Thoughts as a Storm Approaches

Evening darkness early upon the land
Grey, sly clouds are hanging low, concealing
Growing strength that piles up, hiding power
Grabbing at stratospheric inspiration
Wind is gusting fitfully
With steel in its heart.

Traffic sounds a’hushing, worried faces,
Gusting stops as though the air is drawing
One deep breath in. Soon to let an angry
Unfeeling exhalation terrify
Early roosting birds,
Shelter-seeking humans.

Losing patience,
Years-long abuse,
Held in check no more
Blasting in gales
splitting the dark
with concussive blasts
Hurling both wet
and solid water. Breaking trees,
Hurling tides at
Suddenly vulnerable shores.

Howling! Oh the Howling.

Till after days, or maybe weeks
The air grows tired and realises
Tormenting man will never learn.
Enough of this warning and next time
Gaia’s Breath will be irresistible
With no man left to fear.

Peace Lily, My Wish for the World

Wish for the World

That the peace and safety
You wish for your children
Is also won by the children
Of others

That all the World’s people
Will find enough food
For their individual good
Without greed

That sharing becomes cool
That caring becomes normal
And that hatred disappears
Forever.

In Which I’m Adverse

The seasons swing around,
The birds will change their sound
Heat and cold interchange
And now my mint has got the mange!

Archy Returns; The Thoughts of a Cockroach

Way back in the 1920′s a newspaper columnist named Don Marquis had a cockroach in his office.

Some nights Archy, for this cockroach had a name and had been a vers libre bard in a previous life, would use Don Marquis’ typewriter to comment in free verse on the things he read in the books he ate. Being able to use the shift or punctuation keys because of his cockroachy limitations, his writings were distinctive.

Some years ago I was honoured to find that Archy had chosen to live with me and some of his computer written offerings are here.

He reappeared last night and I found this on my computer.

I must say that Archy seems to be unable to move into the digital age as the computer keyboard should be much easier for him to use than the old Remington Typewriter he had to bang his head against in the office of his previous host. Yet he still refuses to punctuate!

hey boss
i was reading some of the newspapers
you leave around littering
your office and i was struck
by how your untidy office
is so like the untidy minds
of the australian
electorate

like mehitabel who used to be cleopatra
in an earlier life
and now stalks the alleys
at three in the am
not noticing the disconnect
and all she says is wotthehell

wotthehell is what australians say
as they take the bigger paypacket
from the worst government
you have ever had

it must be the worst because
the papers all say it
and when i watch your tv while
you are unaware of me
they all say it is the worst

this must be a terrible time for australia
and the rest of the world
must pity you in your time of trial
or so it must be but when
i read the newspapers from
overseas they seem envious of your
bad governance.

warty bliggins i see has now
a real chance of being
your next ruler though why
you want a toad as a dictator
i cannot fathom

or is it as oscar wilde said
about modern journalism by giving us
the opinions of the uneducated
it keeps us in touch with the
ignorance of the community

so perhaps boss you need to show australia
how to fix itself
you could start by tidying
your very messy office
then tell australia to tidy their very messy minds
and start working for their country

charles de secondat  said that
the tyranny of a prince in an oligarchy
is not so dangerous to public welfare
as the apathy of a citizen in a democracy

so get those complacent australians
thinking again
and leave some cereal in my corner
or i too will think
australia is headed for the skids

 

All I can do is leave some cereal out for my learned cockroach and perhaps attempt to tidy my office. For I hold grave fears for the future of democracy in my country.

Dawn in Bunbury

Silent streets beneath a still dark sky
Family groups walking in ones and twos
Quietly gathering in tens and hundreds
yes, in their thousands.
All patiently waiting for the dawn.

Before the guarded, engraved stone.
The list of names of those who left
This old and close knit family town
and never returned.
Who would be embarrassed by the crowd.

Suddenly intrusive amplified speeches
Focus the attention of those present.
Those left who served march into view
With those who now serve.
Dressed in uniforms and civvies and pride.

Fire and sound bursts from the single cannon
Startling all who were not ready
A minute’s silence bugled with the Last Post
And then ended in triumph.
Wreaths laid out, by families, in memory of those not there.

The National Anthem sung unaccompanied
By a young girl with a glorious voice
And a proud audience cannot help
But to join in the words
Quietly and with private pride in nationhood.

Dismissed and slowly movement returns.
Some leaving early while others look at wreaths.
“This was for your great-great Grandfather
And this for your GrandDad.”
The young of today shown the past. Lest we forget.

My Unicorn Reads My Poetry

I Am The Fork In The Road

I AM THE FORK IN THE ROAD

If people crammed chest to back
Two thousand people to the kilometre
I am half a million people from town

Totally alone in the startling silence
Too far for anyone to hear my cooee
Small in horizon spanning immensity

Yet here there is only one road
I can go forward or I can go back
Or I can stay here and find myself

Written in 2009.

I’m still looking.

Fiery Ol’ Sol

Perth has been blanketed by smoke for around three days. The smoke is coming from lightning-caused fires in forests of the south-west.

Last night as Fiery Ol’ Sol set, there was time to reflect on some words I wrote many years ago, long before digital photography was even an idea.

So I combined words and image.

Is The End Of Winter Near?

Wandering the back streets of Perth yesterday I spotted some activity on some newly flowering “Bottle Brush” (grevillia).

The Bottle-Brush blooms

attract the busiest bees.

New honey for me.

Hump Day Unicorn Chaser

To help you over the hump of this nasty camel of a non-Rapture week, here in a mind-cleansing image of a Unicorn.

And I’ll throw in, extra,  for free, something I did some time ago.

A Very Dark Night

Written by a daughter of human rights activist Abdulhadi Alkhawaja and published in a series of tweets. Her baby is just one year old.

By @angryarabiya

Oh coward men of the dark
When you break in on a chilling night
Trying to control all warmth and light
When you come to take me away
Remember my baby never opposed
Your masters in any way

Remember my child sleeps peacefully
Thinking the world is filled with harmony
Don’t scare my daughter she’s only one
She still doesn’t know what evil has done
The cycle of fear hasn’t yet begun
She knows only the safety of the womb of her mum
My baby sleeps without a care
Thinking the world must be just and fair
Believing her mother will always be there

Baby, if tomorrow I am not here
Holding you in my arms
Kissing you on your cheeks
Tickling your tiny feet
Know that other than metal bars
Nothing could ever keep me away
Know no matter where I’m taken to
My heart with you will always stay.

@angryarabiya tweeted next;  I’m starting to believe the theory that they dont make arrests after 4am, I will go get some sleep now. Gdnight every1, luv from Bahrain

This is the second poem by @angryarabiya I have blogged. The first was “Two Birds”.

Please, dear reader,  if you get the urge, pass these words onwards. The struggle in Bahrain is not a war, like in Libya. It is a peaceful struggle by people wanting freedom who are willing to face the guns and thugs and torture of the King with empty hands and bare chests. If you are on Twitter, follow the tweets of the brave and eloquent @angryarabiya

Thoughts in the Middle of the Night

I haven’t written any poetry for a couple of years.

Last night the dam across my words began to seep.

Just a little.

Sobbing in the night

City sounds fading at night,

In three am silence,

We can just hear the cries,

From Japan and Bahrain,

Libya and Yemen

 

Big Moon

The bright full moon hiding the stars,

Who are patient,

They”ll shine when the moon is new.

A celestial shuffle

Two Birds

A Poem of Bahrain

By @angryarabiya

A daughter of human rights activist Abdulhadi Alkhawaja.

One weak and tired bird turned to his beloved brother

“Oh brother l am in pain, I cannot rest, I cannot breath. This cage is too small for me, my blood has changed the color of my tears. Oh brother join me, together we can break this cage forever. Together we can escape, to a place where life will be worth living.”

The well-fed, blue colored bird replied

“What pain, what tears and what blood is that? This cage is heaven and I am thankful to be blessed, with food and rest each and every day”

“Oh brother dear you know my pain, I know you turned your head away, I know you glanced the other way. But we are one and you must feel, every wound that marks my skin today. Come with me let’s fly away, lets fly towards the sun, where we’ll be treated as one”

“You want me to leave where it’s peaceful and quiet, to head to a place unknown to us? You know I’ve heard there are hunters there, you know I’ve heard that food is scarce. I’d rather be alive and well, and stay in a place where I’m safe and fed.”

“Brother I will watch out for you, I will never forget that we’re one not two. If you help me today, I vow to be, by your side for every step of the way. If we stay here yes you’ll be safe, and if we stay yes you’ll be fed, but will you watch as I fade away?”

“Of course I don’t want to see you die, and of course I want to fly up high. But our master has paid our price, and he owns us and that’s his right.”

“He does not own us, neither me nor you, he cannot keep us as prisoners. God gave us wings and liberty. But only one of us cannot leave, we both are slaves or we both break free.”

Printed with the permission of a brave and committed author who has become my voice of Bahrain.



A Compendium of Bad Poetry

Many of us are familiar with the verse of the “Worst Poet Ever”, William McConnigal.

What I am joyously discovering at the moment is that there were a number of other very bad poets, some of whom were arguably worse than our Scottish friend.

For example, the work of James Gordon Coogler.

Coogler was born in South Carolina during the last year of the American Civil War and spent his entire life in that state. After his father’s death in 1880, Coogler went to work to support his mother and two sisters. He opened a shop advertising “Poems Written While You Wait.” Although his verses attracted ridicule, he sought to promote his business by distributing self-published booklets of original poems. According to his obituary in the Columbia State newspaper, Coogler published five thousand short collections of original verse during his lifetime, besides two versions of his book-length collection titled Purely Original Verse.

He seems to have a great, though unexplained, hatred of Lord Byron’s mother as can be seen in this example.

Oh, thou immortal bard!
Men may condemn the song
That issued from thy heart sublime,
Yet alas! its music sweet .
Has left an echo that will sound
Thro’ the lone corridors of Time.

Thou immortal Byron!
Thy inspired genius
Let no man attempt to smother -
May all that was good within thee
Be attributed to Heaven,
All that was evil – to thy mother.

Translated Poetry

Google intends to create a poetry translation app.

Out of curiousity I used Babelfish to translate Jabberwocky to French and back again.

The result is as follows – - – (My apologies to Charles Lutwidge Dodgson)

JABBERWOCKY

Brillig de Twas, and the toves slithy
Made the gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And l’ outgrabe of raths of kid.

Take guard of Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws which bite, the claws which catch!
Take guard of l’ bird of Jubjub, and l’ avoid Bandersnatch frumious!

It took its sword vorpal at disposal:
Long time l’ enemy of manxome qu’ he sought –
Thus rested it by l’ tree of Tumtum,
And held during some time in the thought.

And, as in l’ uffish thought qu’ it s’ is held,
Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling by wood from tulgey,
And burbled as him came!

One, two! One, two! And through and
The blade vorpal snicker-breakage-crust went!
It l’ left died, and with its head It went
Galumphing behind.

And, the thousand did massacre Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my boy beamish!
Day frabjous d’ O! Callooh! Callay!
It chortled in its joy.

Brillig de Twas of `, and the toves slithy
Made the gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And l’ outgrabe of raths of kid.