participants were Colin Myers, Peter Stratford, Mary Kille, Joan Parker, Vi Woodhouse, Geoff Miller, Judy Brumby-Lake, Tim Heath, Loretta Gaul, Rees Campbell, Matthew Grubitz.
The next item in the poetic calendar is Cameron Hindrum’s Poetry Slam at the Burnie Art Gallery, probably in September. After that we present Burnie Shines With Poetry at the Burnie Library in October with the help of a famous local string orchestra and a barber-shop quartet, to be announced.
The late winter sun is shining into my eyes as I type this and it is a tease of summer to come, of better times, of hope, of wishes fulfilled and dreams to come true, of warmth and pleasant floating in a warm pool of water on one’s back. I can dream. Here is another sonnet brought into the 21st century.
Fletcher 59/43
All stem cell’s journeys may come to an end
To spin within the void of quantum time.
So that all pasts may possibly amend
Before the star collapses from its prime.
The most intelligent will desiccate
And vanity must fade away and die.
The beauty queen’s allure will desiccate,
As life must be re-shuffled by and by.
All stars will one day shrink into this void,
As vortexes from choice may be devoid,
But then again, our gods may be annoyed
To make us live long after we have died?
So all must go as all has gone before,
Except your charms - eternal love’s allure.
© Joe Lake
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No 76
Fear Of The Dark
A novel by Joe Lake
(So far: Julie and Robert have left their mobile home on the beach and have gone for a walk in the park where they make love, but someone is watching.)
"The man is still watching," Julie said.
"Why should he?"
Julie shrugged, but kept looking back. "Maybe he means harm?"
"What harm?"
"I don’t know... He may have a mate who is robbing the van this moment and he’s in touch with him on a mobile phone?"
Robert smiled. "Rob us? He’ll most likely be cleaning up our mess."
"Maybe he’s carrying a grudge?"
"No one knows us here."
"He robs tourists?"
"If he meant to, he wouldn’t be hanging around back there."
The park lights came on. The sun had gone. The air was nippy. A salty breeze wafted up from the nearby sea. The leaves in the trees rustled in the evening breeze and seemed like black cut-outs against the night sky. The reflections from the lamps on the pond were now rippling, dancing stars.
They walked hand in hand. After a while, Julie said, "Maybe he’s waiting?"
"A stalker and a robber?"
"A thug."
"I thought you found those in Afghanistan or Iran," Robert said, as he looked back into the deep shadows of the park’s trees where he saw no one, "and if he were? I can look after you."
"Yes," Julie said.
"Always." He pressed her close and found her lips.
"He might be just a shadow in the dark," Julie muttered. Her attention was now focused on Robert’s kiss. Her mind wandered. "He might like to watch."
As Julie thought about men in shadows, Robert was exploring her face in the dim light of the lamps. He brushed hair from her eyes and kissed her on the tip of her nose. To him, this togetherness with Julie was what all the future was supposed to be about - all he wanted from life. Their mobile home would roam Tasmania and then all over Australia in never-ending exploration and adventure.
Julie said, "He looks like Obama."
Robert let go off Julie’s hand, spun around and raced towards the dark trees. He was young and fit. He caught Obama by the shoulders, spun him around and saw that it was a rubber mask. When he had torn it from the head, he was looking into a blonde woman’s smiling face.
(To be continued next month)
A novel by Joe Lake
(So far: Julie and Robert have left their mobile home on the beach and have gone for a walk in the park where they make love, but someone is watching.)
"The man is still watching," Julie said.
"Why should he?"
Julie shrugged, but kept looking back. "Maybe he means harm?"
"What harm?"
"I don’t know... He may have a mate who is robbing the van this moment and he’s in touch with him on a mobile phone?"
Robert smiled. "Rob us? He’ll most likely be cleaning up our mess."
"Maybe he’s carrying a grudge?"
"No one knows us here."
"He robs tourists?"
"If he meant to, he wouldn’t be hanging around back there."
The park lights came on. The sun had gone. The air was nippy. A salty breeze wafted up from the nearby sea. The leaves in the trees rustled in the evening breeze and seemed like black cut-outs against the night sky. The reflections from the lamps on the pond were now rippling, dancing stars.
They walked hand in hand. After a while, Julie said, "Maybe he’s waiting?"
"A stalker and a robber?"
"A thug."
"I thought you found those in Afghanistan or Iran," Robert said, as he looked back into the deep shadows of the park’s trees where he saw no one, "and if he were? I can look after you."
"Yes," Julie said.
"Always." He pressed her close and found her lips.
"He might be just a shadow in the dark," Julie muttered. Her attention was now focused on Robert’s kiss. Her mind wandered. "He might like to watch."
As Julie thought about men in shadows, Robert was exploring her face in the dim light of the lamps. He brushed hair from her eyes and kissed her on the tip of her nose. To him, this togetherness with Julie was what all the future was supposed to be about - all he wanted from life. Their mobile home would roam Tasmania and then all over Australia in never-ending exploration and adventure.
Julie said, "He looks like Obama."
Robert let go off Julie’s hand, spun around and raced towards the dark trees. He was young and fit. He caught Obama by the shoulders, spun him around and saw that it was a rubber mask. When he had torn it from the head, he was looking into a blonde woman’s smiling face.
(To be continued next month)
Europa Poets' Gazette No 76
Wash Of Silence
Mist settles over verdant copse,
Smooth as silk passion,
Smothers and kisses leaves
that cannot clap in the still,
And this weary bull
senses only slumber,
Head leaden as the grey,
Not a whisper from damp meadow,
Not a murmur from
those stout, bark sentinels,
Just the wash of silence,
Old and tired eyes
have seen the canvas of every season,
Let it be this long,
As long as mist hovers,
To creep through every branch maze,
Till the end belongs to chill air,
And one acorn does not loll,
But crumbles in a whisper.
© Michael Garrad July 2010
(Based on a theme from Valley Blue in July’s issue.)
Dream
Street lights over lonely park,
In the dark,
Houses, and lights within,
Reflect excited, echo din,
And dance with rain, cold,
In flimsy coat, this man, old,
Huddles ’neath awesome glare, fluorescent,
And with remorse, not in the present,
Lives memory where children squealed,
In dark solitude all concealed,
Shadows, stark, in the gloom,
Alone, in this vacant room,
Looking out and out, within,
And through glass, aged and thin,
Damp lights gleam
between visual and what is dream.
© Michael Garrad July 2010
Mist settles over verdant copse,
Smooth as silk passion,
Smothers and kisses leaves
that cannot clap in the still,
And this weary bull
senses only slumber,
Head leaden as the grey,
Not a whisper from damp meadow,
Not a murmur from
those stout, bark sentinels,
Just the wash of silence,
Old and tired eyes
have seen the canvas of every season,
Let it be this long,
As long as mist hovers,
To creep through every branch maze,
Till the end belongs to chill air,
And one acorn does not loll,
But crumbles in a whisper.
© Michael Garrad July 2010
(Based on a theme from Valley Blue in July’s issue.)
Dream
Street lights over lonely park,
In the dark,
Houses, and lights within,
Reflect excited, echo din,
And dance with rain, cold,
In flimsy coat, this man, old,
Huddles ’neath awesome glare, fluorescent,
And with remorse, not in the present,
Lives memory where children squealed,
In dark solitude all concealed,
Shadows, stark, in the gloom,
Alone, in this vacant room,
Looking out and out, within,
And through glass, aged and thin,
Damp lights gleam
between visual and what is dream.
© Michael Garrad July 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No 76
There are those who have money and shout loud how much they’ve got.
There are those who have money who make themselves look good - fancy home, fancy car.
There are those who have money who make the world dance to their tune (and there are those who see that money and take full advantage of it for themselves).
There are those who have money who live quietly and make no fuss about it, mainly because they are alive and breathing (what joy!).
There are those who don’t have much money at all and they reach for the dream through whatever means, only to fail at the last gasp because the odds are stacked against them. Others survive humbly.
Money can only buy the peripheral. It can’t buy life.
When the last day is done, all that wealth goes to someone else, or the state.
Take your pick - but never forget money (lots of or little) drives harder than the urge for sex.
There are those who have money who make themselves look good - fancy home, fancy car.
There are those who have money who make the world dance to their tune (and there are those who see that money and take full advantage of it for themselves).
There are those who have money who live quietly and make no fuss about it, mainly because they are alive and breathing (what joy!).
There are those who don’t have much money at all and they reach for the dream through whatever means, only to fail at the last gasp because the odds are stacked against them. Others survive humbly.
Money can only buy the peripheral. It can’t buy life.
When the last day is done, all that wealth goes to someone else, or the state.
Take your pick - but never forget money (lots of or little) drives harder than the urge for sex.
Europa Poets' Gazette No 76
Horace
I keep telling Horace he has to go,
But still he lingers on, wanting to share his life with me.
He watches me in the shower -
Probably longing to scrub my back -
Or worse, entwine his legs around mine!
I wonder how I can stand him so near
And yet one part of me wants to keep him,
Wants to talk to him, wants just to know he is there.
When he finds someone else, of course he will tire of me,
But until that day, he can stay.
Oh woe is me, if the only company I have is -
The daddy long-legs spider living in my bathroom.
© June Maureen Hitchcock July 18 2010
I keep telling Horace he has to go,
But still he lingers on, wanting to share his life with me.
He watches me in the shower -
Probably longing to scrub my back -
Or worse, entwine his legs around mine!
I wonder how I can stand him so near
And yet one part of me wants to keep him,
Wants to talk to him, wants just to know he is there.
When he finds someone else, of course he will tire of me,
But until that day, he can stay.
Oh woe is me, if the only company I have is -
The daddy long-legs spider living in my bathroom.
© June Maureen Hitchcock July 18 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No 76
Apples
Tempting Eve in Eden’s Garden, your seductive succulence
had her interest full aroused, though she knew the consequence.
Hence down throughout the ages, your juices sweet and mild,
have tempted many tastebuds, while your beauty has beguiled.
You offer us so many flavours, from sugary to tart,
Truly a fruit to gladden the most discerning heart.
Crisp and fresh, plucked from the twig, or ’neath a pastry crust,
our longing for your flesh is sometimes akin to lust.
Tantalised by that aroma wafting from a steaming pie,
I love you any way you’re served up - the apple of my eye.
© Pete Stratford 16.7.10
Tempting Eve in Eden’s Garden, your seductive succulence
had her interest full aroused, though she knew the consequence.
Hence down throughout the ages, your juices sweet and mild,
have tempted many tastebuds, while your beauty has beguiled.
You offer us so many flavours, from sugary to tart,
Truly a fruit to gladden the most discerning heart.
Crisp and fresh, plucked from the twig, or ’neath a pastry crust,
our longing for your flesh is sometimes akin to lust.
Tantalised by that aroma wafting from a steaming pie,
I love you any way you’re served up - the apple of my eye.
© Pete Stratford 16.7.10
Europa Poets' Gazette No 76
Winter In A Sydney Park
In the dank and green-leafed gully
of the affluent Sydney suburb,
rain drips from the arches of the old bridge,
coursing down the cracked and moss-encrusted
stones
and the guttering around the roof
of the weathered café where the young mothers sit
over their first lattes of the day.
Three-year-olds at tennis lessons
arbitrarily lunge or miss
or kick the yellow balls,
or stop to argue, or to fight each other,
till, long-suffering, their coach
with care,
prizes them apart.
On the asphalt leaf-strewn tracks
around the park,
sweating young men, or girls in gaudy lycra,
jog, or cycle, meanwhile talking on their phones,
or to their dogs,
whose names are quaint, or ostentatious,
Montmorency, Clemency, Randolf,
or Big Boy.
Away from such overt activity,
a grey-haired woman,
on her knees,
pulls out lantana, nasturtiums,
fleabane and the green Madeira vine,
escaped from gardens,
or intentionally grown
to "beautify" the park.
And there’s an overhang of sandstone,
splintering in coloured swathes
of yellow, ochre, brown,
where maybe once the early owners of the land
met to converse, or find a partner,
threaten war,
or sue for peace,
or reinforce their secret lore,
their songs, their chants,
their dark inheritance.
The elk’s horn, coral ferns and maidenhair,
mosses and grey-laced lichens,
channel the raindrops,
runneling from the roof
of this once-secret cave.
© Mary Kille
In the dank and green-leafed gully
of the affluent Sydney suburb,
rain drips from the arches of the old bridge,
coursing down the cracked and moss-encrusted
stones
and the guttering around the roof
of the weathered café where the young mothers sit
over their first lattes of the day.
Three-year-olds at tennis lessons
arbitrarily lunge or miss
or kick the yellow balls,
or stop to argue, or to fight each other,
till, long-suffering, their coach
with care,
prizes them apart.
On the asphalt leaf-strewn tracks
around the park,
sweating young men, or girls in gaudy lycra,
jog, or cycle, meanwhile talking on their phones,
or to their dogs,
whose names are quaint, or ostentatious,
Montmorency, Clemency, Randolf,
or Big Boy.
Away from such overt activity,
a grey-haired woman,
on her knees,
pulls out lantana, nasturtiums,
fleabane and the green Madeira vine,
escaped from gardens,
or intentionally grown
to "beautify" the park.
And there’s an overhang of sandstone,
splintering in coloured swathes
of yellow, ochre, brown,
where maybe once the early owners of the land
met to converse, or find a partner,
threaten war,
or sue for peace,
or reinforce their secret lore,
their songs, their chants,
their dark inheritance.
The elk’s horn, coral ferns and maidenhair,
mosses and grey-laced lichens,
channel the raindrops,
runneling from the roof
of this once-secret cave.
© Mary Kille
Europa Poets' Gazette No 76
God Has A Plan For Us All
She lies drenched in blood, as she grips at the soil with her right hand in the rubble of Chicken Street, down-town Kabul.
She screams out,
"What is your plan for me, God?
I am a mother and a daughter,
A sole provider.
I have always conducted myself
according to your laws.
Will I survive to do my duties
to support my children and my mother?
So please tell me, what is your plan?"
She grips at a crucifix that cuts,
As it is clutched, into the palm of her
left hand as she reiterates,
"Please, please tell me,
what is your plan for me God?"
© Judy Brumby-Lake
She lies drenched in blood, as she grips at the soil with her right hand in the rubble of Chicken Street, down-town Kabul.
She screams out,
"What is your plan for me, God?
I am a mother and a daughter,
A sole provider.
I have always conducted myself
according to your laws.
Will I survive to do my duties
to support my children and my mother?
So please tell me, what is your plan?"
She grips at a crucifix that cuts,
As it is clutched, into the palm of her
left hand as she reiterates,
"Please, please tell me,
what is your plan for me God?"
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Europa Poets' Gazette No 76
Reconstituted Air
Reconstituted air
invades my lungs
and odours creep
of humanity crammed into
an unnatural shape
Each in our own bubble of close
proximity
We try to sleep
We survive.
© Cailin Ogston
(On a flight to Singapore.)
Reconstituted air
invades my lungs
and odours creep
of humanity crammed into
an unnatural shape
Each in our own bubble of close
proximity
We try to sleep
We survive.
© Cailin Ogston
(On a flight to Singapore.)
Europa Poets' Gazette No 76
With Commercial Media
You At Least Have A Choice
Is something amiss with the ABC?
Auntie’s not the girl she used to be.
Her news journalists once were fearless and keen,
Bringing news we trusted to air waves and screen.
Now it’s News Limited dictating our limited news:
Its opinions, crusades and particular views
And Auntie’s news readers with nuanced repartee
Obediently deliver each daily release
At every news break predictable yet alien.
So, who’s infecting Auntie with The Australian?
Bird Words
A convivium of cockatoos,
Their black forms clamber and swing
On a banksia trapeze.
Ornate beaks snip and savour
Flowers of a subtle hue
To match
Tail flash and ear patch.
© Barbara Boyle June 2010
You At Least Have A Choice
Is something amiss with the ABC?
Auntie’s not the girl she used to be.
Her news journalists once were fearless and keen,
Bringing news we trusted to air waves and screen.
Now it’s News Limited dictating our limited news:
Its opinions, crusades and particular views
And Auntie’s news readers with nuanced repartee
Obediently deliver each daily release
At every news break predictable yet alien.
So, who’s infecting Auntie with The Australian?
Bird Words
A convivium of cockatoos,
Their black forms clamber and swing
On a banksia trapeze.
Ornate beaks snip and savour
Flowers of a subtle hue
To match
Tail flash and ear patch.
© Barbara Boyle June 2010
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