Paul Mitchell’s new book of poetry, High Spirits (Puncher and Wattmann, 2024), will be launched in the Westgate Baptist Community Hall (16 High Street, Yarraville, Victoria) on Saturday 25 May. Michael McGirr, author of the best selling non-fiction work, Books That Saved My Life, will do the launching. 3pm for a 3.30pm start. All welcome.
Alive
if you still your heart
to hear the tales of ocean waves
if you lay your ear on a seashell
to learn the dance on a distant shore
if you open your eyes
and pay attention
to tiny stamens
with awe
if you sensitize your nose and echo
moods of rainforests
with reverence
if you breathe in deeply
and caress gumtrees
with gratitude
if you lengthen your antennae
and receive outpourings of
divine love and beauty
every part of you
awakened
attuned
alive
生机
如果你安静你的心
聆听海浪的故事
如果你把耳朵贴近在贝壳上
在遥远的海岸学习舞蹈
如果你睁开眼睛
并留意风中
那轻微抖动微小的花蕊
抱着敬畏之心
如果你让鼻子灵锐
和雨林的情态
相呼应
怀着崇敬之肠
如果你深深地呼吸
抚爱星辉包裹的胶树
带着感激之情
如果你延长触角
并领受神圣的爱与美
倾盆降下
你的每一部分
觉醒
谐和
生机
℘ ℘ ℘ ℘ ℘
A Sacred Space
weep and lament
loudly or quietly
but certainly
as much as you can
in the parched and weary land
a wilderness
a wasteland
where hope is no more
……
cracks start to open
tears spring up
from within
calling all
to sit and share
openly and honestly
letting fountains surge
from underneath desert land
……
a rainforest of greens
emerging
moisturizing
replenishing
enticing you
to play and dance
in rhythms and shades
of sunlit sprinklings
一个神圣的空间
哭泣和哀叹
高声喊叫或轻言细语
但肯定得
痛痛快快地
在干旱疲惫之地
一片旷野
一片荒地
希望已不复存在
……
裂缝开始张开
泪水源自内心
而涌出
呼唤所有人
开诚布公地
坐下来分享
让喷泉从沙漠的底层涌出
……
一片翠绿的雨林
冒出地面
滋润
补充
引诱你
在阳光洒落的节奏和色调中
尽情玩耍和舞蹈
Anne Elvey has a new poetry collection, Leaf, forthcoming from Liquid Amber Press. It will be launched by Shari Kocher as part of Liquid Amber’s Eco-poetics Zoom event on Thursday 22 September 2022, along with readings from Peter Larkin and John C. Ryan. The evening begins at 7.30pm. Bookings are free but essential.
Visit here for further details and booking.
after Psalm 1
dig in deeper
to the river
running living water
my roots dive for
depth strives for
after dusty shallows
rocky fallows deserted
so I’m thirsting
from the working hard
to stay alive
and now it’s simple
to truly thrive
by the source
realigned with this replanting
though the uprooting
from familiar
mud dried up
shook the muck
from my feet and I
am replete
digging deeper
down
into
the river
℘℘℘℘
As a woman, I gravitate to the stories of women in the scriptures. Women balance multiple gender roles and identity tensions. Their stories are often hinted at or mentioned in passing. We get glimpses rather than full narratives. Nevertheless, they are there, often unnamed or in the shadows. Unlike many of the other women, these women are named. They are queens who had highly vulnerable political positions.
Jezebel (from Her Foreign Majesties)
Reflected in the mirror, I wonder at my crown.
Who placed it there upon my maiden brow?
A princess of Phoenicia, so foreign to this Land
How can I live authentically in this state?O Jezebel, how came you here?
What will you do?
What have you done?
Begone!I did not choose to come here – sold by my tribe for peace…
I come as token gesture – a prize to be displayed
Today I’m claimed as Ahab’s queen, to mother his offspring
My body – chattel of the state – is not for me to own.O Jezebel, who are you here?
Are you considered human?
Of are you simply of another
Man?
Makeda – Queen of Sheba
Love? No – maybe it was more of a curiosity …
A fascination with a legend.
I have had presented chiefs and princes …
The finest warriors and generals,
the richest men with the greatest lands.I have no need to search,
But my interest has been aroused
by the tales of Wisdom.
What man is really wise?
Is there such a beast?
If so, might he be worthy of my attentions?These days, I could be bored,
for my wealth is unsurpassed,
My lands are peaceful,
My realm is stable.What more could a girl ask for?
I seek adventure … to travel to exotic places,
To meet interesting people …
To see this Temple of wonder
Being built for a single God!Perhaps I will find more than sights to see?
Perhaps I will find a King worthy of a Queen?
Esther
Reflected in a mirror, I see my exiled face
Who gave me over to become a wife?
A Queen my Master made me – to people not my own
While mine are slaves and foreign to this placeO Esther, how came you here?
What will you do?
What have you done?
Beware!I did not choose to be here – taken from my people – dispossessed …
I am prize of warfare – a prize to be displayed
Today I’m Queen of Persia – but silent is my role
Do I dare disobey the boundaries of my life?O Esther, who are you here?
Can you be given voice before your King?
Do you have words
from another Lord?
℘℘℘℘
to the waterfall
to pray with the pine
gushing from the depth of the earth
to the wild field
to pick the flowers
putting them on my head as a bride
to the arctic
to touch the lights
fingers brushing through the night
to the desert
to dance between musical scores
of sand waves bleeding in the rhythm of a didgeridoo
to the ocean
to watch thousands of glittering gold
on liquid silk melting away
to the mountaintop
to blow the resounding horn
echoing in the valley of souls
Will you return?
When the kookaburras’ laughter
and the roaring sound of heaven are joined
by thousands of acclamations
I will return
到瀑布
和松树一起祈祷
从地球的深处涌出来
到野外
去摘花朵
把它们放在头上好像新娘一般
到北极
然后触摸那光
手指梳刷着黑夜
到沙漠
在乐谱之间跳舞
沙浪在迪格里多斯的节律中流血
到海洋
并观看成千上万闪闪发光的金子
在液体的丝稠上融化
到山顶
吹响号角
在灵魂之谷回荡
你会回来吗？
当笑翠鸟的欢笑
和天堂的轰鸣声
与成千上万的掌声欢呼相应
我就会回来
℘℘℘℘
Following the school shooting, Uvalde, USA, on 29 May 2022.
these children
………. beautiful
………. playful
………. messy
………. precious
young ones
in a blink of a moment
………. panicking
………. screaming
………. running
torn to shreds
blood-spattered
innocent lives—
………. 6 years old
………. 10 years old
………. 14 years old
and many more
………. 6 years old
………. 7 years old
………. 15 years old
………. 17 years old
……
in these days
………. months
………. years
rainfalls
tear-curtains
of our lament
filling the world
with oceans of
………. roaring
………. ranting
………. raging
don’t waste pain
………. time
………. life
any more
………. any longer!!!
℘℘℘℘
It’s the last Sunday
after Epiphany,
and the seasons turn,
though we have been
more bathed in rain
than cooked by sun
this year, and the sigh
collected …
weary pandemic endurers –
it is not over yet;
anxious fire survivors –
oh, the ever-present threat;
exhales each time rivers’
swelling this time receded –
wait – inhale – hold – flood!
anticipated liberation with
the fall around the corner,
and the freeing it will bring;
… us together
though the Convoys
and ‘Christian Lobbies’,
the letters and
the policies brought
before us sought
to tear us, would
have led us
deep into the dark.
It’s the last Sunday
after Epiphany
and the seasons turn
again, from light
to longer nights
of cozy hibernation,
of frightened isolation –
oh, Holy One of Epiphany,
hold us in the dark
with guiding star,
with who You are,
our sighs, with You,
collected.
℘℘℘℘
for too long
I’ve watched
my Beauty crawling over the words
soaring above the sky
dancing between the silent spaces
for too long
I’ve waited for
my Beauty getting up from her desk
walking to the pantry
picking up my favourite bone
for a good afternoon chew
for too long
I’ve been locked with
my Beauty in this house
down in the garden
observing rosellas fleeting and resting on gum branches
gazing on shooting stars of the galaxy
and the yellow Moon in the night sky
for too long
I’ve dreamed of the day with
my Beauty climbing mountains
smelling fragrances of millions of flowers
chasing every hint of animals
tasting salt of every lake
and leaving my historic marks on every passing pole
Still
nothing is too long
as long as I am with my Beauty
although
sometimes I think
I am the Beauty
when she accompanies me on my royal parade
and I draw the attention and admiration of all
when she is busy cooking in the kitchen
and I sit on the sofa watching TV
when she cleans muck from my eyes
or mops the floor of my fur
when she hugs me tightly till I ‘purr’
or sticks her face on mine till I look aside
who cares who is whom?
We are a happy family
in the castle of Beauty and the Beast
℘℘℘℘
It appears that to bear the weight of mum’s judgement means not only a sore bum but also a dropped halo. It appears that the Aryan half-pint might have again stolen her favourite manicure set from the middle drawer of the bathroom cabinet while he was supposed to be tidying his sister’s bedroom. It does not yet appear that in this act of descending freedom, of vacating a head that others might gild mockingly with thorns, the embarrassing shape of kenotic love is taking costly form. And it’s not as if
there is chaste indulgence here; this act of discipline reminiscent of Michelangelo’s Sistine Christ, this act of judgement upon cobalt and rubicund outlining her own contorted arm and deepening her own overtaxed gaze. A foretaste of arms bearing sin-gnarled stock and hers, those eyes that again will grieve as arms not her own are brought to bear upon her bare first-born, this unexpected fruit in whom her future and that of all shall find shape. And an open roof. Did it fly off with upswing arm so that one who sees everything could weep?
It has been some time too since Paul and Vincent came over, and now this other Paul, and André and Max; seemingly unsedated risk now transformed into dispassion. Was Gala really the benchmark of our friendship, our means of communication, our shared wife? What kind of love did we make to each other in her? And what of love once promised now turned, love now come to assault me? A naked face turned away in a sensuous spell.
℘℘℘℘
Art/s and Theology Australia 