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