I've tried to impose some restriction on myself today. I was told once that structure can be anything but ultimately it comes down to patterns. I won't go into the detail see though if you can pick it.
It doesn't take much to inspire a poem...but I was taken aback as I walked up the steps at my rail station how the sun shimmered off the pools of water in the carpark. It was beautiful and their were moments where the light melted with the water and it really did seem as though I was seeing gold.
I suppose really beauty is everywhere we only need to see it. I hope anyone reading this had the opportunity to see something beautiful today :) maybe in the least likely place.
Puddles
There is a golden puddle
This morning it shines just
As bright as any water
There are two bodies entwined
On leather seats rattling bound
In opposite directions back home
There is a proud pool
Peeking between shoulder blades and
Sighing restless in deep crowds
There are names and whispers
Green men and dark women close
Like magnets they find each-other
There is a puddle here
a place passed everyday in
No way is it special
Until its beauty is seen.
A collection of poems and musings by a rookie poet and constant dreamer - J.O.S.H
Thursday 19 April 2012
Sunday 15 April 2012
Adam Lindsay Gordon's Bush Poem
Everyone to me there are few ways I can describe what it is about Australia I feel makes me Australia. All of it is captured in this poem. It's not the landscape though, it's relationship this poet has with it. It's a complex love. It's something so unexpected. It's the attitude of all of us I'd like to think. Read this poem and see if you understand what I mean. It's behind glass in Canberra the seat of the Australian Commonwealth Government. I wonder why?
Adam Lindsay Gordon, poet, 1876
In Australia alone is to be found the Grotesque,
the weird the strange scribblings of nature learning how to write
Some see no beauty in our trees without shade,
Our flowers without perfume,
Our birds who cannot fly
And our beasts who have not yet learned to walk on all fours.
But the dweller in the wilderness
Acknowledges the subtle charm of this fantastic land
of monstrosities.
He becomes familiar with the beauty of the wilderness
He learns the language of the barren and the uncouth
and Can read the hieroglyphs of the haggard gum trees
blow into odd shapes, distorted with fierce hot winds
Or cramped with cold nights when the Southern Cross
Freezes in a cloudless sky of icy blue.
The phantasmagoria of that wild dreamland
Termed the Bush interprets itself
And the poet of our desolation begins to
Comprehend why free Esau loved his heritage of desert sand
better than the bountiful richness of Egypt.
Adam Lindsay Gordon, poet, 1876
In Australia alone is to be found the Grotesque,
the weird the strange scribblings of nature learning how to write
Some see no beauty in our trees without shade,
Our flowers without perfume,
Our birds who cannot fly
And our beasts who have not yet learned to walk on all fours.
But the dweller in the wilderness
Acknowledges the subtle charm of this fantastic land
of monstrosities.
He becomes familiar with the beauty of the wilderness
He learns the language of the barren and the uncouth
and Can read the hieroglyphs of the haggard gum trees
blow into odd shapes, distorted with fierce hot winds
Or cramped with cold nights when the Southern Cross
Freezes in a cloudless sky of icy blue.
The phantasmagoria of that wild dreamland
Termed the Bush interprets itself
And the poet of our desolation begins to
Comprehend why free Esau loved his heritage of desert sand
better than the bountiful richness of Egypt.
From An Author
Greetings all,
I've mentioned my poetry teacher many times and although it is sometime since we've parted ways his advice continues to rub off on me. There were two things really he had to say...aren't I cruel to point it out, but really it's like those big philosophy books the lay person will emerge from the philsophical immersion with a single thought. It's nuanced and deep, deeper sadly than can easily be expressed...
Anyway I digress, the thing he'd always be interested in with can be summed up in two words, "rhythm " and "play". Today is all about "play".
Boredom is great fruit for the imagination. What wonders germinate! (Yes he must be a poet say you the reader, who else would use such a reprehensibly pretentious word). So before you my readers I am about to state a few very silly truths about the English language, no doubt a five year old could do the same. But I think the world needs to play...and a new friend of mine, she told me recently that the very concept of childhood has changed and is somewhat artificial. So today as a critique and a bit of fun, I'm going to explore the idea of "play" in language. Because language especially English, because atm that's all I know is rather stupid and not at all adult!
From An Author
Analyse beings with anal
Coincidence with coin
Does begins as do, but it has evolved
Narrow it can't be coincidence contains row
Bother is a composition of her and also bot
She contains he (as they daily remind us)
Health a noun for all purposes contains heal most definately a verb.
Language contains gauge and what really is it trying to gauge?
Explain is derived of pain
Writing ends in ting, a kind of bell a momentary sound, a momentary diversion
I've mentioned my poetry teacher many times and although it is sometime since we've parted ways his advice continues to rub off on me. There were two things really he had to say...aren't I cruel to point it out, but really it's like those big philosophy books the lay person will emerge from the philsophical immersion with a single thought. It's nuanced and deep, deeper sadly than can easily be expressed...
Anyway I digress, the thing he'd always be interested in with can be summed up in two words, "rhythm " and "play". Today is all about "play".
Boredom is great fruit for the imagination. What wonders germinate! (Yes he must be a poet say you the reader, who else would use such a reprehensibly pretentious word). So before you my readers I am about to state a few very silly truths about the English language, no doubt a five year old could do the same. But I think the world needs to play...and a new friend of mine, she told me recently that the very concept of childhood has changed and is somewhat artificial. So today as a critique and a bit of fun, I'm going to explore the idea of "play" in language. Because language especially English, because atm that's all I know is rather stupid and not at all adult!
From An Author
Analyse beings with anal
Coincidence with coin
Does begins as do, but it has evolved
Narrow it can't be coincidence contains row
Bother is a composition of her and also bot
She contains he (as they daily remind us)
Health a noun for all purposes contains heal most definately a verb.
Language contains gauge and what really is it trying to gauge?
Explain is derived of pain
Writing ends in ting, a kind of bell a momentary sound, a momentary diversion
Thursday 12 April 2012
The Laughing Dark
There are two types of laughter
One
Readily acknowledged happy loud and alive
Two
Is an ugly smear delighting in cruelty
Two
white eyes gleaming in the dark
They call it the laughing dark
The sort of things you'd never imagine
Hide in it and are part of it
It was inside us first they say
There it lay one day
Till it was unleashed
A shaman of old
He told of two forces
It was said he laughed also
A shrill shriek of a laugh
It seemed to ripple red
What manner of magic or craft
He Used cannot be said but
One night the dark light in
The corners of his eye
Became something tangible
Soon it fed and grew
Because as it was part of him
It was also part of us
You weren't surprised though
Where you?
You knew about the two types
When I began
I knew it
As I knew it when the telling was
Done for me
The sort of knowing best forgotten
Or at least that is the lie your mind hides conspicuously from you
Now you know of it
But you shall not see it
Only feel it
its eyes are not the sort
That Lurk in our world of light
It laughs at such notions
Look now outside
Hear the sounds of dark
That is not their sound
The crickets are gentle and the wind
Tonight is calm
All these things you know also
And it is close
It will make itself plain
All the feelings and sensation
You've carried all that you did not see
You will not soon forget
Nor will it
It thinks as do we
The laughing dark
Now you know it
But you will feel it better in time
And perhaps you will tell someone else of it
Perhaps then you will know
What it truly is...
One
Readily acknowledged happy loud and alive
Two
Is an ugly smear delighting in cruelty
Two
white eyes gleaming in the dark
They call it the laughing dark
The sort of things you'd never imagine
Hide in it and are part of it
It was inside us first they say
There it lay one day
Till it was unleashed
A shaman of old
He told of two forces
It was said he laughed also
A shrill shriek of a laugh
It seemed to ripple red
What manner of magic or craft
He Used cannot be said but
One night the dark light in
The corners of his eye
Became something tangible
Soon it fed and grew
Because as it was part of him
It was also part of us
You weren't surprised though
Where you?
You knew about the two types
When I began
I knew it
As I knew it when the telling was
Done for me
The sort of knowing best forgotten
Or at least that is the lie your mind hides conspicuously from you
Now you know of it
But you shall not see it
Only feel it
its eyes are not the sort
That Lurk in our world of light
It laughs at such notions
Look now outside
Hear the sounds of dark
That is not their sound
The crickets are gentle and the wind
Tonight is calm
All these things you know also
And it is close
It will make itself plain
All the feelings and sensation
You've carried all that you did not see
You will not soon forget
Nor will it
It thinks as do we
The laughing dark
Now you know it
But you will feel it better in time
And perhaps you will tell someone else of it
Perhaps then you will know
What it truly is...
Mrs Macquarie's Chair
Good morning everyone,
Laid out before me is the reason I love where I live. I'm sitting on the edge of the Botanic gardens a spot known to us Sydney sliders as Mrs Macquarie's chair.
What do I see? Everything really boats, planes and the water with the lift shining off it like crystal. Then to my right are giant metal cranes that make me marvel at how much we have conquered nature in some sense that's what they represent to me. To my left the world renowned arch of the Harbour bridge and white sails of the Opera house.
This isn't a secret spot. It's just a favorite I'm discovering as more and more minds and eyes gaze and linger in the same sight before me. It's a beautiful morning and it's great to share such an amazing sight with so many other people this morning.
Hopefully this poem will give you some idea of what it feels like to sit here in y denim jeans on the cold grass with the cool salty breeze blowing over my skin.
Mrs Maquarie's Chair
Crystal
Like thin sky blue fingers
Tumbling over and under
Breathing on rock shores.
The tangle of metal and grass
The loll of bodies on hillsides
Jackets discarded
Eyes open half closed
Chairs and portals into
Worlds so near to touch
To waters and foam
Helicopters, ferries and water.
Salt.
Leaves and wind
Upraised hairs on elephant skin
Folk of all sorts and all colours
Dull made pink in the morning light
Bright made pure in the greeness of ground
White stone sails
An arch unmistakable
More eyes metal eyes
Clasping eyes
The stains of eyes embalmed in albums.
Perspectives visions
Trapping time, trapping nature and stealing a moment
A glimpse a blink
Sun mingles here it rests
Like smooth concrete
Water intermingles with it
And lays out a golden carpet
Over this vast Harbour
The sounds of eyes
"Look at this look at that!"
Feet slow to keep pace
Thoughts amble
There are few words here
The sounds are of beasts
Of flies licking salt and blood off skin
Birds diving and yowling
Or soaring near silent, whipping their wings
But also there are other sounds
The giant ferries churning through the water
And for their size struggling to cut a path through water
Propellers chop meanwhile high in the sky above sounding like a roar
As if maybe the metal is crying out confused as to how it got so high
From its home in the earth
do you see that
Crystal ?
Do you see it shimmering and
Lapping right at our feet?
Laid out before me is the reason I love where I live. I'm sitting on the edge of the Botanic gardens a spot known to us Sydney sliders as Mrs Macquarie's chair.
What do I see? Everything really boats, planes and the water with the lift shining off it like crystal. Then to my right are giant metal cranes that make me marvel at how much we have conquered nature in some sense that's what they represent to me. To my left the world renowned arch of the Harbour bridge and white sails of the Opera house.
This isn't a secret spot. It's just a favorite I'm discovering as more and more minds and eyes gaze and linger in the same sight before me. It's a beautiful morning and it's great to share such an amazing sight with so many other people this morning.
Hopefully this poem will give you some idea of what it feels like to sit here in y denim jeans on the cold grass with the cool salty breeze blowing over my skin.
Mrs Maquarie's Chair
Crystal
Like thin sky blue fingers
Tumbling over and under
Breathing on rock shores.
The tangle of metal and grass
The loll of bodies on hillsides
Jackets discarded
Eyes open half closed
Chairs and portals into
Worlds so near to touch
To waters and foam
Helicopters, ferries and water.
Salt.
Leaves and wind
Upraised hairs on elephant skin
Folk of all sorts and all colours
Dull made pink in the morning light
Bright made pure in the greeness of ground
White stone sails
An arch unmistakable
More eyes metal eyes
Clasping eyes
The stains of eyes embalmed in albums.
Perspectives visions
Trapping time, trapping nature and stealing a moment
A glimpse a blink
Sun mingles here it rests
Like smooth concrete
Water intermingles with it
And lays out a golden carpet
Over this vast Harbour
The sounds of eyes
"Look at this look at that!"
Feet slow to keep pace
Thoughts amble
There are few words here
The sounds are of beasts
Of flies licking salt and blood off skin
Birds diving and yowling
Or soaring near silent, whipping their wings
But also there are other sounds
The giant ferries churning through the water
And for their size struggling to cut a path through water
Propellers chop meanwhile high in the sky above sounding like a roar
As if maybe the metal is crying out confused as to how it got so high
From its home in the earth
do you see that
Crystal ?
Do you see it shimmering and
Lapping right at our feet?
Monday 9 April 2012
I hate and I love
I hate and I love
If you asked me why
I would guess at an answer
As possible as it is to say
What it is to love
And what it is to hate
A girl tantalizing close
And yet unfairly distant
Hope barely kindled
Mixed with pessimism so certain
She came in my dreams
A fantasy large and round
In all the ways the best for me to observe
Now my gaze is interrupted by glares
Glares that stream now unwarranted
To interrupt the landscape of
Her smooth lips curled but no
Longer charming
Filled instead with the snarl
Painted on when last I laid eyes
On her
Locked from her
thick lip stick with no taste for my mouth
Ribbons of hair absent from my hands
The floor boards are hard
On my bare feet
They are harder as I stand
And wait
Voices far away start up first
Then clearer
Now doubt
No ring no knock
Absence only
For tonight
Sleep
but alone
Thoughts intrude as they always would
Fears shadows sounds lights
Distractions perhaps from
The absence felt so keenly
In clean sheets in this bed
This giant empty bed
Empty with me
If you asked me why
I would guess at an answer
As possible as it is to say
What it is to love
And what it is to hate
A girl tantalizing close
And yet unfairly distant
Hope barely kindled
Mixed with pessimism so certain
She came in my dreams
A fantasy large and round
In all the ways the best for me to observe
Now my gaze is interrupted by glares
Glares that stream now unwarranted
To interrupt the landscape of
Her smooth lips curled but no
Longer charming
Filled instead with the snarl
Painted on when last I laid eyes
On her
Locked from her
thick lip stick with no taste for my mouth
Ribbons of hair absent from my hands
The floor boards are hard
On my bare feet
They are harder as I stand
And wait
Voices far away start up first
Then clearer
Now doubt
No ring no knock
Absence only
For tonight
Sleep
but alone
Thoughts intrude as they always would
Fears shadows sounds lights
Distractions perhaps from
The absence felt so keenly
In clean sheets in this bed
This giant empty bed
Empty with me
Back
A shorty! Life is too short anyway when I typed this on my iPhone notes I was strolling back from lunch to the office and just got this powerful image into my head. Sometimes that's all a poem is...although I've recently been to a poetry gig or two where people get up and recite these longer poems.
So you may see some longer babies coming your way. My only issue with longer poetry is that poems are so abstract how can you possibly process it all as you read it ?
Maybe though on the other hand a real poem begins as an idea or image like the one below and evolves into something more. That's perhaps the intriguing thing about poetry they have such an organic genesis...as opposed to so much else written in the western world these days.
Back
Bitterness is the sound of footsteps
Thwacking like bullets on the pavement
So you may see some longer babies coming your way. My only issue with longer poetry is that poems are so abstract how can you possibly process it all as you read it ?
Maybe though on the other hand a real poem begins as an idea or image like the one below and evolves into something more. That's perhaps the intriguing thing about poetry they have such an organic genesis...as opposed to so much else written in the western world these days.
Back
Bitterness is the sound of footsteps
Thwacking like bullets on the pavement
Wednesday 4 April 2012
Thrashing
Hello all! Easter is drawing near and I thought it was about time I posted something. My brother has his engagement party this weekend.
As with all parties I enjoy nothing better than dancing. My brother had a smoke machine and lasers ! It was amazing at times while we thrashed on the dance floor at the back of my house, we'd be engulfed completely in smoke! It was so cool one minute you would be In a crowd the next you would be completely alone buried in fog and smoke.
It was a fun night of dancing! And that is what has inspired my poem tonight. Dancing vigorously...I was thrashing ! :)
Thrashing
Sometimes amid night
Amid bodies
Thick steamy misted musty forms
Blur in and out of light
Blurring appearance
Sweat and musk mingle
Slamming feet ache from the effort
Lasers scrape and burn holes in sound
Lights flicker in bright unnatural tones
While sonorous claps course
On drifts at the edge of beats
Then after
When it's finally done
Here I am
Here we are
The same people as before we
started thrashing
As with all parties I enjoy nothing better than dancing. My brother had a smoke machine and lasers ! It was amazing at times while we thrashed on the dance floor at the back of my house, we'd be engulfed completely in smoke! It was so cool one minute you would be In a crowd the next you would be completely alone buried in fog and smoke.
It was a fun night of dancing! And that is what has inspired my poem tonight. Dancing vigorously...I was thrashing ! :)
Thrashing
Sometimes amid night
Amid bodies
Thick steamy misted musty forms
Blur in and out of light
Blurring appearance
Sweat and musk mingle
Slamming feet ache from the effort
Lasers scrape and burn holes in sound
Lights flicker in bright unnatural tones
While sonorous claps course
On drifts at the edge of beats
Then after
When it's finally done
Here I am
Here we are
The same people as before we
started thrashing
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