Illuminated,
on your pages
these
words
find life,
and born
through these
words
are my connections.
Invoked
yes!
a calling forth,
you re-appear in my
present.
Actors from my being with,
come to me,
surround me
and make me remember.
We
are always
together
I give him such a verbal and written lashing, so it’s nice to find these words from Descartes which inspire me!
It might seem strange that opinions of weight are found in the works of poets rather than philosophers. The reason is that poets wrote through enthusiasm and imagination; there are in us seeds of knowledge, as of fire in a flint; philosophers extract them by way of reason, but poets strike them out of imagination, and then they shine more bright.
—Descartes (in Applebaum 1995).
Filed under Uncategorized
New growth
HACKED back.
Flowers gone.
So too the native bees, lizards and birds.
A brutal pruning,
outside my window.
Perhaps a neat and tamed form to some,
But I dream
of the wispy new
luscious green branches and leaves.
This is where the grey goshawk had perched,
calculating so carefully.
Could it take the sand monitor below?
I stare outside this window
most days.
Feel the essence of these plants,
my companions.
May new shoots
be born from rising humidity,
new growth sprout in UNRULY form.
Be wild.
Filed under Poetry
I picture
stories
one on each fold of a squeeze-box.
Life breathed into each;
palpable,
real,
physical,
material.
Then,
collapsed with the squeeze of the hands,
air P-U-S-H-H-H-E-D out.
Story upon story,
all together,
as one.
Resonance,
they speak to each other.
They exist together as one materiality.
At home,
in a squeezebox.
I came across this image in an earlier blog and it reminded me of a story that P was telling us on Trail. He spoke about the djaburr (fog/mist) being caught in the spider’s web… you’ve go to find the right one and there will be a song in it. This isn’t a song, maybe just a metaphor for life…
Suspended in a web,
held
in relation.
A universe of
tiny worlds,
all
from one.
Delicate?
No,
strong.
Connected
Filed under Metaphors
Walking in
connected silence, in
conversation with country.
Words as feelings,
passing through the soles of my feet.
Tone changes as we leave
pandanas forest and rise over dunes.
Serge of excited babble as we
descend,
onto a stretch of white sandy beach.
Blue, blue, blue
screaming at me…
Hurry up! Dive!
But when we get to the freshwater paperbark,
you tell me
sleep.
Conversation finds its way into
a dream-space
Black and blue dancers
float under the canopy.
Rising.
Falling.
Never touching the ground.
Returning,
to this place
feels odd in a way.
A part of me, some kind of awaress
is here
all of the time.
Never leaving;
always walking the murga scrub,
singing in the flood plain.
Milky blue
welcomed me back the other day,
left me with mouth open,
heart cracked open,
drinking in the colour of country
as I flew over Roebuck Bay.
Anticipation,
seeing it when I thought I had none;
pulling me out,
into expectation,
taking me away from what is:
being here,
present.
Filed under Poetry, Uncategorized
Resting in a shallow cave in the sandy cliff,
Four pied oyster catchers waking me from my sleep.
The jellyfish have gone,
A neap tide and milky white ocean to swim in once more.
Ocean stratified in bands of blue – light and dark,
Blue sky with build up clouds.
Burning the soles of my feet in an unimagined delight,
Up and over the dune back to still heat.
Filed under Poetry
I just watched a short film made by Annaliese Ceil Walker, which was inspired by Andrew McMillan’s poem A Postcard From Hell in October:
It reminded me of today, latitude 17.9620° S.
It’s hot.
The easterly is frying us like eggs today.
The wind teases by swinging around to the north-west, but only for a minute, then it’s gone.
Someone posted on FB that it was 28 degrees early this morning in Darwin.
I laughed and felt relief that I am a ways down south… not south enough.
Married turtle clouds float overhead laughing.
They’ll be no satisfaction from that mob in the sky for a while.
Meanwhile, miniature dragons masquerading as insects settle into my camp.
Did I unfurl the welcome mat?
Where is there relief then in this oven?
An ocean full of stingers and a hose filled with boiling water.
The options of getting wet evaporate, even in the shade.
Filed under Moving Images, Poetry
Being with Country 