Tasmanian Europa Poets Gazette No 199, Novembeer 20
Emitting
The sounds emitted by homo sapiens
Mostly require a source of happenings
Lips, tongue and glottis slide
And the mouth does open wide
To placate, splutter, rage or shout
In schoolyard play and football bout.
In
lovers’ whisperings close to ears
When
emitting hopes, joys and fears
Lips,
with tenderness,
May
silently press
By nights of dreaming,
Murmurs flow
As bubbles, streaming,
Dancing, lento.
Kathleen O’Donnell
Spider Relief
I once helped a spider,
You may ask, ‘Why ever?’
I’d found it in water,
Its legs stuck together!
So
to help with the issue
I
drained off the wet
By
using a tissue,
But
it wasn’t safe yet!
It lay there exhausted
With hardly a move,
I put then, the tissue,
In the sun to improve.
I
came back in ten
To
observe any change,
The
spider’s legs freer
And
waving a range…
A little while later,
I saw it was free
...of the moisture trap jail
That had involved me.
I
came back much later,
The
spider had gone,
I
felt such relief
To
have helped move it on.
Maybe one day,
If there are spiders in Heaven,
That spider will know
That I saved its bacon.
Kathryn Conlin
Two thousand years ago
or more:
Hey Marcus! Knucklebones!
Come and have a game,
and see if you’re a master!
and the boy with the leather pouch
squats in the dust.
He clears away the dirt and pebbles
strewn by a passing chariot
with the side of his hand.
When all is smooth
he empties the contents of his bag
upon the ground:
the contest starts.
The bones are smooth and polished;
many hours of play
with nimble fingers
and the palms and backs of hands
give a comforting, familiar feel,
and a grey-green patina
to knucklebones,
or gobs or dibs or jacks,
knucklebones
and chuckstones.
There’s a concentration
on the challenge;
dexterity’s what counts,
not strength.
Sometimes the youngest wins.
A child today could play
an ancient Roman
or a Greek,
a king’s daughter
or a peasant’s son,
and know the rules,
and win a wordless game.
Simplicity prevails.
Don’t let our children lose
the chance
to play the ancient,
universal games,
that have those lovely,
half-remembered names,
of knucklebones,
gobs or dibs
or jacks,
or hucklebones,
or chuckstones.
Mary
Kille
Published in Proving Flight
The Visitor From Far Away
Despite the lateness of the hour,
She went outside to watch the meteor
shower.
The sky put on a really good show,
One of the meteors was flying really low.
Suddenly it came into clear view.
It was a flying saucer; she could hardly
believe it was true.
It hovered above her back yard and then it
crashed down hard.
She stood transfixed at the strange sight,
A round metallic object, glowing bright.
Suddenly there was a scraping sound,
Up popped the top and a space-suited
Figure jumped to the ground
The figure took off its helmet and looked
around.
It was too dark to make out its face,
So she turned on the back light and did
she get a fright.
She saw a green face with three
Black bug eyes. Then, much to her
surprise,
It made a noise like a cricket!
She screamed and it screamed back!
She thought, ‘If it can scream, maybe it
can talk’.
She said, ‘Welcome to planet Earth, can
you talk?’
It replied, ‘Welcome to planet Earth, can
you talk?’
She felt perplexed and wondered what to do
next.
It produced something like an electronic
device from its pocket.
She said out loud, with a tremor in her
voice,
‘Oh, I hope that thing doesn’t shoot out
death rays.’
It punched some buttons. She screamed,
it
screamed.
She wondered whether she should run away.
Then she heard it say, ‘Greetings, I have
analysed your language
And implanted its fundamentals in my
brain.’
She said, ‘I’m astonished, you are truly
remarkable.’
Then it started to rain. ‘Would you like
to come inside for a cup of tea?’ she asked bravely.
‘Yes, I would indeed. That’s so kind of
you,’
the alien agreed most politely.
Cathy Weaver
Another Day
The sun is brilliantly coming into my
room,
Stillness is very unusual,
Most times car and truck noise at lights,
I looked at the new design Europa Gazette,
Very nice, bright and colourful.
On opening The Advocate,
Ned Kelly’s court papers found in
Devonport,
Surprised he came from Glenrowan,
Victoria,
Strange how his papers came to Tasmania,
There are collectors everywhere.
Yvonne Matheson
Cul-de-sac
In the cul-de-sac that is my mind,
Round and round,
This labyrinth where we hide
from humdrum and chaos,
We are the two of us,
Beyond reach of raging crowd,
Concealed in this haven,
Living green and vibrant song,
Connected in chatter-field of whispers,
Two souls in fragmented harmony,
Words are others calling, interruption,
Hush! We hear ourselves, in isolation,
In the cul-de-sac that is my mind,
Round and round.
Michael Garrad October 2020
Each Other
I slipped from myself,
Silent.
She stepped into me,
Gentle.
Life, death, the whole,
Complete.
It was the leaving,
Union.
Looking in and looking out,
Peaceful.
Breath for no breath,
Beautiful.
We were each other,
Free.
Michael Garrad June 2020
Round And Round
Atop this verdant hill, in splendid grace,
she gazes at bounteous vistas wide,
And beyond - the remains of pain,
What was, who are, in tedium, on other
side,
She has stepped the path, veiled,
translucent,
Subliminal - breath and non-breath,
And welcomed, in joyous exultation,
softly,
This silent and embracing call of death.
Michael Garrad October 2020
Soapbox
Like Diogenes, who was so unimpressed by
wealth and power
That he refused to bow down to
Alexander
The Great
When he visited Corinth, I too am true to
myself!
Why can’t people see who I really am,
Appreciate me for the woman I am.
Respect my values - like those of the noted
Greek
philosopher?
Not that I aim to live in a tub, as he
was
reported to do!
Throughout life, I’ve been misjudged,
misunderstood
and
patronised -
It’s so frustrating! I’m comfortable with myself
and
I believe in myself -
So why can’t others believe in me too?
I’m on my soapbox now and yet
I
shouldn’t have to be!
The burning question is - when someone
is
treated badly,
Can that person forgive and forget? Is it
possible?
Perhaps we can forgive but does anyone
really
forget?
After all, when unkind words are uttered
or
a wrongful deed done,
Surely the memory of that never completely leaves
-
It’s as if a record player’s needle is stuck,
round
and round it goes -
Or as if a movie camera constantly
rolls
in our minds.
Shooting the same old scene.
June Maureen Hitchcock
Henry
Hellyer (a
novel) by Joe Lake
Previously: Hellyer, the VDL surveyor,
with some convicts, had begun to build the road to Hampshire into the bush,
from Emu Bay, against the will of the company. Lieutenant Barnard, who is
ex-navy and also a surveyor, has come to take everyone back to Table Cape.
Hellyer
holds out his hand to the lieutenant, who has been in the navy and is now
intending to settle in the NW of Tasmania.
‘Lieutenant, good of you to come, let’s have a cup of tea.’
Barnard
shakes his head. ‘Whiskey, please.’
Hellyer
opens the flap to a large tent that holds the supplies. ‘Come in, there’s a
table and some chairs. Sit down, please, I’ll get the bottle.’
Barnard
takes off his sword, leans it against one of the crates and settles down at the
table. ‘You know why I’m here, don’t you, Henry?’
‘Yes,
but it won’t make any difference.’
‘You
have stubborn ways,’ Barnard said.
‘Yes.
Here is your whiskey. The convicts have been stealing some and I have
threatened them with the withholding of their tickets of leave.’
‘You
must be firmer, put them in their place, Barnard said.
‘I
try to make it easier for them too get their tickets of leave to make them
responsible citizens,’ Hellyer said.
‘Maybe,’
Barnard said.
There
follows a pause where they sip their whiskey.
‘Henry,
my servant tells me that there is a plot brewing against the VDL company.’
‘What
do you mean?’
‘He
tells me that one of the convicts threatened to shoot me if I don’t leave you
alone.’
‘Nonsense.
They’re like children, playing games,’ Hellyer said.
‘Then
what have you got this rifle for?’ Barnard asked.
‘There
may be hyenas in the bush or the
rogue-escaped convict may show up,’
Hellyer said.
‘There are none up here, nor are there
blacks,’ Barnard replied.
‘Maybe.
So… are you going to support me with the road into the hills from here or shall
there be continuing argument and confrontation?’
‘Mr
Curr told me to persuade you not to force
you to change your mind, Henry,’ Barnard said.
(to be continued next month)
lakej5263@gmail.com
Convicts In Tummies
In modern times it has become the fashion
To brag about a once hidden secret
That you had found the elusive convict in your
tree.
It wasn’t many years ago, though,
That to make such a statement
Would have been a social disaster
For you would have been an outcast and decadent.
Your blood and genes were considered
to
be contaminated.
The irony that in the 1820s,
When survival was fierce,
Some people weren’t so concerned
With convicts in their tree
But with convicts in their tummy,
Oh, yummy, yummy, yummy, yummy.
Judy Brumby-Lake
My entry for Minds Do Matter -
QVMAG exhibition, Launceston, 2020
My Dad. Homework By Candlelight
My dad would say to me
‘You are lucky. You can do your homework
By electric light. I had to do mine by candlelight.’
I say to my grandchild,
‘You are lucky. You can do your homework
With technology. I had to do mine manually.’
There is a fine balance between the past,
Present and future.
We live in the present, look forward to the future, whatever that holds.
But we cannot ignore the past, the suffering, the tragedies, the discoveries.
Without the balance of all three, we cannot evolve.
Robbie Taylor
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