October 2016 – Simon's still stanza

Who Trod These Paths and What are Their Tales?

Who Trod These Paths and What are Their Tales?

How many times have you heard the expression: “if only these walls could talk?” I’ve had that thought about pathways, seaways, rivers and landforms. They hold stories. Two paths in the images I included here hold stories of their own. The poem tries to get a feel, however incompletely, for the story under the surface.

Who Trod These Paths and What are Their Tales?

Who trod these paths?

What voices do they give?

What are their tales?

How did they live?

First Picture: A scene from Pioneer Park Lookout, Griffith NSW, Australia.

(i)

Way back in the Dreamtime,

Shapes formed in the land,

Great marsupials and serpents,

Gathered as a band,

They came,

They ate,

They played,

They strayed,

And so began another day.

People came to tread upon

This earth with shoeless foot,

They hunted with the spear

And the boomerang they tossed.

They walked upon this hillside,

As to other lands

They crossed.

They communicated with message stick,

Traded food and skin,

They came across the white fella,

And now both dwell therein.

Tourists tread along this path,

And youngsters doin’ their thing,

In the grating of the gravel,

And the rustling leaves,

We hear their stories sing.

Second Picture: ancient gateway in the old city of Rhodes (Rodos) in the Greek Island group.

(ii)

Peoples disembarked upon this isle,

Greeks and Turks

If you please.

Add mixes of Italians,

Even the Maltese.

There were Spartans, sparsely clothed,

But tough and fierce and strong,

And Crusading knights

Who came to smite,

And hold their banquets long.

Fisher folk and traders,

The powerful and the slaves,

Those on land and waders,

The mature as well as knaves.

Battles won and lost here,

And even change of names,

From Rhodes to Rodos we hear

Tourists pronounce in ancient lanes.

Some gather for the markets,

Others for historic sights,

In busy tourist seasons,

Cafes and beaches

Are crowded in at nights.

But in the age-old pounding

Of waves from o’er the sea,

The archaic tales are sounding,

Of the indentured and the free,

Inviting into the story,

People

Like you and me.

Simon C.J. Falk 30 October 2016

Again, We Are More

Again, We Are More

When I wrote the poem We Are More, I knew there was more to tell. John O’Donohue was reputed to have said that, when he had written some poems, there was more left over for another. What also helped form ‘Again, We Are More’, is the discovery of a fabulous blog by ‘Anna’ called Anonymously Autistic. It just goes to show that we still have much to learn from the experiences of others and of how they are more than what they seem.

Again, We Are More

(i)

Perched

On the hard brickwork,

Atop a retaining wall,

He sways:

Back and forth,

To and fro,

A catatonic rhythm.

As each sway completes

Its repetitive arc

Groans emit from within,

Groans of a wordless language

Yet, transmitting a pain

All can sense.

He can memorise

Timetables and schedules

And recipes and shopping lists

And here

He’s reduced

To a state

Of oblivion.

But, again,

We are more

Than the episodes acting out

From us

That we cannot control.

(ii)

Into the middle distance,

Not looking

At what’s before her eyes,

She is last

To leave the courtroom.

Another case

Lost,

Gone.

She reels,

And feels

A tremble,

Ever so slight at first,

As the adrenalin leaks

From her

And on

To the parquetry floor,

Beneath

Her swollen feet.

Weary

She will have to face

Her colleagues at the office.

Weary

She will then drive

Through traffic

And home –

At last –

Home

To her son.

(iii)

“No, no, no!”

She says,

And her son,

He keeps groaning,

And swaying, more

And more

Before

It dawns on her,

As she cries into her hands,

That the more she rebukes

The more he will groan and sway

And cover his ears with the palms

Of his taut hands.

“Why?”

She asked herself

Had she snapped

At her son so.

Her sobs heavier now,

Face pressed against her knees,

Arms hugging legs.

Weary

With work,

With worry,

With life,

And yet,

Again

We are more

Than the building frustrations

That erupt

In desperation.

Simon C.J. Falk 29 October 2016

In The Silent Spaces

In The Silent Spaces

A follow on from yesterday’s poem Which Space? This poem continues to explore what happens for us between the words. The absence of sound and the blank spaces on a page or screen are not empty of meaning. They are part of our response to the writing and advance the overall encounter.

In The Silent Spaces

In the silent spaces

Between the written words,

I hear the echoing cadences

Of the previous words.

In the punctuated ‘white space’,

Betwixt the written words,

Before my eyes,

I imagine lovely ‘word pictures’

In my mind, and

It spies,

Yes, it spies

An encounter with the words.

Simon C.J. Falk 28 October 2016

Which Space?

A cryptic verse. I had to save as a jpeg to keep the formatting . Compare with Maximum White Space.

whichspace

Tearless

‘Tearless’ A thoughtful and poignant free-verse poem from Kim at ‘Poetry On a Roll’.

Poetry On A Roll

I see the pain in his eyes raw from
years of ill-treatment, he’s hiding behind
the cigarette-smoking and heavy-drinking
I see the tears that will never flow
because he’s a man and they do not cry,
so he holds it all in because he’s doing
what others expected of him
—to be a man who doesn’t show emotions—
but he’s desperately seeking approval
to relieve the discomfort. Yet, he won’t
shed a tear on his terms, not even one drop.

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For The Black Dog Bites Severely

For all those we know and love. May they find peace and vigour again.

For The Black Dog Bites Severely

For some the Black Dog bites severely,

Smiting in an awful wound;

The cost to victims is dearly,

As they may feel sorely doomed.

The bite may infect like rabies,

And take a diabolic toll;

Turning certitudes to maybes,

As it eats at body, mind and soul.

And we, we try to tend them,

To bring the balm of cheer;

Apply the discipline of listening,

A focussed, compassionate ear.

It may take medication,

To bring the chemical mix to still;

And it takes love and dedication,

To bandage their battered will.

And so we send these words out,

To the one’s we know by name;

And to all their suffering companions,

Who feel much the same.

May they receive the treatment,

The best care all can give;

For we want them all to flourish,

And again to fully live.

Simon C.J. Falk 18 October 2016

A Gift

A Gift

A received a very beautiful gift in recent days. An small sized and elegant collection of W.B. Yeats poems. It is very fine. One day I shall write verses in honour of Yeats. I have often thought of it. But suitable words have not yet come to me.