Thanks again, Andrew, Sheila. I am much happier with this structure too,. Thanks to you all for seeing what I could not because I was too caught up in it.
Bill
> On 30 Nov 2017, at 3:21 pm, Sheila Murphy <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>
> I'm the same on this point!
>
> On Wed, Nov 29, 2017 at 7:06 PM, Andrew Burke <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
>
>> Yes, I agree - it works better this way.
>>
>> Andrew
>>
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>> source=link&utm_campaign=sig-email&utm_content=webmail>
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>>
>> On 30 November 2017 at 09:28, Bill Wootton <[log in to unmask]>
>> wrote:
>>
>>> Thanks again, Doug.
>>> Bill
>>>
>>> On Thu, 30 Nov 2017 at 10:03 am, Douglas Barbour <[log in to unmask]>
>>> wrote:
>>>
>>>> Yeh, Mind the gaps, Bill.
>>>>
>>>> This is interesting in how it shows memory/mind working to remember, as
>>>> there’s more here than in the first, as you ee it ever more whole, that
>>> day
>>>> or time.
>>>> I think it works better his way…
>>>>
>>>> Doug
>>>>
>>>>> On Nov 29, 2017, at 1:35 PM, Bill Wootton <[log in to unmask]>
>>>> wrote:
>>>>>
>>>>> Whoops, those gaps should not be there in new stanzas one and three.
>>>>>
>>>>> Bill
>>>>>
>>>>> On Thu, 30 Nov 2017 at 7:32 AM, Bill Wootton <
>> [log in to unmask]
>>>>
>>>>> wrote:
>>>>>
>>>>>> Thanks, Sheila. Yes, I didn't know it but everything led to the
>> rifle
>>>> and
>>>>>> I just knew that was the end of the reverie. Andrew, Thinking
>> again, I
>>>> will
>>>>>> leave out creation of narrative. I know you have written prose poems
>>>> like
>>>>>> 'The next poem' and your Linfen poems. They are more 'block' poems.
>>>> Maybe I
>>>>>> can aerate mine differently as a prose
>>>> <https://maps.google.com/?q=rently+as+a+prose&entry=gmail&source=g>
>>> poem,
>>>> Doug.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Bakewell Street 2
>>>>>>
>>>>>> On the corner of Thunder Street, Bendigo, a twisted wire front
>> fence,
>>>>>> groany gate,
>>>>>> springy Buffalo-grassed front lawn. Echo-less sound of tin-lid
>> postbox
>>>>>> screeching open, plopping flat shut after letter removal. Slight
>> give
>>> of
>>>>>> worn boards on front porch with first footfall from top brick step.
>>> Iron
>>>>>> rungs reaching from concrete piers. Grandma Beat's place. Mum's Mum.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> After lunch, go outside and play. Brother Dan and I jumping from one
>>>> post
>>>>>> to the other. Making up games with rules and consequences. Don't be
>>>>>> caught on the exposed veranda when a rare passing car aligns with
>> you.
>>>>>> Home pillars the only safe zones. Running the bee gauntlet up
>> lavender
>>>>>> path beneath wind-rattling wooden lattice.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Thin water-stained plywood walls bulging. High plate shelf on wall.
>>>> Framed
>>>>>> photos;
>>>>>> young Mum’s colourised rosy cheeks. Aunt Hazel in sepia WAAF
>> uniform.
>>>>>> Hovering inside in heat. Gal roof stretching, popping in sun. Unused
>>>> front
>>>>>> lounge room. Grandma hulked in winter knitting-by-woodstove
>> position.
>>>>>> Pantry/scullery, cutlery dead-clanking on sink, muted by flour bins,
>>>>>> Brockhoff biscuit tins. Sour fumes from Uncle Rex's Abbots Lager
>>>> 'soldier',
>>>>>> fresh from fridge, opened by feigned accident. Grandma's wink as she
>>>> passes
>>>>>> the open bottle over the fence to grateful Mr Hennerbury next door.
>>>>>> Warm-valved tone of walnut veneer radio through riffling curtained
>>>> speaker.
>>>>>> Spring-loaded back door's ping/clunk.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Stretched stiff wire backyard prop clothesline. Sheets billowing
>> high
>>>>>> over Mr Kinsmore's backyard caravan. Disused chookshed with dry,
>>>>>> ignitable overhanging potato vine. Long rusty tin shed, once
>> stables,
>>>>>> powdery dirt floor. Stacked, spidersome cardboard suitcases. Finding
>>>>>> gold-tipped Black Sobranies. Flat match scrape, coughing.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Full length dark brown leather coat hanging behind external laundry
>>>> door.
>>>>>> Framed, faded portrait of flowing-cloaked de Valera, hanging
>> skewiff.
>>>> Bait
>>>>>> yabbies corralled in laundry trough overnight, crawling in wet
>> hessian
>>>> bags
>>>>>> filled with pungent gum leaves. Fishing nets, hooks, corks, spread
>> on
>>>> back
>>>>>> lawn, in readiness for pre-dawn getaway to Axe Creek.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Groping in darkness, through hanging dresses, for hiding place of
>> tiny
>>>>>> glass jar full of fossicked gold specks in the back of sleep-out
>>>> wardrobe.
>>>>>> Grandpa's rifle.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> bw
>>>>>> 30.11.17
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Bill
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> On Thu, 30 Nov 2017 at 7:11 AM, Sheila Murphy <
>>> [log in to unmask]>
>>>>>> wrote:
>>>>>>
>>>>>>> Bill,
>>>>>>>
>>>>>>> This is very impressive. One thing that I noticed that bespeaks the
>>>>>>> miracle
>>>>>>> of poetry is the arrival at a rifle as the inverse of the rifle's
>> own
>>>>>>> function. Very chic. You cannot force such things. They are poetry.
>>>>>>>
>>>>>>> Bravo! Sheila
>>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>
>>>> Douglas Barbour
>>>> [log in to unmask]
>>>> https://eclecticruckus.wordpress.com/
>>>>
>>>> Recent publications: (With Sheila E Murphy) Continuations &
>> Continuations
>>>> 2 (UofAPress).
>>>> Recording Dates (Rubicon Press).
>>>> Listen. If (UofAPress):
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>
>>>> would you
>>>>
>>>> care to be more
>>>> precise about whatever
>>>> it is you are
>>>> saying, I said
>>>>
>>>> Bill Manhire
>>>>
>>>
>>
>>
>>
>> --
>> Andrew
>> http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
>> Books available through Walleah Press
>> http://walleahpress.com.au
>>
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