gazette No 203 March 2021

Tasmanian Europa Poets Gazette No 203 March 2021


 What's At The Bottom Of The Garden 

 I now journey, where once when young I journeyed 
Out into a late sun-soaked afternoon 
Past springing shoots, which like youth 
Are straining hard for light and truth 

 On, past an aged leaning garden shed 
Now so worn, with worm and rot 
Broken pots like broken dreams 
Some I have used and some just not 

 At last, as the lowering day falls calm 
My forking path leans to the right 
Beside that lonely bramble patch, 
A flurrying gust leads on into the night 

 Beyond that sharp stench of compost heap 
Where wasps grow fat on last year's crop 
There lies in wait, a new-mown plot  
I have often asked It waits for what?

 Jeremy Cleverley 



Poets And Painters’ Exhibition 

 Judy Brumby-Lake and Joe Lake 

 Artscape, Wynyard.       

Opening Sunday, March 7, 2 pm, then 2 weeks March 9-March 13, March 16-March 20, 10am-2pm. 


 Artscape, 45 Jackson Street, Wynyard Curator: Mary Kille 64 421923

Judy Brumby-Lake
Judy Brumby-Lake

Joe Lake
Joe Lake's Henry Hellyer

Human Emotions

A drop of rain falls from the tree 
Gently hitting you on the head 
Look up now and appreciate it 
Before human emotion is dead 
Leaping into our future selves 
Modern toys all on the shelves 
Numbing and dumbing all that we are 
Still thinking we have come so very far 
In balance of things are we perhaps lost? 
Better ask Siri to please add up the cost 
Next step is to put some AI in your head 
That is how emotion will one day be dead 
A future devoid of love or any real feeling 
Controlled society means no more stealing 
If you want to feel some love in that day 
Another programme you can perhaps play 
A holiday no longer spent in the sun 
Hook yourself up for some other fun 
Roll the lucky dice once or twice 
Just a piece of random advice 
Take care of the chip 
Thrown in the air It is all sorts of fun 
Until you don’t care 
No coming back once it is done 
It’s a brand-new type of loaded gun.

 Trudi Jane


 Just A Humble Poet 

 No! I am not a bard. 
I’m not in the league of Poe 
Or Shakespeare. 
I am just a humble poet 
With the words I have written here. 
Suddenly a thought resonates 
In my head. 
I’m supposed to be washing my floors! 
But I am writing my poem instead. 
Whether it be about sausages 
Or the history of Great Britain. 
‘I muse for a while on the word bard’ 
For I can’t be a Banjo 
Or a Lawson 
Their works I admire. 
But I consider Bob Dylan 
Bloody awesome! 

Robbie Taylor 

Salvador Dali 

Your art, Mr Dali 
Surrealist, so real, 
Presents like an insight 
That deep dreams reveal.  
You captured, like photos, 
 Your tired melting clocks 
 But what does it mean 
 When they’re not ticking-tocks? 
Your elephants, painted 
On long skinny poles 
Making them weightless 
Like astronaut souls. 
 What was the thought 
 Or each sinuous prop, 
 That held up strange life forms 
 In case they should drop? 
Your baskets of bread, 
And that water jug too… 
How did you paint them? 
I haven’t a clue! 
Your Last Supper art 
 Was a feast of display, 
 Down the folds of the Tablecloth lay. 
So, Salvador Dali, 
Subconscious aware, 
No limit on vision, 

Salvador Dali (version 2) 

 Your art, Mr Dali, surrealist, so real, 
Is a journey that deep dreams expose. 
They capture, like photos (that software distorts) 
With no limits to superimpose. 
Your floppy disc clocks and stick-legged props 
On elephants daring to stand, 
And spongy stone heads, with expressions so dead, 
What did we know was on hand? 
We can only suppose that your brilliance was nurtured 
By those who supported your face. 
And your mind and moustache, beyond all understanding… ..
.took us all into that surrealist space.

Kathryn Conlin 



Touched Me 

 She touched me, 
In the pain, 
In the peace. 
The missing still hurts. 
Always. 
Tears still fall, 
They deluge,
 I can see her, 
Others don’t, 
They aren’t looking, 
Love in passion, 
Love, whole, 
Through tempest of grief, 
And laughter’s potion, 
Bond strengthened by death, 
Growing in the aftermath, 
Unique, 
A beginning at the end, 
Years have passed, 
But time freezes at dawn, 
That dawn, 
When even the sun cried.

 Michael Garrad February 2021 

 This Cut 

 This cut upon the ground, 
This safe belonging beneath storm of flowers, 
This place where seeing eyes can never look, 
Where sightless eyes see all, 
Above and beyond, and all around, 
This treasure trove of beautiful tranquillity, 
This sanctuary that is the brightest dark, 
Perpetual harmony in tailspin of chaos. 
Chattering hordes may kiss the earth,
Their sorrow swept upon the wind, 
And forgotten in the march of drudgery.

 Michael Garrad February 2021 

 Running 

 Running from the laughter in my head, 
And the turgid river ascending in rage, 
Trees, their heads buried in flooded earth, 
Running, Laughing in disarray, 
Tumble-weed in a mind deflecting, 
Sunlight heavy on a bed of dark, 
Rain dancing in ugly rhythm on the wind, 
Frenzied wing beat in weighted cloud fall, 
In the loud silence, the roaring of whispers. 
I hear the cackle, inverted, taunting, 
The senses in argument, disconnected, 
In reverse as others dance backward step. 

 Michael Garrad February 2021 

 Never Ending 

 The season had been very dry, 
Inside, warm and cosy. 
The wind came quickly, 
Crackling outside, 
The noise, one thought, never to end, 
On and on, 
Louder and louder, scary, very scary, 
Lights went out at 3am, 
Came on again at 10pm. 
A warm drink would have calmed nerves. 
Next day the sun came out, 
Some think it unusual, 
Wonderful day ahead. 

 Yvonne Matheson .

Henry Hellyer (a novel) Joe Lake 

Previously: Hellyer, the VDL surveyor, with some convicts, had begun to build the road to Surrey Hills into the bush from Emu Bay, against the will of the company. Lieutenant Barnard, who is ex-navy and also a surveyor, was not happy with this and went back to Table Cape in a whaleboat. Hellyer sketched what looked like a mouse. 

 Sandy, one of Hellyer’s servants, called out from outside the tent. ‘Mr Hellyer, sir, a cup of tea on this freezing cold morning.’ ‘Come in.’ Sandy pushes aside the flap and enters. ‘Put it on the table, here, next to me. I’ve just finished sketching the mouse. She is actually not a European mouse but a native one.’ ‘Are we going up into the bush today, sir?’ ‘No, you’ll all be going by yourselves. You’ll have to complete the huts at Cascade Creek. There is plenty of bark. You can put bark slabs on logs and make yourselves beds off the damp earth. I’ll come too and build my tent there to see what you are doing and how I can help.’ Sandy nodded his head vigorously and said, ‘We’ll have to move from there soon enough as the road gets along.’ Sandy stepped back towards the tent entrance. ‘Drink your tea, sir, and eat the biscuit I have brought you.’ Hellyer picked up the cup, lifted it in acknowledgement and said, ‘Here’s to Sandy. You’ll get your ticket-of-leave soon enough and what then?’ ‘I’ll stay here and serve you, sir. You’ve been good to us convicts, too good really. Some of them take advantage, don’t they?’ ‘That’s life, Sandy… I’ve just been thinking. We could bury our supplies inside the hut as the road continues. Yes, that’s what we’ll do.’ ‘Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.’ ‘I say it’s going to be a beautiful day for winter. I mean in England, this time of year, there’d be snow. It’d be freezing. Here the sun is shining and that lifts one’s spirit.’ ‘But it was freezing last night, sir. Freezing,’ answered Sandy. ‘Yes, but the moon shone bright even though it had a halo and that usually means rain is coming and we hope that it won’t, don’t we, Sandy?’ Hellyer has another sip of his tea and then continues working on the maps on the table. He turns to Sandy, ‘The sea is moderate and the breeze is calm. Another day in Van Diemen's Land, Sandy, just another day before we meet our maker.’ (To be continued next month.) 


The Protector 

 Guns, guns were everywhere 
When I was a child. 
Some were used with fire crackers, 
Some were water-guns 
Sadly, some little boys became boy soldiers 
And used real guns to 
 Protect their loved ones 
 From domestic fury. 

 Judy Brumby-Lake                                                                                                                                                                                            

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