traceable lines
 
finger-trace the lines
tactile ... sensual
rough on smooth
 
what can they tell us
the scribbly gums
about ourselves?
 
brush aside streeling bark
knuckle-knock solidity
feel the strength within
 
what do blackbutts
know about insecurity?
about fragility?
 
we all have layers
we strip to reveal
... vulnerability?
 
it's that soft underbelly
that makes me fear
we lack the substance
 
to present
traceable lines
to the world
 
 
 
J Bandidt    ©   September  2015
Hinterland forest trail, Sunshine Coast
​

Embedding Poetry in the Landscape

• Why is this important?

• What is the connection between poetry and the environment?

There is a symbiotic relationship between poetry and the environment that brings out the best of both worlds.

Poetry is an expressive and powerful medium that can be utilised to cast a spotlight on the broad canvas of our physical environment in a number of ways. We are all familiar with poetry that describes the natural world of landscapes, seascapes, flora and fauna and how the poet interacts with this world. We also find poetry that draws attention to serious issues particular environments face going forward into an uncertain future. In all cases poetry, particularly when it is honed, refined, and without obfuscation, can deliver a targeted, encapsulated message with immediate impact.

The environment, on the other hand, by its very existence, both inspires and terrifies writers. Certainly, the environment can help invoke the poet's muse by providing a plethora of settings that promote creativity and stimulate the desire to experience, to connect to 'place', to describe and to relate. But it also exposes the need to listen, to make sense of contextual clues and to question, and herein lies the challenge for poets to communicate their responses in a meaningful way.


©  Judy Bandidt

[Love some feedback on these ideas.]

Old Friends

We owe them much,
our friends from times past,
yet they fade now
from the consciousness of most.

We should, when we stop to reflect,
recall how they threw themselves
without complaint
against the collar of hard times,
never tiring, calmly facing the unknown.

We should remember
long treks through landscapes
harsh and unforgiving,
the laden coaches and wagons,
heavy ploughs and cruel winches,
droving camps, wild bush cattle musters,
the terror of the battlefield
and certain horrific fate.

Remember too
the courage, strength,
patient companionship,
dignity and innate gentleness
of these old friends.


there is something about the outside of a horse
that is good for the inside of a man
—attributed to Winston Churchill

 

J Bandidt  ©

August 2015

Balloons

When the partying’s done
set free the balloons. Hope for a breezy day,
feel the tug, all colour singing, stretching light.
The relentless pull and the sliding away.
Let them go and take the summer with them.

The not-knowing, the hoping
it might be possible to soar above grey,
uncontained, uncontrolled,
lose colour, lose the self.

At some point the shrinking must begin.
What if the spiral is downwards
and what it holds has no substance at all?
How would you know
when you’d reached the end?

Lyn Browne
24 August 2015

forest breathing


what is this?

this quiet place

where peace pervades


a state of being

forest floor to canopy

seeing bushland raw

in roots and rocks

layers and lines

the building blocks of time


we walk sequestered glades

of dappled shade

with feathered ferns

turned softly to the light


lichened logs lie wantonly

across a creek where

tumbled boulders

capture remnant pools

hidden spaces we find there

cool secret places

habitat envined


stop and listen ... not a sound

no birdsong

not even insect hum

stillness surrounds

bright forest giants

dreaming in the sun


this ...

this is where

we dare to lose ourselves

in the silence

J Bandidt    ©  7 July 2015

Maroochy Regional Bushland and Botanic Gardens

Upland and Creek Walk

‘Ask that your way be long’ *        

Blank windows, drooping flags,

gondola beaks tugging to be free.

Mile upon mile of churning green,

terracotta rooftops, glowing palaces.

The final bend is rounded

and we behold the bright, white dome.

 
We won’t disembark.

Enough to gaze on the basilica

and be dazzled. 

 
It’s possible we will never get to Ithaka,

nor step inside the Madonna della Salute.

How did that poem go?

‘Ithaka gave you the marvellous journey.

Without her you would not have set out’,

 
*Cavafy: ‘Ithaka’


Lyn Browne

[While researching for our Poetry Trail project, I've been asking myself 'What is the connection between Poetry and the Environment?' and came up with the following. Please add your thoughts and comments.]

Embedding Poetry in the Landscape

• Why is this important?

• What is the connection between poetry and the environment?

There is a symbiotic relationship between poetry and the environment that brings out the best of both worlds.

Poetry is an expressive and powerful medium that can be utilised to cast a spotlight on the broad canvas of our physical environment in a number of ways. We are all familiar with poetry that describes the natural world of landscapes, seascapes, flora and fauna and how the poet interacts with this world. We also find poetry that draws attention to serious issues particular environments face going forward into an uncertain future. In all cases poetry, particularly when it is honed, refined, and without obfuscation, can deliver a targeted, encapsulated message with immediate impact.

The environment, on the other hand, by its very existence, both inspires and terrifies writers. Certainly, the environment can help invoke the poet's muse by providing a plethora of settings that promote creativity and stimulate the desire to experience, to connect to 'place', to describe and to relate. But it also exposes the need to listen, to make sense of contextual clues and to question, and herein lies the challenge for poets to communicate their responses in a meaningful way.

Judy Bandidt

July 2015

Caspersen Beach with Cory

This lonesome beach,

rocks of horseback brown;

these rollrock waves lapping,

slapping down--

primal sharks once roamed

and thrashed in foam.

Gulf waters, green,

calmly still come home.


And could an artist

stroll over dune-walks

with brush-in-hand

to tell us color talks?

Oh, yes! Windpuff

spray of creamy froth

curdles history,

withdraws to briny broth.


Caspersen knew this beach,

once bereft of artists

capturing time

in rocks now cleft.

Young painter, you are right!

Wildness and wet:

long let waves weave

in wilderness yet. 


Cory, I salute:

En Plein Air seascape meets

verse praising...

and no Niagara greets!

No...praising deeper

dynamics of the sea

kissing rocks,

sand, in mirrored destiny.


What a charm wafts

its salt and airy scent!

Waters flowing, ebbing,

are wonders meant.

Yes, Cory, you've

captured tidal run,

frozen it, yet hidden

pull of Moon and Sun. 


This lonesome beach,

with rocks old as time;

these rollrock waves

their ocean brothers mime;

primal sharks have lost teeth,

unseen, but here,

no longer extant,

shed their memories of fear.


Cory, I salute;

En Plein Air's Time's flute

playing  a medley

salty and astute.

Ron Wiseman, 2014.

a distant light


when I recall the summer of my winter dreams

I see a road unwinding

inviting me to cross red plains

that spell of far horizons


in the summer of my winter dreams

rain exists…but only as sprinkled dew

mornings are crisp

days are clear

and where spinifex grows slow

as if by chance strange flowers bloom

in the heat of a desert sun


and only these mark night’s cold stay

starlight and the moon


Susie Faint

2014

 

in the waking light …


all I see are your bright eyes

your smile tracing the sound of bird …


come little warrior

under my wing tuck your silky head

bundle all your plump pinkness

your baby-quick breath 

into the heart of my feather nest 


you can gather my hair in tight dimple-fists

and gleefully pull

if you insist 

cover my face with urgent wet kisses

till the sun climbs the sky … 


and if you persist


I shall know it is time

for you to be fed

to warm you a bottle

to leap out of bed



Susie Faint

(re Lachlan 11 months 1/10/12)

ode to uma

imagine lying in the sun each day
where lawn grows thick and insects play
where beetles fiddle to butterflies’ trysts
and blue wasps hover as lawn grubs twist
while ants must scavenge for every crumb
all this happens as cicadas strum
 
imagine lying beneath clear skies
lulled by twitters and rustling leaves
till a breeze steals the warmth from the day
and when the sun sinks at last for a rest
and cobwebs are strung between trees
then night shall be a riot of stars
and not rain nor thunder nor clouds nor tides
will hide or banish the moon

when grass springs thick and cicadas strum
when the scar on the path isn’t there
imagine the plea in large brown eyes
a nose to the ground from the gate to the dunes
how the tip of a tail lit the way  
to those wonderful trails by the sea


Susie Faint      16/7/14

somerset revisited

here I am once again in somerset
the heat of the day is done
red in hand I sit by our van with a hum
book on knee ‘neath a tree
and watch from our hill the activity

I swear that crow is winking at me

pelicans flirt on the calm
noisy miners at last nestle down
boats bobbing at ramps promise marin for tea
and a breeze hesitates as the setting sun paints
sky and waters of somerset
shades of pink and violet
darkening to plum

the whisper of night has come

campfires flicker near tents pitched wide
the better to watch wood smoke rise
true as those iron barks grow
while our southern stars rake a canopy
that but for them would otherwise be
black as indian ink

Susie Faint

20/11/13

(somerset is Somerset Dam in SE Qld; the hum is a low rather companionable sound emanating from a generator for the caravan; marin are fresh-water lobsters.)

A SONG TO SAVLON


Softly and Soothingly sweet on my skin,

Sliding so smoothly it’s almost a sin.

Scratches and grazes, sting, sore and spot

Sing the solution that Savlon has got.


Don’t tarry with calamine, pink and effete,

its action wears off in a minute, my sweet,

And iodine stings just as bad as a cut,

And stains you all yellow! Oh use nothing but.


The purest of ointment, so sweet and so white,

if you’re visited by a bed bug in the night.

Or if you should slam your poor hand in a door,

Just shout for the Savlon to over it pour;


Next day you’ll be glad when your injuries show

Not a sign of a twinge or a nasty red glow.

So whatever they say, and wherever you go,

it’s best to take ten tubes of Savlon you know.


Deanne Lister   2000.

Closer to home

Night watch ... dead quiet ... big skies
but they’re not my friendly skies.
I always thought the sky would be the same,
you’d have the same old mates blinking down
and the moon riding high across his great paddock
or doing his rounds of the night camp,
just poking around, small,
not disturbing anything.

Night noises in the desert
remind me somehow of the sounds of home –
the old mopoke down by the dam,
the poddy tied up behind the shed
wanting his breakfast.
The other day a wagtail started up
long before dawn ...
The other day?
God, it must be nearly a year
since I heard that wagtail.
Wish I could hear the little blighter now.

I’d like see those big open skies again
reaching clear out to the horizon,
just one more time.
Watch the storms come up from the west,
real storms not dust storms,
and in the still of night
know I was home.

..................................

Rain ... and more rain ... send her down huey!
But just not here in this godforsaken bog.
If I never see another leech it’ll be too soon.

It never stops, the rain,
and the mud never goes away.
You spend your days wishing it would,
hoping there’s a quiet space somewhere
before the drip drip drip gets into your head
and the suck and pull of the mud beneath your boots
sends you crazy mad with jungle fever.

Can’t see the stars
but it’s good to know they’re up there
every night, the cross and the milky way,
a little reminder that you’re still alive,
telling you you’re nearly home mate.

Thinking about home, I get to hearing
kids laughing, dogs barking, the quiet bush at night,
even rain belting down on a corrugated roof.
But this is the jungle, not the bush,
and this rain is not the healing rain of home.

It can be quiet here though, sometimes too quiet.
You strain your ears thinking you hear something,
something you shouldn’t have,
something you’d rather not ...
by then it’s usually too late.

Nearly home?
I was closer to home in the desert.


© Judy Bandidt
September, 2014


[A 2nd AIF soldier, posted first to Tobruk and El Alamein, then transferred to fight the Japanese in the jungles of Borneo and Bougainville, wrote in his diary, 'I was closer to home in the desert.' His words, homesick beyond description, full of yearning for the simple sights and sounds, even the silence, of life back on the farm, inspired me to write this poem.]

Scraping a path

Remember how the surf’s roar

caught our words and tossed them away?

How we halted at the edge, discussion stalled?

 
Easier to stare out to sea,

gaze on wide water.

There was nothing more to say.


And just as we turned away we stumbled

on those turtles, dark leather babies,

legs whirring, scraping a path to the sea.

 
You stretched out a toe, nudged them

from their zig zag track. We watched them flounder,

bob in the surf, get flipped ashore, begin again.


Then the waves took them away.

 
© Lyn Browne