Bill - I have a mixed response to this poem: on the one hand, I'm impressed
at the descriptive power of it, but on the other hand I yearn for some
narrative action. It seems like building a set for a play - without action.
I'd start with two boys searching for gold in the yard, then finding some
and then looking inside for a good place to hide it, and finally coming
across the grandpa's rifle in the back of the cupboard (maybe with some
ammunition on the shelf). End on a note of trepidation ...
Just my response to an already interesting poem.
Andrew
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On 29 November 2017 at 07:22, Bill Wootton <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> A poem I wrote. few yers back, revisited, reshaped.
>
> Corner of Thunder Street, Bendigo,
> twisted wire front fence, groany gate,
> springy Buffalo-grassed front lawn.
>
> Echo-less sound of tin-lid postbox
> squeaking open, plopping flat shut.
> 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's winter knitting-by-woodstove post,
> pantry scullery, cutlery dead-clanking on sink,
> muted by flour bins, Brockhoff biscuit tins.
>
> Fumes from Uncle Rex's Abbots Lager 'soldier',
> fresh from fridge, opened by feigned accident.
> Warm-valved tone of walnut veneer radio
>
> through riffling curtained speaker. Spring
> -loaded back door's ping/clunk. Stretched wire
> backyard prop clothesline. Sheets billowing
>
> high over Mr Kinsmore's backyard caravan.
> Long rusty tin shed, powdery dirt floor,
> spidersome cardboard suitcases. Finding gold
>
> -tipped Black Sobranies. 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. Disused chookshed with dry,
> ignitable overhanging potato vine.
>
> Groping in darkness for hiding place
> of tiny glass jar full of fossicked gold specks
> in the back of bedroom wardrobe. Grandpa's rifle.
>
> bw
> 29.11.17
>
--
Andrew
http://hispirits.blogspot.com/
Books available through Walleah Press
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