Aussie Readersdiscussion

A little corner of the world where we can indulge in our secret love of poetic works!

This is a place to let us know about new creative works and much loved verse tattooed to our hearts and if you are feeling inspired, post your own lines as well...

You can love all types of literature and appreciate the poetic moments of any of those in this space.

For other poetic thread in the Aussie Readers space check out:http://www.goodreads.com/topic/show/4...

To kick start, a little self exposure:


Devour my mind
Awaken my body
Softly in shadows
Meld our flesh
I take you
To feed the fire
Consume my heart
Renew my sight
As one we expand
To envelop everything
Ocean, trees, creatures
All lives inside us
We are made of
Laughter, tears, light

Nice one Emily...do you write only free verse or can you write other forms.

Here is one of mine that was published in the American Cowboy poetry magazine & won 2 highly commendeds here in Aus.

Old Life Dreams
Far from the suburb's growing sprawl
or hourly freight trains on the track,
far from the crowded shopping mall
and dear friends past, who won’t be back.

Far from the gangs that roam and fight
then vandalise and cause such fear,
far from the lines of bright street light
and piercing sirens in one’s ear.

Far from his unit and the din
he prods, the campfire embers hot,
relives that yearning deep within,
a life he thought he had forgot.

Where freedom is the stars above
or land as far as one can see,
the beauty of a fledgling dove,
and roam this country wild and free.

To sleep beneath an ageless gum
next to an ancient billabong,
where lizards and wild dingoes come
and kookaburras sing their song.

Where sunsets glow a purple hue
and all the evening crickets sing,
then prints are left on morning dew
as in the valley bell birds ring.

The only thieves here in the night
are bandicoots or spotted quoll,
where breezes take dead leaves in flight
and mother nature grooms one’s soul.

He’s woken by the train on track,
the clatter and the noise again.
He wishes how he could go back,
and live the life that he lived then.

David J Delaney
29/05/2010 ©

And one of my new free vers poems...

Captured Moments.

Driving home from work,
radio station is playing our favorites,
the corner of my mouth lifts slightly
into a half smile
as I smell bacon,
cheese carbonara
and satay chicken kebabs;
the computer is still on facebook
my darling, sitting in the papasan,
watching Deal or no Deal.

Now home
I walk inside,
drop my bag on the floor
next to the kitchen bench
then, I start cooking bacon and cheese carbonara
while placing the satay chicken kebabs in a different pan.

The smell is not the same,
the computer and TV are silent,
and the papasan is empty.

I miss you darling.


David J Delaney
22/09/2011 ©

David wrote: "Nice one Emily...do you write only free verse or can you write other forms.

Here is one of mine that was published in the American Cowboy poetry magazine & won 2 highly commendeds here in Aus.
... "

Nice!

I'm pretty comfortable with free form, and most of my work leans that way. But with a little focus I can knock out some more traditional verse as well;)

"I heard of a man..." -Leonard Cohenfrom "Let Us Compare Mythologies"


I heard of a man
who says words so beautifully
that if he only speaks their name
women give themselves to him.


If I am dumb beside your body
while silence blossoms like tumors on our lips.
it is because I hear a man climb stairs and clear his throat outside the door.

Thank you Carmel...(-:

Emily glad to hear you don't mind a bit of verse as well, one of the ladies in our writers group & FTCL who taught all forms throughout her teaching life once said, "It's great to find your own niche, but never loose sight of the beauty in other forms" I took this to heart & can write bush poetry (my niche) traditional rhyme, Sonnets, Free verse, Haiku & Tanka so far.

I'm going to have to call it a night all, early mornings for me....(-:

Aaah the joys of wikipedia;)

Bush poetry:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bush_poet

As the mist leaves no scar on the bright green hill, so my body leaves no scar on you nor ever will. When wind and hawk encounter, what remains to keep? So you and I encounter then turn and fall asleep......Leonard Cohen

Matsuo Basho (1644 - 1694 / Iga Province / Japan)

Bashō was born Matsuo Kinsaku around 1644, somewhere near Ueno in Iga Province. His father may have been a low-ranking samurai, which would have promised Bashō a career in the military but not much chance of a notable life. It was traditionally claimed by biographers that he worked in the kitchens. However, as a child Bashō became a servant to Tōdō Yoshitada, who shared with Bashō a love for haikai no renga, a form of cooperative poetry composition. The sequences were opened with a verse in the 5-7-5 mora format; this verse was named a hokku, and would later be renamed haiku when presented as stand-alone works. The hokku would be followed by a related 7-7 addition by another poet. Both Bashō and Yoshitada gave themselves haigō, or haikai pen names; Bashō's was Sōbō, which was simply the on'yomi reading of his samurai name of Matsuo Munefusa. In 1662 the first extant poem by Bashō was published; in 1664 two of his hokku were printed in a compilation, and in 1665 Bashō and Yoshitada composed a one-hundred-verse renku with some acquaintances.

Yoshitada's sudden death in 1666 brought Bashō's peaceful life as a servant to an end. No records of this time remain, but it is believed that Bashō gave up the possibility of samurai status and left home. Biographers have proposed various reasons and destinations, including the possibility of an affair between Bashō and a Shinto miko named Jutei, which is unlikely to be true. Bashō's own references to this time are vague; he recalled that "at one time I coveted an official post with a tenure of land", and that "there was a time when I was fascinated with the ways of homosexual love", but there is no indication whether he was referring to real obsessions or even fictional ones. He was uncertain whether to become a full-time poet; by his own account, "the alternatives battled in my mind and made my life restless". His indecision may have been influenced by the then still relatively low status of renga and haikai no renga as more social activities than serious artistic endeavors. In any case, his poems continued to be published in anthologies in 1667, 1669, and 1671, and he published his own compilation of work by him and other authors of the Teitoku school, Seashell Game, in 1672. In about the spring of that year he moved to Edo, to further his study of poetry.

On his return to Edo in the winter of 1691, Bashō lived in his third bashō hut, again provided by his disciples. This time, he was not alone; he took in a nephew and his female friend, Jutei, who were both recovering from illness. He had a great many visitors.

Bashō's grave in Ōtsu, Shiga Prefecture

Bashō continued to be uneasy. He wrote to a friend that "disturbed by others, I have no peace of mind". He made a living from teaching and appearances at haikai parties until late August of 1693, when he shut the gate to his bashō hut and refused to see anybody for a month. Finally, he relented after adopting the principle of karumi or "lightness", a semi-Buddhist philosophy of greeting the mundane world rather than separating himself from it. Bashō left Edo for the last time in the summer of 1694, spending time in Ueno and Kyoto before his arrival in Osaka. He became sick with a stomach illness and died peacefully, surrounded by his disciples. Although he did not compose any formal death poem on his deathbed the following, being the last poem recorded during his final illness, is generally accepted as his poem of farewell:





Scarecrow in the hillock
Paddy field --
How unaware! How useful!

Passing through the world
Indeed this is just
Sogi's rain shelter.

A wild sea-
In the distance over Sado
The Milky Way.

The she cat -
Grown thin
From love and barley.

How wild the sea is,
and over Sado Island,
the River of Heaven

Les Murray is Australia's leading poet and one of the greatest contemporary poets writing in English. His work has been published in ten languages.

Les Murray has won many literary awards, including the Grace Leven Prize (1980 and 1990), the Petrarch Prize (1995), and the prestigious TS Eliot Award (1996). In 1999 he was awarded the Queens Gold Medal for Poetry on the recommendation of Ted Hughes.



Inside Ayers Rock

Inside Ayers Rock is lit
with paired fluorescent lights
on steel pillars supporting the ceiling
of haze-blue marquee cloth
high above the non-slip pavers.
Curving around the cafeteria
throughout vast inner space
is a Milky way of plastic chairs
in foursomes around tables
all the way to the truck drivers' enclave.
Dusted coolabah trees grow to the ceiling,
TVs talk in gassy colours, and
round the walls are Outback shop fronts:
the Beehive Bookshop for brochures,
Casual Clobber, the bottled Country Kitchen
and the sheet-iron Dreamtime Experience
that is turned off at night.
A high bank of medal-ribbony
lolly jars preside over
island counters like opened crates,
one labelled White Mugs, and covered with them.
A two-dimensional policeman
discourages shoplifting of gifts
and near the entrance, where you pay
for fuel, there stands a tribal man
in rib-paint and pubic tassel.
It is all gentle and kind.
In beyond the children's playworld
there are fossils, like crumpled
old drawings of creatures in rock.


Les Murray

Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake was born in Sydney in 1866, the eldest son of Barcroft Capel Boake and Florence Eva Clarke. His father (Barcroft was an Irish family name) ran a photography business from his studio at 330 George Street, Sydney. Young Barcroft’s childhood was spent in Sydney, and for two years in Noumea, where he spent time with a friend of the family. When living in North Sydney, which was then mainly bush, he had to ride his pony to Milson’s Point before going to school across the harbour. Later he was to be described "a good horseman, and a first class bushman" and it was said "he looked infinitely better on a horse than off."

Barcroft had four younger sisters, Adelaide, Violet, Clare and Evie. Photographs of his family have been included on this site.

When he was thirteen Barcroft’s mother died in childbirth and his grandmother took over her role in the household. One of Adelaide’s children, Doris Kerr, later became a published author, writing under the pseudonym of Capel Boake.

Barcroft trained as a surveyor in Sydney before taking up a surveyor’s assistant position in 1886, based at Rocklands Farm, near Adaminaby in the Monaro district of New South Wales. He spent two happy years in this district, becoming friends with the McKeahnie family, and in particular their two daughters, Jean and May. Their brother Charlie, who features in some of Barcroft’s poems, was an excellent horseman and was said to be one of the men on whom Banjo Paterson based the Man from Snowy River. Barcroft’s experiences at this time, which were later to feature in his poems, included chasing brumbies in the Snowy Mountains and skiing at Kiandra.

Where the Dead Men Lie
(Banjo Paterson thought this was one of Barcroft’s first class works)


Out on the wastes of the “Never Never,”
That's where the dead men lie,
There where the heat-waves dance forever,
That's where the dead men lie;
That's where the Earth's lov’d sons are keeping
endless tryst - not the west wind sweeping
feverish pinions, can wake their sleeping -
Out where the dead men lie!



Where brown Summer and Death have mated,
That's where the dead men lie,
Loving with fiery lust unsated,
That's where the dead men lie;
Out where the grinning skulls bleach whitely,
Under the saltbush sparkling brightly,
Out where the wild dogs chorus nightly,
That's where the dead men lie.



Deep in the yellow, flowing river,
That's where the dead men lie,
Under the banks where the shadows quiver,
That's where the dead men lie;
Where the platypus twists and doubles,
leaving a trail of tiny bubbles;
Rid at last of their earthly troubles,
That's where the dead men lie.



East and backward pale faces turning,
That's how the dead men lie;
Gaunt arms stretched with a voiceless yearning,
That's how the dead men lie;
Oft in the fragrant hush of nooning,
Hearing again their mother's crooning,
Wrapt for aye in a dreadful swooning,
That's how the dead men lie.



Nought but the hand of Night can free them;
That's when the dead men fly;
Only the frightened cattle see them -
See the dead men go by;
Cloven hoofs beating out one measure,
Bidding the stockman know no leisure,
That's when the dead men take their pleasure,
That's when the dead men fly.



Ask, too, the never-sleeping drover,
He sees the dead pass by,
Hearing them call to their friends - the plover,
Hearing the dead men cry.
Seeing their faces stealing, stealing,
Hearing their laughter pealing, pealing,
Watching their grey forms wheeling, wheeling
Round where the cattle lie.



Strangled by thirst and fierce privation -
That's how the dead men die
Out on “Moneygrub's” furthest station,
That's how the dead men die;
Hardfaced greybeards, youngsters callow,
Some mounds cared for, some left fallow,
Some deep down, yet others shallow,
Some having but the sky.



“Moneygrub” as he sips his claret
Looks with complacent eye
Down at his watch-chain, eighteen-carat,
There in his club hard by:
Recks not that every link is stamped with
Names of the men whose limbs are cramped with
Too long lying in grave-mould, camped with
Death where the dead men lie.

Here's a couple of my own...

Picture of Pain

Look into my eyes and see my soul naked and bare,
See my sadness and know you will have a place there.
place your hand on my chest and feel my heart shatter,
So many nightmares, which one caused it? Nothing does matter.
Watch my tears leak from my pain, and feel their dark reflection,
Sense my anguish and the need for my blood's expelled rejection.
As my mouth makes a perfect picture of pain,
Look into my eyes and see my tears like rain.
And as my soul silently screams, dying to be heard,
Unless you see my pain and sorrow, I'll not say a word.

Your Sadness Mirrored

The coldness of an angry lover makes you cry,
You've lost his love, but still no closure, wonder why?
Lying in her arms helped you with the coping,
All the while wishing for his love, always hoping.
She strokes your back with a friendly tenderness,
You wish for a comfort that is warm and genderless.
Held tightly, you toss in your sleep,
The wounds he's caused have cut you deep.

You see your sadness mirrored in her stare,
She will be the one that is always there.
When they leave you, crying and alone,
All you have to do is pick up the phone.
Let her see your soul break in two,
She will be there to comfort you.
When you lose your heart in their demands,
There she'll be, with hers in her hands.

B

I wish to bite into your hopes and dreams,
Releasing your exploding expressions with your screams.
I want to taste your blood, like wine,
I wish to mix your life with mine!

Clear Glass Prison

Trapped in my glass cage, surrounded by my addiction,
Within my heart struggles a conflict, no affection.
Nowhere to turn, no place to run and hide,
Just the clear glass prison with me inside.
My heart breaks as you watch me smile,
There is no love in my heart, hasn't for a while.
I'm happy for an instant, but still the tears fall,
Where in my life did I fail, why do I feel so small?
Why can't I turn my back and say goodbye to you?
How come I still believe I love you true?

Thanks Lynxie! Nice work, I can definitely feel your pain.

I have also been asked to pass on some comments from another aussie poet as well. From David:

"I thought they are very good with good structure, metre & rhythm, very enjoyable." - DD

Jimmy Foxx died an alcoholic
in a skidrow hotel
room.
Beau Jack ended up shining
shoes,
just where he
began.
there are dozens, hundreds
more, maybe
thousands more.
being an athlete grown old
is one of the cruelest of
fates,
to be replaced by others,
to no longer hear the
cheers and the
plaudits,
to no longer be
recognized,
just to be an old man
like other old
men.

to almost not believe it
yourself,
to check the scrapbook
with the yellowing
pages,
there you are,
smiling;
there you are,
victorious; there you are,
young.

the crowd has other
heroes.
the crowd never
dies,
never grows
old
but the crowd often
forgets.

now the telephone
doesn't ring,
the young girls are
gone,
the party is
over.

this is why I chose
to be a
writer.
if you're worth just
half-a-damn
you can keep your
hustle going
until the last minute
of the last
day.
you can keep
getting better instead
of worse,
you can still keep
hitting them over the
wall.

through darkness, war,
good and bad
luck
you keep it going,
hitting them out,
the flashing lightning
of the
word,
beating life at life,
and death too late to
truly win
against
you.

-Charles Bukowski

Thanks for the great feedback guys! It's really appreciated!

Some brilliant words there guys! Thanks for sharing:)

From Dave Delaney:

I was going through some of my poetry collections & came across one of my favorites by Graham Fredriksen, he also wrote "Taffy Waits" about the light horses that had to be shot:

THE OTHER END OF TIME
Graham Fredriksen 1956-2010

I met her in the autumn
when the summer’s leaves were falling,
when Love was just a dreamland from a fabled narrative;
she pulled me from the bottom
when old Darkness came a-calling,
breathed on me and made my life a richer one to live.

I took her through long valleys
where high mountains cup the meadows,
through temples of Antiquity and canyons of the mind,
where the lonely west wind rallies
and the Childhood Hills cast shadows,
searching for the questions to the answers I might find:

Would you follow me on down, ten
hundred miles, for Somewhere Mountain;
wrap me in your tenderness as moons of ages climb
through the galaxies above—or
till the centuries cross over;
hold me in your arms until the other end of Time?

We walked by crystal water-falls
and streams of beauteous wonder,
by pools of disillusion and disintegrated dreams;
and searching still, I brought her
skies of rainbows, skies of thunder,
asking her to choose. She said: I’ll take the both extremes.

I looked into her eyes and
I could see the fires burning:
a thousand thousand lifetimes and the childen yet to come:
Reality horizon’d
with its hazel edge adjourning
down ancient, hallowed pathways to the endometrium.

Would you stay with me forever
by the banks of Somewhere River,
wrap me in your holiness as midnight hours chime;
love me as you are,
light years to come by mystic starlight;
hold me in your arms until the other end of Time?

Brenda wrote: "From Dave Delaney:

I was going through some of my poetry collections & came across one of my favorites by Graham Fredriksen, he also wrote "Taffy Waits" about the light horses that had to be shot:... "

Beautiful!

It certainly is Emily:)

G'day all, I'm back, now let's see who your favorite poet is & your favorite poem from them........(-:

In the meantime here is one of my popular sonnets.

Sonnet no. 6.


Visions of love lost

My arms outstretched again my dearest love,
I’m watching as your dress glides on the grass,
Your vibrant beauty no one can surpass,
with fragrant skin as soft as Turtle doves.
You lift the bonnet from your hair of red,
then hand in hand we kiss beneath the Yew,
your angel voice speaks of arrangements new,
for soon, as wife you’ll share my modest bed.
Your tears of fear they stain your perfect face,
though, to this fight we knew I had to go,
we tremble as we hold each other tight.
Your visions fade now from this barren place,
your loved betrothed dies in cold Russian snow
as Bonaparte, retreats with closing night.

David J Delaney
06/01/2010 ©

Thanks Brenda for pointing me this way! I've been writing in the poetry department for a little over a year now and I have almost 100 in my journal, lol. I'll post one of my first that is a bit personal but it also gave me a semi-finalist spot in a contest I had entered.

-A Lovely Past-

For years you have caused pain,
For years you have destroyed.
You make it rain,
You tortured me as your toy.

Years have passed,
I yearn to let go of the past.
You bring it up,
It has become like an overfilled cup.
It overflows,
With tears of my sorrows.

You move on,
Without conscience.
While I stay behind,
To deal with the consequence.

I sit here in pain,
While you are oblivious.
You leave these problems for me to drain,
While you think I am tedious.
I struggle to rise above,
All of this pain you so dearly love.


As I said this was stemmed from something personal in my life so yeah lol. Hope you enjoy:)

David wrote of Matsuo Basho above.
I learned a huge amount from this post David. I learned that Buddhist idea of greeting the mundane world rather than separating form it. That spoke to me as I am far too reclusive at times.

Also that description of the Milky Way as "The River of Heaven" will stay with me forever. Thank-you David.

Sherri wrote: "Thanks Brenda for pointing me this way! I've been writing in the poetry department for a little over a year now and I have almost 100 in my journal, lol. I'll post one of my first that is a bit per..."

Sherri, that is beautiful! Well done!

Haha, merci beaucoup Brenda! It was only like my 7th poem I wrote

Sherri wrote: "Haha, merci beaucoup Brenda! It was only like my 7th poem I wrote"

Well, you certainly have the talent for verse!!

Thanks:) I have been told ryhming and verses are my best:)

I wrote the following poem and fifteen years later it expanded and became "Ripple," my 65,000 word novel about dolphins:

Tentacles that suck and strangle
boiling in the deep
Dolphin! Listen to the stars
that shout and laugh and weep.

The world is young, a sapphire
Floating soft in solar space.
Jewel of the universe,
what pure ellipse you trace.

On the ocean’s perfect mirror
one sweet raindrop fell.
The monster’s heartbeat thundered
but she heard the tiny bell.

The stars were silent in her ears
bubbles giggled endlessly.
A million tiny beating hearts
The rhythm of the rolling sea.

In the music of the ocean
where the monster hunted long
In the shadow of its bloodlust,
She has sung the world’s first song!

The monster longed to rip her flesh.
The song leaped up to certain death.
Searching in the stars above
alerted by a scream of love
Beyond the grinding teeth.

She danced so curving, lissom,
like the laughter of the song,
She sent resounding into space
and down the ages long.

So be careful when you write a poem. I could argue that the poem caused me three years loss of income while writing the book it inspired.

Tui wrote: "I wrote the following poem and fifteen years later it expanded and became" Ripple, "my 65,000 word novel about dolphins:

Tentacles that suck and strangle
boiling in the deep
Dolphin! Listen to the... "

Beautiful Tui! Have you had the resulting book published? If so, can you put a link up to it? Thanks:)

Beautiful piece Tui!:)

Thank-you for your appreciation. The book is called Ripple. It was published late last year and all the information about it is on my website here:
http://www.tuiscope.co.nz/

RipplebyTui Allen:) Thanks Tui! I'll be checking it out:)

Brenda wrote: "RipplebyTui Allen:) Thanks Tui! I'll be checking it out:) "

I've added it to my TBR list Tui, sounds wonderful:)

Thank-you Brenda. Hope you enjoy it some time.

Wonderful poetry from you all, I'm really enjoying this & G'day Tui, I'm very impressed with your poem, though I did stumble just a little because within the wonderful discipline, structure & rhythm of your 4 line stanzas, towards the end you added a 5 line stanza, it has not altered how impressed I am but did throw me a little.

I thought you might like one of my Tanka one of my Haiku poems.

Dave.

Whales

In this great expanse
whales breach the ocean’s surface
show their weathered tail
then splash in magnificence
on their yearly migration.

David J Delaney
25/06/2010 ©



No. 7

A boy and Eagle
their spirit now joined as one
soar the heights of life.

David J Delaney
09/07/2010 ©

I also added it Tui. And you've got some wonderful work as well David.

-The Dreamer's Keep

Sleep away the dark,
forget the shadows that lurk.
Temporary relief of emotion,
the giving in to temptation.
Alone in the dream,
fix the thoughts that lean.
Never live in fear,
no regret to shed a tear.
Proud to be yourself,
unlimited sources of wealth.
Love and no despair,
always in the dreamer's lair.

Sept. 26, 2011

Thanks Sherri! Love the line, "always in the dreamer's lair"

Haha, thanks. I'm hoping one of these days I can get some of them published but this is one of my favorites that I've done.

You just published it already. And I've read it from over here in NZ.

Lovely David and Sherri!

Thank you Sherri & Brenda.

haha I guess that is true, but I at least want one published hardcopy for my own sake....i dont think itd be too big of a seller

These days Sherri, you can create your own real book of poetry to hold in your hand very easily, and you never know it just might find a market. I was amazed at how my print books sold. I thought I was just creating the print book because friends and family pestered me for it. But it's sold to complete strangers over and over. The local bookshop had to get a replenishment of stocks. They've sold nearly 40 of them in one little country town.

Wow, thats great!!!!!!

But maybe you should try it too.

Maybe eventually lol, about half of my poems aren't for anyone but me so I don't have enough yet. I'm also hoping to publish my book first, hopefully.

Tui, that is a wonderful accomplishment for a 'little' town, well done.

Sherri, just remember 'a poem is never finished, just merely put aside' dont be to harsh on yourself, you do write very good poetry...(-:

Thank you David and Tui, I agree with that being a great sale:)

Thanks folks.