tasmanian europa poets gazette no 183


 Some of the poets. 2013

Tasmanian
Europa Poets Gazette No 183, July 2019

Meet at Makers, Burnie
Saturday, July 6, 2-4 pm,
Saturday, August, 3, 2-4pm


  
Whale Song, Joe Lake




She Pegs Out The Stars

You’d think she’d cloak herself in black
To hide in the night fields
This is where the eyes of Argus gaze
And from where a billion twinkling glimpses wink
          She pegs out the stars
Heavy boot stamp and the clay clinging
Stone walls, fences, spiky vines and tangle
Nip and tear and scratch at clothes
And draw her eyes askew
          She pegs out the stars
She reaches down for the point
An angle like a surgeon’s blade
Point and pin the orange glow
A moment measured, pointing at her
          She pegs out the stars
Above, each tender wink a rage of fire
The lensic colours tell their names
If taught web threads between them shifted
We would not be here

And the sun, oh the sun. The king of the myriad
Hides the falling birds who drink his light
When the dark rolling fields are still
The world is tumbling over
          She pegs out the stars
She feeds a box of magic a dream of space
The numbers of the universe approach the infinite
Ah, to know precisely where anything is.
In the night fields.

In The Dying Of The Sun

For as long as it takes me to
count the stars
          I will love you
With memory inviolate
of watching you gaze
upon sun’s extravagant
farewell, your face
bathed in pink and orange and fading gold
Like a gentle sigh
your head comes to rest
upon my shoulder, a
last breath mingling with
the quiet of my tears, and
the stars come out
one by one
          For as long as it takes me to
count the stars
          I will love you
At every moment of every day
the sun is setting somewhere
So I chase that fleeing orb
around the globe
for in its dying rays
I do see your face
once more
bathed in pink and orange and fading gold.

Catherine Burton



The Referee

The national anthems have been sung
Now the game has begun.
It goes on for 80 minutes and more
Many near misses, as yet no score.
Then, so close to the end
From the crowd overall
A shout resonates ‘hand ball!’
The referee, as is his lot,
Blows his whistle, hesitates not,
Points to the penalty spot.
A deathly hush but no rush.
Silence, yet the ball is kicked into the net.
Another long piercing whistle, the game is over.

A  crescendo echoes from one end - the victorious song,
          ‘We are the champions,
          We are the winners - you are the losers.’
Sad, drooping heads, the losers quiet as a mouse,
Do not wait, congregate, in the nearest public house.
Soon their parochial spirits recover
They commiserate with one another
          ‘We didn’t really lose you see
          A mistake, a bad decision, a travesty
          And all the fault of the referee.’

 Phil Harper




Phases Of Winter
(a thought for Cradle Mountain)

O prismic snow
whose crystals of ice
form a crown around the pandani.
The powder blue jewels
of glacial lace
begin the first winter of many.

Hail wandering snow,
whose drifts of ice,
cleave to the tress with rime…
...transitional…
...mercurial…
this winter passes with time.

Now cosmic snow,
whose planets of ice,
fire in an orbit, then fall,
onto nebular leaves
which plead to the heavens,
‘Save this, the last winter of all!’


 Kathryn Conlin




Penny Farthing Reading 1890s

Come yeah, come yeah,
Residents of the mighty Inglis River.
Put down your spade,
Take time to emancipate yourselves
And your offspring from physical bondage.
          Yeah, residents of the mighty Inglis,
Learn that pen and ink have more usage
Than just signing crosses on your wedding day.
I can help shape words,
So you can sign your name with dignity
And also immortalise your thinking and being.
          Come yeah and learn to read
So that you can expand your mind
And thus know the world outside
Your immobile transfixed class.
          Some come yeah,
Residents of the mighty Inglis River
Put down your spades for a moment,
          Come to the house of learning
So that by studying to read and write
You’ll learn to camouflage your past
And grow the seeds to transcend
To a better class
To ensure that you and our descendants
Will live a life free of servitude.

 Judy Brumby-Lake
Inglis River, Judy Brumby-Lake



Scone And Bottoms
(a sort of conversation)

Can I have a scone that’s plump?

You mean well rounded, like my rump?

Yes, and a coffee, hot.
Not a single, a double shot.

Is the nozzle steaming, ready?
Cannot answer, feeling heady.

You mean like jam and lots of cream?

No, that only in your dream.

Scone with butter, that will do.

I will give it, is that a clue?

Oh, yes please, that would be nice!

Will get it for you in a thrice.

Coffee, scone, I am happy.
Hurry, hurry, make it snappy!

Don’t be such impatient man.
I’ll come as quickly as I can.

In cup, on plate, for you to see.

A personal service, you to me.

Yes, and that is all and all is not.
Even with my bott that’s hot.
Quite simply, sir, that is your lot.

Michael Garrad June 2019



State Of Grace

This wonderful place,
This state of grace,
Her beautiful face.

Her longing to die,
The softest sigh,
Her hidden cry.

Michael Garrad June 2019



To Stand

To stand, to die,
To lay, to die,
’Tis the frenzy
that curtains now,
From gasp to
new dimension,
Where a breath
counts for nothing,
Where touch is cold,
Cold to no touch,
One step, upright,
on long descent,
To earth, to dust,
To ashes,
To the hollow that
belongs in the deep,
To stand, to lay, it calls.

Michael Garrad May 2019



Sonnet


Her eyes are beacons of a loving heart
That sweeps and lights the darkness of my soul.
And so projects creation’s female part
My purpose as a slave’s protective role.

Tied like a bodyguard to care for her
When she appears, demanding help from me.
That is my life, a slave and that seems fair
Where only meditation sets me free.

But no, I run from nature’s guiding lines
And hide to let the killing hatred pass
When I should sacrifice my empty rhymes,
Confronting nothing as it is and was.

So here I am, the person who’s to die
But I shall never ask the for nor why.
         
For here she is, the girl upon the cross
Where females know the future of their dross.

 Joe Lake

Joe Lake, My Mistress





Sundays - Sweet Memories

Sunday was a day of rest
We often wore our Sunday best
Mum would cook a Sunday roast
For breakfast we had porridge or toast.
Sometimes we went on a Sunday drive
Or we would wait until guests arrive.
We would have afternoon tea
With sausage rolls and cups of tea.
Sometimes we would watch a movie
Although the top 40, to me, was groovy.
Sundays were a day of rest
Those by-gone days were the best.

Robbie Taylor





A Cup Of Tea

My friend watched intently
As I sipped my tea
Are you enjoying that brew?
I was asked, as I swallowed it down.
Yes, I am, why do you stare?
I bought that cup at a corner market
From a black shemale
Who reeked of marihuana
A shemale, what on earth is that?
A half woman, half man
Are you insane? I cried in despair.
I am so sorry that cup may be contaminated
You f....n fool!
You could have had sex with a man and a woman
At the same time!
This cup of tea is ordinary
But the sex would have been sublime.

Loretta J Gaul


          lakej5263@gmail.com

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