Cecilia is still travelling , now probably in Scotland. Here are a few recent photos. (I think that the pie might have won!)

Kensington Gardens 1966

That morning
the Serpentine held grey shards of sky.

Beneath a steely radiance,
we walked through the dark tracery of trees.

Thoughts, filaments of mist,
trailed about us.

Stones, statues, bridges
were cold, vast chunks
from some huge, shattered berg.

But our words were blown glass
and rang with truth.

Now, if we were to meet again,
we would be strangers -

but for that morning.

© 2008 Geoffrey Dobbs

RESPONSE POEMS by Jeff Klooger

Two poems by Jeff Klooger written in response to Michael Leunig's poem "You can lead a horse to water...":

You can lead a horse to water
But you can't make it cheerful;
The bucket is full
But the horse is tearful,
So you give it a loving earful:
"What's up, old fellah?" you say.
He looks at you and turns away.
Of course.
The dear old inner horse.

Where We Are Going

Seduction works better than instruction,
better than simple optimism, which was and is as much of a load
as one creature could possibly hope to carry.
Even as we wish otherwise, the future happens,
drawing us into its net of promises, leading us
jaw agape, our whole world trembling in anticipation.
Though we are all broken - hearted, our salty tears
console somehow, and so we cry
all the way into tomorrow. In that darkness
we discover death, a secret beyond us. We glance, longing,
at the source of all questions, then off
to the place where answers are born, so far
and yet close enough to whisper
a thin message, its hot breath tickling our earlobes.
Yes, there is a cause, a thorn we each carry.
In the red room, where it is always night,
familiar monsters play their games of murder,
while we compose confessions, inventing truths
we almost dare to believe, but never really learn.


Bedlam or Parnassus
Deliberate emotions always elude you, leave you
lost and oceanic. You slop around
in that still private tempest, hugging
the surface of things. Self - diagnosis is
like superstition, a necessary evil.
Though tender words can sometimes soothe
they do not heal. Tonight again you know
the wordless sorrow of beasts, ungoverned,
inconsolable, mad. In that kingdom you can never reach
creatures half fish and half fowl
cavort together, devour their own children,
make merry while the earth heaves up its bile.

last week's meeting

Thanks to all who came along last week - it was a lively gathering! We had apologies from Margaret, Mary, Susie, Tricia, and the adventurous Annetine of course who is somewhere in a desert.

There were some very interesting readings, including a couple of "response poems" from Dave and Jeff ( Jeff's are on the blog, or will be very shortly), as well as a beautiful work by Sandra. Pete delivered a "work in progress" that ignited a heated discussion on the appropriateness (or otherwise) of using the term "bitch". The debate split along gender lines, with the males claiming poetic licence. (We would, wouldn't we?)

Can I suggest that in Cecilia's absence we put our works on the blog for her to read? I'll put mine and Jeff's on - Sandra, Pete and Dave please add yours too if you want to , or you can send them to me if you can't access the blog.

Re publication of poems on the blog - Jeff has raised the interesting question as to whether blog publication is counted by journals seeking "unpublished" work. Our feeling was that putting a poem on our blog doesn't count as publication, as the blog is not readily accessible to the public but we're not really sure. Does anyone know the answer? I do know that anything you write on a blog is automatically copyrighted.

Our discussion of possible group outings produced some good ideas: VWC readings, Glenfern Poetry Centre readings, the Melbourne Writers Festival, and the events and venues to be found on "Pam's Poetry Pitch". There were also some suggestions for poetry journals that could be a source of information on upcoming events ( see below). Also, the Channel 31 poetry programme "Red Lobster", worth watching (if you can get Ch 31).

Victorian Writers Centre: http://www.writers-centre.org/

Melbourne Writers Festival: http://www.mwf.com.au/2008/content/mwf_2008_home.asp?name=Home

Pam's Poetry Pitch: http://pamspoetrypitchblog.blogspot.com/

Zest: an emagazine published by the Australian Poetry Centre but now available only to members - the archive editions may be available though.: http://www.australianpoetrycentre.org.au/

Red Lobster:http://redlobster.davidmcl.id.au/

Currajah ( poetry weblog): http://www.walleahpress.com.au/b25/

I suggest that we all review these sites and put together a shortlist of events that we would like to attend. If you want to, email suggestions to me in Cecilia's absence.

7 sleeps till the 1st August then the trip of a lifetime

Hello Coast Liners

I thought I would post a poem before leaving in the hope of urging you to post a short poem on the blog in my absence and I can read them when away. Taking computer

Remember the stone I gave you well this is what came from my stone.


Stone Country


Dream filled now
lost to deserted houses
but stones persist
each one carries a story.
Alone in the dust
lies a large rough stone
black with rage
it rolls its roughened tongue
towards the empty cave
yearns for the heat of fire.

Lost Childhood

Hop scotched chalked on the path
her turn next.
She plays alone,
throws the stone
hears footsteps.
He throws a stone
hands her a clinker chocolate
'just like your stone' he says.
She follows
holding the smoothness of chocolate.

Now meetings will continue as usual. And I am leaving next Friday 1 August and returning on 17 September. So I will be ready to hear your poetry in October and will miss meeting you for the two meetings. I do so enjoy our time together.

Happy Creativity

Poetically
Cecilia

A NAME & A SEASON

Thanks everyone for your helpful suggestions today - I've revised "Autumn in Melbourne". As well as changing the title I've cut out a number of lines. I've italicized "autumn " in line 17 in the hope that the word will look incongruous in the context of the poem - not sure if that works though. What do you think?

A NAME AND A SEASON

Think of an aged politician,

scuttling through corridors,

winding soon to death.

And a city, on the dark side of the world,

corroding river, trees and people,

named after him.

There hard – edged men,

shed them from the stony flanks of a harsh land,

glare straight and far ahead,

impatient to launch across the distant ranges

a vast, grey, bleating army.

So the place is branded with a cringing name,

and trees bronzed as lifesavers now parade streets

that smother fat eels and flowering manna gums.

Dead leaves scuttle

where soft fern fronds silently unfurled

and autumn’s dry death – rattle sounds

where wombats grazed and lyrebirds danced.

Only Lo – an Tuka, the Hunter, unknown,

gleams still at day’s dark edge.