May 2014 – Simon's still stanza

Drought

Drought

This post takes us back to the very earliest days. We dig deep into the past of poetry. I was only 11 years of age when I wrote this poem. Australia was in drought at the time. I was in Year 6 (or Grade 6) at St. Joseph’s School in Junee (rural NSW). Oddly enough the school principal (from Polish background and had a fondness for wearing Hawaiian shirts!) gave it a principal’s award.

Drought

This drought,

Has put rain in doubt.

Cattle dying,

Farmers crying.

Dry plains,

No rains.

No feed,

Bad indeed.

Empty dams,

Dying rams,

Skinny lambs.

Unbearable heat,

Hot feet.

Simon C.J. Falk Summer 1983

Off to Candelo!

To Candelo

Another example of an older poem. Recollections of a time when I lived in the Bega Valley. I hope some readers get a little enjoyment from it.

To Candelo

Off, off, we go, to Candelo!

Where the creek runs through the hills.

Where the wombats run and foxes dodge the gun,

And the dairies take their fills.

Where folks milk their cows,

And fatten their sows,

Where sheep take leave of their fleece.

Where Mount Myrtle stands tall,

And the Candelo Hall,

Bears generations of stories in its walls.

Where hockey and bowls

Give young and old some roles,

To play for their local team.

And the Pub and the Club

Keep serving the grub

And a schooner or two in between.

Where they’re proud of their show

And their markets you know

And the milk that is topped off with cream.

Then open your eyes to the snakes and fish,

The creek carries down in its stream.

So, come back! Come back!

Along Candelo track,

Where the folks make you feel at home.

You remember a while, the Candelo style,

No matter how far you roam.

Simon C.J. Falk 25 October 2008

The Fighter

The Fighter

We all know that life is busy for so many people. Some days we take it in our stride. On other days it annoys, frustrates or frightens us. This poem explores some of that condition. It places the primal fight-flight mechanism right into the breach of the dialogue.

The Fighter

I am the boxer

Flailing on the rope

Trying to knock away my opponent

And I fear I cannot cope.

The demands come

Like constant jabs

Shooting pains

At times from various directions

Google calendar alerts

Email inboxes

Pushy ‘push notifications’

Piles of ‘snail mail’

Tetchy texts

And more besides

Come in.

“Can we make a time?”

“This opportunity not to be missed!”

“Have you read those documents?”

I want to shred those documents!

I am the wrestler

Grappling with the foe

Trying hard to throw them off

Then down the road I’ll go.

Then there are the regulars

The constant appointments

Didn’t I just write a report?

“Umm, that was last month’s one,

now we need another one.”

“We haven’t seen you at our group for a while.”

I am the runner

Running from the malaise

Darting here and darting there

Fleeing all my days

Ahh, a free night!

Put the phone on silent!

Get out of town.

Go to a quiet place

And keep company with your soul.

Be quick!

Or your opportunity will get eaten up!

I am the writer

Fighting with pen again

Trying to make some sense

And to verbalise the pain

To anaesthetise the pain

Or pour it down the drain

And purge away the drain

Before I go insane.

Simon C.J. Falk 17 May 2014

Littered on a Rocky Crag

The late John O’Donohue mentioned, in one of his talks, how poets don’t finish poems at times, they just abandon them. This very ponderous little free verse was an example of that. It was also an example of how our human intervention can, at times, detract from the natural beauty already there.

Littered on a rocky crag
Graffiti had been put
A comment about the agelessness of God.
It may be a true message
For a Christian to write up
But one wonders if they knew what they did.
A tautology – the ancient rock itself,
By its centuries of sitting there,
sits as monument
to agelessness of God.

Simon C.J. Falk 20 December 2012

Yowaka River

Occasionally I like to post some older poems. It gives a bit of a mix. It also helps us see what is enduring in writers and what changes.

Yowaka River

In Yowaka’s twists and bends,

The peace follows in the breeze,

The calm is balm to all its friends,

Who shelter ‘neath its trees.

The mullet jump at passing insects skimming water’s top,

Flathead sink in sandy hollows in the river’s pools,

And then you hear a plop!

As children jump from the pontoon, when they’ve come home from schools!

Canoes you see a paddling,

Up river or down the mouth,

Cars the bends are straddling,

On the Highway north or south.

Fisher folk with plenty of pluck,

Cast into the balmy brine,

A puffer fish might test their luck,

Or a whiting find their line.

But the Kooris know the spots to go,

To find fish in scales or shells,

With patience that lets them take it slow,

And their dreaming giving them spells.

The Yowaka’s been here longer than us,

And will be when we’re gone,

It wends its way with little fuss,

Sparkling in the sun.

Simon C.J. Falk 21 December 2008

A Salute to Our Notebooks When the Time Arrives

This is another topic that has been pestering me for a while. A fellow blogger posted about filofaxes http://giorgethomas.com/2013/09/02/filofax-obsessed/ . I love Paperblanks notebooks. I am also fascinated with the various places writers go to. In what locales do they find themselves needing to write? Do they write on napkins (serviettes), on scraps of paper? Or on the back of letters and other snail mail? This post is about writers and the little (or not so little) books they leave in strategic spots for that moment.

A Salute to Our Notebooks When the Time Arrives

We find them in all places,

Inside cupboards and within drawers,

On the upper storeys,

As well as downstairs floors.

We slide them in our pockets,

In satchels and in bags.

They ride in our motorcars,

And lurk among our rags.

At times they get full mileage,

At others, they sit and wait;

Patiently riding out the writers block,

Until the silence does abate.

And then we reach out for them,

Open the latches and leaf the pages;

The carbon and the ink flows

In the writing stages.

When we run out of space,

We start scrawling round the fringes,

Infilling all the margins

Amidst our writers’ cramping twinges.

We love our little notebooks,

The Paperblanks and the Moleskins,

The Collins and the Filofaxes,

And the ones from bargain bins.

So give cheers all you writers,

To your favourite writing pages!

Tell us your zany stories,

About your favourite writing places!

Simon C.J. Falk 10 May 2014

Wistful whimsy

Wistful whimsy

Wistful whimsy
Playing in my soul.
Tuneful harmony
Toning it in tow.
Feeling mellow
Light incantations in the heart.
Words and rhythms
Centre me below.
And I am rested
Safe in a cocoon.
Time for slumber
And in sweetest dreams renew.

Simon C.J. Falk 8 May 2014.

It may seem a paradox to pair wistfulness and whim together. But it was like a passing and reflective stream of consciousness that gently bubbled to the surface. I hope it offers a peaceful place for the reader to collect themselves for rest.

At the End of the Day

At the End of the Day

Our lives can be a busy balance of many tasks. Work, play, time with loved ones – all of these make their claim. Even maintaining our blog-space can stretch us into the beyond. This little post is to encourage the busy and the beset among us. It is inspired by a clip from Victor Hugo’s delightful Les Miserables.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vHwyCp6ah6U .

At the End of the Day

The day is done

We slump down

Upon the chair

Our shoulders sagging so.

The weight of those tense-taut muscles

Presses on the seat.

Adrenalin uncoils in us

Ever gradually

As we come to rest.

And