scribble net
SEPTEMBER 1999
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PART
II/ii : THE POETS' WORK
In this
Section
* Marie St. Onge-Davidson
*
Tina Helmerding
*
Davyd The Wordsmith
Marie St.
Onge-Davidson
Marie's talent
is both remarkable and vulnerable. She's a poet who would and does stand
out in any company. She has an aptitude and flexibility which makes for
work that can imbue a whole morning with her own unique ambience. For example:
Flew
home on a gibbous moon
Glowing
red with the heat of summer nights
Silver thoughts
caught in the stars
Galaxy at
each fingertip
or - in Wife
-
Besieged
by fate and indiscretion
Escapades
decaying fast
Who are
we but random people
Vaguely
reeking of the past
These are atmospheric
lines, but they have also some of the incisiveness of surgery. Read carefully
they say exactly what causes the 'atmosphere'. These are more than mere
moods, they are analyses of the way things are, their causes, their possible
results and cures. Late Garden demonstrates this particularly vividly
Wading
barefoot into weeds years grown
Bending
with strong hands, aching in anger
Pulling
and throwing far all the bad things
Remembering
the abandonment of so many decades
Hearing
loud echoes of silent years past
This is verse
which is angry without being bitter. Cleansing rage makes this work creative
and responsive rather than merely reactive. This is something very special,
something which gives meaning to pain, makes of it true labour.
Pushing
onwards with the task
Feeling
the agony of deliverance
Bringing
together this body and soul
Sensing
the end before it came
Smiling
with knowing, my task was done
Marie is a great
part of the family - her praise and company have kept us going even in
in the cold depths of winter's ailments. Praising Wordlovers - and perhaps
recalling us to a sense of vocation
It's
late at night and the world has died
Not a sign
of life out there
In here
it's warm by the eclectic glow
Of workers
of words and visions
She speaks from
a passionate discipline, proof reads, alters, refines.. encourages, her
whole attitude is expressed in the welcoming and delicious
I
savour the bitter
I savour
the sweet
And each
time
It's a little
different
Which makes
it not so bad
But leaves
me curious again
Not jaded
and dissipated
But wanting
another taste of life
Because
no moment is the same
In before dawn
she describes something passionately felt, expressive of far more than
a purely individual constriction, yet in such a way that it twitches our
own individual nerves.
Mourning
eyes working hard to see
Through
the dimness slowly leaving
Cold dark
edges warped and hidden
Trying to
hold me here forever
Trapping
me within these shadows
Of a dark
and certain cell
Smelling
of despair and sorrow
Pacing endless
perimeters daily
Touching
walls, not captors
In a similar
way, in her encouragement of Ewan we see an understanding of poetry's
place as well her ability to support and encourage individuals,
Your
poetry is alive
It's not
dead
But will
live on
Long after
you are.
Therefore,
share it
. . .
From an obscure
shelf
And read
by no one
It still
lives on.
Poetry books
are
The history
books
Of the future.
Not only
filled with
Words, and
dates, and names
But filled
with feelings
Markers
of real time.
All this has
taken place in the midst of an ongoing commentary which reveals a life
that is crowded, busy to the hectic point, practical, caring and businesslike
Moving
day the trucks
Came by
Left six
tons
I wanted
to cry
But then - in
a poem of devastating openness and trust she posted SOLO - which opened
up the strong and willing human being in a new vulnerability
I
could not nourish her and keep her close
Her voice
so small and silent
She flew
her solo flight today
Her tiny
wings beating a thousand cries in the air
Tonight
I wonder if her tiny brave heart beats
Marie is a poet
who encourages dialogue. She is an inspirer. Her imagery is moving,
wistful, and innocent. Even in the playfulness of Caviar and Champagne
there is a loveable understanding:
I
wonder now if I should have said
'Just come,
no need for calling'
As I sit
and wait for guests
Who can't
remember my name
Davyd The Wordsmith's
interjection was perfectly timed, and playfully insightful:
The
invitation was there
in my mind
it did loom
I had space
for to spare
but did
not make room
Now what wouldn't
i give for such economy of language ! Marie's return volley was further
pleasure:)
Sensing
a fear of what you don't know
How can
I ask if I know you'll say no
To a party
of two which is just you and me
And not
safety in numbers with a party of three
The champagne
is chilling on ice just for you
The music
beats low, the fire burning too
The gibbous
moon rises, and so does success
Stash your
damn golf clubs and get on with this mess!
All in all a
month of variety and depth. Something precious is being woven here, precious,
delicate and many coloured.
Tina Helmerding
(givemeliberty)
followed her last month's work early in September with
My Life
In a FishBowl
Only
need to feed me,
Clean
the bowl,
Keep
the cat away from me,
Those
little "thoughtful" things they do
Are
only to keep their lives worry-free.
I find Tina's
work truly interesting. She is an insightful worker, able to seize the
moment, and pass it on. The bowl reminds me of an early poem of Craig Parkes
with much that is hurtful, without the result being in the slightest bit
'dark. In two other works posted, there is a real contrast of 'innocence
and experience'.
Life's
just a big empty joke
Filled with
airheaded Cinderellas and simpletons
Everything
about Life is just utterly worthless
Extinguishing
the flame of Life I had.
Laden myself
with those deadly drugs
I'm just
gonna take 'em all
No one's
gonna stop me
Good night,
folks!
contrasted with
Just Making Hay
The
sun's shining brightly
As realization
has bitten me
On the nose
With such
intensity
...
As I look
at myself in the mirror
A bright
blinding smile on my face
Hey there,
World!
I'm further
interested that Tina's most significant poetry was remarkable for it's
insight and sensitivity. She is able to make poetry of other people's
lives, and this is a rarity even among more mature poets. Grace is immediately
recognizable to anyone who ever lived or worked with the elderly - I was
able to see and feel her, from this remarkable description..
A
sad, wistful smile playing on her lips,
Her heart
thumping softly,
Against
her ribcage
Wrinkled
hands folding together
On her lap.
Sitting
pretty in her yellow summery dress.
Our Wordsmith
Wordlovers
life would just not be complete without our own personal Wordsmith.. Davyd
has a really charming way of putting things together, of being encouraging
and supportive. Moreover there are times when his 'throwaway verses' have
a breathtaking beauty.
And
with all this Dark Moon,
I think
I will <tiddle> me off to bed,
perchance
to sleep,
for sure
to dream,
of things
beautiful,
such as
the smile on
Alys's face..........
or plain practical
uplift which is itself a rare refreshment. For example in TWINKLES
Separating
verbal wheat
from chaff
is easy
not at all
like creating
the original
essence itself.
So Alys twinkles
and burbles
and fixes
the problems
seeking
to satisfy all
in a terribly
uneasy world.
BRIEF JOY was
no throw away verse though - and here the wordsmith shows a little of his
mastery, a hovering illusion of a flight of colour and luminescence..
Bright
blue and green essence
beating
faster
than the
eye or even
a camera
shutter can see
minuscule
images of suddenness.
The Wordsmith
has whetted my appetite. I have the impulse to say 'Okay Davyd, let her
Rip!' There is dynamite, passion, and deep poetry in there along with the
delight, the conversational capacity and the wit.
Conclusion:
Have to
say it. The quantity was monumental, but the quality was delightful. 380
messages was worth every moment. Thank you Wordlovers for a splendid month
!
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IN THIS SECTION:
* OVERVIEW.
More from Rossi and Kellaway
*
CAMPBELL
*
DALLASTON
*
EZRA
*
PETERSON
We have new
poetry coming from Mark Anthony Rossi and Nick Kellaway. Nick's poetry
is already sitting on my hard drive and is so stunning and of such high
quality that I am simply publishing it in alphabetical order. We are especially
fortunate to have attracted his attention. Other work in my mail box includes
gurther work by
Murray Campbell,
who must
be wondering why his last month's work has yet to be published. A glimpse
of what we may look forward to in YELLOWBRICK INSTITUTION to give you some
idea of why I like this poet:
rain
sheets clothe the bare trees
hiding their
upheld arms
in silent
pleas
for a sun
that won't shine;
where misty
seas of wind
sway thick
limbs misshapen
sodden leaves
swirling
on the ground
forsaken:
a careless
carpet of spring ideals.
Andrew C.
Dallaston
is a New
Zealander with a background in the dramatic arts. He has sent us his Love
Song for the Millennium - a quirky piece of prognostication and delight
which has, nevertheless the weight and thoughtfulness we have come to expect
from him.
In the millennium...
jets and
satellites
will fall
out of the sky,
the streams
of food and money,
will suddenly
run dry,
our appliances
won't save us,
without
a power supply,
but we'll
still be together,
you and
I
in the millennium.
One of the
talents I most appreciate about Andrew's work - aside from the beautiful
grammar, and the sonorance of his language is a spiritual quality, a weighing
of values as of passions. His two other submissions are of outstanding
insight, and speak of the relationship of an adult with his parents. A
sense of deep communion, and of the separation which comes with infirmities
which not moral violences. This is refreshing, in that it is inevitable
pain being faced here a different kind of falling apart than that which
seems to infest so much of our culture.
I found 'Near
Father' almost unbearable to read..
We walked
steep streets,
while the
wise, old city
slept.
You led and
listened,
though you'd
covered the way
many times
with strong
strides.
..
Now I look
down
on your
sparse, white hair,
revealing
the mottled skull
of age.
*
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The
Divide tackles the same pressure point..
They've watched
the legions of Godwits
guard the
spit, then catching the wind,
whirl away
again,
while oyster
catchers on the flats below,
haunt the
cliffs with echoing cries.
And now they
watch my parents
walking
slowly round the shore,
with worn,
arthritic limbs,
sore feet,
short breath, blocked veins
and vision
blurred.
William Ezra
I found William
Ezra's poem by indulging in a conversation with him about something quite
different - at least on the surface. He sent me his poem and was - it would
seem - rather surprised to know that I had an interest in such things.
'The One Song' triggered all sorts of things in me, touches on themes that
Terry Bowden, Mark Rossi and Bob King have also worked in different ways..
And
at the expected time
The
Song shall come again.
A
clear voice,
Crying
out upon deliverance
Such
that all might hear.
And
whomever hears
Shall
join in the cry.
Each
voice a song --
Unique
and common --
Of
the way,
Beginning
to end.
Alicia C.
Peterson
is a very
different style of voice. A younger voice, which has, nevertheless the
ability to portray bare misery without being silly about it. For example
in MAKE ME A STAR
I
hurdle in the corner
Clutching
my ankles and weeping.
My back
laid bare to the sky
Expectant
of a gentle hand
Here she has
an almost shamanic ability, a voice which I haven't heard since Anamaea
Eastcott burst on our lives. Alicia's voice is her own, however, as that
of all shaman poets must be, here in another submission THE NIGHT
IT ALL CAME DOWN
Winds
rustle the limbs of sincerity
On this
tree of oblivion.
In a whisper
she pleads for sanctuary
In the house
of sanity.
we see a different
kind of order, a different kind of desire while in ...lost inhibitions...
there is a kind of gentle recklessness which makes Alicia one of the most
interesting young poets of my acquaintance.
i
read the braille upon your heart
and learned
of what i take
yet do not
give in time to you
a love i
shall not make
inside the
light grows dim tonight
the candle
does not burn
undress
this darkened shadowed hall
and save,
that which we learn
simple takes
what complicates
and sets
confusion free
live to
love, what hurts can heal
and hold
on with will to me
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