My friend Anne does write bush poetry with ease and if nothing else I have enjoyed telling this little story of my, not quite, disguised envy of her talent.
My friend Ann writes poetry.
My friend Ann writes poetry.
The kind that brings a gentle laugh
into its simple Ocker style,
and draws, in its conclusion, a slow sardonic smile.
Her rhymes pour out in easy flowing chatter
occupying echoes, reminiscent, of Banjo Patterson,
full of all the ordinary things that matter.
Held together in a lilting, clattering song.
If I did not hold in such high esteem,
her lightly written Aussie dream,
her visions, her rhythms, perfect and whole
could irritate my sad and sorry soul.
She has at least, spurred me on
to dream with childhood’s softer vision.
To recall the cool touch of Autumn rain,
to hear a whispered, a half forgotten, bush refrain.
To watch again, in wonder, as passing riverboats steam
The old lady “Coonawarra” and the new girl “Murray Queen”.
The dryness of the summer harvest,
The cracking, crunching , frost of winter.
The old wood stove burning,
A magpie’s early morning stirring.
Kero lamps and cold washes,
in the icy morning sun.
My friend Ann writes poetry
With words that make you sing
In half remembered accents, locked in memory.
Once so familiar, but now, sadly, missing.
Still, she spurs me on to try
to find, if, in me, some talents lie.
So here I sit, frustrated, pen in hand,
vainly lighting, inspirations fiery brand.
But I don’t think I will ever match
her gentle teasing invitation.
I just allow my pen to scratch
this shadow, flattery by imitation.
My friend Ann writes poetry…
Elizabeth is about a charming, quirky American novelist who moved in to a house not far from mine in Cairns. She came from Rhode Island originally. She was good company.
Elizabeth
Elizabeth is about a charming, quirky American novelist who moved in to a house not far from mine in Cairns. She came from Rhode Island originally. She was good company.
Elizabeth
Her voice reminds me of a smile in winter,
Her hair the autumns russet fall
She blends and harmonises to a sixties melody,
When into my mind her gentle image tumbles in,
All of her wonderful contradictions enfold and disarm me
On moment, like a peak hour city
Full bent with purpose evident
Next, hushed, as an evening sunset
That begs you hold the moment still.
An ill conceived perfection
A dreamer within a dream.
While never close, the friendship meant
A sort of trusting distance
That allowed similarity and difference
To be held with ready confidence. Enough to keep and be content.
On those occasions that we meet,
To drink our coffee in the street.
I enjoy the flavour of her companyI helped a friend drive from Cairns to Brisbane.
Driving in the car with Mary talking over really big ideas.
Driving in the car with Mary
talking over all the really big ideas.
Snapshots of the world slip by
Our windows
As we grapple with Fibonacci & Foucault
And wrestle to deliver greater fears.
Driving through a season,
Exchanging gifts
Kindness, trust, precious fruits of friendship grows,
as the scenery past
our windows
slips and shifts
Speeding through a landscape,
full of autumn’s promise
where Winter hides her secrets.
We travel, rugged up in our conversations.
Outside, chilled by gentle fog.
Inside, warmed by raucous laughter.
Boosted by a loud rendition
of a sad old country song.
We talked of all things universal
A galaxy of thoughts,
In a world of two.
Big ideas from a small planet.
Discourses and philosophies
Like rocks around a sun
Spin in and out of secrets
Formed
when we were young
And hid,
From a world
too big.
Until,
This
small
universe.
With laughter and with song
we tread on common ground,
And turn the music loud.
We sing off key with gusto
Half remembered melodies
Of lovers lost and found.
We sing above the shallow graves
Where all our lovers lay
fallow for the winter.
Lovers won and held
lovers lost, unlamented
tossed and discarded
small toys no longer in our play.
Women share their secrets
In a journey bound with laughter and with song.
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