Friday, June 18, 2010

That's Not Art!

If you go to My Local Community link, you will see where these poems came from. Next year I wil find a way to make more group poetry, possibly with music, or on the ground, or ... ? Anyway, here are the pieces I wrote from notes taken on the day.

The Webster

"Katabatic winds!
What a great word!"
The dreamcatcher billows.
Intense concentration
on a small pre-spun web.
Oh! The frame breaks.
"At last!" she says.

"I have deceived no-one,"
she warns. The web she's woven
between trees attracts busy hands
all day. Any spider would be happy
with such plenty!

Silent chimes
The wind will carry
Prayers away

She and I join two trees
with cotton thread
make a curtain with bark.
An exercise in balance:
the strips sway gently

Her mind weaves
connections, strong, fine.
Others add food
for thought and
interest, harmony
new structure.
"You can't get
tangled in my web.
Add something!"
appears where once was
only air.

Ephemeral Art Sports!
We all have a go
at flinging the strings
(You realise that throwing
the caber might be easier with
all that weight behind it).

When they catch, the oak
leaves and chestnuts
dangle quite at home
in Australian bush
whose fine foliage
seems to welcome
these visitors from overseas.

Frames of That's Not Art!

The sweet mood of this day
echoed by parrots, rosellas,
songbirds in riverside trees.

Through the frame I catch a man
reading Sunday's news on a seat
across the chasm between us.

The river has no place in these
frames except as steep slope,
slipped and sliding friable soil.

So I take my camera to the slot
between viewing deck slats, and
capture the spirit of still waters.

Framed, now, the old swimming
hole, and its crowds of companion
reeds, and still That's Not Art!

We who read May Gibbs
and shook with fear in our beds
as kids are glad they lean
against a tree, casual-like,
or stand within the circle -
that magic circle -
rimmed by pine cones
preventing escape.

But tonight -
who will see the wicked
the tricky the prickly
Bad Banksia Men?
Why, us! Again! As sleep
steals our commonsense.

Birds, Nests and Eggs

What art there is in
making birds with beaks
and feathered frippery.
How nimble the fingers
of she who gives them
a place to imagine
new - and real - life.
And looking into those nests
who could not admire
the bright primary colours
of hand-rolled felted eggs
round as little worlds
promising to hatch into
dazzling rainbow birds.


The thinking and blissful
lack of it
make out of individual
a collage, community
a clarity
and unity out of difference.


That slappy wet clay!
First, the art is all over you.
You are mud and glue.
No objections come from trees
as you secure the various
faces to bark, decorate
with blossom and leaf.

A whole population appears!
Citizens of stump and trunk
bark and bole, yet they are deep
in meditation, perhaps wishing
for bodies, or simply growing
into tree as - ephemeral spirits -
they contemplate mortality.


  1. What a wonderful event! And I love the poems. But now look what you've gone and done - I'll be dreaming of Banksia Men too.

  2. LOL!
    And it WAS a wonderful event. Did you look up the link? There are photos. Thanks for your comments.