Well, you wouldn’t read about it: It’s the beginning of our seventh year of publication. Posterity will judge the gazette as a reflection of Tasmanian society at the beginning of the twenty-first century. We published anyone who felt that they had something to say. Poetry always ends up as the expression of the unconscious and although we live our lives on the surface, it will take its most horrible revenge if we suppress it. The surface life is not worth living. We find this out eventually, no matter how desperately we run from it.
Judy and I went to the March Relay For Life in Penguin. We marched round and round the oval together with hundreds of other individuals who try to bring the horrors of cancer into awareness, where we collect money for cancer buses (which hopefully may be alleviated if all those political promises come into being to build cancer treatment centres in the north-west of Tasmania). I have been the recipient of their benefit.
I’ve just published nine booklets. One of Burnie Scenes which shows some of my watercolours and a re-publication of Philosophical Sonnets with paintings of such understandings.
The gazette can also be viewed on Google: "Europa Poets’ Gazette".
This year we have decided to hold the Burnie Gold Pot (won by Pete Stratford last year) and also a down-scaled poetry reading event for Burnie Shines which occurs around October 8, the anniversary of Edward Curr’s decision to start a road from Emu Bay, after Hellyer’s disobedience and his consequent demise.
My sonnet, in the next column, relates to the booklet I’ve just published, called Musical (nonsense) Verse. I like this kind of ambiguity and hopefully my poetic pretensions will be heading in this direction in the future.
Sonnet
In Dreamtime, just before the time of Oz,
Did Birraloo, the king of all, decree
That Dirilling, the noble bod, was boss,
As spirits from the billabong would see
The stretched-out hand of Goo, the gum-gum tree,
Who wished that all should live in greatest ease
Where food and dreams came flying with the bee
To free the spirit for the sake of peace.
But forces of the Doog and Birraloo
Would rise to plead with discontented glee
To cleanse the Earth of dreams and fagaloo
That all decisions and their aims be free.
So did the king decree, that war was near,
To fight the blind intruders that we fear.
© Joe Lake
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Richard is an up-coming poet.
The Bee
To be a bee,
Yellow and black
Flying
From flower
To flower
And back,
Back to the hive;
Back to the
Flower.
For this is
The life of a bee.
© Richard Griffiths
To be a bee,
Yellow and black
Flying
From flower
To flower
And back,
Back to the hive;
Back to the
Flower.
For this is
The life of a bee.
© Richard Griffiths
Pete is a member of the committee.
Autumn
Though it may pitter-patter, or rattle ’gainst the panes,
we always welcome refreshing autumn rains.
Soaking into thirsting soil and very soon is seen,
atop the withered brown grass, a hint of new-leaf green.
Then as if by magic, it happens overnight -
mushrooms dotted all about, their domes so snowy white.
It sometimes seems the old Earth tries one final fling
and just before cold winter, has a second try at spring.
Despite no brilliant flowers, there still are some delights
as red and amber autumn leaves create a wondrous sight.
Burgundy, bright yellow, gold, are all seen in the mix,
as leaves have gently floated down and left bare winter sticks.
© Pete Stratford 17.3.10
Winter Olympics
Olympics in winter, when snow and ice abound,
from Earth’s every corner, contestants gather round.
They vie to win the trophies of bronze and silver, gold,
with wondrous performances, so skilled, and oh so bold.
Rotating off the ski jump, or flying through iced air,
to land with such precision, it seems without a care.
Those figure-skating couples, so lithe, fit and athletic,
make me feel so clumsy, slow and just pathetic!
Cross-country over snowfields they ski, shoot, ski some
more,
with stamina and skill, out in weather bleak and raw.
In both the luge and bobsled, they rocket down the slope,
at speeds my eyes can’t follow, I haven’t got a hope.
At half-pipe, and ski racing, these athletes do amaze,
with skills for which they’ve sacrificed so many of their days.
A lifetime some have practised for just a chance to hold
that shiny metal disc, known as Olympic Gold.
© Pete Stratford 2010
Though it may pitter-patter, or rattle ’gainst the panes,
we always welcome refreshing autumn rains.
Soaking into thirsting soil and very soon is seen,
atop the withered brown grass, a hint of new-leaf green.
Then as if by magic, it happens overnight -
mushrooms dotted all about, their domes so snowy white.
It sometimes seems the old Earth tries one final fling
and just before cold winter, has a second try at spring.
Despite no brilliant flowers, there still are some delights
as red and amber autumn leaves create a wondrous sight.
Burgundy, bright yellow, gold, are all seen in the mix,
as leaves have gently floated down and left bare winter sticks.
© Pete Stratford 17.3.10
Winter Olympics
Olympics in winter, when snow and ice abound,
from Earth’s every corner, contestants gather round.
They vie to win the trophies of bronze and silver, gold,
with wondrous performances, so skilled, and oh so bold.
Rotating off the ski jump, or flying through iced air,
to land with such precision, it seems without a care.
Those figure-skating couples, so lithe, fit and athletic,
make me feel so clumsy, slow and just pathetic!
Cross-country over snowfields they ski, shoot, ski some
more,
with stamina and skill, out in weather bleak and raw.
In both the luge and bobsled, they rocket down the slope,
at speeds my eyes can’t follow, I haven’t got a hope.
At half-pipe, and ski racing, these athletes do amaze,
with skills for which they’ve sacrificed so many of their days.
A lifetime some have practised for just a chance to hold
that shiny metal disc, known as Olympic Gold.
© Pete Stratford 2010
Michael is out editor.
The Passion isn’t about religion; it’s about reaching down inside, much deeper than life’s routine, of taking for granted we’ll wake up in the morning and do what we do until it’s time for sleep again.
Much more than indulging the senses, of grasping the material joys that excite.
Much more than human function from birth to death and all the naughty bits in between.
The Passion is demanding the mind touch new boundaries, to push original thought to unexplored dimensions. The Passion is the "why" and not the "what is".
The Passion is to question everything, even as the barbecue sizzles on the balcony above bay-blue and the crayfish is quite adorable, thank you, with the best wine money can buy.
And don’t we just know that!
Exquisite Dream
Can you see it
when you close your eyes,
The clearest blue of skies?
Can you feel it
when you’re sitting still,
A wonderful, exhilarating thrill?
Can you touch it,
Lying on the ground
in the hush of Nature’s sound?
Can you do it
from the highest peak on Earth,
This exquisite dream at birth?
Yes, you did it,
And didn't question why,
In wildest imagination, you can fly.
© Michael Garrad February 2010
(For Sarah, inspired by the passion of Barbra Streisand)
The Bough
Limp the bough over hallowed ground,
Crying for the dead
on this blood earth,
Where young hearts stopped beating
in violent and mortal combat,
Eyes rolled back,
As a marble without motion,
Mouths agape in silent
screams of unbearable agony,
Proud manhood felled,
As saw and axe would cut trees,
Body upon body in these gentle woods,
Flower-scent too weak
to quell the stench of twisted death,
The fallen ones who
forsook misery in the frantic mist,
They feel nothing in dawn’s pale light,
The others suffer to old age
until anguished eyes stare, blind,
in blessed relief.
© Michael Garrad March 2010
Much more than indulging the senses, of grasping the material joys that excite.
Much more than human function from birth to death and all the naughty bits in between.
The Passion is demanding the mind touch new boundaries, to push original thought to unexplored dimensions. The Passion is the "why" and not the "what is".
The Passion is to question everything, even as the barbecue sizzles on the balcony above bay-blue and the crayfish is quite adorable, thank you, with the best wine money can buy.
And don’t we just know that!
Exquisite Dream
Can you see it
when you close your eyes,
The clearest blue of skies?
Can you feel it
when you’re sitting still,
A wonderful, exhilarating thrill?
Can you touch it,
Lying on the ground
in the hush of Nature’s sound?
Can you do it
from the highest peak on Earth,
This exquisite dream at birth?
Yes, you did it,
And didn't question why,
In wildest imagination, you can fly.
© Michael Garrad February 2010
(For Sarah, inspired by the passion of Barbra Streisand)
The Bough
Limp the bough over hallowed ground,
Crying for the dead
on this blood earth,
Where young hearts stopped beating
in violent and mortal combat,
Eyes rolled back,
As a marble without motion,
Mouths agape in silent
screams of unbearable agony,
Proud manhood felled,
As saw and axe would cut trees,
Body upon body in these gentle woods,
Flower-scent too weak
to quell the stench of twisted death,
The fallen ones who
forsook misery in the frantic mist,
They feel nothing in dawn’s pale light,
The others suffer to old age
until anguished eyes stare, blind,
in blessed relief.
© Michael Garrad March 2010
June is a founder-member.
A Southern Tale
Cora-lee was a lady,
A southern belle from Virginia.
She lived in a stately mansion with her daddy,
And she lived a fine life, wore fine clothes,
And ate fine food.
There never was a time when Cora-lee
Wanted for anything,
But she was different from other wealthy ladies
In her town -
She had a heart, and her daddy’s slaves knew it.
She treated them well,
Never calling them "niggers"
Or beating them,
And each time a new baby was born
To one of the slaves named Pearl,
Cora-lee visited, hiding beneath her skirts
Small handmade gifts for the tiny infant.
She was well loved, was Cora-lee,
But not by her neighbours who got to hear
Of her "friendship" with her slaves.
They had never heard of such a thing
In "all their born days",
And one by one they stopped calling on her.
Cora-lee found herself an outcast
Amongst her white friends,
But she did not give a care
’Cause she was content within herself.
One dreadful day, the Yankees came
And turned Cora-lee’s mansion into a mess
Of stinking, smouldering blackened beams.
But the Yankees had overlooked Pearl’s simple home,
Still standing by the river.
Cora-lee’s daddy was dead and she had nowhere to go,
So Pearl took Cora-lee in, gave her food,
Gave her clothes, and gave her comfort
And they became best friends
For the rest of their days.
And so it was that white befriended black,
And black befriended white
In the midst of all that strife,
And everything turned out -
Just fine.
© June Maureen Hitchcock January 2006
Cora-lee was a lady,
A southern belle from Virginia.
She lived in a stately mansion with her daddy,
And she lived a fine life, wore fine clothes,
And ate fine food.
There never was a time when Cora-lee
Wanted for anything,
But she was different from other wealthy ladies
In her town -
She had a heart, and her daddy’s slaves knew it.
She treated them well,
Never calling them "niggers"
Or beating them,
And each time a new baby was born
To one of the slaves named Pearl,
Cora-lee visited, hiding beneath her skirts
Small handmade gifts for the tiny infant.
She was well loved, was Cora-lee,
But not by her neighbours who got to hear
Of her "friendship" with her slaves.
They had never heard of such a thing
In "all their born days",
And one by one they stopped calling on her.
Cora-lee found herself an outcast
Amongst her white friends,
But she did not give a care
’Cause she was content within herself.
One dreadful day, the Yankees came
And turned Cora-lee’s mansion into a mess
Of stinking, smouldering blackened beams.
But the Yankees had overlooked Pearl’s simple home,
Still standing by the river.
Cora-lee’s daddy was dead and she had nowhere to go,
So Pearl took Cora-lee in, gave her food,
Gave her clothes, and gave her comfort
And they became best friends
For the rest of their days.
And so it was that white befriended black,
And black befriended white
In the midst of all that strife,
And everything turned out -
Just fine.
© June Maureen Hitchcock January 2006
Cameron Hindrum is a poetry coordinator from Launceston.
This Is The Shed
This is the shed, son.
This is the key.
The door needs painting. See, it flakes
So you can see
Bare wood exposed
underneath.
In the back corner,
next to that pile of old timber
I was going to turn into something
(when I found the time)
There’s the lawnmower.
It’s old, and it looks a bit crappy.
But it still works.
A bit like your old man.
It’s easy to start.
Check the petrol. Prime the fuel pump
once or twice
and pull the cord. It might
take a few goes, especially
if it’s stone cold.
A bit like your old man.
Keep the lawns trim, mate.
Mum likes it that way.
Mow them once a week in the summer.
I’ll make sure the fuel tin
is full
before I leave.
Shed’s a bit of a mess, mate.
I know.
I know.
© Cameron Hindrum
This is the shed, son.
This is the key.
The door needs painting. See, it flakes
So you can see
Bare wood exposed
underneath.
In the back corner,
next to that pile of old timber
I was going to turn into something
(when I found the time)
There’s the lawnmower.
It’s old, and it looks a bit crappy.
But it still works.
A bit like your old man.
It’s easy to start.
Check the petrol. Prime the fuel pump
once or twice
and pull the cord. It might
take a few goes, especially
if it’s stone cold.
A bit like your old man.
Keep the lawns trim, mate.
Mum likes it that way.
Mow them once a week in the summer.
I’ll make sure the fuel tin
is full
before I leave.
Shed’s a bit of a mess, mate.
I know.
I know.
© Cameron Hindrum
Dr Vi Woodhouse is a founder-member.
Young Love
I love him for that special look he gives me,
For the touch of his gentle fingers.
I love him for the warmth of his smile,
For the strong beat of his heart against mine.
I love him for the joy he brings me,
For that voice that thrills me.
I love him for his mind and for his body,
And ah!
For such sweet secret things!
I do love him!
© Vi Woodhouse
I love him for that special look he gives me,
For the touch of his gentle fingers.
I love him for the warmth of his smile,
For the strong beat of his heart against mine.
I love him for the joy he brings me,
For that voice that thrills me.
I love him for his mind and for his body,
And ah!
For such sweet secret things!
I do love him!
© Vi Woodhouse
Judy Brumby-Lake is Joe Lake's wife.
The Lord’s Prayer With Gusto
There are people
we have elected to government
who, with gusto, recite The Lord’s Prayer.
How many understand the
words they are chanting?
How many live by the words
they are chanting?
How many wear the badge
of the practising Christian
whilst going against the
Ten Commandments?
How many politicians
are atheists or from other religions
and feel ill at ease,
as Australians, whilst being entombed in a room
where these words are being chanted?
Wouldn’t it be better,
in this secular society,
if instead of The Lord’s Prayer,
at the beginning of Parliament,
politicians would swear with sincerity an oath
of honesty and loyalty to their country
and that chant could be
upheld by the law?
© Judy Brumby-Lake
There are people
we have elected to government
who, with gusto, recite The Lord’s Prayer.
How many understand the
words they are chanting?
How many live by the words
they are chanting?
How many wear the badge
of the practising Christian
whilst going against the
Ten Commandments?
How many politicians
are atheists or from other religions
and feel ill at ease,
as Australians, whilst being entombed in a room
where these words are being chanted?
Wouldn’t it be better,
in this secular society,
if instead of The Lord’s Prayer,
at the beginning of Parliament,
politicians would swear with sincerity an oath
of honesty and loyalty to their country
and that chant could be
upheld by the law?
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Dr. Mary Kille publishes regularly with the gazette.
Feature Poet
Devil
Devil, devil in the night,
jet black hair and eye so bright;
what could cause a poet to say
that here’s a fearful symmetry?
Whiskered face and lolling tongue,
a pouch wherein her young are swung,
cradled, nourished, kept from harm,
furry, hairy, wrinkled, warm.
Tho’ she growls ferociously,
she’s been named atrociously;
ignorant people are hell-bent
to label her malevolent.
In this scavenger’s no evil,
please don’t say she is a devil.
That immortal hand or eye
gave her no fearful symmetry.
© Mary Kille 27.11.2009
Adam And Eve
Created from nothing
was Adam, by God,
then Eve from his rib,
but I think it quite odd,
when their pictures are painted
they’re shown just like us:
In the midst of their bellies...
an umbilicus!
© Mary Kille
Devil
Devil, devil in the night,
jet black hair and eye so bright;
what could cause a poet to say
that here’s a fearful symmetry?
Whiskered face and lolling tongue,
a pouch wherein her young are swung,
cradled, nourished, kept from harm,
furry, hairy, wrinkled, warm.
Tho’ she growls ferociously,
she’s been named atrociously;
ignorant people are hell-bent
to label her malevolent.
In this scavenger’s no evil,
please don’t say she is a devil.
That immortal hand or eye
gave her no fearful symmetry.
© Mary Kille 27.11.2009
Adam And Eve
Created from nothing
was Adam, by God,
then Eve from his rib,
but I think it quite odd,
when their pictures are painted
they’re shown just like us:
In the midst of their bellies...
an umbilicus!
© Mary Kille
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Europa Poets' Gazette, a poetry pamphlet published in Burnie, Tasmania, monthly, since 2003.
Europa Poets' Gazette, a poetry pamphlet published in Burnie, Tasmania, monthly, since 2003.
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