Poetry

the smell of parsley

colleen Poetry , , , , ,

When Emily, transported to heaven in Thornton Wilder’s play Our Town is asked what she misses most on earth she says, “The smell of parsley” And in Under Milkwood Dylan Thomas has one of his dead ship-wrecked sailors call out from the underworld
“What is the smell of parsley/”

Parsley apparently was growing wildly in the Mediterren Basin before man. It is a herb so common, like other ordinary things such as youth, such as spring,
we miss them only when they’re gone.

The message for me is enjoy life for it is short. Take time to smell the roses, to smell the parsley , remember to be as much as you can in the present moment so when your time is up you have no regrets. You have the beauty and love with you always.

parsley

the smell of parsley

tend the garden
after the rains
knee deep
in wet grass
up to your elbows in soil
and worms
and snails
and ruff of compost

marvel at the ramble
of a pumpkin vine
a stray seed gone free

linger in the fragrance
of chives and basil
coriander rocket and mint

and the smell of parsley

what is the smell of parsley?

savour their bouquet
be jubilant
with the flirt of white moths
and the canticle on the branch above
dwell on your knees
as if in prayer
tending the garden

A Solitary Tomato Plant

colleen Poetry , , , , , ,

“There was a pact between us . . .
not just to survive
we will thrive”

At the time of writing this poem I was struggling with a few life issues and being out in the sun , in the garden with the herbs and the birds I realised how wonderful it was to be alive and to be strong and I had a new feeling to live life to the fullest.

tomato-plant-17042009aa (1)

a solitary tomato plant

feast your eyes on the green   a healing colour
said hildegard of bingen

let its thousand shades and dappled ways
imbue your eyes
give resilience

i carry her words into my garden
plant out chilli chives and coriander
zucchini lettuce of different kin and basil

and a solitary weedy tomato plant from the throw-out table
there’s a pact between us
not just to survive
we will thrive

i prepare the soil with extra blood-and-bone
gently plant it out settle it in
with stakes for it to climb
circle with sawdust to ward off those
that love to munch

under the sprinkler
its limp leaves uncurl
sit up so vibrantly
i hear it grow

in the garden I come alive
the soil
and its rich textured compost
feel good

I marvel
my scraps now this wonder
the worms
have worked their magic

a kookaburra sits above
a magpie stalks
turned soil their turn on

smell of sun-warmed grass
lightly so lightly wafts
i stand stretch watch a white butterfly hover

in shorts and sleeveless top
i enjoy the sun
resilient in my gardening boots and gloves
i manoeuvre the wheel-barrow
and we patiently wait to bloom

saving the jacaranda

colleen Poetry , ,

It was on an autumn walk I learnt the old Jacaranda tree that I loved was under threat. It was in the way of new pipes. The pipes about 2 metres in diameter were being dug in and the gorgeous old Jacaranda was in the pathway. The next day there was an arborist directing the men down amongst the roots gently digging out the soil. The pipe was placed in underneath the roots. Then in November, 6 months on there it was, in full glory . . thanks to those who had worked to save it.

jacaranda_tree

saving the jacaranda

the line for the new concrete
drainage pipe
runs under the massive old jacaranda

meticulous to protect its roots
day after day the council men
ratty and mole in fluorescent yellow
dig a man-made warren
wide and deep

exposed roots
stretch and coil like dark bearded monsters
from a tenebrous underworld
smelling earthy airless damp

then overseen by an arborist
a crane lowers the pipe into place
and this private world is reclaimed

a year on
standing before its gnarled trunk
on a lilac path
i am corralled in its aura
of blossom-laden branches
and i rejoice with the breeze
in whispered mantras

renaissance

colleen Poetry , , , , ,

 

With our very severe droughts, dams can be dry and  things that were unfortunately dumped there are exposed again –  including tyres that were once swings over the water.

However my poem is about the turn around weather that also happens in our country and the dam ‘overflows’ with laughter and joy. The poem was inspired by a dam, on a property that I was visiting at the time, called the Sanctuary in Queensland. A place of peace and  bell birds, blue lilies, magnificent stands of eucalypt , and a sacred bora ring of Bunyan Pines  and much, much more. When the rains  came it was magic as the poem portrays.

renaissance

it was a long dry
the underbelly of the dam
in the far paddock
exposed tyres a rusted trap machinery
old wheels and discarded petrol drums

after the rains
sound from the dam calls
from beyond the scrub
i follow the once hard dusty track
now a squelch of mustard clay
and sticky wet paspalum knee deep

dank-scented saplings and surviving gums
cocoon new life
saffron-blue water lilies
crowd the iron-black water
needles of wind cross stitch the surface
falling seed pods, dip of willow
the scud of iridescent ducks
zip of stippled dragon wings
and dart-tilt-skim of arrowed swallows
overlay the pattern

at the far end
half-hidden in the reeds
lies a rotting mossy log
a diving board from my childhood days

crickets frogs birds in chorus
and gregarious squeals
from two busy masked lapwings
on the bank
create a bush symphony

here in my place of refuge
a coming home
the roots of an old gum
extend comfortable arms
i sit in their embrace
listen
and watch
an egret stalks its prey

zen moments

colleen Poetry , , , , , ,

Zen is a way of being and can be seen as  a state of mind.  I think for Blake it is seeing ‘the world in a grain of sand,  and a heaven in a wildflower’.  For Eliot it could be ‘at the still point of a  turning world.’   For Frost’s ‘Two Roads’   it is taking the one less travelled’  For Michael  he suggests it is the moment at the bottom of the driveway when he is out and  on  his morning walk.

My zen moment  this day was watching a single tawny leaf on its journey.  And all I could do was breathe out slowly . I felt a sense of everything and nothing.  It could be like my heart and gut just connected very satisfyingly. And so I wrote. . .

 

 

IMG_0092

 

zen moment

a tawny leaf

clothed
nourished
the tree

lived its time
served its purpose

takes its leave
surrenders

falls

how gently
falling
falling
its fluttered spin
air-cushioned down

received
lightly
silently
by the earth

Colleen Keating

 

leaf

Photo taken by Elizabeth Keating-Jones

soul’s winter

colleen Poetry , , , ,

 

Another poem in the section called The Smell of Parsley .  You will see why after you read it a few times.

‘It amazes me how close is death to the birth of new life. ‘ We are reminded of this by nature over and over, how the sun bursts through after the darkest storm, how the new buds appear miraculously on the branch of a tree that some could think lifeless, and how the light overcomth the darkest of night each dawn. Nature shows us and we are reminded not to  loose hope in the dark, yet how often are we  ‘stunned in the impasse of unknowing.’ 

This poem tells of an incident of waiting    ‘stunned in the impasse of unknowing‘.  The waiting in the dark and cold  of nights.  Maybe it could be said the last line was not needed but I added it anyway.

winter tree

 

 

soul’s winter

waiting in winter
on the cusp of spring
for a baby to be born
feels as if the world
has taken a vow of silence
and time is paralysed

it amazes me how close is death
to the birth of new life

outside a straggly wet mop of a day
droops in
skeletal limbs of trees x-rayed against sky
shudder like brittle bones
breathing just a little
tremulously

their cold black presence
chills my blood
stirs thoughts of death
i sense its shadow
shiver in its grip

my heart fumbles
like one lost in a dark night
stunned in the impasse of unknowing

i want to believe that this will change
and that I will soon
be dazzled

and i am

 

winter morning walk

colleen Poetry , , ,

 

The winter walk was sensually intense, the colours and sounds, and the potential of birthing buds ready to burst out in all glory.  Below the brambley Wisteria I did find myself on my knees and smiled to myself. It was early morning and I like to think the walk sounds as if it was in some very important place. You have to read to the end of the poem to find out where this special experience unfolded.

winter walk

 

winter morning walk

come with me
feel the shrill bell-tingle
of the morning on your face
leave your ears bare to listen

unfurl yourself
like the pocket magnolia bud
peeping from its birthing cocoon
its curiosity insatiable
knowing it is glorious

distinguish whips and chortle and chirps
notice the screech of the yellow crested cockatoo
high above in the blue gums

smile at the showy red camellia
its carpet of colour reflecting its flamboyance
take in that orange blossom scent

kneel before the snow bells
profuse like lilies of the field
below the wisteria’s bare brambles

rub hands
with the pepper tree foliage
let its aroma play in your mind

ah what joy
is this winter morning walk
around the block

winter walk 2

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

listen

colleen Poetry , , , , ,

The first of 9 poems in the section of the Anthology   A Call to Listen. This section is called The Smell of Parsley and focuses on poems that call on our senses. Enjoy. This is my favourite section.

The poem   listen   was inspired by a walk through the Tall Timbers Walk between Eastwood and West Ryde  with my labrador Millie.  She was a wonderful model  reminding me to slow down and look and listen and smell the wonders of nature along the way. It began with the crunch  of leaves under my feet and  the crack and rustle of the tiny skinks out sunning rustling away  from me  as I crunched through the fallen leaves  . The poem ends with an interesting, ambiguous yet cosmic line. Enjoy.

 

autumn
listen

bowed trees sleep
tresses crunch at their feet
hound of wind moans
rhyme with rustle tones
come closer
listen
snick on grass
wake of bird
seed on wing
leaf brush on air
crack and rustle of skink
in their leaf litter rush of hide-and-seek
cricket-croaks
fruitfly-drone
frog-plonk in pond
snap of seed-pod
kerplop of fruit and berry
and in the underworld
rub of beetle and ant

the only other sound
easy drift
of vesper leaves
settling
to a hush

this seasonal paradigm
whispers its arrival
no fuss
except it’s time

 

 

 

 

 

turning the tide

colleen Poetry , ,

“What do you do when it’s all done?”   Up at The Entrance he sits and watches . Up at The Entrance I sit, we sit,  and watch . It brings you alive , it keeps you  alive . Well what will you do when it is all done?

 

 

seat at beach

 

 

 

turning the tide
it’s a big sky the horizon
where the sea meets it
would be a lonely line
except for the old man who keeps it company

he knows the weathers personally
sits watches over the lake’s journey into the sea
keeps the tides on track
shepherds their turning    checks they’re on time

what do you do when it’s all done
leathery face  salty beard
his blood-shot eyes
smile contentedly

the wharf

colleen Poetry ,

A metaphor. This poem was written at a time of decision. Hmmm  you have to read the end of the poem  .  Can you think of a time when your toes curled, fumbled on the edge?  Did you dive in?

 

the wharf

is safe to stand on
or dive off

into the wet
feel my body
my whole face in

after the first stir
ripples of warmth
would spread like waves
bliss with the touch
and taste a new landscape

infinite possibilities of treasure
no feel for oysters sharp on rocks

the blue-green summers’ ocean
murmurs come play
my toes curl   fumble
on the grey weather-dried edge