The Blue Nib reviews Hildegard of Bingen by Colleen Keating

Seeing the world through childrens’ eyes

 

 

 

Seeing the world through children’s eyes. 

When the tide recedes beyond the horizon
and the underbelly of the sea is exposed
for little adventurers, Edison and Darcy
the rock platform is a necklace of pools
shimmering like emeralds and full of treasure.

Worry of slipping and falling is not their concern
they hop from rock to rock                                                    
clamber about down on their tummies
their shining eyes
reflected in the mirrored sea.

Everything is magical and extraordinary
Come here, quick Grandma 
the crabs are humongous. 
a scuttle of creatures disappear in our shadow
making us wait quietly
pretending we’re not here
as the rocks curl with camouflaged
crustaceans creeping out
and pincers like boxing gloves
point up at us.                                                    

In their eyes there is wonder
as red anemones sway the waves
as the molluscs trail into patterns
as starfish wash up like gift
as a sting ray glides past their toes
as these curious boys
learn to be respectful of the living world

Seeing the world through children’s eyes
makes me happy to be alive
as we steal out to the edge of the sea
and look for whales
as we dig in the sand on the edge of the beach
as we allow gentle laps of waves
to fill our canals and tunnels
and moats to protect our castles
until Darcy sees more fun in jumping
on them as quick as we can  mould the sand
seeing the world through children’s eyes

Colleen

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Summer walk: The Poetry of Tuggerah Lake

The Poetry of Tuggerah Lake

 

 

Our walk begins on the beach,
low tide and the sea gulls
strutting on the edge,
a flotilla of pelicans glide
with the incoming tide.
A cormorant dives over and over
no chance of predicting where he’d surface.

Coffee from the barrister
at The Lake House is worth the anticipation
(no milk at the apartment so we were hanging out.) 

Two fisherman gut their catch at the sink- bench
and pelicans line up for their share of the feed.

Corellas paired up and sing  preening each other
some on the grass, some in the trees
near an awkward looking ibis pretending
to look elegant on a branch
where cormorants play notes
on musical staves

and on the lake
black swans silky as ballerinas
flaunt with their reflections
on the shiny mirrored lake.

Lap wings were out
squawking to claim their territory.
The council has fenced off
the sand dune to protect
nests of the Little Terns
who migrate from China for the summer
and we watch their acrobatics
around the dunes and seaweed.

 

The sandstone rocks glint
with their striations and swivels and colour
showing us more than any history
or geology text book could

Our signature spoonbill
we expect to see, is again there
as we cross the bridge near the lake,
with his caravan of ducks and hangers-on
waiting for him to disturb the mudflat.

The morning lake catches
the clouds, the sky and ever changing light
and on our way back as the tide turns
the sea spray against the rocks
sings alleluia to another day. 

Elephants by Tyler Jack Little

Elephants

for Ellie

 

Elephants     by Tyler

 

Elephants are humongous.

They are light, silvery-grey.

They use their trunks

to eat and drink .

In water they like to play.

Their tusks are very strong

And they use them to crunch boulders

 

My elephant is very gentle

when he snuggles on my shoulders

My elephant is soft and small

 I always sleep with him at night

He keeps me warm  and protected

And always makes me feel right

Tyler Jack Little  (8 year old)

Eureka Street Publication

It is very exciting to have my poem Code Red published in Eureka Street. Our words are our sabre . We need to listen to our earth.

Fire poems

Selected poems

Apocalypse

It’s as though it’s suddenly turned winter,

the way the earth is covered over and the grey stretch of ash

is drawn up to its chin like a blanket.

And though it’s day, the bird-less quiet is a kind of night,

and everything we ever thought we knew has been turned upside down,

the first now last, and the last first.

— Bill Rush

 

landscape

This blackness

of landscape

as if a fire had

passed through

with no echo of water

in the dumb silence

there is though the fear

a sun, a ball of glow

just above a horizon

waiting for a breath

waiting for a change of wind

waiting for a cool voice

just to say something

— Rory Harris

 

Code red

when the sun like a cyclops rages fiery red

divots the sky in a coven of camouflage

It has no voice to plead ‘enough’

it warns us to listen …

 

in the myth Odysseus gathers forces

to ram the glaring monster

but be warned

this sun is not the enemy

it is air thick with ash that chokes ‘help’

amidst ember attacks and dust storms

 

when fish like shimmering naiads surface slimy green

float dead in display of disaster

they have no voice to gulp ‘stop’

they rely on us to think …

 

in the myth Naiads shine silver

in springs and streams and brooks

be warned

dead fish are not the enemy

it is our river’s way of weeping ‘save me’

over-used and desecrated

 

when the earth our mother is parched

her body dried and cracked

she has no voice to lament ‘code red ‘

it depends on us to act …

 

in the myth our mother-earth

cries for care for respect

but be warned

cracked earth is not the enemy

it is a strangled cry ‘no more to give’

exhausted and depleted

 

when the sea like clotted blood chokes with plastics

angry Thor thunders floods the land

it has no voice to say ‘greed does not pay’

it counts on us for action …

 

yet still in our great city people walk about

heads down in an eerie silence

eyes weep from the smoke

behind fake masks that filter reality

 

they walk unbeknown like frogs

and like frogs in the myththey are being slowly boiled alive.

— Colleen Keating

 

 

 

Topic tags: poetry, Bill Rush, Rory Harris, Colleen Keating

 

Hildegard of Bingen in the Christmas edition of Good Oil Journal

‘Search out the house of your heart. Hope lies within,’ writes Colleen Keating. 

It is 1178, the year before Hildegard of Bingen dies. The Bishop has silenced the music in their Abbey as punishment and some of the Sisters are feeling discouraged; however, Hildegard still crossed the Rhine to visit her second convent every week and encouraged her Sisters in their work and prayer.By Colleen Keating

Struggle in Exile

Advent
casts deep sorrow.
It is cold, dark, silent.
Hildegard hears mumblings.
She reassures her Sisters
with her presence at Rupertsberg,
her visits to Eibingen.The darkest nights of the year
anticipate the fledgling Christ Light.
In the Chapel candlelight
resolve flickers in her eyes.
Listen, listen, listen.

My Sisters this is our time to listen.
As we pray the words,
listen to their song in your hearts,
she continues,
The Bishop cannot forbid us to listen.                
Silencing the outer sound
does not silence us.
Search out the house of your heart.
Hope lies within.

She points to the fallowed gardens
blanketed by white-sleeted hay.
Contemplate its promise.
As silence in absence of bird-song
reminds us, music will return.

While the interdict diminishes them,
meal time together brings nourishment:
hot spelt bread, garden broths, teas
and from their harvest of stored foods,
bottled quince, the warmth of
herbs and hot berry wines.
They listen to the Nativity story.
Conversation swirls over the tables.

When the postulants, last season,
singing joyfully, picked purple sloes
and red hawthorn berries in the woods,
to brew and bottle,
little did they know the comfort,
their warm wines would be,
how perfect for this dark time.

Colleen Keating

Colleen Keating is a Sydney-based poet and writer. Through her work she “explores the paradox and wonder of nature, the harsh realities of life, of inequality, injustice and increasing threat to our natural environment”. In November 2017 Colleen published her second book of poetry, “Fire on Water” (Ginninderra Press), which recently won a silver Nautilus Book Award. Colleen’s website is colleenkeatingpoet.com

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