The Test – Another retrieval from mothballs

The Test

This poem was posted on our school noticeboard prior to our Year 11 Exams. In our second last year of school, these were our first major exams.  I was encouraging my school friends. To be honest, I was probably encouraging myself too! I would have been 16 years old at the time.

The Test

To test one out there are many tests,

Which cause study, tension and fear.

After which one looks forward to rests,

Especially when the end of the tests is near.

School is where many tests take place,

At college and university much the same.

Failure leads to much disgrace,

High pass to a much-praised name.

All through one’s life one has many tests,

Some so hard and painful to endear.

Yet life itself is the greatest test,

And continues on year after year.

Simon C.J. Falk as a senior school student in 1988.

The Day I Got the Wog?!

The Day I Got the Wog

Before we take offence, let us recall that the usage of colloquial and slang words changes over time.  In ‘Ozzieland’ (Australia) back in the day, when this little poem from my childhood was written, the word “wog” had at least two popular connotations.  It was used to refer to certain ethnic groups of people.  This was mainly Italians, but it, for example, was also applied to Greeks and Croatians.  Sadly, at times, this usage was a derisive and aggressive means of address.  We would say that is racist.

There is some information on the use of the term “wog” on google, if you have the time and inclination to search. 

The other connotation of the word “wog” referred to times when we had a cold or flu (influenza).  I am not sure if it applies to “man flu”.  We might have said in former times: “Sorry mate, I can’t play footy on the weekend, coz I’ve got the bloody flu!”  The poem I wrote back in about 1983 is about the experience I had of the flu. I would have been about 11 or 12 years old.

Given this latest southern hemisphere winter has been a severe one for colds and flu I thought it timely to extract this silly little rhyme from the archives.  I hope it does not sicken any readers! 🙂

The Day I Got the Wog

The day I got the wog,

I got so very hot,

My eyes thought they were on fire,

Not to mention the rest of the rot.

And when I got into my bed,

I sweated something rotten,

For when I went to get out,

I found I was stuck to the cotton!

I shivered and shook like jelly,

And boy, how sick was my belly.

Simon C.J. Falk  circa 1983.

Reflections – Inspired by Cherish Blogfest 24,25,26 July 2015

Reflections

2CameliaGarden0715

I already had a post in the #Cherished Blogfest .  But it has inspired me to keep going.  Reflections are part of our lives.  Both the reflections we see and the ones that take us on a journey inside with our inner eye.

MurrmbgRvrJugUpstrmMidBrdgJn11

 Reflections

Reflections
Enter our lives
Resplendent

And radiant

Shadowed

And

Shiny too.

How wondrous they are!

To be in them,

In concert with

The rhythm of them.

So much the better

Than

A captured image

Of photograph

Or screen –

Copyrighted, of course!

Ah, but

To be present

To them as they

Are to us.

To sniff the unconstructed air

To feel the feather-soft

Lakeside humus

Underfoot.

Foot of fowl

Of beast

And halting human

Like myself.

Soil soft

As the down

Of ducks drifting by,

Their low quacks

Alerting friends –

In a ducky dialect

Unbeknownst to me –

That

A human

Is here.

Reflections that

Still us 

Suspend us

And,

Holding us 

In a gasp and sigh

So deep

That it reverberates

Silently within.

And then

The reflection

Turns in and out

And about us.

We bow our inner selves

In reverence

Before the majesty

Grateful

And full,

Sated and

Brimming over

In a deeply felt

Knowledge of sorts.

Knowledge

That we too can

Reflect

And radiate

Like the scenes.

We reflect within and without,

In concert

With the reflecting

and resonance

Of the cathedral of creation

Around us:

In a refracting dewdrop,

A lake,

A beloved’s eyes;

All of them

Replete with splendour.
Simon C.J. Falk. 22 August 2015

 
  
cherished-blogfest1

A Return to Snug Cove

A Return to Snug Cove



A return to Snug Cove in Eden NSW.  A part of the Sapphire Coast I have long loved.


  



A Return to Snug Cove

Sherlock Ship sits

Still and moored

As seagulls idly

Patter about the pavement.

The dock,

Quiet at this spot,

As we persons

Sit and stand about

With coffees and cameras

And various ‘what-nots’.

The sea-surface ever so tremulous,

More by sight than sound,

Though there may be a soft sploosh

From the little lapping.

Oh, to return to Snug Cove!

Latent with adventure,

Harbouring such history.

It’s wharf decks

Formerly blood-stained and oily

From quarry brought ashore.

Of fisherfolk in times gone by

Receiving the pay-packet

And parcels of prawns

Or other briny treasures.

Snug Cove

On a quieter morning,

But full, so full

Of presence

And meaning.

Simon C.J. Falk 22 August 2015

Stilled by the Skill

Stilled by the Skill

For the late Sylvia Plath (1932-63)

Stilled
By the skill
Of a greater
One.
One so
Tormented, yet
So masterful
With
The vivid
Word-pictures
Lighting up
The screen
Within
Our minds
Eye
As it spies
With delight
Her craft.
Plath,
Who’s pen
Paves a path
That reveals
Little
On a shallow sight.
But
Much, much more
Will pour
Forth,
As we still
Ourselves,
Truly look,
And drink
In
Within
The resonances
She evokes.
Humbled
I am,
Nearly dropping
My pencil forever,
Before
A greater craft.
A life
No more,
But in
Her words,
That remain,
Alive to us
And many.
Simon C.J. Falk 6 August 2015

Legend of the Leaves

Legend of the Leaves
  

Legend of the Leaves

The fruit of a lovely afternoon walk in the park.

Leaves

Left lying low,

Carpeting the coldness

Of the wintry ground.

Collected,

In clusters.

Crackling

Against trees bark

And treads of trainers

Advancing underfoot.

Frosted by night

Warmed by sunlight.

Leaves

Leave us wondering

What tales do they tell?
We are the leaves,

We whisper in the trees,

We’ve voices taken by the breeze,

Around your arboreal reveries.

When young and green and supple,

We soften with those times,

But when autumnal coldness comes,

We dwell in harsher climes.

Then within the litter,

The microbes are our friends,

They transform us into something new,

And humus is its ends.

Soon the trees are nourished,

And toughen their rings and grain,

For leaves form in the canopies,

The life cycle starts again.



Simon C.J. Falk 4 August 2015