the pond at the end
of the street, its edges frozen
and without toad song
-
after a hard rain
the old man’s turnips
bare sensuous purple shoulders
-
that old drunken moon–
smoking cigarettes and singing
songs in a toad’s voice
Pearl Nelson
http://pearlnelson.wordpress.com/
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Looking Back - Ron Wilkins
Looking Back
A thump with the heel
of the hand forcing entry,
then the metal ripper jacking up
the lid in levered steps until
with a twist,
the jagged disk snapped loose.
It was hard preparing a meal
of sausages and vegetables
in those student days,
filling up on a chunk of bread and jam,
a mug of tea.
Now, the opener is half the size.
It grips the rim and by successive turns
of a wheel at the side,
the can rotates et voila –
a perfect reflecting circle drops,
neat as a freshly minted coin.
How much easier life has become,
though as I gaze at the pale beans
glowing in their pink sauce,
I wonder could I be viewing the present
through rosy-tinted spectacles?
Ron Wilkins
http://tasmaniantimes.com/index.php?/weblog/article/changsha-beauty/
A thump with the heel
of the hand forcing entry,
then the metal ripper jacking up
the lid in levered steps until
with a twist,
the jagged disk snapped loose.
It was hard preparing a meal
of sausages and vegetables
in those student days,
filling up on a chunk of bread and jam,
a mug of tea.
Now, the opener is half the size.
It grips the rim and by successive turns
of a wheel at the side,
the can rotates et voila –
a perfect reflecting circle drops,
neat as a freshly minted coin.
How much easier life has become,
though as I gaze at the pale beans
glowing in their pink sauce,
I wonder could I be viewing the present
through rosy-tinted spectacles?
Ron Wilkins
http://tasmaniantimes.com/index.php?/weblog/article/changsha-beauty/
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Beloved - Shonni Hodge
Beloved
The lies have wrought their own piece:
Intricate curls, gilt and glamour
to showcase the shame.
Glass beads set in the mask
reflect years.
Contorted husk
of animation,
carved dream of humanity:
Her perfection is without equal.
How I despised her, and her magpie eyes.
Unyielding presence, a thing possessed – she watches
And knows.
Empty shell! Your partner quit your side forever.
How he must have loathed your
porcelain, so cold beneath
mere flesh.
But now my heart is merely sickened
to watch you sit and stare.
Skin once flush and heated is now
Chilling, startling to touch.
Eyes whose life once boiled, flooding my heart,
reflect the world without wonder.
Shonni Hodge
http://disorganisationanddiatribes.blogspot.com/
The lies have wrought their own piece:
Intricate curls, gilt and glamour
to showcase the shame.
Glass beads set in the mask
reflect years.
Contorted husk
of animation,
carved dream of humanity:
Her perfection is without equal.
How I despised her, and her magpie eyes.
Unyielding presence, a thing possessed – she watches
And knows.
Empty shell! Your partner quit your side forever.
How he must have loathed your
porcelain, so cold beneath
mere flesh.
But now my heart is merely sickened
to watch you sit and stare.
Skin once flush and heated is now
Chilling, startling to touch.
Eyes whose life once boiled, flooding my heart,
reflect the world without wonder.
Shonni Hodge
http://disorganisationanddiatribes.blogspot.com/
Monday, December 28, 2009
The Words That Fell To Earth - Amelia Walker
The Words That Fell To Earth
Thirty seven pages.
Thirty seven miles.
The diary of Ilan Ramon,
Israel's first astronaut,
found, wet and crumpled,
in a field just outside Palestine,
Texas. Words:
scrawled survivors,
the only survivors of Columbia,
the space shuttle that disintegrated
upon re-entry, February 1st, 2003
- the newspaper says.
Disintegrated.
Such a newspaper word.
Distintegrated.
All that metal.
All that flesh
and blood and bones and organs
and thoughts -what thoughts?
Any?
Where did they go?
How is it ink and paper escaped
the explosion, the heat,
the ice cold plummet,
the dirt and damp of the field
to be found, two months later
and returned to Ilan's wife?
All that ink.
All that paper.
All that metal.
All that flesh.
Thirty seven pages
and how many words?
Amelia Walker
http://www.freewebs.com/ameliawalker/
Thirty seven pages.
Thirty seven miles.
The diary of Ilan Ramon,
Israel's first astronaut,
found, wet and crumpled,
in a field just outside Palestine,
Texas. Words:
scrawled survivors,
the only survivors of Columbia,
the space shuttle that disintegrated
upon re-entry, February 1st, 2003
- the newspaper says.
Disintegrated.
Such a newspaper word.
Distintegrated.
All that metal.
All that flesh
and blood and bones and organs
and thoughts -what thoughts?
Any?
Where did they go?
How is it ink and paper escaped
the explosion, the heat,
the ice cold plummet,
the dirt and damp of the field
to be found, two months later
and returned to Ilan's wife?
All that ink.
All that paper.
All that metal.
All that flesh.
Thirty seven pages
and how many words?
Amelia Walker
http://www.freewebs.com/ameliawalker/
Friday, December 18, 2009
New Tone Poem at 'The Poetry Slave'
Jane Williams and I have just finished the first collaborative tone poem at 'The Poetry Slave' (see link below & to the right)
Much in the same way that Sergei Rachmaninoff used Arnold Böcklin’s painting ‘The Isle of the Dead‘ as a starting point for his piece of the same name, we’ve used the expressionist painter Marc Chagall’s work Les Fiances de la Tour Eiffel as ours.
Have a look!
http://thepoetryslave.wordpress.com/
Much in the same way that Sergei Rachmaninoff used Arnold Böcklin’s painting ‘The Isle of the Dead‘ as a starting point for his piece of the same name, we’ve used the expressionist painter Marc Chagall’s work Les Fiances de la Tour Eiffel as ours.
Have a look!
http://thepoetryslave.wordpress.com/
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Mark William Jackson - These Days that Play like Toothaches
These days that play like toothaches.
dragging each breath in
then pushing it out
like a cheating lover.
Breath upon breath until
the day is drawn up
and spat into a waste basin
by the straight syringe of time.
Day upon day until
we are left
to sleep with worms.
Mark William Jackson
http://markwilliamjackson.com/
dragging each breath in
then pushing it out
like a cheating lover.
Breath upon breath until
the day is drawn up
and spat into a waste basin
by the straight syringe of time.
Day upon day until
we are left
to sleep with worms.
Mark William Jackson
http://markwilliamjackson.com/
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Ron Wilkins - A Matter of Life and Death
A matter of life and death
While walking down the street
I surprised a girl and a boy
in passionate embrace against a wall.
Nothing strange about that, you may say,
but she was dressed in school uniform
and it was during school hours.
Ah, that’s life I said to myself.
Hey, guess what I saw in The Boulevard
I said to my wife.
Next day I was carrying
a ring-tailed possum by the tail
as I walked along the road.
Schoolgirl heads
swivelled in unison as I passed.
Burying the possum
in an unmarked grave next to the last
and beside the graves of my two cats,
creating quite a cemetery,
I thought to myself, that’s death.
Hey, guess what I saw down the street
I suppose a schoolgirl said to her mum,
completing yet another
life and death tale.
Ron Wilkins
http://www.quadrant.org.au/magazine/issue/2008/4/worm
While walking down the street
I surprised a girl and a boy
in passionate embrace against a wall.
Nothing strange about that, you may say,
but she was dressed in school uniform
and it was during school hours.
Ah, that’s life I said to myself.
Hey, guess what I saw in The Boulevard
I said to my wife.
Next day I was carrying
a ring-tailed possum by the tail
as I walked along the road.
Schoolgirl heads
swivelled in unison as I passed.
Burying the possum
in an unmarked grave next to the last
and beside the graves of my two cats,
creating quite a cemetery,
I thought to myself, that’s death.
Hey, guess what I saw down the street
I suppose a schoolgirl said to her mum,
completing yet another
life and death tale.
Ron Wilkins
http://www.quadrant.org.au/magazine/issue/2008/4/worm
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