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
>
> <https://www.avast.com/sig-email?utm_medium=email&utm_
> source=link&utm_campaign=sig-email&utm_content=webmail>
> Virus-free.
> www.avast.com
> <https://www.avast.com/sig-email?utm_medium=email&utm_
> source=link&utm_campaign=sig-email&utm_content=webmail>
> <#DAB4FAD8-2DD7-40BB-A1B8-4E2AA1F9FDF2>
>
> 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
>
|