Category Archives: OBSTACLES AND CHALLENGES

Though a good deal is too strange to be believed, nothing is too strange to have happened. Thomas Hardy

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MY APHRODISIAC IS A POET

Tess Driver

Climb inside, comfort me
with lush imaginings as I
walk the tightrope of your lines.

I caress the lips of your knowing.
Read to me poet, soothe my imaginings,
massage my longing with thoughts
that cling to every pore.

I shiver at your rhyme;
it is dark outside, poet,
fill me with light and laughter
so the moon grows full and stars
caress the nippled dawn.

Poet, lust after me
with your singing verse:
wash the sharp word edges,
drown me in the flesh of your verse.

http://www.australianpoetry.org/2013/03/26/south-australia/

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“Love is a possible strength in an actual weakness.”
― Thomas Hardy, Far from the Madding Crowd

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TESS DRIVER

Party Dress

Fragile as the truth
it hangs on a crocheted hook
covered in white blossom,
a gossamer memory.

All that time,
season to season
green embroidered petals
now pale and frayed,
danced on cream silk,
styled with tucks for secrets.

So slim, two large hands
could fit around the waist.
Kisses flutter moth-like
from the neck-line
once softly curved
over quivering breasts.

A million silken threads
to create a dream.
Touch it gently
or it will unravel
in your hands.

From Blue: Friendly Street No. 27

http://friendlystreetpoets.org.au/?page_id=301

 

 

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“Wolves fear humans for good reason. Humans fear wolves out of misunderstanding. Jogn Theberge

http://silentwolfspirit.webs.com/poemsquotessayings.htm

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The Tantanoola Tiger

There in the bracken was the ominous spoor mark,
Huge, splayed, deadly, and quiet as breath,
And all around lay bloodied and dying,
Staring dumbly into their several eternities,
The rams that Mr Morphett loved as sons.

Not only Tantanoola, but at Mount Schanck
The claw welts patterned the saplings
With mysteries terrible as Egypt’s demons,
More evil than the blueness of the Lakes,
And less than a mile from the homestead, too.

Sheep died more rapidly than the years
Which the tiger ruled in tooth and talk,
And it padded from Beachport to the Border,
While blood streamed down the minds of the folk
Of Mount Gambier, Tantanoola, of Casterton.

Oh this tiger was seen all right, grinning,
Yellow and gleaming with satin stripes:
Its body arched and undulated through the tea-tree;
In this land of dead volcanoes it was a flame,
It was a brightness, it was the glory of death,

It was fine, this tiger, a sweet shudder
In the heath and everlastings of the Border,
A roc bird up the ghostly ring-barked gums
Of Mingbool Swamp, a roaring fate
Descending on the mindless backs of grazing things.

Childhoods burned with its burning eyes,
Tantanoola was a magic playground word,
It rushed through young dreams like a river
And it had lovers in Mr Morphett and Mr Marks
For the ten long hunting unbelieving years.

Troopers and blacks made safari, Africa-fashion,
Pastoral Quixotes swayed on their ambling mounts,
Lost in invisible trails. The red-faced
Young Lindsay Gordons of the Mount
Tormented their heartbeats in the rustling nights

While the tiger grew bigger and clear as an axe.
‘A circus once abandoned a tiger cub.’
This was the creed of the hunters and poets.
‘A dingo that’s got itself too far south’
The grey old cynics thundered in their beers,

And blows were swapped and friendships broken,
Beauty burst on a loveless and dreary people,
And their moneyed minds broke into singing
A myth; these soured and tasteless settlers
Were Greeks and Trojans, billabong troubadours,

Plucking their themes at the picnic races
Around the kegs in the flapping canvas booths.
On the waist-coats shark’s teeth swung in time,
And old eyes, sharply seamed and squinting,
Opened mysteriously in misty musical surprise,

Until the day Jack Heffernan made camp
By a mob of sheep on the far slope of Mount Schanck
And woke to find the tiger on its haunches,
Bigger than a mountain, love, or imagination,
Grinning lazily down on a dying ewe,

And he drew a bead and shot it through the head.
Look down, oh mourners of history, poets,
Look down on the black and breeding volcanic soil,
Lean on your fork in this potato country,
Regard the yellowed fangs and quivering claws

Of a mangy and dying Siberian wolf.
It came as a fable or a natural image
To pace the bars of these sunless minds,
A small and unimpressive common wolf
In desperately poor and cold condition.

It howled to the wattle when it swam ashore
From the wreck of the foundered Helena,
Smelt death and black snakes and tight lips
On every fence-post and slip-rail.
It was three foot six from head to tail.

Centuries will die like swatted blowflies
Before word or wolf will work a tremor
Of tenderness in the crusty knuckles
Around the glasses in the Tantanoola pub
Where its red bead eyes now stare towards the sun.

 

Max Harris

http://www.ernmalley.com/harris_poetry.html

A lowly cabin with potatoes is better than a hungry castle.

http://conwaymilltrust.org/category/quotes-poems-proverbs-and-sayings/page/6/

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Is fearr bothán biamhar ná caisleán gortach.

A cabin with plenty of food is better than a hungry castle.

http://islandireland.com/Pages/folk/sets/proverbs.html

I thought of what you’d written in faint ink, Your journal with the sawn-off lock, that stayed behind With other things you left, all without use

Five Bells
Ken Slessor

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

foto izzy foreal at bilambil nsw aust

“Hui Tzu said to Chuang Tzu:  “I have a big stinktree in my garden.   The trunk is so bent and knotty that nobody can get a good straight plank out of it.  The branches are so crooked you can’t cut them up in any way that makes sense.  There it stands beside the road and no carpenter will even look at it.   Such is your teaching, Chuang – big and useless.”
Chuang Tzu replied: “Have you ever watched the wildcat crouching, watching its prey?   This way it leaps, and that way,
high and low, and at last – it lands in the trap.  Have you ever seen the yak?   It is great as a thundercloud, standing in his might.
Big?  Sure.  But, he can’t catch mice!  So for your big tree.  No use?   Then plant it in the wasteland – in emptiness.  Walk idly around it and rest under it’s shadow.  No axe or saw prepares its end.  No one will ever cut it down.   Useless?  You should worry!”

–  Chuang Tzu, The Useless Tree, circa 200 B.C.

Turkish. No matter how far you have gone on a wrong road, turn back.

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Every way. or at every end, there are three leagues of heart-breaking. (Spanish). When a man’s affairs are in bad condition and he is unable to extricate himself from difficulty, every way leads to further complications; at every end he finds an obstacle and he is near disaster.

"Curiosities in Proverbs: A Collection of Unusual Adages, Maxims, Aphorisms, Phrases and Other …"

foto – burra’s tree