And so it goes...

.......This is a blog where my other self exists in any number of the dimensions of Time and Space........... .

Tuesday, 30 March 2010

Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

for all  the year 12s  over the years  with whom I studied this poem .... good   on ya' all
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

Monday, 22 March 2010

more Imagist Poetry

I am weary with love, and thy lips
Are night-born poppies.
give me therefore thy lips
that I may know sleep.

I am weary with longing,
I am faint with love ;
For upon my head has the moonlight 
As a sword.
Skipwith Cannell

Friday, 12 March 2010

ah, it is 1969 and I am 14 ..

and forever.. I am walking into school, a grey winter's day  and I am deep in animated discussion with  Ross McDermot, I think it was Ross , he was my best friend on bus 8.maybe it was Don Thompson... talking  about  the poem Jim Morrison had written  about  Brian Jones's  recent death and just published in Go-Set ..I kept a cut out copy for years and years but time and  moving saw it lost.. and..

I'm a resident of a city
They've just picked me to play
the Prince of Denmark

Poor Ophelia

All those ghosts he never saw
Floating to doom
On an iron candle

Come back, brave warrior
Do the dive
On another channel

Hot buttered pool
Where's Marrakesh
Under the falls
the wild storm
where savages fell out
in late afternoon
monsters of rhythm

You've left your
to compete w/

I hope you went out
Like a child
Into the cool remnant
of a dream

The angel man
w/ Serpents competing
for his palms
& fingers
Finally claimed
This benevolent


Leaves, sodden
in silk

mad stifled

The diving board, the plunge
The pool

You were a fighter
a damask musky muse

You were the bleached
for TV afternoon

maverick of a yellow spot

Look now to where it's got

in meat heaven
w/ the cannibals
& jews

The gardener
The body, rampant, Floating

Lucky Stiff
What is this green pale stuff
You're made of

Poke holes in the goddess

Will he Stink
Carried heavenward
Thru the halls
of music

No Chance.

Requiem for a heavy
That smile
That porky satyr's
has leaped upward

into the loam

Monday, 8 March 2010

The Mysteries Remain

 The Mysteries Remain
The mysteries remain,
I keep the same
cycle of seed-time
and of sun and rain;
Demeter in the grass,
I multiply,
renew and bless
Iacchus in the vine;
I hold the law,
I keep the mysteries true,
the first of these
to name the living, dead;
I am red wine and bread.

          I keep the law,
          I hold the mysteries true,
          I am the vine,
          the branches, you
          and you.
H.D. (Hilda Doolittle), H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) poetry, Secular or Eclectic, Secular or Eclectic poetry,  poetry, [TRADITION SUB2] poetry,  poetry by H.D. (Hilda Doolittle)
(1886 - 1961)

Sunday, 7 March 2010

where were you when you heard Ezra Pound had died? 1972

well actually only about 3 metres from the spot where I was standing when I heard JFK was dead . By 1972 I had discovered the Imagist movement and secretly revelled in my  love of their  style..I think I may have discussed it with Peter Carroll and Steve Garton .. anyway  the HSC was on and then on my way to school for an exam, which one defeats me.. I heard it on the 8 o'clock  news on the I was passing through the lounge room..

                 IN A STATION OF THE METRO
The apparition of these faces in the crowd ;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

Friday, 5 March 2010

Schooldays, the early 70s, and then Sydney University 1987

Thomas Gray's Elegy

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain,
Of such as wand'ring near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, and the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care,
No children run to lisp their Sire's return,
Nor climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke,
How jocund did they drive their team afield,
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stoke!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure,
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th'inevitable hour,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid,
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire,
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll,
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear,
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The treats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes.
Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone,
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined:
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
Or shut the gates of mercy on mankind.
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenious shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride,
With incense, kindled at the muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memories still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and epitaph supply;
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralists to die.
For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resing'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate:
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate.
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn',
'Brushing with hasty steps the dews away',
'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn'.
'There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech',
'That wreaths its old fantastic roots so high',
'His listless length at noontide would he stretch',
'And pore upon the brook, that babbles by'.
'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn',
'Muttering his wayward fancies, would he rove';
'Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forelorn',
'Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love'.
'One morn I miss'd him from the custom'd hill',
'Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree';
'Another came; nor yet beside the rill',
'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he'.
'The next with dirges due in sad array,'
'Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne',
'Approach and read, for thou cans't read, the lay',
'Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn'.

The Epitaph

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;
Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And melancholy mark'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to mis'ry all he had, a tear,
He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose),
The bosom of his father, and his God.