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SELF-PUBLISHING SOLUTIONS: Poets’ Corner A selection of poetry featured in self-published books produced by Dragonwick Publishing QUENDRYTH YOUNG Ruler (for my father) I thought we’d pencilled-in a line across the barrier, that night you taught me how to use the slide rule. Your ill-drawn face, propped up with pillows, concentrated on the slide between us, while your life hung by a thread of heartbeat monitored in patterned peaks. Hands a rule apart: yours like scrunched-up paper inked with crooked lines, and mine the smooth and unmarked page of youth. You moved the duplicated rulers parallel to fix the figures, solve the problem, with the cursor spanning both, a bridge that linked the two for resolution. You’d always been in charge. You ruled my hopscotch days (just look how I’m walking in all the squares)* until the noughts and crosses, hugs and kisses, smudged ... unruly teenage limbs rebelled against subjection to your rules. We almost touched, but didn’t quite ... that sleeping night you died. Next morning I was told, and, pausing at the door that hid you as you lay in state I hesitated, knew no rules for this ... too late ... without a kiss, without a sorry, passed the door and hurried to my lectures, underlining punctuality as you had taught. *AA Milne ‘When We Were Very Young’ © Naked in Sepia Enquiries: <quendrythyoung@bigpond.com> MARGARET WILESMITH I Think I Might Go Back to Bed The clock has stopped My hair’s gone straight The button’s off my jeans My socks are wet The coffee’s cold All thirty-seven beans. The toast is burnt The door is stuck I think I’ve lost the keys The milk’s turned sour The battery’s flat I’m going at the knees. The dog got out The cat is gone The neighbours are enraged The council’s closed So is the pound The phones are all engaged. The TV’s bung The sink is blocked The mortgage overdue The ironing’s piled The light bulb’s blown The house looks like a zoo. My bra strap broke The pot plant died The hose has sprung a leak The line has snapped The washing’s wrecked I think I’m up the creek. My clothing’s shrunk My dandruff’s back The kids have cut their hair The teacher’s cross She sent them home It’s more than I can bear. Aunt Mildred’s come She says she’s tired She’ll stay here if I beg The dog’s come back The mailman too With teeth marks in his leg. I’d just go out Leave the lot – but The heel’s come off my shoe I think I might Go back to bed And hope I get the flu. © Pocket Knives and String Enquiries: 02 4677 3052 MAYSEL CROSS Lest We Forget Sitting alone he doesn’t look very wise With his weather-worn face and faraway eyes. His old coat is missing a button or two And by the look of his shoes, a shine’s overdue. He goes for a walk in sunshine or rain Though I doubt that he’ll see eighty again. He was once a small child with a father and mother, Uncles and aunts, sister and brother. His mother was gentle, compassionate, wise, And taught him the value of strong family ties. From earliest childhood he knew love and care This weathered old man with wispy white hair. She would read him the classics far into the night By a warm open fire and a candle’s dim light. He listened spellbound to stories she told Of brave deeds and daring by people of old. He pondered the mysteries of worlds out of sight He gazed at the stars in a clear sky at night. The bush was his playground, for hours he would stray Happy and carefree through each summer day. That land showed him secrets he would never disclose, Where shy animals slept and rare orchids grow. He loved the wild bush and those blue open skies, That weathered old man, with faraway eyes. Then it seemed in an instant, the old days were past, For pleasures of childhood were not meant to last. A cruel war was raging in overseas lands So he sailed with his mates for Tobruk’s burning sands. His dreams were soon shattered by the carnage of war As he fought in that desert, sunburnt and footsore. He has walked by the shore of far Galilee When cool shades of night descend on the sea. He has seen the strange sights of faraway lands But his memories go back to Tobruk and its sands. He remembers his mates and still hears their cries, This weathered old man with faraway eyes. When next time you see him, stop and chat for a while, You’ll be surprised by his charm and warmth of his smile. Don’t judge this old man by the clothes that he wears, Let him know he’s remembered and someone still cares About young soldiers who died under hot desert skies, And weathered old men with faraway eyes. © Reflections – FAW Wollondilly Regional Enquiries: <kcoombes@aapt.net.au> GLORIA ANDERLINI Poetic Justice Suggestion of a ripple, soft wave lick on the shore a hooded eye malevolent, a knobbled line of jaw – the croc had lain there waiting, had watched for seven days, there beneath the bread fruit tree in the mangrove maze. Tho’ he had a strange affection for this intimidating beast Bill had no intention of being an evening feast. Hoping to placate her, to suggest they were a team, he left his meat scraps on the bank a little way downstream. He took the usual methods to keep the croc at bay, always drew his water from a different spot each day. He slept up on the Rover’s roof, was up again at dawn, to check the recent slide marks and to find his food scraps gone. He’d give a little whistle when he left the food scraps there, backing quickly up the bank before she left her lair. Now a mist rose from the water like tattered ghostly shrouds reflecting in the quiet stream, early monsoon clouds. The smell of muddy undergrowth, a reed bank, sombre, dank – an ibis picking on the shore, lone egret on the bank. ... he drew his brush across the canvas, caught the evening light, painted in the shadows, flicked a ripple white. He looked up at the louring sky, heralding monsoon, ... the croc was getting restless, he’d have to leave here soon. She’d picked the spot to lay her eggs, he’d seen her there each day – in tangled reeds below the shelf where his paint box lay. Now sunset on the water, like dark arterial blood, a crimson curl of ripples, a stirring in the mud. He cleaned his brushes, stood and stretched, set his easel straight, thought he’d leave tomorrow before it was too late. The music drifting softly down was suddenly arrested, but old Bill barely listened ... the croc had finally nested! He walked up to the Rover, his gaze fixed on the mounds, while the urgent voice repeated “... Killer loose on Lotus Downs!” A grazier had been murdered, the killer on the run, and this was part of Lotus Downs, he’d better get his gun! But as he turned toward the Rover, a form came from the trees, holding old Bill’s loaded gun, demanding Rover keys. Old Bill’s mind worked quickly as he stared into the bore – he knew this was the killer, he’d easily kill once more. “The keys are in my paint box, down there by the creek.” He volunteered to get them, smiling, obliging, meek. But the killer was suspicious, said he’d go himself – with gun trained on the artist, he backed down to the shelf. Old Bill whistled softly, a signal, tempting, low – saw the reed bed quiver, saw the hooded eyes aglow. A sudden surge of water as the old croc left the mound, a mighty lunge, a snap of jaws – a panic, frenzied sound! Sharp report of rifle as it struck the granite rock – a hasty flight of cockatoos flung in trembling shock. Red now the water churning around mangrove’s cage of roots, far off, the wail of curlews, a threnody of flutes. Bill stood and watched his paint box sink, then began to pack – and like falling scraps of paper, the birds came drifting back. Keys jingling in his pocket, he walked back to the Rover, as dusk came in with swirling rain – his holiday was over. He placed the canvas on the seat before he checked his load and from the painted saurian eye, a muddy teardrop flowed! © Through the Looking Glass Enquiries: <gloryb@dodo.com.au> JIM MIGDOLL Woolies – the great leveller (Woolworths, small town supermarket in Byron Bay, Australia) if you were psychic you could hear the air tremble with mantras – minds churning over: light globes, milk, rubbish bags … juice and bickies and chicken snags brows furrowed ticking off lists miniature humans on the rampage frenzied grasping for candy and chips, wailing addicts in sugar withdrawal … disembodied voices on the PA floating and garbled; something about aisle checks, specials and Peter wanted in produce It’s like limbo suddenly you’re face to face (or cart to cart) with the nasty ex-boss or neighbour … the one-night stand you didn’t kiss goodbye in the hung-over morning, or the hung-over morning itself – when of all the carts you picked the handicapped one, limping and squealing past bickering couples everyone’s alert to the possibilities: who will be in the next aisle? can I avoid empty, polite conversation and get the hell out of here in a hurry? Barmen and bouncers – ockers and ferals Councillors – developers – European backpackers slow-motion pensioners and Aboriginal trackers We’re all One at Woolies We’re all filling our carts © Meher Baba and me Enquiries: <www.meherbabaandme.com> QUENDRYTH YOUNG grey butcher bird the whole body singing backing out of the spider’s web … sorry seaside banksia all the shades of dying salt spray a taste of peat in my whisky mosquito a stranger’s blood on my hand board rider arms pull the horizon closer © The Whole Body Singing Enquiries: <quendrythyoung@bigpond.com> KEITH COOMBES The Ballad of Archie Brown (With apologies to Banjo) His name was Archie Brown and he was modest with most things But he reckoned he could fly a brick, with or without wings. He had a Curtiss Jenny, the sole one in the nation; An assemblage of spare parts all flying in formation. Archie flew a Sopwith Pup over battlefields in France, Now here he was back in the bush and looking for a chance To make an honest living flying cargo for a quid; Faster by far than Cobb and Co’s transporting ever did. So Archie landed bumpily upon this town’s main street. Horses bolted, maidens fainted and all was running feet. And when the dust had cleared and the propeller ceased to spin, Our Arch threw back his goggles, shed his scarf and with a grin Climbed down and asked for volunteers to push his plane away. And could they please inform him of a decent place to stay. “Well, your only bet’s the pub,” said a chap all tall and lean. While he spoke his hungry eyes roved Archie’s flying machine. So as Archie strode away to his temporary bed, He chanced to glance behind him and then to another said, “That thin man likes my aircraft. I’ll make him my assistant.” The other man rolled his eyes and looked into the distance. Well, he knew the thin man’s name as did most of the nation; Knew his rolling reckless ways, his awesome reputation. As Archie slept that night and dreamt his dreams of wealth and fame, A thin man stood beneath the moon regarding Archie’s plane. Next day the sky was clear and light winds wafted cotton clouds, As Archie, breakfasted and shaved, prepared to face the crowds. Out on the town’s racetrack where the Curtiss Jenny waited, Curious, commercial folk milled round and one was fated To ruin Archie’s day in a manner unexpected. For the thin man in his wisdom and all undetected Had sat himself in Archie’s plane all still as in a trance. Archie felt a warming glow and bethought himself in France. He strode up smiling, then to others’ disbelief nearby, Hailed the spellbound man and said, “Do you want to learn to fly?” The man’s head slowly turned around and spoke from smiling lips, “Well, I reckon it looks easy, perhaps a few quick tips.” Now Archie’s aircraft was the type with two seats in the back And when the crowd realised this they quickly left the track Discretion is a noble virtue so I’ve heard it said. Was this the reason all those folk had suddenly just fled? The prop swings, engine roars, then Archie does a safety thing. He stood to tap the fuel tank underneath the upper wing. Alas, the Jenny hit a bump and travelling quite fast, Poor Archie pitched right out the plane and landed on his arse. The Jenny ran on faster, Archie made a strangled sound As he beheld his lovely plane easing off the ground. The thin man in the front seat, oblivious and alone, He pushed and pulled and prodded, happy in his comfort zone. Archie waited for the crash as the Jenny clawed for air. The timid townsfolk re-emerged to point and pray and stare. Our Archie recollected his tap upon the fuel tank, Recalled the hollow sound it made and suddenly went blank. For all was lost he knew it now and he’d be held to blame, The man would surely lose his life and Arch his little plane. The Jenny staggered higher up into the bright blue sky, Then Archie heard the engine cough; the tank was running dry. The aircraft banked above the church and turned its nose for home. The crowd moved nervously away and Archie stood alone Watching the Jenny’s steep approach without the engine sound. It glided gracefully to earth and rolled along the ground. The crowd rushed forward cheering throwing hats into the air. Archie marched up to the plane muttering a grateful prayer. The thin man’s mouth dropped open then at Archie’s loud “Hooray!” He quickly looked behind him and fainted right away. And they tell the story still in that sleepy outback town, Of aeroplanes and errors going up and coming down. And some they say with knowing smiles that they knew all along That everything would work out well and nothing could go wrong. The very name they’d called this town is fitting was the talk. What better town for flying things than one called Eaglehawk? But others shake their heads as they recall the awful fright; The terrible near-disaster of Mulga Bill’s first flight. © Reflections – FAW Wollondilly Enquiries: <kcoombes@aapt.net.au> MARGARET WILESMITH How It Began Like old men in shapeless cardigans the fat pigeons perched along the soggy greyness of the falling-down fence twelve pairs of eyes mesmerised by the wash of earth and floating bowls of birdseed you would think they had fought through impenetrable jungle and choking vines instead of over the cow paddock in the pine trees I’d ask them in only it would be a key to revisiting already one bedraggled form occupies a corner of the awning smudged head tucked between a coverlet of feathers they had come they said to ask permission to take up permanent residence on the falling-down fence wretchedly wet though it was on this particular day stood like children at a confectionery counter looking unbelievably pathetic in lines of empty waiting normally the comings and goings of the fat pigeons has not been of great concern theirs is a fairly laidback lifestyle I had not imagined once the lease was signed we would be instantly and forever joined at the hip the fence is in denial the back porch has become an undercover parking area I have had to move the heater from inside the doorway to stop myself falling over a hibernation of damp feathers drying out on the other side of the screen door actually the feathers I can take it’s the sneezing that gets to me takes me ages to unclench my fists after a floating arabesque of pigeon sneeze it’s a whole new agenda normally fat pigeons are content in their own environment they sometimes indulge in a glass of wine take an interest in pastoral properties love sport and God (not necessarily in that order) are adventurous, temperamental, stubborn impulsive, gullible they also worry a lot last week when I had not returned home at five-thirty on the dot they told police they had been abandoned registered me as a missing person said I had been last seen fighting a two-ton tusked animal that had come along and bitten me in half this morning I met the Avon lady crying at the front gate she had been given a card demanding identification before entry all she wanted was to give me a sample of hand cream why is it I suddenly feel like Joan Of Arc about to be burnt at the stake? © Fat Pigeons and Falling Down Fences Enquiries: 02 4677 3052 ELVIE KLEIN Eyes That See Grant me, Lord, the eyes that see Your glory in the ordinary – in mighty tree, in tiny flower, signs of Your love and of Your power. As I walk familiar ways I would for ever sing Your praise, hear in my heart Your gentle voice and in Your nearness, Lord, rejoice.
Waterlilies Blue waterlilies beside the road, memories spanning decades- blue of bridesmaids’ dresses on my wedding day, bluebottles on wet sand, flowering agapanthus in uniforms of blue and white, blue of a daughter’s eyes, and pictures of a son, wet clothes splashed with mud, holding out a bunch of pale blue waterlilies. Blue waterlilies beside the road today, blue skies reflected in river and in sea – memories of love. © Both poems from Pelicans, People and Praising the Lord Enquiries: <reklein@bigpond.net.au> QUENDRYTH YOUNG Reverend James The Reverend James, so the record book claims, Hailed from Ireland, high minded and pious. Though kindly his roar, he would lay down the law with a definite Methodist bias. He wrote many tracts plainly stating the facts That the wages of drink are quite frightful: ‘The pleasure of sin that gets innocents in Is the Devil disguised as delightful.’ He’d bellow with rage if you mentioned the stage: ‘Brazen hussies just cause a sensation! They’re nothing but flirts who go raising their skirts and invite our young men to temptation.’ He guided his kin through a life free from sin And with goodness they tried to repay him. ‘Be kind, be discreet; be polite and be neat.’ And they wouldn’t have dared disobey him. ‘At meals bow your head as there’s grace to be said,’ Which went on, in a monotone, slowly. They acted as told, as their dinner grew cold, But at least it was blessed and holy. Through dust and through mud, even rivers in flood, On his horse he trekked roads far outreaching. He answered the call to bring succour to all And no weather could hinder his preaching. One night, goes the tale, was a terrible gale, But his duty surpassed all his fears. Most gallant of him as he’d not learnt to swim But his mare had some other ideas. In river bank sludge she stood firm, wouldn’t budge, Though at no other time had been nervous: ‘My flock is at prayer in the church over there And it won’t rise till I start the service.’ James spurred on his steed but she just wouldn’t heed: ‘Bend your knees, bend your knees when I tell you!’ And never before did a creature ignore His command, which could always compel you. There flashed though his mind a great curse of the kind Used by men whose base morals he doubted. He thought of his cloth, and he held back his wrath; It was ‘Bother!’ he vehemently shouted. At dawn the next day, with the storm cleared away, They found damaged so much that they cherished. The banks had submerged as the river flood surged, So that all who would cross it had perished. Now everyone knew the respect that was due To the pastor, for naught terrified him; Excepting of course for his life-saving horse, And he thanked the good Lord she’d defied him. © Naked in Sepia Enquiries: <quendrythyoung@bigpond.com> JIM MIGDOLL The mutant McDonald’s birds It looks like they hop crooked and their colours are washed-out Scrawny, dusty little birds grovelling at my feet for bits of junk food to eat … begging for Chicken McNuggets, chirping off-key for bits of bun – trying to sing entreatingly for Big Mac morsels Next to this thunderous busy road I doubt there is a bug for miles around … or worms … or grubs … or any fresh tucker at all I see generations of stunted, handicapped birds mutating at McDonalds around the world; And I see legions of do-gooders knocking on doors, collecting money to purchase fresh worms – re-educating the little buggers to eat real food saving the whales and the McDonald’s mutants © Meher Baba and me Enquiries: <www.meherbabaandme.com> CLARE BELL Backyard Memories The Old Well We had a well in our backyard. Rain dribbled through a drunken downpipe water churned and swirled inventing whirlpools in the debris of years. It aroused toadfish, box-headed moray eels, primeval crocodiles that could tear your arm off or drag you into the mire drown you and eat you clothes and all. Your mother would only find your braces hanging on a rusty nail. Frogs, lizards, hairy spiders as big as your head hid in slimy places where logs rested on ancient iron. Blackberries and rabbits sheltered the far bank of the decrepit well. Snakes sashayed away to consider their next move. At Christmas, we levered a sheet of iron off the well threw it on blackberry bushes. Clambered on it to get the juiciest berries which always grow in thorny places. When it rained we assembled kerosene tins under holes on the verandah where rain sidled through the roof plopped in rusty gutters on its way to the well. Sleeping on the Verandah My brother and I slept on the verandah Narrow beds grey blankets Faded patchwork quilts Tucked in securely like our parents love. Sometimes we swapped ends Dark heads touching. The cat came to snuggle on the bed We hid her under the blankets When we heard Mother’s footsteps. A spider high in a corner spooled silken threads Made erratic little leaps like a clockwork toy. By morning tiny parcels struggled in the web. On dark windy nights The cooper louvers rattled and sighed. Like prying fingernails, bushes scraped the glass. Dogs barked. Foxes aired their staccato call Father picked up his rifle Inspected the chook-yard, before we heard the gate click. When the moon was full The rooster crowed five times not drawing breath. Performed encores without a care. The Milky Way crept through cracks on the verandah. Shooting stars fragile as an eyelash Flashed for a nanosecond left lifetime memories Like narrow beds and patchwork quilts. © Reflections – FAW Wollondilly Enquiries: <kcoombes@aapt.net.au> JOHN STUART A Spanish Serenade Visiting Seville At the Moorish castle, a deliberate design, mindfully made, mathematically and aesthetically just within the bounds of possibility, overwhelmingly stunning, palatial. Blanks, browns, greens, blues, clearly delineated, no subtle hues. Whitewashed walls, ornate ivory lacework, patterned ceilings, swirling circles painted to the edge of excess, and floors geometrically tiled with geometric precision, archways and openings, gardens, brocaded courtyards, a natural grace, civilising elements, likeness in form, in shaping, softening, loveliness is born. Outside, in the stillness, the distinctive sound of a Spanish guitarist, strumming the air and singing, soulfully, ‘In Search of a Dream’, a plaintive lament, the beat breaking, teasing, tenderness in pain, suffering, easing, beauty fading away, loneliness lingering, sweetness, purity, truth. A sudden sequence of cascading sound, cathedral bells all around, through the silence rolling and tolling, creating crescendos in space and time, in celebrating a defined divine, culture’s truths keep on rolling, ritual’s roles keep on rolling, sounding forth a massive measuring, coming in and touching, treasuring. © There will always be Enquiries: <jks90@hotmail.com> Dorothy Catherine Bowden Toby Have you seen the dog called Toby? he works with Farmer Brown. Together, they round up all the sheep before the sun goes down. Last week Toby stole the Sunday roast, left on the bench to cool – and Farmer Brown had corn on toast, sardines and leftover stew! © Clouds, Cupcakes and Wildlife Enquiries: PO Box 183 Alstonville, NSW Australia 2477 Contact Jeannette Gilligan and find out how Dragonwick’s Book Production & Printing Service for Self-Publishers can turn your writing dreams into reality HOME • BOOK PRODUCTION & PRINTING SERVICE FOR SELF-PUBLISHERS SELF-PUBLISHING GUIDE • ABOUT DRAGONWICK • BOOK STRUCTURE BOOK PREPARATION & PRODUCTION • SELF-PUBLISHING COSTS MARKETING YOUR BOOK • ONLINE RESOURCES • PUBLISHING CONTACTS non-fiction LIBRARY • FICTION collection • POETS’ CORNER Dragonwick Publishing PO Box 4210, Goonellabah NSW Australia 2480 • Telephone: 02 6624 1933 © DRAGONWICK PUBLISHING 4-2009 • ABN 56 365 150 221 |
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