; The Surfer
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The Surfer


  • pg 1
									The Surfer                                                               Mushrooms
                                                                         Overnight, very
He thrust his joy against the weight of the sea,                         Whitely, discreetly,
climbed through, slid under those long banks of foam –                   Very quietly
(hawthorn hedges in spring, thorns in the face stinging).
how his brown strength drove through the hollow and coil                 Our toes, our noses
of green-through weirs of water!                                         Take hold on the loam,
Muscle of arm thrust down long muscle of water.                          Acquire the air.
And swimming so, went out of sight
where mortal, masterful, frail, the gulls went wheeling                  Nobody see us,
in air, as he in water, with delight.                                    Stops us, betrays us;
                                                                         The small grains make room.
Turn home, the sun goes down; swimmer, turn home.
Last leaf of gold vanishes from the sea-curve.                           Soft fists insist on
Take the big roller’s shoulder, speed and swerve.                        Heavying the needles,
Come to the long beach home like a gull diving.                          The leafy bedding,

For on the sand the grey-wolf sea lies snarling;                         Even the paving.
cold twilight wind splits the waves’ hair and shows                      Our hammers, our rams,
the bones they worry in their wolf-teeth. O, the wind blows,             Earless and eyeless,
and sea crouches on sand, fawning and mouthing;
drops there and snatches again, drops and again snatches                 Perfectly voiceless,
its broken toys, its whitened pebbles and shells.                        Widen the crannies,
                                                   - Judith Wright       Shoulder through holes. We

The Closet Life of Shoes                                                 Diet on water,
                                                                         On crumbs of shadow,
My shoes have independence                                               Bland-mannered, asking
While I think they need me to walk
It is all a charade                                                      Little or nothing.
They can clearly get along alone                                         So many of us!
As I trip on the scattered pairs                                         So many of us!
In random and surprising places, mid-journey
They must get frustrated                                                 We are shelves, we are
When I throw them back in the closet                                     Tables, we are meek,
                                                                         We are edible,
Some shoes give up the will to live
They tie their laces                                                     Nudgers and shovers
And throw themselves over power lines                                    In spite of ourselves.
Where they dangle for at least a month                                   Our kind multiplies:
Maybe they like the view
It can be a sad and bitter life for a neglected shoe                     We shall by morning
Just ask the single thongs that litter the beaches                       Inherit the earth.
And the Nikes that sit in remote road-side gutters                       Our foot’s in the door.
                                    - Carla Gratton                                                -   Sylvia Plath
Stop All The Clocks                                             Freedom Is …
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,                     Like a leaf blowing freely,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,                   Like a bike doing a wheelie.
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum                        Like a fish swimming a stream,
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.                      Like a gymnast on a beam.
                                                                Like a hawk soaring through the air,
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead                            Like a big wheel at the fair.
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,                   Like a cat chasing its tail,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,         Like the wind, rain and hail.
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.             Like a kite up in the sky,
                                                                  Like a bee zooming by.
He was my North, my South, My East and West,                    Like a flower soaking up the sun,
My working week and my Sunday rest,                               Like a toddler having fun.
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;                                                         - Claire Grierson
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
                                                                The Road Not Taken
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one:
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;                         Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods:                     And sorry I could not travel both
For nothing now can ever come to any good.                      And be one traveller, long I stood
                                        - WH Auden              And looked down one as far as I could
                                                                To where it bent in the undergrowth;

My Love For Thee Is Like A Galah                                Then took the other, as just as fair,
                                                                And having perhaps the better claim,
If I compare love to birds                                      Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
I’d say love was once a dove                                    Though as for that the passing there
cooing and close                                                Had worn them really about the same,
Another time, love was a swan
full of grace                                                   And both that morning equally lay
an owl, wide-eyed and wise                                      In leaves no step had trodden black.
and a sparrow                                                   Oh, I kept the first for another day!
an eagle, etc. etc.                                             Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
But love has also been a chook                                  I doubted if I should ever come back.
with its head on the block
and a hammer instead of a hatchet                               I shall be telling this with a sigh
And I remember love like a seagull                              Somewhere ages and ages hence:
meeting a propeller –                                           Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
not much left afterwards                                        I took the one less travelled by,
And if, today, love is like                                     And that has made all the difference.
a squashed birdie corpse on the road of life                                                        - Robert Frost
I live in trust that, of all the birds
love is most like the phoenix.
                                       - Lauren Williams
For Everything There Is A Season …                                      Bring me the tear of a maiden beat thrice,
                                                                        Bring me a letter of water,
For everything there is a season, and                                   Bring me the pain of first growing up,
a time for every matter under heaven:                                   Bring me the year’s sweetest quarter.
a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;                Bring me the scar of a soul left unhealed,
a time to kill, and a time to heal;                                     Bring me the solitude of night,
a time to break down, and a time to build up;                           Bring me a string of child’s first laughter,
a time to weep, and a time to laugh;                                    Bring me an elder’s poor sight.
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;       Bring me determination, an inexhaustible well,
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;                Bring me a pure, kind heart,
a time to seek, and a time to lose;                                     Bring me the hope of a sweet fresh-faced youth,
a time to keep, and a time to cast away;                                And an unreachable star.
a time to rend, and a time to sew;                                      Bring me all these,
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;                            For merged together,
a time to love, and a time to hate;                                     They create the most powerful draught,
a time for war, and a time for peace.                                   ‘Tis more terrible than death,
                                          - Ecclesiastes 2              Lighter than breath,
                                                                        A mix of tears and laughter.
                                                                        The recipe of life, learn it full well:
                                                                        There are no short cuts;
The Recipe of Life                                                      Only time will tell.
                                                                                                              - Megan Elizabeth Chinn
(Inspired by Emily Dickinson’s ‘Bring me the Sunset in a Cup’)

Bring me the sunset in a cup,                                           The Negro Speaks of Rivers
Bring me the moon in a bowl,
Bring me the stars on the tip of a fork,                                I’ve known rivers:
And on a platter, a swirling black hole.                                I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow
                                                                                of human blood in human veins.
Bring me stardust from aeons ago,
Bring me an adamant knife,                                              My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
Bring me an eye from a beast now long dead,
And snow from a winter of strife.                                       I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
                                                                        I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.
Bring me an anvil on which man was first forged,                        I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
Bring me the song of a dove,                                            I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went
Bring me – now this, must be pickled, no less! –                                 down to New Orleans, and I’ve seen its muddy bosom turn
The heartbreak of maiden’s first love.                                           all golden in the sunset.

Bring me a rope, used when witches were hanged,                         I’ve known rivers:
Bring me a fanciful dream,                                              Ancient, dusky rivers.
Bring me a stone, used to sharpen the knife
That slaughtered the Elvin Queen.                                       My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
                                                                                                                   - Langston Hughes

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