how to love a rock

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This poem is part of my beach walking experience

 

 

how to love a rock

 

its a hard thing to love a rock

you need to receive it as gift spend time
commune

gaze
touch and stroke
its smoothness
and grooves
flaws and imperfections
hold and ponder
imbue the magic of its radiating warmth !
wait upon it
allow it to seize your senses
listen for its whisper

consider where it belongs
maybe to spin joyfully back out to sea maybe a memory of a beach walk
or friendship
to adorn your book shelf or garden
or a bonsai pot
for a miniature fig to claim as its own

if it doesn’t inspire
let it go

at the nursing home

 

 

 

 

reflexology-massage-1

In 1998 when I began the double Diploma course on Healing at Nature Care the Health College at St Leonards in Sydney, Reflexology was one of the courses.It is a system of massage and reflex used to relieve tension and treat illness, based on the theory that there are reflex points on the feet, hands and head (ear) which links to every part of the body
It is based on the theory that energy is moving through our body and it can become blocked and this is where health problems can begin. By working the spot that is pinpointed can assistin moving the energy or chi again. We all know what happens to a pond that becomes stagnant . . .imagine digging a channel to allow a flow again. Well Reflexology works mainly on the feet to do this.
One of the experiences was to visit a Nursing Home near by where Reflexology was very popular.

Unknown

at the nursing home

i fill the foot bath
my elbow checks the tepid water

she sits like a goddess at an altar
regal and stoic

her face shows many lifetimes
lipstick defines the line she desires
white wavy hair swept with combs
into a tight bun
gives the air of holding it all together

gently i hold and massage her feet
in the lavender scented water
feel a trembling and look up

tears rundown her cheeks

she weeps the words
I haven’t felt touch like this
for as long as I can remember

august mornings in hiroshima

 

Unknown

 

 

august mornings in hiroshima

 

(1)
a summer’s day in august
with measured steps   i tread
once burnt ground

cicadas drum humid air hums
distant streetcars rattle

weeping willows green and dense
line the river’s path
define this park of peace

i join those already at the cenotaph
the fragrance of incense and flowers
cannot ease the stark facts here

at the bronze sculpture
mother and child in firestorm
the mother’s eyes stare with terror
as she hunches like an animal over her young

The tower clock strikes
its hands point to a moment that must not be lost
that mortal moment: eight fifteen a.m.
my eyes catch hot hazy sky
old skin   innocence lost

 

(2)
that summer’s day in August
the enola gay looms onto the horizon
a glint in the sun a blinding flash
a shadow dooming humanity
its foreboding drone
drowned out by the song of cicadas

children chase dragonflies on their way to school
fishermen trawl the tranquil river
breakfast-cooking odours waft
the city bustles into life
supernatural light delivers hell to earth
hell is here
written on flesh without breath

 

(3)

a summer’s day in august
stringed garlands of folded paper cranes
sway like multi-coloured prayer flags
circling the children’s peace monument

a mother kneels beside her young child
she tells a story
the story of sadako
sadako   who died of ‘bomb sickness’
and inspired children
to fold paper cranes for peace

together the mother and child
step forward and ring the bell

above silhouetted against the sky
a sculpture of sadako holds high a golden crane

hope balancing on its wings

escaping with cezanne

cezanne

For me it was a time of grieving after the loss of my mother and there had been a lot of business and a lot of stress and I literally escaped from all that, to spend a few hours at the New South Wales Art Gallery and I had a second escape as the poem expresses.

escaping with cezanne

under his chestnut tree
bathers in naked strokes of light
pose
unburdened
i hear saplings crack in their play
and laughter as they lounge
in lusty rhythms of flesh
against blue
an illusion of reality

here free with the bathers
I am caught
in beauty
immersed
in their unfinished form
suspended from meaning

i am seduced
to linger
for the day
sheltered
under his chestnut trees

anzac

IMG_9428

This poem was inspired by Anzac morning at Blackheath War memorial .It was  a brisk Autumn pre-dawn morning on April 25th  three years ago. A small space, in a small town like thousands of others all over Australia.

 

anzac

we leave our warm bed
rugged up from cold
before dawn
gather

!

with hundreds
out of the dark
around a cairn of unknown names

!

silence is broken only by coughs
and crunch of autumn under foot

!

no birds sing

!

the breeze sighs
trees weep
a solitary bugle plays

!

dark grief
for the futility of war
for humanity’s inhumane bent

!

the soul of anzac
wings our nations’ heart
hope rings in our song
as dawn pierces the inky sky

!

the first birds sing

!

shattered

shattered

(crisis of faith)

(i)
in the morning light a thousand prisms
reveal colours never seen
a comet strikes the day
shattered glass barrier broken
exposed and vulnerable
empty space leaves nowhere to stand

(ii)
the distant spire
pierces a retiring blue sky
bells scatter the air into notes
childhood faith shattered
the crud of doubt reframes the vision
elusive as the horizon

(iii)
betrayal brands its mark
burns on flesh
illusion sears to truth
the wound in its rawness aches
and journey back to self
treads on emptiness

hypnotised

I love this poem because I loved writing beautiful words about the sun and it brings back exciting memories of our visit to Canada, Vancouver and Victoria Island, and staying with Decima’s family and getting to know a little about this country.

p4summ

hypnotised

on victoria island near vancouver

the sun could be canonised as a miracle worker
it hangs mildly in the sky
long and lingering
here on the forty-ninth parallel

its holy hands
turn this sullen inland sea to shimmering silver
if it were a shining mirror
one could say the sea sees itself
and shyly smiles

like the water’s thoughts
tiny fish rise ripple the surface
and quieten again

i stay quiet
allow the useless constant nibbles of my thoughts
to settle into the deep

the space between

The name of the poetry book is taken from the idea of this poem. This poem was inspired by a visit to the National Portrait Gallery in Canberra where portraits of my two favourite women poets were hanging by each other. I do not have pictures of the actual portraits. The following ones are pictures I like of them.

Oodgeroo-Noonuccal-narrow (1)

4449498-3x2-340x227

the space between

two women poets
hang side by side
in the portrait gallery

contained now

the space between
has its story
of times around the kitchen table
when these two women
saw other ways of being

words their weapon
justice their spirited charge
to break the wall of apathy
lift us beyond its rubble
give us new possibilites

oodgeroo noonuccal white-washed as kath walker
with sombre dark eyes and black skin

she anchored herself in hope
survived its instability
and kept it alive

judith walker social conscience
soft wrinkled sun-dried face in wide brimmed hat

a peace warrior she raged at injustice
her words a cry
against ignorance and greed
together they gaze out
calling us to listen

(Oodgeroo Noonuccal 1920-1993 and Judith Wright 1915-2000
poets, activists and friends)

lights a candle

 width=

When our Asylum Policy became secretive and we have no names and no stories, it is easy to be “crooned into amnesia,” we can actually “forget our humanity” as the second last line says.

In The Lorex, by Dr. Seuss, the final lines (which I read to children at home and at school many hundreds of times over the years) after all the trees have been cut down, he drops a seed, the very last seed of them all, and unless some one like you, plants it, and nurtures it, . . . . my poem calls for  action from us, for unless we act, be it light a candle or show we care , unless . . .

. . .lights a candle

and it comes to pass
we misplace our hearts
lose the song
forget the dance
break our tambourines
turn our backs
tremble with fear

when the unknown arrives
close doors

no names
no stories
no refugees
only a coined word
illegals

alleviates responsibility
croons amnesia

and in time
forget our humanity

unless someone like us . . .

this poem is about silence

 

gaol

 

 

 

 

Today in Australia we have a stalemate with the issue of Asylum Seekers, Refugees. and Boat people. We have had incidents of horrible things happening because of powerlessness. Stitching lips together, burning themselves alive, riots and destroying things. When one has no hope one reacts how one can.

This poem was first published in Eureka Street, a Social Justice Journal. I hope this poem has a voice for anyone who reads it, for “evil thrives under silence” is a line towards the end of the poem and that calls each of us to be awake and to be prepared to stand up and be counted. It has been said “when good people do nothing evil triumphs” In the movie Milk , they quote Martin Luther King, “To ignore evil is to be accomplice to it”

At the Jewish Museum in Sydney my breath was taken away by a wall painted with the words:

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out –
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out-
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out-
Because I wasn’t a Jew.

Then they came for me – and there was no one left to speak for me.”

this poem is about silence

words get in the way of silence
it needs a blank page
it needs space
in silence there can be longing
there can be anticipation
intimate or hostile

you can hear it
in the pin-drop moment
between bow and string

you can feel it between breaths

the inarticulate uses violence
for expression
is this silence?

can you say the sharp sickle moon
that glows on a dark winter sky is silent?

when one turns their back
silence is palpable
and what of silence imposed in fear?

silent protest is loud

when the powerless stitch their lips together
with needle and fishing line
is this silence
even as tears fall?

evil thrives under silence

a poem about silence
needs to be loud
to be heard