Two Canticles by Colleen Keating published in Rochford Street Journal Issue 40 2024

colleen Poetry

Rochford Street Review

Issue 40.  2024:2

   

Two Canticles

At a cottage by the sea I tackle Francis Webb, curious about

his poetry from Cap and Bells. Outside a wild spring ocean’s

curled waves tussle on the tide, comb to the edge, like spoonbills

probing every squint of sand and wrack. The horizon

 

is drawn-in, appropriate for this day in this ruptured world.

The sun finds thin spots to break through clouds, blades the sea

with thousands of stars and as quickly is blocked. In his poems

Francis tools words in obscurity and I must wait for the rare 

 

glimmer to shine through, to touch their thousand stars before

they meld into his shadowed world. With torch and compass

I grope through the labours of Hospital Night and wait in the

dark for the sound of winged ones in the swaddled air of his

 

suite Ward Two. I once met a Benedictine nun who knew 

Francis Webb, as an escapee from Parramatta Mental Hospital.

He knocked at her convent back door. Frail, lost, clutching

a book of poetry. Eyes eminently human, beaconed his ragged

 

struggle. His voice garbled: I am not seeking money or food 

but peace. He scribbled out for her his poem Five Days Old.

Then a lonely, derelict figure slouched out the gate. His words

frisk the heroic-journey, explorers’ struggle, like one who holds

 

a shell, turns it over and over for light, shots of colour, as he

tackles the one-journey common to us all. His poems of 

The Canticle echo another Francis who wrote Il Cantico, 

who praised glimpses of brother sun  and sister moon through

 

tender, frayed clouds, who walked barefoot, high-walled Assisi: 

its olive groves, vineyards, lanes, paths of cobbled stone, 

searching too for peace. Falling on his knees, face in his hands

he humbly made himself its instrument, finding the meaning 

 

only in the search. He threw off worldly garb, gold and plumes

donned a court jester’s cap and bells, reverberating touch of 

birdsong his bedrock. Through a darkling glass are two canticles

hundreds of years apart. Each Francis dances on fear’s altar. Both 

 

be fools, taunted, for gnawing life to the bone. Both seeing beauty

in the tiny not the immense. Outside, flocks of sea gulls skim 

the southerly, skate on the edge. I listen to their skirl on the air, 

wayfarers, like the ocean in its unceasing quest. 

Colleen Keating

Winner of the Phillipa Holland Poetry 2024 with Eastwood/Hills FAW (Fellowship of Australian Writers)

———————————–

Colleen Keating is a Sydney poet. Her writing explores the wonder and paradox of nature with the harsh realities of life, justice, equality and the increasing threat to our natural environment. Her poem, Fifth Symphony was recently awarded Highly commended in the Poetic Christi Press poetry competition and published in the new Anthology A New Day Dawns 2024. Colleen has published six collections of poetry, including two award-winning verse novels, Hildegard of Bingen: A poetic journey and Olive Muriel Pink: her radical & idealistic life. Her newly published book is The Dinner Party: A poetic reflection. (2023) All are available through Ginninderra Press. Colleen writes on Ku-ring-gai land in Sydney and Darkinjung on the Central Coast NSW.

Also welcomed to be published by Michael Griffith.author of Cap and Bells

Michael Griffith: Home Page- Literature and Life Spring 2025
Michael Griffith’s Official Literature Site

 

michaelgriffith1
November 7, 2024 at 11:47 am

Hello Colleen, I love this poem! It captures so much of the essence of Francis Webb’s passion and the direction of his own search. In terms of our current poetry sessions – Poetry’s Job- I feel this is a perfect poem for illustrating how poetry here (your poetry and the poetry of the poet you celebrate) give voice to the quest for wholeness in a difficult, tumultous world. Your own beautiful observations of nature carry me back to what we were saying just yesterday about Jane Hirschfield’s recognition that the real source of nourishment for her own search is the immediate:

Can admire with two eyes the mountain

actual, recalcitrant, shuffling its pebbles, sheltering foxes and beetles.

—

Can make black-eyed peas and collards.

Can make, from last year’s late-ripening persimmons, a pudding.

Thank you Colleen!

Eucalypt Issue 37 2024 ed. Julie Thorndyke

colleen Finding Zen, Poetry , , ,

 

 

Thank you to the editor Julie Thorndyke for an exquisite production of the latest Eucalypt .

I can always feel the love and care in the selection and  placement  of  the tanka on the page

which of cousre enriches each one tanka.

Your work is appreciated. 

I am proud to be included with so many fine Tanka writers and  sensitive work  in this latest issue. 

 

 

     

 the wet sand

of the ebbing tide

reflects a pink dawn

my bare feet encounter

the first touch of spring

Colleen Keating

Thrilled to see Pip Griffin and Dr Andy Hede as two of my Tanka friends included in the latest Eucalypt

 

 

 

 

 

 

Another favourite of my tanka

pink glow

behind silver grey clouds

waiting

medical reports

still to be read

Colleen Keating

 

 

The Launch of the new poetry collection, Natural Light by David Atkinson :

colleen Uncategorized , , , , , , , ,

 

Sunday afternoon, 1st December 2024  was a celebratory afternoon for the launch of David Atkinson’s new poetry collection Natural Light . We gathered at Hannah’s Bar in Beecroft. The gathering included family, many friends  and poets from the U3A Poetry Appreciation Group, from the Pennant Hills Poetry Group  and many  other interested poetic friends . As MC i welcomed everyone and introduced  the teacher and poet Richard Clark who launched  Natural Light. In his launching speech, Richard  described some of the  poetic techniques  and read poems to show these.  It was an interesting speech and  he gave some very expressive readings of David’s poetry.  David read some of his poetry and thanked all those who have supported him on his journey.  And then we enjoyed refreshments and had a great chat all together .

 

     

Run Sheet for David’s Natural Light

  1. Good afternoon everyone.      My name is Colleen Keating and i am a poet and a writing friend of David..     Welcome everyone. It is good to be here together  for this celebration . and what a wonderful gathering  we are.    The bringing  forward of a book is a long journey and worth celebrating and  your presence is an honour to David  and to poetry. 
  2. We will just take a moment to gather ourselves and i ‘d like  to acknowledge  the traditional owners of the land on which we meet today , the Wallumedegal people of the Eora nation and pay respects to the first story tellers and  to the elders past, present and emerging.
  1. (a)Housekeeping – there is a bathroom directly across the courtyard but only one there. There are more bathrooms down the stairs and inside the centre or, alternatively, down one level via the lift.  Please just look around and check if anybody needs a seat if you can stand.
  2. (b)Order of events  I will introduce Richard Clarke. who will launch David’s new book . Richard will speak and read a few selected poems of  David’s 
  3. (c)Then David  as poet will speak and share some of his  poems.  At the end of the formal part we will  spread out and wait a few minutes for refreshments to be organised  And we can catch up with friends and celebrate this special occasion . The books will then be on sale for 25 dollars and David will be outside very happy to sign it.  We are all in for a treat. 

3. “It is now my pleasure to introduce Richard Clarke to launch David’s book. Richard says he was fortunate to have been born to literature-loving parents and to have married an avid reader, and since retirement to have been invited by David to join both the U3A poetry appreciation group hosted by Wendy Walker in Eastwood ,of which  many of that group are here today and the poetry writers’ group convened by David himself in Pennant Hills. And most of us are here to celebrate with  David.  Richard was an English teacher for forty years, He enjoyed nothing better than exploring great poems with his classes and imploring the students to write their own.Often in our groups we defer to Richard as he is an encyclopaedia of knowledge on poets, their background history, and grammar in general..  Now that he is writing his own poetry Richard says he is beginning to understand why many of his students found it difficult to turn theory into practice. But Richard powers ahead with his own writing. I remember when he had his first poem published  and we were very excited and  now in a short time his poems have been published in three countries. so we call him now an Internationally published poet.    Please welcome Richard.”

 superb Fairy wrens pg 47

4. Thank you Richard and now please welcome David to tell you about his  poetic journey and read you some of his selected poems.

5. Thank you David . 

6. That concludes the formal part of the afternoon. Please relax now and spread outside and buy a book. It will take  5 minutes  or so  while drinks and afternoon tea are set out.                                                                  

Poems to be read, or referred to, by Richard

Villanelle of the Drought (p.127)

Assembly Machinations (p.53)

Sonnet of the Fire (p.29)

Searching the Storm (p.48)

Adrift in the Desert (p.108)

The Ambivalence of Organisms (p.56)

The Challenge of Algebra (p.69)

Of Owl and Eeyore (p.128)

Poems to be read by David

The Old Hume (p.3)

From Impermanence (p.59)

Wedge-tailed Eagle (p.43)

Verandah (p.9)

The Buoyancy of Butterflies (87)

Review  by Colleen Keating 

    of 

Natural Light by David Atkinson 

“With an acute lyrical touch and an unerring ability to evoke sights, sounds and sensations,  David’s poems reveal new depths upon every rereading.” These affirming words by Richard Clark who recently launched ‘Natural Light’, come from an appreciation of the rich use of imagery, and the way in which the poet, speaks to his reading audience . 

This new book is David Atkinson’s third published poetry collection after ‘The Ablation of Time’ (202  and ‘Strands and Ripples’, (202  ) both published by Ginninderra Press.  David grew up in the Riverina  and knowing this  the reader can appreciate more  the way he pays reverent attention to the landscape, the birds, the sheds, tools, country roads and road kill and the Hume’s long distance journey to connect with the city. 

‘Natural Light’ is a striking book, full of remarkable pictures  capturing the human condition and the natural world.  An example of this where memory gives us movement  is from ‘Whipcord’,

Transfixed, we swerve in aversion, wary and watchful,

as the brute, terror of the imagination,

topic of tales, slithers away. 

Piques a flashback to that folio of boyhood fears;

an eastern brown slides through a dream.

The Holden accelerates, the small boy braces,

steeled like a vehicular strut, then the weight 

of the work boot, as breaks squeal

in a controlled skid through the writhing backbone.  

There are poems where David has set himself a task of research of a subject and then works it into a poem.  How he enjoys the challenge of different forms of poetry.  You can see him working out his poetry to put together a collection of his work that shows variety of subject and form and falling back into the things he loves and is most comfortable with. Hence we are gifted with a book of poetry that surprises wherever you open its pages.

The poems are arranged into six sections:   In the first section titled The Scaffold of Time  there are moments of reminiscing. One example of this is on a breathless country night as a child, sleeping on the verandah with his family he remembers,

in the open we are kneaded into nature. 

The night breathes a soft–hued concerto, 

         the wildlife variations.’

and 

Beyond the strands of ringbarked trees

the muted moon rises

and the stars are glow worms

over the riverine flats.

In ‘Bow Wave’  how wonderful to watch the way the poet shifts us from the country’s hard hot days of washing day to pondering a dream Manly holiday with memory of his mother,

In the freestanding washhouse she launders

the clothes, her farmer husband’s khakis,

reek of the shearing shed and the killing tree.

After igniting the copper, boils the garments

and bed linen; the spit of split kindling,

the flames prancing in the grate. 

And  then as reader we feel the cool ocean breeze with her dream

the South Steyne churning its bow wave 

slamming the subservient wharf.

even as

Her neck sallow, not yet seared swarthy

by the sun, she groans, heaves the bedsheets,

feeds them into the clothes wringer,

hand-operated, the water squeezed down

flowing, gurgling into the drain.

This scene is part of my own memory of helping my mother and grandmother but I wonder what the next generation will picture here.  However it is important for it to be remembered. 

In the poem ‘Generations of Ritual’, the imagery shows how the fates have determined the change and similarity in lives with the colourful phases,

The pungency of lucerne hay, 

the prickle of the fleece’s burrs. 

the taste of the moonrise frost

solo star in the top paddock,

 In the section, ‘Unswept Wings’  there are many gems including the prize winning poem ‘Gang Gang’,

When you sweep in, deep wing beats,

you skim along the runaway of azalea blooms.

In an ambience of apricity, I observe

your free flight through the bush reserve; 

I know why this time you alight alone.

I watch your actor’s bow to the water,

curved beak leading to its cere,

eye staring off across your canopied 

territory of eucalypts;

The award-winning poem, ‘Wedge-tailed Eagle 

takes us deeper,

In a rhythm of etiolated recall my spirit

aches for the passing of the years.

The fundamentals seem to have been recast,

a perception of having taken

a long journey to the interior. 

The moment to expore the season

with Vivaldi, to grasp the assertion,

the fretwork of the river red gum.

At last the opportunity but I am ageing

and my soul yearns for peace.

Time is transient and pitiless;

I must seek out the resting ripple

of the remote and elusive platypus

in the headwaters of the Coxs River

and turn back to accompany you

on your buoyant ascent.  

In the section ‘Anchored’,  one poem  The Challenge of Algebra’ stands out for its thoughtful attention to our wider broken world with the last two tercets,

Faith is a trait which cannot

be contained; it bubbles

and spurts like water

from an underground spring, 

from a young maths student pinned

under the earth of Mariupol

Further sections are  ‘The Ochre of Dawn’, ‘Light on the Breeze’, 

and in the last section titled ‘Interwoven’ 

I especially appreciate Villanelle of the Drought  with 

‘the yawl of callous crows; he dreads their shriek

alighting on a victim in the glare.

The stricken ewe has slumped, half-starved and weak

As Richard Clark commented in his launch Atkinson is a master of enjambement and I was interested to spend some time observing his skilful working of this technique  and how it draws the reader in.  I say this because I  especially relate to his portrayed country world of the 50’s with the droughts and struggles, having spent my childhood in the country albeit a different direction The New England Tablelands. 

It is an interesting journey to see how the poet comes to terms with his memories and the sense of struggle. He accepts the learnings especially from the birds , their lightness of being and so opening the perspective of being untethered and free. and how he comes to the finality with family that brings him home. 

‘Natural Light’ is a worthy collection, full of surprises, poems like gems, some of them have their beauty in the natural light alone,. Others to be given attention, given a bit of spittle,  polished, held, contemplating their translucent beauty. Their show of luminance which as poems here  illuminates the way.   

 

 

David Atkinson’s recent poems, brought together in this latest volume of his work, offer many worthwhile insights on the human condition and the natural world. These broad themes are longstanding interests of David’s – as well as his fascination with birds in their environment and the delights and challenges stemming from those we know best, our families.  – Graham Wood

In this,  David Atkinson’s third collection , his poetry explores the complexities of the human condition, the delights of our flora and fauna, the lost charms of the rural world he knew as a child and the rewards and challenges of family life. With an acute lyrical touch and an unerring ability to evoke sights, sounds and sensations. David’s poems reveal new depths upon every rereading. His poems have achieved success in numerous competitions and have beed published widely in Australia , the USA and the UK – Richard Clark

Launch of the new poetry collection The Book of Jerimiah by Beatriz Copello

colleen Poetry , , ,

   

What an energising and vibrant launch we attended last week. Beatriz Copello’s new peotry collection

The Book of jeremiah is a powerful book for our times.  There was a great crowd at the newly renovated Gleebooks

and it was a wonderful evening of poetry, reflection wine friendship , lots of chatter with poet friends and laughter.

Thank you Beatriz and Gleebooks for a lovely poetry evening.

 

   

 

A Sensory Journey: Haku Down Under Anthology 2024 ed. Carole Harrison and Sue Courney

colleen Poetry , , , , , ,

I am very proud and happy to be included in the beautiful new anthology,  A Sensory Journey, Haiku Down Under Anthology with my haiku.  Thank you to the editors Carole Harrison and Sue Courtney for the beautiful presentation.  

holiday cottage

under a sickle moon

a lone dingo howls

Colleen Keating

 

 

This photo is the nearest I can find to describe my experience except I was alone in the country holiday cottage for the week ( my choice to write) and it was a dark night hence a small cresent moon only and the dingos howled and howled and I thught a pack was just up on a hill nearby.. It did scare me a little at the time but I have read since  that there is nothing to be afraid of as the howling is for a mate. And they don’t come for humans that are not trying to corner them in some way so I tried to show  apprehension in the haiku. I hope it works  that the reader is not sure!!!

Dunera Boys – exhibition at the State Library of NSW after a visit by Colleen Keating

colleen General, Poetry ,

 

 

The Dunera Boys

Although born and educated in Australia and a valued dairy farmer in the Bega Valley on the Far Such Coast  of NSW my uncle Augustine Behl, a young man in his early thirties  was detained at the beginning of World War 2 ,  as he was of German dissent.  He was declared an alien in his own homeland . However not  rounded up and imprisoned with hundreds of other men because he was essential for the food production line as a daily farmer.  Rarely did he come into town . Tuesdays my aunt and two cousins came in for shopping and came to Nannas where we stayed in the Christmas holidays.

When he was in town, it was to sell and buy at the Sale Yards. However I am not sure if he was forbidden in town socially or if he chose not to come in.  He was a very silent man and spoke few words to anyone.

It was at his property that I heard my first classical record and saw a record playing. It was Mario Lanser singing The Student Prince and I was blown away. His parents had brought the music from their homeland. and at the time it was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. In a way I kept looking up, thinking it was coming from heaven.

Hence my interest in the story of the Dunera Boys  a very interesting exhibition, curated by Louise Anemaat, Seumas Spark and andrew Trigg presently at the NSW State Library. 

 The Dunera Boys  

They have become know as  the Dunera Boys they sailed to Australia on the Dunera. 

The story goes that when Winston Churchill came to power in Britain in May 1940, one of the first decisions of his government was to arrest, intern and ultimately deport thousands of ‘enemy aliens’ to Canada and Australia for fear that they might secretly help to orchestrate an invasion of Britain. On 10 July 1940, the British troop ship HMT Dunera departed Liverpool, Britain, with about 2120 male ‘enemy aliens’ on board. Many of the internees were Jewish and had fled to Britain as refugees from Hitler’s regime. Others had been there for years and had made their lives there. Though the Dunera internees did not know it when they left England, they were destined for Australia.

 

In powerful artworks, internees convey the experience of internment rather than the reality of its lived experience. In this artwork by Georg Teltscher, ghostly hands seem to be disappearing in an unsettled ocean, or rising up from a foaming landscape.

Conditions on the Dunera were dire. 

The ship was grossly overcrowded,

men crammed into appalling quarters.

Toilets overflowed, poisoned the stale air. 

British soldiers guarding the boys

treated their charges with brutality, 

abusing them 

stealing their possessions. 

Throwing their bags overboard

The Dunera docked in Sydney 

The internees, herded on to trains 

ended in the remote, rural town of Hay.

In drought, everywhere was dry 

flat and full of dust. 

Relentless heat and swarms of flies 

added to the internees’ sense of dislocation. 

So unfamiliar was the landscape to European eyes

that many labelled the Hay plains a ‘desert’. 

To try and make sense of the world 

and their place in it they created friendships, 

schools of learning , 

different classes were set up

they educated each other.

Drawing and art were lessons  that endured

and is much of our evidence today.

Music played a big part . 

The people of Hay rounded up musical instruments. 

Today for us this is a reminder that coping 

and surviving is about intellectual engagement 

with place almost as much as it is about physical needs.

Art has long been an outlet to communicate when seeking to understand and give voice to what is not easily put into words. It reminds us that forced displacement is both a historic and a contemporary story, whether the result of war genocide, natural disaster, colonisation, whether on racial, ethic, political or religious grounds or increasingly because of climate change. 

 

Then you hold life like a face . . . A poem for us today. Thank you Ellen Bass

colleen Poetry

The Thing Is

to love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weights you down like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
––Ellen Bass

Innocence, a poem by Colleen Keating In memory of a drowning tragedy at The Entrance

colleen Poetry , , ,

 

Innocence

(i.m.. of Laith age 11)

The days slip quietly by. We are hoping 
to forget – those of us who can. The family 
have had signs put up on significant posts 
thanking everybody for their help, support
and care over the days and nights of searching,
praying and waiting and grief has closed their doors
and lives with its heavy chains.

The channel from the lake flows like an ancient
witness, its mouth wide and unaware that 
its innocent chant like a child’s choir 
has taken innocence.

Pines and banksia form a wild weave 
against a sobering sky. A heron, called the guardian
of the edge, feeds as it does every dawn. 
Light today plays gently on the edge of the rocks,
licks into the sand,  ebbing and flowing. 
A few gulls stand pondering. Pelicans skate along
their reflection with abandonment. 

The sunflowers tied on the fence remind us 
what love was taken. A child’s colourful wind–mill 
plays on the sea breeze, candles and soft toys
soften the chained fence above the dunes
flowers with bewildered messages wilt in the sun 
and sorrow cries to us here. We want to forget, 
pretend the sea is our joy and happy place 
but like an arrow piecing one mothers heart 
we are reminded how it gives and  takes
and in its innocence takes the innocent.

Colleen Keating

 

(Laith Alaid had been visiting The Entrance at the mouth of Tuggerah Lake on a fishing trip with his family from Sydney when he was taken by a strong current that was described by a local life saver as one an “Olympic swimmer couldn’t swim against”.6 Nov 2024)

IN HARD TIMES IT IS STILL ONE STEP AFTER ANOTHER. By Colleen Keating

colleen General, Poetry , , , , , , ,

 

The magnet on the fridge door shines at me every-time
one step after another
and it has saved me through many times
where my steps have faltered
in the darkest nights where you fear the next step
in thick storms where the rain pelters piercing your very skin
in coldest times when your bones seem frozen
and now you see the words today
and only a mountain looms at you and it hurls rocks
on the way you try to obey and clamber and then you realise
you are not the only one attempting to go on.
Colleen

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––
********** A few strs shining brightly:***********
Lindsay McLaughlin from Friends of Silence
Ellen Bass poet
Christine Valters Paintner Abbess
Shakespeare
David Whyte
Waymakers

We must remind ourselves that millions of human beings throughout history have lived through worse political situations and still managed to make art, and find joy, and share meals and resist despair, We can do that . moving always towards wisdom.
In fact, cover us all in a wisdom that is not available in memes, hot takes, social media fake news and mis communications and the continuous news which sucks us down a rabbit hole. Some people thrive on chaos and can use chaos as smokes and mirrors .

Let us remember to breathe often, drink water and be always grateful for the nature and beauty around us every day.

 

THE WAY IS AWKWARD

By the river it is cool and gray at last after a night of longed-for rain, however intermittent. Mist this morning clung to the trees, but it is gone now, leaving the caress of quiet moist air. The river is low, the banks brown, rock outcroppings breaking the water; but yet it flows, an ancient witness; as is the moss, growing up the north side of the oaks and box elders and sycamores, whose branches, sparse with brown and yellow leaves, form a wild weave against the pewter sky.  A heron, guardian of edges, rises from the mud and glides in a wide arc to other shore.

I am here because the rocks and arrows hurled at all I have known, and all that I love, reached a new level of ferocity last week, and it seems that the speed and strength of the barrage will be relentless. Even after years of preparatory soul work, suddenly I can barely breathe. I thought the humbling might continue to creep toward us, with some mercy. Instead, the gods of mayhem spurred the horses.

In the wake of this, words have swirled: words to soothe, advise, comfort, inspire. I have passed them on, shared them; I am grateful for them all. But what I need may not be the call to march forward, to align with the highest benchmarks of humanity, to hold fast and to take skillful action, to neither wince nor flail. I need refugia and the wisdom of ancient beings like a river, trees, and moss.

Kathleen Dean Moore speaks of refugia in her book Great Tide Rising. Refugia are pockets of safety, tiny coverts where life hides from destruction, secret shelters out of which new life emerges. Refugia are why Mount Saint Helen’s mountainsides are lushly covered with grasses, prairie lupines, and alders, despite the eruption that erased 1,300 feet of the mountain and burned 230 square miles of forest.

Refugia are small and hidden and full of darkness, but they are potent. They may be characterized as sanctuaries, but they are cauldrons, wombs, incubators. They are everywhere: in a poem, the eyes of a friend, a preserved landscape, a permaculture garden, a prayer in the wild.

So I have come to the river, the stone cliffs, the moss growing on those old trees. Robin Wall Kimmerer writes, “Mosses, I think, are like time made visible…The mosses remember that this is not the first time the glaciers have melted…”, or a political system has failed. Kimmerer points out that mosses document a passage of time that is not linear. “…the knowledge we need,” she says, “is already within the circle; we just have to remember to find it again…”

There are beings on this planet older by far than elections and democracy, older than civilization, older even than the human imagination. They are here to turn to, to help us begin to breathe again. Four hundred fifty million years ago mosses traveled from the primordial waters and began a great experiment in evolution, as Kimmerer writes, “an experiment of which we are all a part, whose ending is unwritten.”

Unwritten, and unknown. Some would say that is the definition of hope, an invitation to act out of our places of refugia, out of the wisdom of mosses, rather than reaction to the certainty of the dystopia we think we know has arrived.

Bayo Akomolafe says, “the way is awkward, not forward”. Perhaps that is the challenge: To stumble around, feeling for the opening of the path that is hardly a path at all, is many-branching, possibly strange, and made by walking. To listen to wisdom and voices beyond the scope of human intelligence, to other ways of knowing rising from other places of power, to tune to the rhythm of the river and the whispers of moss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Thing Is

to love life, to love it even

when you have no stomach for it

and everything you’ve held dear

crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,

your throat filled with the silt of it.

When grief sits with you, its tropical heat

thickening the air, heavy as water

more fit for gills than lungs;

when grief weights you down like your own flesh

only more of it, an obesity of grief,

you think, How can a body withstand this?

Then you hold life like a face

between your palms, a plain face,

no charming smile, no violet eyes,

and you say, yes, I will take you

I will love you, again.

Ellen Bass

by Eleanor Keating-Jones age 8  April 2024

A Note from your Abbess

There is much uncertainty and unknown right now. Many of us are in deep grief and I encourage you to bestow lavish hospitality on all of your feelings – let your rage, sadness, despair, confusion, and more have space in you. Move your body, let her speak its wisdom, and give yourself the gift of as much rest as possible.

 

What I do know is that our commitment to a contemplative path does make a difference. Keep showing up with presence to what is real and true. Cherish what is beautiful and kind. Commit to the slowness and centeredness that is its own kind of resistance and from which deep change arises. Know that the ground is Love and we are each radiant sparks of the divine. And act on behalf of the liberation of all beings from these touchstones.

 

What I also know is that our commitment to creativity is vital. We must continue to cultivate our wild imaginings. Dance and write poems and songs that help us to lament and hope, to make space to dream and be, to let our visions of what is possible take even deeper root in our hearts. This is our life force at work in partnership with Spirit to bring about a more beautiful world.

 

And the third thing I know is that community is key to all of this. Reach out to a soul friend; gather in small groups to grieve and laugh. Extend the most exquisite kindness to the people you encounter in public spaces, especially those you experience as“other.” Ask for the blessings of your ancestors who endured their own suffering and struggles. Stand in a grove of trees or on the banks of a river and feel your kinship with all creation. And of course, gather with your fellow dancing monks in our programs when possible. To know yourself as not alone, but intimately connected to the delicate and intricate web of all living beings is to claim your power and to live in hope.

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FROM WAYMAKERS

Yesterday, I walked with one of my dearest friends. We did what I imagine many of you are doing after the November 5th elections: reaching out, checking in, feeling the weight of not knowing where our next step will land. It seems clear that, whatever that step might be, it needs to be taken together. So, we locked arms and walked into the sacred, uneasy threshold—a place where one foot is lifted in resistance and resolve but hasn’t quite touched down. This act, balancing on the edge of action, is like a yogic stance, holding our ground in discomfort, wondering when we’ll feel the relief of solid ground again.

This is statio—the ancient, mystical practice of pausing intentionally in the in-between to create sacred space. Statio is the pause that marks a threshold, a moment both of waiting and readiness. It invites us to cultivate hope, courage, and resilience by resting right there in the gap, to find strength in stillness, to gather ourselves in this space between breaths, even when exhaustion tempts us toward fear. And this pause? It’s a place beyond our control; crossing through it may take longer than we ever expected. *Statio* divides one time from another, one ground from the next, and yet, the actual crossing may be guided by forces beyond us, by something holy holding us back until the moment is ripe.

How long can we dwell in statio, with one foot suspended, unsure of where it will land? I don’t know how long. But I know we can hold it longer when there are hands and shoulders to lean on. Who are you holding onto during this collective statio?

As my friend and I walked, we were pulled to a stop by awe: the blue sky’s vast embrace, the proclamation of yellow leaves, and the way the trees’ canopy offered space to one another. This phenomenon—crown shyness—is a fitting metaphor for statio, a sacred space honoring both separation and connection. Just as trees leave intentional gaps between their crowns, letting light and air breathe through the canopy, statio invites us to create a pause between our thoughts, actions, and encounters. These intentional spaces, like the quiet channels between branches, honor the life force within each moment, allowing renewal, clarity, and shared energy to circulate freely, allowing grief to have space to move, and to not rush towards the next agenda and action.

In both statio and crown shyness, there’s a quiet reverence for boundaries that actually deepens interdependence. Trees, by keeping respectful distance, support an ecosystem that nurtures both individual growth and communal vitality. Likewise, when we create pauses in our lives, we make space to connect more deeply to ourselves and to each other.

In my own personal seasons of statio, I find myself drawn to practices that root me deeply in the earth. These grounding rituals connect me to place, bringing me back to the particulars of my own environment and reminding me that small, intentional acts can ripple outward with profound impact. This is the time for nature mandalas, for wandering in wild spaces (urban wilds count too!), for brewing forest tea from what’s nearby, for returning to a quiet sit spot, and for practicing sacred phenology.

These simple, earth-centered practices offer a way to be present in this communal time of statio, each one anchoring us in the now, helping us listen, and encouraging us to become more attentive to the unique rhythms of life within our particular landscapes. These rituals will offer profound guidance when we take our next steps.

 

 

 John of Gaunt speech in Richard 11. from Shakespeare

His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last, 

For violent fires soon burn out themselves; 
Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short; 
He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes; 
With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder: 
Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,
Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.

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And Parker J. Palmer says:

Trust has been one of the big losers in this era of American politics—and trust is what we must restore if we are to reweave and transform the tattered fabric of our common life. So let’s begin close in, with people we know to be trustworthy. And let’s keep expanding the circle to those who “stand in need” the way we do.

For the past three days, I’ve had a chance to do just that with groups ranging from 4 to 25 to 1,000. It’s been healing and empowering for me.

Slowly, slowly, I’m finding ground beneath my feet again. Slowly, slowly, in the lives of my friends, colleagues, and strangers I’m seeing the bright stars V.P. Harris talked about in her concession speech—good people doing going work against stiff odds—stars that are best seen against the backdrop of a midnight sky.

David Whyte has it right: turn off the noise of what people call “the news.” Tune in to the news of the human heart where ground and guidance for the journey can always be found. Exercise the muscle called trust whenever and wherever we can—and then reach out in trust to one more and one more and one more.

No one is going to rescue us, so let’s start rebuilding a community devoted to the common good from the inside out and from the ground up. We’re all hungry, and we can feed each other.

[David Whyte’s books are at http://tiny.cc/0q7uzz. My 10 books are at http://tiny.cc/r3gtzz.]

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Kamala Harris:

“Good afternoon. Thank you all, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. So let me say, and I love you back. And I love you back. So let me say, my heart is full today. My heart is full today. Full of gratitude for the trust you have placed in me, full of love for our country and full of resolve. The outcome of this election is not what we wanted, not what we fought for, not what we voted for. But hear me when I say, hear me when I say, the light of America’s promise will always burn bright. As long as we never give up, and as long as we keep fighting.

To my beloved Doug and our family, I love you so very much. To President Biden and Doctor Biden, thank you for your faith and support. To Governor Walz and the Walz family, I know your service to our nation will continue. And to my extraordinary team, to the volunteers who gave so much of themselves, to the poll workers and the local election officials, I thank you, I thank you all.

Look, I am so proud of the race we ran and the way we ran it and the way we ran it. Over the 107 days of this campaign, we have been intentional about building community and building coalitions, bringing people together from every walk of life and background, united by love of country with enthusiasm and joy in our fight for America’s future. And we did it with the knowledge that we all have so much more in common than what separates us.

Now, I know folks are feeling and experiencing a range of emotions right now. I get it. But we must accept the results of this election. Earlier today, I spoke with president-elect Trump and congratulated him on his victory. I also told him that we will help him and his team with their transition and that we will engage in a peaceful transfer of power. A fundamental principle of American democracy is that when we lose an election, we accept the results. That principle, as much as any other, distinguishes democracy from monarchy or tyranny. And anyone who seeks the public trust must honor it.

At the same time, in our nation, we owe loyalty, not to a president or a party, but to the Constitution of the United States, and loyalty to our conscience and to our God. My allegiance to all three is why I am here to say, while I concede this election, I do not concede the fight that fueled this campaign. The fight, the fight for freedom, for opportunity, for fairness and the dignity of all people. A fight for the ideals at the heart of our nation. The ideals that reflect America at our best. That is a fight I will never give up. I will never give up the fight for a future where Americans can pursue their dreams, ambitions and aspiration is where the women of America have the freedom to make decisions about their own body and not have their government telling them what to do. We will never give up the fight to protect our schools and our streets from gun violence. And America, we will never give up the fight for our democracy, for the rule of law, for equal justice, and for the sacred idea that every one of us, no matter who we are or where we start out, has certain fundamental rights and freedoms that must be respected and upheld. And we will continue to wage this fight in the voting booth, in the courts and in the public square. And we will also wage it in quieter ways, in how we live our lives, by treating one another with kindness and respect, by looking in the face of a stranger and seeing a neighbour, by always using our strength to lift people up, to fight for the dignity that all people deserve.

The fight for our freedom will take hard work. But like I always say, we like hard work. Hard work is good work. Hard work can be joyful work, and the fight for our country is always worth it. It is always worth it. To the young people who are watching, it is, I love you. To the young people who are watching it is okay to feel sad and disappointed, but please know it’s going to be okay. On the campaign, I would often say when we fight, we win. But here’s the thing, here’s the thing. Sometimes the fight takes a while. That doesn’t mean we won’t win. That doesn’t mean we won’t win. The important thing is don’t ever give up, don’t ever give up, don’t ever stop trying to make the world a better place. You have power. You have power and don’t you ever listen when anyone tells you something is impossible because it has never been done before. You have the capacity to do extraordinary good in the world.

And so to everyone who is watching, do not despair. This is not a time to throw up our hands. This is a time to roll up our sleeves. This is a time to organize, to mobilize, and to stay engaged for the sake of freedom and justice and the future that we all know we can build together. Look many of you know, I started out as a prosecutor, and throughout my career I saw people at some of the worst times in their lives, people who had suffered great harm and great pain and yet found within themselves the strength and the courage and the resolve to take the stand, to take a stand, to fight for justice, to fight for themselves, to fight for others. So let their courage be our inspiration. Let their determination be our charge.

And I’ll close with this. There’s an adage an historian once called a law of history, true of every society across the ages. The adage is only when it is dark enough can you see the stars. I know many people feel like we are entering a dark time, but for the benefit of us all, I hope that is not the case. But here’s the thing, America, if it is, let us fill the sky with the light of a brilliant, brilliant billion of stars. The light, the light of optimism, of faith, of truth and service. HU (Howard University). And may that work guide us, even in the face of setbacks toward the extraordinary promise of the United States of America. I thank you all, may God bless you and may God bless the United States of America. I thank you all.”

 

 

 

 

VALE Stephen Matthews OAM by Colleen Keating

colleen Poetry , , ,

Stephen Matthews OAM, founder of Ginninderra Press passed away on Wednesday 25 September 2024. 

I REMEMBER THE EXCITEMENT WHEN STEPHEN WAS RECOMMENDED FOR THE AOM.

There was great excitement about what to wear at the garden party at Governors’House and all the feelings about the honour . Brenda kept all the accolation and it was so well deserved. Now I look back and am thrilled Stepen was honoured while he was well and that we could all ho

Stephen accepted my first book of poetry to be published by his publishing house Ginninderra Press.  I had had severeal rejections and I was over the moon to receive his acceptance. It took a year from acceptance to publication  it was a hard journey to get a cover and blurbs, introduction and dedication but finally  A Call to Listen was out in the world like a new babe coming into first light.  Of course it affirmed me as a poet and encouraged me to write more and hence further books arrived . I am not the only one.  Hundreds of poets have had the same success with Stephen as he affirmed and published more and more poets bringing their light to the world. His partner Brenda worked at Chapbooks and a publication The Crow bringing more poetry into the world.

What a tragedy for cancer to return and knock Stephen around for a second time and to watch their world come tumbling down.   Stephen sold the publishing business to Debbie and we hope to continue so that poets are heard in this very noisy world where poetry is neglected because not many have the time or space these days to enjoy.

In 2019 Stephen and Brenda came from South Australia where they were established to launch a new book Mountain Mist a Ginninderra Anthology and to incorporate Brenda’s 70th birthday and we met and got to know each other . It was a real Ginninderra Family Celebration.

 

 

 

 

 

     

 

DEBBIE WROTE

I first met Stephen as a young publisher’s representative when he was manager of the ANU Uni Coop. It was the heyday of publishing, when hardbacks preceded paperbacks, literary fiction and non-fiction titles were piled high, launches de rigueur and sales abounding. 

As a bookseller, Stephen was discerning and erudite and as well-read as they come. Perhaps not surprising given his Cambridge University education in the classics, moral science and philosophy. Stephen taught high school history both prior to emigrating to Australia and for some years upon his arrival. Subsequently, his joy in books radiated in the writing of reviews, author profiles and articles for the Canberra Times and the Australian Book Review journal, as well assessing manuscripts for large publishing houses, and judging literary competitions and awards.

As mainstream publishing began to contract with acquisitions and mergers upsetting the status quo, Stephen somewhat counterintuitively saw an opportunity. In 1996 Ginninderra Press was born with the express mission of publishing new and emerging authors, relative unknowns, writing in eclectic, not always fashionable genres, books that did not necessarily have a commercial orientation, but books that mattered, nonetheless. Traversing poetry, memoir, history, novella, anthology and non-fiction prose, the primary criteria – that these were titles in which Stephen believed.

Over the course of the next 28 years, taking in a move from Canberra to Port Adelaide in 2008, the milestones have been many. More than 3000 titles have been published and in excess of 300,000 books sold. Awards have rolled in and accolades ensued. In addition to publishing via traditional means, Stephen adopted print-on-demand, enabling global access for the Ginninderra Press list. He also lovingly compiled a series of ‘chap books’ (20-paged, stapled books of poetry) by hand, such was his dedication.  

While many Ginninderra Press titles constitute meditations on the human condition, much of the list has been intentionally geared toward matters of social, cultural and political concern. In 2003, in response to the devastating Canberra fires, Stephen commissioned How Did the Fire Know We Lived Here raising over $73,000 for the cause. In March this year, Stephen’s swansong, Telling Australia’s Truth comprised120 poems by GP authors expressing the shame, sadness and disbelief that was felt by many after the result of the Voice referendum.

In Rays of Light – Ginninderra Press, The First Twenty Years, one contributing author referred to Ginninderra as ‘a small but significant publisher of small but significant books’. Stephen’s wife, Brenda – herself a prolific poet – talks about the sense of community and of giving back or ‘paying it forward’. In 2021, Stephen Matthews was officially recognised with an Order of Australia Medal for his service to publishing. His contribution to the writing community and support for local authors has indeed thrown ‘little rays of light’ across Australia. It is an honour and a privilege to be carrying Ginninderra Press forward and so his remarkable legacy may live on.

Debbie Lee, Ginninderra Press