anzac

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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)

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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

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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

leased war

This poem is about a photo of a young child of about 10, who stares through the broken window of a shot out car. Two women were shot and died at a check point.

The sentiment is, what effect is this war having on the hearts of these young children?   And i wonder how do we stop war. When Iraq was pulverised into submission and photos kept coming in the days when I still bought newspapers, I found myself staring over and over at this photo. The women probably in full burka panicked and drove too fast near a roadblock and they were shot. Those shooting were suspicious and shot and yet two women in a car should be able to drive in their country. Then the next issue, it was not US or other soldiers but leased or hired guards so it was impossible to find anyone to blame.

 

 
leased war

in the photo
a child stares
into a blood-splattered car

in his heart . . .
what seeds are planted

what tangles and grows
in a harsh elegiac landscape
of desert sand and rubble

two women dead    the news said
Shot by hired security guards
answerable to none
they get the job done
with privatised weapons
privatised tanks   ammunition

no more mention of the child
growing up in his homeland
a privatised crucible of war

requiem for a suicide bomber

This poem is based on a true story. The wall built by Israeli goes through Palestinian  farms without  discretion and this woman who had to face the check points each day  to work on her Uncle’s farm faced this indignity, which a year later had her die in a markets, in her effort  to  kill.

Is it revenge.? Is it as a result of powerlessness. I believe terrorism is a vicious cycle and we have a lot of work to do to change this world wide way.

 

 

 

Palestinian workers salvage building materials near Erez Crossing at the northern border between Gaza and Israel, Beit Hanoun, February 18, 2014. A remote-controlled sniper gun is mounted on a nearby Israeli military watchtower in the border wall. Human rights organizations have documented dozens of cases of Israeli army gunfire at persons who posed no threat and were well outside the 300-meter so-called "no-go zone" imposed by the Israeli military inside Gaza's borders. In many cases, no warning was given before soldiers opened fire.

 

 

 

requiem for a suicide bomber

twice each day
she passes through the check point
the eye of a needle
portal of a war-torn heart
to work on the other side
the concrete wall cuts
a vandal’s knife
through her uncle’s farm

on this day
shuffling through eyes lowered
she shows her work pass

well polished black boots
feet planted squarely apart
block her way

she looks up
his eyes
malevolent intent
blinding as the light off the barrel of his gun
her fear
his turn on

he taunts
pulls her hard against his uniformed body
like an inflatable sex doll
laughs at her impotent disgust
and his power

a year later
with posture of defeat
a heavy belt around her waist
steadfast
she walks into a busy market-place
her body
a weapon

desert gaol

The following poem was actually written in 2007. It was in response to a black and white photo in the SMH that captured my heart.  It said so much about the war at the time and  I was so anti the Iraq War when it began in 2003 with Bush-Blair-Howard Shock and Awe Campaign.

I included this poem in my collection as it was Highly Commended in the Gum Blossom Poetry Competition at the time.

Of course now the war that made a vacuum  in Iraq  has spread and disturbed the world and we have become  desensitised about photos like this.
desert gaol

i’m haunted by a photo scene
a makeshift desert gaol
with barbed wire as a barricade
men with bare feet
wearing simple garb white djellaba
hands tied behind their backs
over their heads plain black sacks
crowded and cowering they sit

near one a tiny child leans
toes digging into the sand
the man unable to reach out a hand
to comfort or reassure

often in my dreams
i wonder what became of them.

street madonna

The following poem was inspired by our time in Barcelona. For several days we walked in Gaudi and Picasso’s footsteps, fascinated by the birth of the cubism movement and both of us having favourite Picasso works to search for. We walked the small lanes, and cobbled roads,pass a unique Spanish Church, pass restaurents especially Els Quatre Gats taverns, the world renowned Picasso Museum, and sat sipping red wine and eating Paella on La Rambla observing the people, as our daughter Bernadine recommended.
It is surprising to me this is the poem from those days. The Roma woman sitting on the cold steps of the Church, was there for the two days I walked that way and the shock on the second day when I visited the Church, to find a baby hidden under her mantel and less cared for then the statue of the Madonna and Child inside the church . The paradox and pathos are hard to capture. I hope I have captured the moment for you.

street madonna

she was there yesterday
quiet as a fresco
sunlit olive skin eyes lowered
a shawl and joyful skirt

i felt a jolt
passed quickly by

walk picasso’s footsteps
barcelona’s gothic quarter
marvel at ancient roman walls
sip coffee in the bohemian-quarter kats
inhale the vibe of past artists writers poets

she is there again today
on the cold stone steps
near the ornately carved doors
her presence loud

I was warned
walk on
but a voice inside says
this is different

in the cathedral the rose window
plays its colours
mother and baby statue
glows in candle light

on my way out
a fumble in my heart
makes me halt
i scan her face

she looks up eyes hook me
draw me she smiles
the cup in her hand
rattles

under her mantle
a baby cradled in her lap
reaches out