Reading Poetry online with #Spillwords

I have posted material from Spillwords before.  Spillwords is an online place for short prose, poetry and micropoetry.

The post here is a poem called Looking for Love, courtesy of Spillwords.  The author writes not only of love, but of being misunderstood.

Here is another that was on the feed today What is Inspiration?

Do you have some favourite sites you cruise into for an idle 10 minutes of good reading?

 

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Reflections on Australia: My Backyard 1991 – #retropost

Reflections on Australia: My Backyard 1991

 

When I woke up this Summer morn,

And cast my eyes upon the lawn,

Beauty unfolded there before me,

With little birds dancing happily.

The sun shone brightly on their plumes,

Their glistening dispelling all shadowy looms.

 

Willy Wagtail stole the show,

With his clickety sound, as he went to and fro.

Away from him on rooftop tall,

Magpie made her presence felt, with her mighty call.

And on the fence posts sparrows cheeped,

As from the gumtree a rosella peeped.

 

So as I went to begin this day,

I gave thanks for the Australian way.

This way so pleasant to the heart,

When noticed in its entire part.

This sun-covered land is dear to me,

From its arid inland, to the open sea.

 

 

Simon C.J. Falk 27 December 1991

Beginning with Whitman

As I see and hear the various responses to the marathon that is the USA Presidential Election I wonder what that means.  I am not an expert on anything, let alone politics.  However, we can all recognise, even in some small way, the longings in the hearts and minds of our fellow travelers.  As I think on this, my wonder alights on the various North American literary figures who have passed through my hands, eyes, mind and heart.  I was drawn to this handsome edition of Walt Whitman‘s ‘Leaves of Grass’ (San Diego: Canterbury Classics, 2015).

The quote countersunk into the back cover reminds us that what can affect you, can affect me and, indeed, so many others.

 

 

Poets and other literary persons can assist us at times when we find ourselves searching. Perhaps it re-awakens a search in you.   You may also enjoy ‘I Just Realized’ by ‘The Bookshelf of Emily J.’

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

God Came to Tea – Guest Post #postingforpeace

This is a guest post that comes from the World Community for Christian Meditation .  All rights to this poem belong to

John J. Keohane

God Came to Tea Today

 

Poems that Emerge

Poems that Emerge

 

I cannot force a poem. They just seem to arise in me when I do not expect them to come. It is as if I am some kind of steward, tending to them, waiting on them, and handing them on.

 

Poems that Emerge

 

They come ashore to us,

They come from who knows where.

They come and set up court with us,

They are here and come from there.

 

But glad we are that they arrive,

That they come and enter in.

We cannot force their forming as we strive,

Yet they appear to arise from within.

 

These verses come to be our guest,

And we but welcome them such.

We steward them and they do the rest,

And we so cherish them much.

 

We give thanks for poetic words set free,

That come from our pencil and pen.

We feel their loss when they are not around,

And welcome their return again.

 

 

Simon C.J. Falk   13 December 2015