Friday, September 30, 2016

Susan Hawthorne #274 musing on painting by Elaine d'Esterre

DP 274 painting by Elaine d'Esterre

I sit here each night looking at the painting
it is large mostly smoky blue abstract
but suggestive of so much more

three nights ago I saw an eyebrow
when that appeared an entire face
became visible    tonight in the centre

it could be a picnic table or a horse
bolting away from human company
the furrowed brow at the top is thinking

Lies Van Gasse #270

 (dag 1-245)

- halverwege deze krachtmeting
kwamen er geen woorden meer uit mijn mond,
geen gedachten uit mijn haar,
geen ideeën uit mijn vingertoppen.

Drie seconden:
weet je nog hoe volmaakt de dingen
die zijn samengesteld uit drie?

(day 1-245)

- halfway through this power struggle
words stopped coming out of my mouth,
thoughts stopped growing out of my hair,
ideas out of my finger tips.

Three seconds:
do you still remember  how perfect things are
when consisting out of three?

Lesley Boland #28 Speaking

It was only after he died that she finally learned to speak. He had always trashed her Portuguese and insisted she use English lest she offend his ears with her imperfect pronunciation and atrocious accent.  He berated her for her cultural insensitivity, so enthralled to whiteness that she failed to learn the language after fifteen years.  He became even more belligerent when she tried to use French.  But she loved him because he had shown her herself.  He continually showed her herself, in all her shame.  He broke apart her personality, de-seeded it like a capsicum, cooked her up in his own meal.  She tasted herself anew.  

She realised she had learned to speak because she had a conversation.  It was not about the price of something, or the weather, or directions, or some other banality.  It was a real conversation; a spontaneous flow of ideas, exchanged in words she had learned by rote, but performed with unpremeditated creativity.  Finally, she had expressed herself.  Two years after he died she said, ‘I think, in some ways, he held me back.’

Lucy Alexander's "Paths" translated into Chinese by Cui Yuwei


Written in English by Lucy Alexander
Translated into Chinese by Cui Yuwei

the rain is friend to paths
kissing them with feeling
pelting them with love
finding them through all
the downhill relationships
that end in dams
the hubris and debris
of water’s courses
so much gravity
pulling with tiny hands
to the magnet of

the pool.




Sarah St Vincent Welch #262 the dance of the corflutes – or the local election hop

there’s not a corflute or a stake left in town
(I used to call them placards
before I tried to order them)

they are flying in
being despatched
trucking in
bumming a ride
being scrounged

on the verges they are hustling
shuffling, misrepresented
falling over
those coreflutes, they’re mixing company
jumping ranks

two weeks to go

Lizz Murphy - Post 271: Head viii.

Media: Oil pastel on paper. Size: A6

Lucy Alexander #30 - Paths

the rain is friend to paths
kissing them with feeling
pelting them with love
finding them through all
the downhill relationships
that end in dams
the hubris and debris
of water’s courses
so much gravity
pulling with tiny hands
to the magnet of

the pool.

Anna Couani #218 tropical island

mono print & image transfer

Béatrice Machet # 247 temptation-7-8

# 247 Temptation-7-8 

Tentation du nom et derrière l’histoire de générations mais le tien dans un tremblement te ramène à ma terre. Je dis ombre où se tapit le désir et chambre où crépite ses braises. Ce qui entraîne le ciel à sa suite. 

Temptation for a name and behind the story of generations but yours in a shiver leads you back to my soil. I say shadow where desire is crouching and room where its ambers are crackling. It drags the sky in its wake.


Tentation d’un récit une à une les pages sans intention de bâtir. Insaisissable fondement les souvenirs.  Du ralenti à l’accéléré. Pas un aveu qui ne chavire dans un éblouissement. Mon récit alors soif désaltérée à la fraîcheur du silence dans le vif de la respiration. Rien ne se dit c’est dans l’oubli pourtant on parle et c’est déchirement interminable.

Temptation for a tale one by one the pages without intention of building. Unfathomable foundation the memories. From slow motion to speeding up. No confession that would not wreck in marvel. My tale thus thirst quenched by a chilly silence in the very alive of breath. Nothing’s said it’s into forgetting yet one speaks and it’s an endless shredding.  

Michele Morgan #265 an t-earrach

spring comes hard to some 
others flare

Robert Verdon, #314, National Museum, Canberra

politely perusing

old notebooks

legible handwriting from 1938

caplocked muskets, fixed bayonets

that helped to conquer

perhaps even on this contested site

memories of the old hospital they 9/11ed

in a lethal celebration of free enterprise

bell-shaped dresses from the 1840s

muslin and army uniforms

telescopes and coolamons

and Lenie Namatjira

Captain Cook’s discarded cannon that they cleaned up

a Hmong family garden near Melbourne

the Griffins and a platypus

and things from my youth

this is time and horror

and science and art wasted

as they, the practical, go about the business

of business

Juan Garrido-Salgado # 30-30 'Eran tiempo del No'

Eran tiempo del No # 30-30

Eran  tiempo del NO,  hasta vencer

En las calles de la población los muros hablan

El silencio había liberado al temor

que había anidado en nuestros corazones.

Éramos los de la rebelión popular

La clandestinidad cosecha de la buena

Sabíamos que el tirano y su constitución del 80

Era un cuartel militar y no  un pueblo en rebeldía.

Así las calles eran barricadas de amor y  pasión

fuego  ardiendo en el pavimento con los puños en alto

como banderas de la libertad

Un canto de Isabel a  un poema de  Paul Eluard

Por el beso clandestino/ Por el verso censurado

Por los nombres prohibidos/Yo te nombro Libertad

There was the time to say NO

It was time to say NO, until victory

On the streets of the town walls speak

The silence had freed the fear

that had nested in our hearts.

We were the popular rebellion

Underground harvest was all good

We knew the tyrant and his constitution 80

It was a military barracks and not a people in revolt.

So the streets were barricaded with love and passion

fire burning on the pavement in fist

as flags of freedom

A song of Isabel to a poem by Paul Eluard:

On the fields, on the horizon/On the birds’ wings

And on the mill of shadows/I write your name