Dear All,
And here are snapshots 34, and thanks again to all. Though if
I may be a pest, please remember to put the date, time, and
place at the end of your snapshot. And there may be a typo
here or there in someone's snap, which I didn't fix, as I'm reluctant
to intrude upon a possible neologism!
best to all,
Rebecca
On A Snap of Christmas Whispers Past
Twenty-plus Decembers back, I took my toddler
to sit on Santa's lap, whisper in his ear
her wish, smile for the camera,
toddle off home to dress the Christmas tree.
As she smiled and whispered, Santa
whispered: Hi, Max, recognize me?
Alan! I whispered back. It was the poet Wearne,
our Browning of contemporary Melbourne.
Young still for the task of Santa,
but nodding and ho-ho-ing worthily.
What he earned in our sweltering December
funded more monologues next year.
Decembers come and go,
I¹m shopping still where
that snap was snapped in the hot mall air.
Santas of the warm south still show
toddlers how to whisper Christmas wishes.
The truest art is still the most feigning.
Alan and I our time shortens,
our art especially his lengthens.
8.30am Wednesday 17 December 2003
Max Richards, Melbourne
SNAPSHOT 33
will the dark
will it not
relent
repent...
almost eleven
already
ay-em
at that
too
...!
and the dark
the dark will not
will not let go
i decide
to keep all
the ligts on
if only
for today ...
and it's there ...
all there ...
árni ibsen
11.50 pm
hafnarfjördur
iceland
Dear DW
This is just to say
that the potted
chrysthanemums
you bought
are tall
and strong
and that I see
in them
the secret unborn
flower
which will sting
ad shock the universe
as every flower does
one day
and to say
thank you
for this singular
and most alarming
gift
Chris Mansell
Before Our Eyes
Before our eyes
and nothing and meaning
and pragmatism
and the roots of trees
the leaves of the flowers
the demeanor of the insolent dhild
the worshiper in tears in the pew
Before our eyes
and pragmatism
and ening
and the nothing of clouds
the rain the snow the leaves
Now the door opens
the church bells a ringing
and the roots of the trees
invisible
move
not before our eyes.
-----Harriet Zinnes
SNAPSHOT
snapshot
sneezing and coughing
snapshot this morning
you must be joking
sniffings and splutterings
snivellings grisellings
hankies dank piling
head hot pulsing
bones all aching
temperature soaring
night shakey shaking
day coming threatening
frost cutting freezing
systems collapsing
snapshot
sneeze and cough
snapshot this morning
sssnnnnnneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
graahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaeea
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa..
pmcmanus 8am
raynespark uk
sip lemon honey tea
doctor nodding: flu
so boring: flu
tea sip lemon sip honey
tea honey sip lemon sip
honey lemon tea
(so boring!)
lemon tea honey
sip sip sip
so boring oh
so flu
the doctor says tea is good
oh
the memory-granny adds wrap
a fire-warm
brick in flour-sack kitchen towels
stow in foot of bed wrap
your feet to form oh
kisses around
your tea & honey
& lemon then add
the rest
well
get well
sip
Christine Murray Dec. 17, 2003
The hard-to-believe sea
rolls into tideline
so blue so the breeze
after journeys and epic
the sun lies down
amongst our catch
all this venture
for just our eyes again
harbour home
and our private season
among crowds
Jill Jones
Wed 17 Dec. 10.08pm
LONG TERM PROJECTS
[of Bruce Nauman]
Space is felt with your ears.
To force you to an awareness of your body.
A very strict kind of environment.
Being an amateur and being able to do anything.
Barry Alpert / Silver Spring, MD USA / 7-7-74, 7-3-75, 12-17-03 (8:52 AM)
"any feedback you choose to leave after it arrives will be returned
the very same day"
Daddy, what's your ebay name? Password?
What max bid should I put in?
Daddy, bite your credit-card.
Robin Hamilton
Loughborough. 1.57 pm.
i. m. Sarah M. (Mulcahy) Schwartz,
born this day --17 December 1897
seems as though
you have left
so long ago
and as all here
I miss you,
still acknowledging
lineages of my life,
still true
Gerald Schwarz
Waiting for the sun
I remember half
a world away half
a year later
waiting for the sun
to shine on hot sand
not reflect off
cold white snow
the sound the same
a gritty squeak
from heavy boots
or bare feet
at this moment
late in the evening
in Melbourne
the sun I don't see shines
Douglas Barbour
Edmonton 09:10 Wednesday December 17/03
Tangerines
It’s a philosophical thing.
He likes George Wasouff,
apricots and quatrains.
I like tangerines.
I could see where
he was coming from
but even he
doesn't remember recipes.
We wrote volumes with
a raised brow - a sideways glance.
Intense communication
that opened doors; some
stripped by weather,
webbed - musty like
a grandmother's cellar.
We laughed on the edge
of lightning, the languages
of fire and ice, writing lines
forged with interpretations
that desired more than probabilities,
less than conceived.
Deborah Russell, 12/17/03
Baltimore, Maryland USA
Tangerines
It’s a philosophical thing.
He likes
George Wasouff,
apricots and quatrains.
I like tangerines.
I could see where
he was coming from
but even he
doesn't remember recipes.
We wrote volumes with
a raised brow - a sideways glance.
Intense communication
that opened doors,
(some stripped by weather)
webbed - musty like
a grandmother's cellar.
We laughed on the edges
of lightning,
the languages
of fire and ice, writing lines
forged with interpretations
that desire more
than probabilities,
less than conceived.
Deborah Russell, 12/17/03
Baltimore, Maryland USA
The Structure of Imperial Whoids in a Cartoon Universe
Whot is a whog?
An orthographic reminder
of Empire proceeding
from a heat-oppressed brain:
wog is a word, inspirational,
WOG an acronym,
almost forgotten,
fallen into ill-repute,
reminder so it's said
the Victorian Brits,
defined "Wog" as starting
across the English Channel
not just in Bangalore or Kashmir.
Change a letter, advance to WCOG:
Wiley Coyote Oriental Gentleman.
A cartoon Wog,
clever, ill-intentioned,
ultimately doomed to repeat
his weekly doom,
anvil-fodder.
So the bird he pursues
becomes the face of Empire,
grinning stupidity charging
forward, thoughtless,
in this version invulnerable.
Ken (oh well, it's been a long day)
Sonnet: A Guy Was Talking
A guy was talking to his cellphone about a girl
who once had made a call to him about a guy
who, listening to his cellphone on his way to
work, had heard a story about a girl who'd
heard that I had heard a story on the way to
work about a guy who was wishing they had
all been more forthcoming about the whole
affair, feeling that even in public there were
things that they wanted to keep private and that
had they been any less forthcoming there might
have been nothing to say after all, after all was
said and done. Hello? You're breaking up on
me, you're breaking . . . Hello? Can you hear me?
Can you hear me NOW? Hello? Shit! Hello?
New York City, 12.17.03 7:46 pm EST
Hal
CARNIVAL
Strutting past the vendors of lottery tickets
'the boys' can only guess at what is kept,
at what is lost
inside
mothers with crumbled stucco faces.
If a door is left carelessly
ajar, they are
anonymous when they enter.
When they check out
they check out the beach: that gap between
the legs of the red bikini
resembling a hypen -
it connects yet separates
say, the words 'hermit ' and 'crab' ;
'shell ' still presents this difficulty,
it does not encompass the world.
David HowardCarols, 2003, Melbourne
[with season's greetings to both Poetryetc & PoetryEspresso]
In the name of community
and Christmas festivity
we’ve been letter-
boxed by our local Inter-
Church Council. Carols,
Candlelight and Nativity.
In the warm south this means
al fresco, en-plein-air, in the park.
At the summer solstice
it¹s bedtime before dark.
Come early, six-thirty
for food and good fun.
While sausages sizzle
Boroondara Brass
will serenade the grass
where the little boys tussle.
Hocking Stuart fireworks
are promised. Hockings!
Estate agents extraordinaire!
I see a set-piece manger
glowing: position! position!
A coup for the inter-church council
draw-card feature supreme
is Stunt Rider Dave Russell.
Dave! On your gleaming machine!
Since children are ‘encouraged to dress
as a nativity character’,
Dave has a choice, I guess,
of highflying Star of Wonder,
or camel-mounted magus.
I fancy myself as a grass-fed ass,
while the massed might
of the Boroondara Brass
pound out ‘Silent Night’
We poets in our youth
begin in gladness,
but thereof come in the end
despondency and Christmas.
But night will fall,
there may be stars,
and children will hold candles
‘for peace - for peace’.
- Max Richards
North Balwyn, Melbourne 19 December 2003My Backyard 12 – Co-ordinates
My ducks are uncoordinated.
They are, I suppose, more suited to swimming than they are to walking.
Their legs are at the back of them.
Their necks carry their heads too far from their bodies.
They are, it seems to me, in a perpetual state of falling forward.
When I am bored,
or more often than not, annoyed,
I walk behind them
with an inhuman intent.
They waddle away from me.
They waddle slowly at first
but the faster I stalk them
the faster they waddle.
I’ve worked out, over a few months, that if I raise me knees with each step
the ducks will see this as an increase in pace
even if I maintain my original speed
they will waddle faster than their natural structure allows.
There is something I find rewarding
about increasing the pace of an animal’s gait –
my ducks are armless,
they struggle with balance,
I hate to see them suffer
but when they reach their ultimate speed –
when they fall over and quack
I like it.
I like it –
that I can cause that to happen is affirming.
Most things are beyond me –
there are things I have no control over
but when the ducks reach their maximum speed,
when they fall over and quack as if their lives were over
I like it.
I like it.
I do.
Clint Greagan
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