tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60829843145710230202024-03-19T21:55:58.870+10:00Caroline Glen PoetryCaroline Glen, born in Rangiora, New Zealand, attended Rangiora, Fendalton Open-Air, Rangi Ruru, and Craighead Schools. She has lived most of her adult life in Australia and currently lives on the Gold Coast.
Her five published poetry books are: Along the Way, On Seagulls' Wings, Caviar for Breakfast, Poems from Paradise and The Tongue Between the Toes.Caroline Glen Poetryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02959274384763999601noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6082984314571023020.post-25136381530485510652010-02-16T13:43:00.000+10:002009-12-21T08:20:01.709+10:00Caroline Glen giving poetry readings; Gold Coast Arts Centre 2009 – Part 1Caroline Glen reading at the Gold Coast Arts Centre. She is incorporating the subject matter of the paintings on display with poems she has chosen.<br />
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Part 1 of 2<br />
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Gold Coast 2009 AprilCaroline Glen Poetryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02959274384763999601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6082984314571023020.post-81876225534888483232010-02-15T12:37:00.000+10:002009-12-21T08:22:41.072+10:00Caroline Glen giving poetry readings; (Part 2 )<p>Caroline Glen reading at the Gold Coast Arts Centre. She is incorporating the subject matter of the paintings on display with poems she has chosen. </p><p>Part 2 of 2</p><p><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Z_usWg3SjpY&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Z_usWg3SjpY&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object></p>Caroline Glen Poetryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02959274384763999601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6082984314571023020.post-72808801414661755902009-12-21T09:46:00.001+10:002009-12-21T09:51:57.596+10:00Merry Christmas<p>A merry Christmas and a happy New Year</p> <p>to all viewers.</p> Caroline Glen Poetryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02959274384763999601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6082984314571023020.post-29276988122946344302009-12-21T09:15:00.001+10:002009-12-21T09:18:15.398+10:00Numbers<p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p> <p> </p> <p>How big the <place w:st="on"><state w:st="on">Queensland</state></place> property?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p> <p> </p> <p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The city mind is told in numbers and forgets. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Its breath and heart cannot imagine or measure them</p> <p class="MsoNormal">written as they are into the smell of cattle and earth, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">the taste of dust. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p> <p> </p> <p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">From my office I would see cattle stretched </p> <p class="MsoNormal">in numbers over plains, under gum trees. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I would be there to disturb their solitude,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and with voice or stick, walk and hurry them over numbers </p> <p class="MsoNormal">of hours, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">and count them at the baked wooden yards at end of day.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p> <p> </p> <p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I would catch the train out, past the city’s last idling houses</p> <p class="MsoNormal">through hours of trees to a tiny town,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">to the pick-up ute and leaning stockman who drove </p> <p class="MsoNormal">down dirt roads to the homestead, its eiderdown </p> <p class="MsoNormal">of stars, the cup of tea, the rough mattress, then oblivion.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p> <p> </p> <p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I would wake newborn to the smell of dirt rolled out </p> <p class="MsoNormal">by the sun, catch my horse and with the smell of horse, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">leather and dirt, ride to the cattle.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p> <p> </p> <p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">How many numbers the homestead paddock?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p> <p> </p> <p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Plenty, and easy to be lost…… </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Once young musterers left me</p> <p class="MsoNormal">for the thrill to chase some native animal. I shouted. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I rode in circles. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I waited, listened, but only heard the wind gentle </p> <p class="MsoNormal">in the trees.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p> <p> </p> <p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I had lost the numbers of time and cattle,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and rode my horse until my bottom ached, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">led him until my feet ached, rode him, led him. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I hoped he would take me home, as horses do,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">or to water, as horses can,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">but he seemed not to know. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p> <p> </p> <p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The three dogs stayed. They played.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">They sniffed amongst gum-flavoured leaves</p> <p class="MsoNormal">and clutches of grass at the base of trees, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">jumped scrub to chase hares and wallabies.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes">                </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">The sun wouldn’t stop shining.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The numbers of trees kept advancing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">None would cramp to feed on the flesh of a creek.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My mind slipped amongst them.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">My canvas waterbag swung empty from my saddle.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">We all bled salt. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p> <p> </p> <p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">At dusk we found a shallow creek. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">We lined up and drank the brown water, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">heaved our lungs, blew out our bellies, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">then, heads low, followed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The wind smoothed the heat on our bodies,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">but not my anxieties.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I expected a night curled between saddle flaps;</p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p> <p> </p> <p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">but then the gate, the hoof-marked, tyre-marked track </p> <p class="MsoNormal">to the homestead, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">for me, brown, bland and beautiful, </p> <p class="MsoNormal">a statement over undisciplined country,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">a statement of people who must work with the outdoors,</p> <p class="MsoNormal">who take risks.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p> <p> </p> <p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I wanted to belong, to chase the numbers. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"></p> <p> </p> <p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes">                        </span>Caroline Glen © October 09</p> Caroline Glen Poetryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02959274384763999601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6082984314571023020.post-4365804212642367832009-12-14T14:17:00.001+10:002009-12-21T10:15:23.556+10:00Ode to a Profile of Grass<p> </p> <p>I have found you again,</p> <p>on the hem of town, breathing your own </p> <p>piece of air and sky, licking the sun, singing with the wind. </p> <p>You stand ankle-high, each blade hard-pressed </p> <p>into the sum of you, </p> <p>still living your freedom. </p> <p> </p> <p>You still spread from road to horizon, </p> <p>a large green garment,</p> <p>a little worn near the sleeves,</p> <p>where new threads, alone or in clusters,</p> <p>patch the best they can. </p> <p> </p> <p>Earth has provided the cutting-floor for design,</p> <p>the workplace for patterning,</p> <p>the malleability for needling,</p> <p>the timeplace for admiration.</p> <p> </p> <p>You are seeded to earth-dependency, like us, </p> <p>where the seeds of man ripen, </p> <p>where his body heats into shape, </p> <p>his bones harden for action,</p> <p>his soul reaches for sky.</p> <p> </p> <p>Your two seams run straight at your sides,</p> <p>by taffeta-stiff houses, </p> <p>their manicured lawns, manicured flowers, </p> <p>all yawning with boredom.</p> <p>The winds pleat and crease, </p> <p>ruffle you into ecstasy, smooth you into quietude.</p> <p> </p> <p>I came again to see the embroidery of your small flowers, </p> <p>white for the moon, gold for the sun, </p> <p>swaying their fragility amongst the dark-green confidence </p> <p>of weeds, and to watch the small brown creatures </p> <p>journeying your roots, all they know of home,</p> <p>and to look up for butterflies, moths and birds, </p> <p>seesawing their joy about and above you;</p> <p>and to honour the birdsnests inside your pockets </p> <p>and cuffs; </p> <p>woven from your cloth,</p> <p>and safe from hooves of horses and cattle. </p> <p> </p> <p>I have come for you to renourish me, </p> <p>to slice open the fruit of my imaginings, </p> <p>dulled and pitted by city living.</p> <p>The branches of your old trees ride the winds </p> <p>wider, higher.</p> <p>Ungroomed, unshaven, left to their own fancy,</p> <p>they drift their pose in lazy height,</p> <p>and droop in prayer, in praise of you, </p> <p>spilling their buds and leaves in random thanks at your feet. </p> <p> </p> <p>Your shrubs still crouch low, their brown fingers </p> <p>stiff and knuckled. </p> <p>Fistfuls of tussock still cling to your fabric.</p> <p>I have come to lie on you, </p> <p>to listen to your stories, hear the hustle of insects, </p> <p>the rustle of birds, the whistle and chuckle of wind, </p> <p>the rise and fall of their tunes, </p> <p>to hear you growing, slowly, slowly.</p> <p> </p> <p>And to smell your green flesh, its salty-sweetness, </p> <p>like the salty-sweetness of our blood, </p> <p>and smell the bitter friendliness from your ferns,</p> <p>like old coal, resting in a shed of forgetfulness; </p> <p>and smell ash and sweat from your native shrubs, </p> <p>and stroke a rogue thread bending above, </p> <p>arguing for more sun.</p> <p> </p> <p>And to smell the Australian earth, its minerals and clay,</p> <p>once water and fire that long ago haemorrhaged </p> <p>in fierce unison to mould you.</p> <p>And to reflect one day spadefuls may be mounded </p> <p>above me, ironing me to anonymity,</p> <p>my last covering blanket. </p> <p>In vain we wish to keep you, your gown</p> <p>wide and generous, swinging, beckoning us without guile</p> <p>or anger, to love you, to heal with you.</p> <p> </p> <p>Buildings, factories, creep closer. I cannot stop them. </p> <p>We cannot stop them. You cannot withstand </p> <p>man’s machines, his madness for money. </p> <p>No-one can help. Not me, nor the people,</p> <p>the insects, the birds, the flowers. </p> <p>You are destined to die for the world, spooned up </p> <p>and overwritten by concrete, </p> <p>despaired for a while, then soon forgotten.</p> Caroline Glen Poetryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02959274384763999601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6082984314571023020.post-49662838973944501732009-12-14T14:11:00.001+10:002009-12-21T08:49:54.223+10:00Springbrook Mountain<p> </p> <p>Eucalypt, fir and pine hem the giddy climb to heaven.</p> <p>Old servants, arm in arm, in rhyme of song,</p> <p>they twist and bow to wind and storm.</p> <p>Warm-clothed they liaise with sun and rain </p> <p>in loyal high-country tradition.</p> <p>Their ranks stay closed on by-roads and paths</p> <p>to convex lookouts</p> <p>where relatives in unending sweep below</p> <p>swing their limbs with the joy of freedom.</p> <p> </p> <p>Water rushes from rock eyes.</p> <p>It falls furious-fast past wind-sharp cliffs,</p> <p>past trees that swing suicidal from tight lips. </p> <p>It collapses to fill pools eyelashed with shadow,</p> <p>or renew the flesh of creeks that creep beside the feet </p> <p>of the tree kingdom.</p> <p> </p> <p>Amongst them, brown rockcakes sit on tables and wait,</p> <p>never to be eaten.</p> <p>Ancient-baked below earth, in a fire-driven oven </p> <p>they exploded into unyielding shape. </p> <p>Flat bush, like icing, spreads from their heads</p> <p>and drips haphazard down their brows.</p> <p> </p> <p>The wind whips and licks the spongy tip-topped heads</p> <p>that arc from single threads of long-necked trees.</p> <p>Nearest to sun and moon they flaunt a superiority.</p> <p>Rivers, unpraised, untampered by man, carry the secrets</p> <p>of the forest in her pockets. They think only of</p> <p>joining the sea. They smell her, hear her calling.</p> <p> </p> <p>A blue shawl throws its mohair warmth over the dips</p> <p>and ridges of the northern valley.</p> <p>It steals the horizon sky, blurs the scars of a witch-black</p> <p>escarpment. The giant girths of the forest lords -</p> <p>the Antarctic beeches, bear the weight </p> <p>of the brawny branches,</p> <p>and the caterpillar leaves</p> <p>that release with calm, their ancient breath. </p> <p> </p> <p>In this hideaway country grows the greenest grass </p> <p>in Queensland; </p> <p>and people slip like coloured angles of wind</p> <p>from wildflower homes to greet you. Their voices,</p> <p>foliage-soft, speak the songs of the forest. </p> <p> </p> <p>The wayfarer wanders the silence with renewed</p> <p>woodland and wildlife empathy.</p> <p>He listens for the whip and lyrebird, but seldom sees them.</p> <p>The damp after rain swells his mind into half-remembered</p> <p>landscapes of childhood; that place of innocence</p> <p>where the child’s dreams flew hawk-eyed to the unknown,</p> <p>like the horizons of the Springbrook mountains. </p> <p> </p> <p>Caroline Glen ©</p> Caroline Glen Poetryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02959274384763999601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6082984314571023020.post-68264432990547662362009-12-14T14:08:00.001+10:002009-12-21T09:22:27.268+10:00Swimmer<p> </p> <p>You saunter over sand on seagull legs;</p> <p>stand a moment in waist-high water, </p> <p>and like the seagulls, appraise the seascape.</p> <p>  <br />You slide your inherited strong arms</p> <p>into the sea’s soft folds, </p> <p>and swim easily out into the blue of Byron Bay; </p> <p>you, alone out there on a Spring morning,</p> <p>the wings of the sun lighting your body. </p> <p> <br />My arms remember they held you,</p> <p>the chubby nine-month-old, </p> <p>in the Canberra swimming pool.</p> <p>You kicked and clawed </p> <p>into a love for water,</p> <p>the beginning of swimming competence.</p> <p> <br />Later the schoolboy race. </p> <p>The family bent over the pool ledge and shouted </p> <p>you on. You nearly won;</p> <p>then we lost you for years to unknown waters, </p> <p>in unknown places. </p> <p> </p> <p>New from your stay at Recovery</p> <p>you swim into the increasing deep, </p> <p>above the marine graveyard of skulls and spines</p> <p>where sharks might wish and weave. </p> <p> </p> <p>I relax when you curve back to us,</p> <p>people of the land,</p> <p>where we can hold each other in body stillness,</p> <p>and where you can replant,</p> <p>all of you to regrow </p> <p>in earth’s forgiving, resilient soil.</p> <p> </p> <p>(prizewinner) Caroline Glen © September 09 </p> Caroline Glen Poetryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02959274384763999601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6082984314571023020.post-63146562291657369522009-12-14T11:14:00.001+10:002009-12-21T08:53:38.828+10:00Tasmanian Tiger<p> </p> <p>We stop, hushed. The dusk air ripples </p> <p>with a gentleness, for we see you, old man, </p> <p>lying still in your black and white striped suit, </p> <p>under an ancient moon, close to an ancient forest.</p> <p> </p> <p>You hear our footsteps, smell our woman heat.</p> <p>With inherent trust you raise </p> <p>your huge grey-muzzled head, lips loose </p> <p>over teeth that once tore heads from sheep. </p> <p> </p> <p>You stand and stare at us.</p> <p>We two wilderness wanderers ignore </p> <p>our loaded cameras and say, </p> <p>old man you won’t live another winter. </p> <p>Soon, the forest will blanket you with its leaves. </p> <p>Birds will sing your death and dance on your grave. </p> <p>Their scarecrow legs will lattice you </p> <p>in a farewell of love. </p> <p>Insects will work your flesh and clean your bones. </p> <p>You will never again hear the farmer’s gun.</p> <p> </p> <p>We say, old man, we forget the reward; </p> <p>and promise no human limbs will stretch to you,</p> <p>no cage limbs will restrain you. </p> <p>No voices will alarm you.</p> <p>With haunches low, you trail your long tail, slow,</p> <p>back to the Tasmanian forest that breathes </p> <p>in its limbs mysteries of your ancestry </p> <p>and incurable illness. </p> <p> </p> <p>We wait. We do not follow.</p> <p> </p> <p>(Prizewinner) Caroline Glen ©</p> Caroline Glen Poetryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02959274384763999601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6082984314571023020.post-23833609687599193582009-12-14T11:04:00.001+10:002009-12-21T09:01:35.457+10:00Joanna<p> </p> <p>We grew through our shoes at the same school. </p> <p>She later grew into classy clothes.</p> <p>I watched her at home, kneeling, </p> <p>smoothing material, pinning patterns, scissors poised, </p> <p>cutting. </p> <p> </p> <p>I ignored advice not to visit. ‘No point’ they said.</p> <p>But friendship without jealousy endures,</p> <p>and though the threads between us had weakened, </p> <p>I needed to strengthen them………. </p> <p> </p> <p>From the door I easily recognise her.</p> <p>She sits on a chair, thinner, looks ahead,</p> <p>(at what?). I kiss her, sit beside her on a cramped chair.</p> <p>She turns, smiles, and asks ‘What’s your name’? </p> <p>Neck hollowed, her fleshless shoulder bone </p> <p>points at mine, it seems, with accusation. </p> <p>They almost touch. </p> <p> </p> <p>Her brown hair, sprinkled grey, is pudding-basin cut.</p> <p>She wears a tee shirt, slacks.</p> <p>No more boutique-browsing for Joanna.</p> <p>No more travelling.</p> <p>Her last home here, with men and women, </p> <p>their backs curved, wearing slow shoes </p> <p>and silence in their eyes. </p> <p> </p> <p>They sit semi-circled to the bay window</p> <p>and through the glass watch their daily movie -</p> <p>tree-leaves in constant performance,</p> <p>directed by the Christchurch breezes,</p> <p>written from scripts created by the universe.</p> <p> </p> <p>I give Joanna a present;</p> <p>a small, white bowl decorated with red roses.</p> <p>Head bowed, slowly, carefully, </p> <p>she turns it around and around, over and over, </p> <p>hoping to touch the magic that will unclasp its lid.</p> <p> </p> <p>Next to her a woman knits, arms poised </p> <p>across her ample chest. ‘Come daily,’ she explains, </p> <p>‘hubby takes me home after work.’</p> <p>She rests her knitting for morning tea, </p> <p>drinks, eats her biscuits, eats Joanna’s. </p> <p> </p> <p>The Asian carers care.</p> <p>They move catlike over the large home’s carpet squares </p> <p>and floorboards.</p> <p>‘Come with me Joanna,’ one purrs.</p> <p>She leans to her, takes her arm, </p> <p>helps lift her from her wet towel,</p> <p>guides her down the passage to the bathroom.</p> <p>The radio above our heads plays familiar songs. </p> <p>No-one sings. </p> <p> </p> <p>Occasionally I talk to Joanna’s ear - family, what they are doing, </p> <p>schoolfriends, what they are doing.</p> <p>She sometimes turns to my face with a Mona Lisa smile. </p> <p>After two hours I kiss her goodbye, </p> <p>linger at the door, look back. </p> <p>Tack-stitched into her chair, Joanna still strokes the bowl. </p> <p>My name waits on a Flight List.</p> <p>I don’t know when I’ll return.</p> <p>I close the door resolved to remember a young woman, </p> <p>bottom up, laughing into a mouthful of pins. </p> <p> </p> <p>Caroline Glen ©</p> Caroline Glen Poetryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02959274384763999601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6082984314571023020.post-78077429880959711272009-12-14T10:52:00.001+10:002009-12-21T09:58:35.848+10:00country visit<p>We drive up through hills sliced fresh and deep </p> <p>by sharp knives, precision-cut by man.</p> <p>Wounded clay, gold and grey, like coarse flour, </p> <p>clings to the hills. It still breathes through the hills’ tissue,</p> <p>mother all its life. </p> <p> </p> <p>A few road-stones lie cast in delayed shock.</p> <p>We drive down through smaller hills. They confront</p> <p>like plump washerwomen, stilled in scrub and chatter, </p> <p>clean from rain-wash and sun-bleach, </p> <p>bellies aproned in patterned shadow.</p> <p> </p> <p>The flat land invites like a pokerplayer </p> <p>laying a quick, winning hand, displaying uneven numbers</p> <p>of gum trees reaching to the horizon, </p> <p>white cattle and sheep on a dark canvas,</p> <p>fists of sugar cane, a threading river.</p> <p> </p> <p>We present gifts and ourselves at the home of friends.</p> <p>We talk and walk on yellow earth down a creek </p> <p>where dragonflies write invitations on the creek’s black ink. </p> <p> </p> <p>Behind our eyes lie the city’s magic.</p> <p>There we put on new dresses, new shoes,</p> <p>and think we are princesses.</p> <p>Nature doesn’t care about dresses, shoes </p> <p>or princesses.</p> <p>She says wear what you wish. Just come to me</p> <p>with a noble and generous mind, </p> <p>stripped of pretension. </p> <p> </p> <p>Carolilne Glen ©</p> Caroline Glen Poetryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02959274384763999601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6082984314571023020.post-37643157668398982442009-12-14T10:45:00.001+10:002009-12-21T10:18:56.261+10:00by the Brisbane river<p> </p> <p>Sometimes we need no words,</p> <p>only our thoughts; </p> <p>and just the two of us, quiet by the river.</p> <p> </p> <p>Older now, we sit on a bench and watch </p> <p>our formless reflections in the water.</p> <p>They remind us of the insignificance</p> <p>of many past anxieties.</p> <p> </p> <p>Fat and confident, the Cats hurry past.</p> <p>We have no hurry.</p> <p> </p> <p>The moon swings to earth an invisible rope</p> <p>that will never break.</p> <p>She tells us we will live to praise her </p> <p>tomorrow.</p> <p> </p> <p>On the bank opposite, </p> <p>lights from the crowded city buildings </p> <p>will soon dance on the water.</p> <p>They will remind us of technologies to come </p> <p>we will never use.</p> <p>We hold hands; the strength between, </p> <p>our compensation.</p> <p> </p> <p>(Prize-winner) Caroline Glen ©</p> Caroline Glen Poetryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02959274384763999601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6082984314571023020.post-89359585759759677612009-12-14T10:41:00.001+10:002009-12-21T10:03:53.575+10:00Walnut Tree<p> </p> <p>I lie on the bed in a thin dress and watch </p> <p>the morning sun, </p> <p>after a week of rain, colour the grey walls cream,</p> <p>and soften the air into a cream warmth.</p> <p> </p> <p>Soon I will walk the street to the sea,</p> <p>slide through its white mouths to roll </p> <p>on its blue gums.</p> <p> </p> <p>I will lie on sand the colour of corn</p> <p>and watch the joggers pressing their bodies’ breath</p> <p>through their limbs,</p> <p>and the lips of the sea opening and closing</p> <p>over the irrepressible complacency of sand. </p> <p> </p> <p>Then a walnut tree, its ponderous branches,</p> <p>its generosity of leaves, </p> <p>rises though the brambles of my mind. </p> <p>Beneath it, amongst a riot of leaves, lie mature brown </p> <p>walnuts, young hazel walnuts, </p> <p>and baby walnuts still moist-wrapped </p> <p>in their green blankets. </p> <p> </p> <p>And see a child in coat and gumboots bending </p> <p>her small back. </p> <p>She stamps on the nuts,</p> <p>loosens the flesh from the shells and chews</p> <p>their hard, white flesh. </p> <p>The bitter, rebellious flavour lingers on her tongue,</p> <p>the juices stain her fingers.</p> <p>She puts some nuts in her pocket for after.</p> <p> </p> <p>I realise in all these years in this beloved country</p> <p>I have never stood beneath a walnut tree</p> <p>and remembered,</p> <p>and wonder if, in these wearing-out days, </p> <p>I should return to the land of that walnut tree,</p> <p> </p> <p>and with skin whipped clean from the pitched winds </p> <p>of the Alps, search for the walnut-wrinkled faces</p> <p>my childhood knew and together pluck brown walnuts from cosseting leaves,</p> <p>eat them, and lick the stains from our fingers;</p> <p>the children of who we were, before the adult theft</p> <p>of what we became.</p> <p> </p> <p>Caroline Glen ©</p> Caroline Glen Poetryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02959274384763999601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6082984314571023020.post-28938451231215497402009-12-14T10:20:00.001+10:002009-12-21T10:08:06.388+10:00Aged Ulysses<p> </p> <p>My ship, rocks in the harbour below, </p> <p>stripped of my men.</p> <p>My bones lie lazy like my ship’s boards. </p> <p>My knees creak like their joints.</p> <p>My flesh grows tired. My muscles sulk.</p> <p> </p> <p>At dusk I curl on my mat on weeping grass </p> <p>that grows no poem or song.</p> <p>The rocks hold still with fortitude and hate.</p> <p>I honour the sun, moon and stars </p> <p>but they cannot ignite my perverse strength</p> <p>that trails me in shadow.</p> <p> </p> <p>Day slides its arms into the grey coat of night </p> <p>I would I could wear it; and reach to own </p> <p>people I met, places known. They are part of me. </p> <p>I am part of them. </p> <p> </p> <p>I come each day to the cliffs to see my ship.</p> <p>The ocean haunts me, ever the bride on her </p> <p>wedding night. I envy her passions. I long </p> <p>to ride her again, feel her energies beneath me;</p> <p>to ride her with my men, their chests burgeoning </p> <p>with wild air to slay the enemy on their vessels, </p> <p>to watch them drown in creaming seas.</p> <p> </p> <p>My men wander idle on this island. They eat, </p> <p>they whore. Their minds are soft like the clouds, </p> <p>their blood flavourless. </p> <p>How selfish my life. You sit with me, old woman</p> <p>your flesh still ripe in desire for me; </p> <p>you who weaved and waited twenty years,</p> <p>pursued by mean suitors, your eyes then bluer </p> <p>than sky, skin paler than the moon, lips redder</p> <p>than berries.</p> <p> </p> <p>But I long for that hot needle that once laced</p> <p>stitches of lust through my groins, that spread</p> <p>colours of power through my body. </p> <p>I long for the determination I pasted in flat parchment </p> <p>on my brow.</p> <p> </p> <p>I long for that strength that oversang the tease </p> <p>and temptations of the singing Sirens </p> <p>floating half-naked through sky. </p> <p>They pouted their lips, wiped my face with their hair.</p> <p>They sullied my sails’ tendons </p> <p>that wrapped me to my mast where my men </p> <p>had bound me.</p> <p> </p> <p>In memory I still flail those wanton arms and suck the air </p> <p>for knowledge of my countrymen’s battles.</p> <p>I shout with the ocean for the Gods to grant me wisdom,</p> <p>and to captain once more my ship of conflict.</p> <p> </p> <p>Caroline Glen © September 09</p> Caroline Glen Poetryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02959274384763999601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6082984314571023020.post-16070196247360477412008-06-24T12:07:00.000+10:002009-12-14T11:25:26.744+10:00Caroline Glen<p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY-o7UD_S1zNLwPRWP27dELLUF1gUjsLbP_oSxUbUEBzZRDmSLGP8WBCBJbyXjs17tpv0KIQxkpk1JfLS1LKRsNXJh5-AI6yJFyXanZDcYaPKqWs4gG0Yz9C4-lywwmkwDOqvMVeemvzc/s1600-h/along_the_Way_100w.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5215267421281518738" style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY-o7UD_S1zNLwPRWP27dELLUF1gUjsLbP_oSxUbUEBzZRDmSLGP8WBCBJbyXjs17tpv0KIQxkpk1JfLS1LKRsNXJh5-AI6yJFyXanZDcYaPKqWs4gG0Yz9C4-lywwmkwDOqvMVeemvzc/s320/along_the_Way_100w.jpg" border="0" /></a>Caroline Glen is an award-winning Gold Coast Poet. All poems are copyright ©. Please contact the author, Caroline Glen, before reproducing or using the poems in any way.</p> Caroline Glen Poetryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02959274384763999601noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6082984314571023020.post-38663466126021052882008-06-21T08:03:00.003+10:002009-12-21T08:16:09.081+10:00welcome to poetry lovers<p>Step through the door and see what you can find. </p>Caroline Glen Poetryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02959274384763999601noreply@blogger.com0