taseuropapoets184

The Tasmanian Europa Poets Gazette 
No 184 August 2019

Henry Hellyer, The Founder of Burnie. Joe Lake, acrylic on canvas, 30/40

Europa Poets choice from school entries

in the Burnie Eisteddfod 2019

Stolen Hues

Easily to be assumed trickster

Under the stretched, diamond smile

My smile is not original

It was inspired by many who came before me

And it will continue to inspire many who are yet to come

The way we talk,

Our repeated etiquette

And our stolen antics

Are far from trickery but rather an ideal

That we build onto ourselves

Through years of relentless practice

Over our absorbent, impressionable minds

We reach out and become eclectic chameleons

Taking the colours we hope to possess

To illustrate the blank canvas.

We take a colour from everyone

But avoid the colours we hate

Eventually we become vivid

               with a swirl of illuminous colours

Each played to our own tastes

But what is hiding under the stolen hues?

Are we plain?

Just like everyone else

Is there even anything at all?

Serena Jarmain

(Grade 10, Burnie High School)

The Waif

Browsing through the photos

Of my deceased nanna,

I find a tattered, faded image,

An image of a dishevelled child

With drooping shoulders

And downcast eyes,

Wearing tattered clothes.

The dangling doll in her left hand

Is almost a reflection of

Her broken soul.

If only I had known of

Your impoverished beginnings.

Oh nanna, oh nanna, you were so giving,

So articulate, so sophisticated.

How could you have kept

Your past from me as a waif?

I turn the photos over,

Message reads: Molly dressed up

As waif, Nelly, 1929.

Judy Brumby-Lake

Waif, Judy Brumby-Lake, oil

That’s My Man

It’s in the swagger of his walk

The sassy cool of his talk

The smile that takes me to heights

It’s in the jazz of his dance

The pride in his glance

The proof of his love in his eyes

That’s my man

It’s not that he does it

It’s the way that he does it

Like the way he dives into my soul

Then when comes the night

He wraps me up tight

And the demons cannot get a hold

And the demons cannot get a hold

That’s my man

It’s in the swagger of his walk

The sassy cool of his talk

The smile that takes me to highs

It's in the jazz of his dance

The pride in his glance

The proof of his love in his eyes

That’s my man

Catherine Burton

Down In The Dumps

I couldn’t sleep all night

Because I was in pain.

I did my exercises because

I’m going in to hospital soon.

The sun was coming out

But I didn’t feel any joy.

My son took me to Wynyard

And we had our drink

Sitting in the car watching the beautiful

Waves, then Ian said, ‘We’re going home.’

Arriving at home, I saw a large bunch

Of flowers and it was for me!

My name was on it. So I shed

A tear of happiness because somebody

Cared for me. The flowers are beautiful

And smell divine. Thank you,

Whoever sent the flowers.

Yvonne Matheson

Clowns

I don’t like clowns.

I don’t suffer fools gladly.

Those motley clowns with painted smiles.

What are they hiding behind their hideous faces?

There to provide comic relief.

Yet I don’t find them funny.

So why would a person demean themselves

By acting the fool?

Robbie Taylor

Annie’s Story

Winter enters, blasting its way onto the stage - someone has left a side door open. It’s the last day of the play and Annie is in the audience, again. Outside, the wind whines and trees with bare boughs scroll the darkening sky. Inside the playhouse, artificial trees bend and sway in precarious motion on an artificial beach. The lead player cries out, and, with arms outstretched, begs for forgiveness - only to have his pleas go unanswered. The mood is intense. The accompanying music from the pit orchestra escalates - the drum booms, then quietens to a soft roll. There is a pause, then the two lovers rush headlong into each other’s arms. The red velvet curtain drops with a thud and the audience is momentarily silent, before thunderous applause breaks out. It’s the last act of the last performance of a riveting play.

From the foyer, Annie phones me to come to the theatre’s little cafe for coffee, as we have already arranged. When I arrive, she tells me all about the play. She says she wants to ask me, and another friend, for dinner that night. She wants to share the joy of seeing, for the last time, her favourite play. When we step outside, Annie’s  hair flies everywhere - grey wisps in the wind - and her coat flaps about her thin, aged frame. For a ninety-two-year-old though, she is in fine form and has great tenacity and vigour for life. She buys wine and a chicken from a store and we start to cross the road. Suddenly, without warning, she clasps her head - there is searing pain and she falls to the ground. At the same time, the bottle of wine shatters, its contents run in rivulets into the gutter, the chicken falls from its warm parcel and lies flattened, lifeless - as is Annie. I look down at her; for seconds I stand frozen, shocked, before I call for urgent help. But it's too late - she never recovers from her deadly stroke.

That day, the curtain has rung down on her favourite play and sadly, unexpectedly, on Annie’s life. My dear friend Annie; gone but not forgotten.

June Maureen Hitchcock

Muffin

(Another sort of conversation,)

Is that a muffin falling on the floor?

Certainly is low down, that’s for sure.

Can you grab it, make it quick?

Yes, I’ll snatch it in a tick.

Not too fast -  no, that will do.

I’ll do it slow then, just for you.

No, hurry, hurry, it might get stale.

Then I’ll speed up, just inhale.

Oh, that better, what a treat.

Yes, still really good enough to eat!

Moist, my word, and very fresh.

Yes, one cooked muffin in the flesh!

Michael Garrad July 2019

Field Of Memories

Walking through a field of memories,

Each moment a bud that never dies,

That blossoms in everlasting season,

To prick the senses in continuum,

To dance beautifully when death has passed,

Exquisite and repetitive, and always,

Perfumes heady and very permanent,

Forever private in this personal resonance,

Beyond the headstone, voice calling in silence,

Heard by one and heard by none.

Michael Garrad July 2019  

Bass Strait In Greyscale

Way in the distance, where sky meets the sea

and luminous clouds rest low,

fifty shades of metal I see

enhanced by a gradient glow.

Occasional flashes of contrasting colour,

electrical, ozone and gold,

announcing a storm of distant pallor

before the tempest takes hold.

The gradual rise of centrifugal forces

pull at the deep grey-green,

whilst foam forms the manes of oceanic horses,

they vanish, exhausted, unseen.

Pearly and slate, the liquidy ash,

froths in the charcoal deep.

The horses escape the watery mash

and sink in the ocean for sleep…

Then finally the calm materialises

and sea accepts its gravity.

The ocean gives in and realises

its options, its vulnerability...

Kathryn Conlin

Kathryn Conlin, 2019

Softly

Sing soft to me the promises of spring

Sing soft as not to waken winter’s rage

Sing soft to tempt the wandering birds their wing

Sing soft and bring back summer’s gauge

Sing soft to be in harmony with all

Sing soft to lure the lovers to their nest

Sing soft and spy across the winter’s wall

Sing soft to urge for all that is the best

Sing soft to quieten an angry feud

Sing soft so that potential dreams may fly

Sing soft and so refrain from being rude

Sing soft that your ambitions reach the sky

Sing soft to dying creatures when they leave

Sing soft and let the leaves on trees explain

Sing soft that you may conquer painful grief

Sing soft and so unlearn yourself from blame

Sing soft so that the hungry won’t be scared

Sing soft if worlds blare out their hate

Sing soft and let your turning cheek be bared

Sing soft with persuasion’s open gate.

Sing louder now to tempt the birds to sing

Sing louder now to wake the soul from fear

Sing louder that the bells may ring

Sing louder now and know that life is dear.

Joe Lake

Selfie, Joe Lake, acrylic on canvas, 30/40

K Mart

I cannot bear new clothes

Like the ones from K Mart or Target

Threads pulled loose, unravelling

As would the Asian machinist’s mind

Toiling and boiling

Making clothes on a production line

For Western countries.

Who thirst for their freedom

As though it were an eternal reservoir

I will always go to an opportunity shop

And step into another woman's world

Wear her discarded designer clothes

Sometimes I don’t wash them for a while

So sweet is charity’s perfume

The most sought after garment,

Is one that is Australian made

Beautifully stitched and crafted

These I dare not wear

They are to be donated to a museum

So that future generations will gaze in wonder

Over craftsmanship superb

And mourn a culture lost

All at the price of cheap labour and cloth.

Loretta Gaul

lakej5263@gmail.com