Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts
Showing posts with label kids. Show all posts

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Book Launch - Margate Train


IP and the Train

Typical treacherous Hobart weather. Up with the rosy dawn clear and cloudless. The radar map showing a thin weak cold front moving across the state, west to east. The funny little book shop Freight Train Books on the Margate Train ran it's first event, a reading by three authors from Interactive Publications. David Rieter, Lyn Reeves & Anne Morgan.




David chats with local art lover


Each of the authors has recently published a book. David began the reading from his novel "Primary Instinct", a slice of life, fly on the wall series of satirical nuggets diarising and lampooning the educational system. With the problems of literacy in Australia and Tasmania in particular this is a timely nudging us into the serious debate which we desperately need. Not the periodic moral panic which masquerades as debate we usually have in this country. Rather a serious adult conversation on how this country (indeed all the Anglosphere) can reverse our current slide into irrational stupor. A debate as to how we can use education as an opportunity not just to create narrowly focused experts, but one in which children can be inoculated with the spirits of curiosity and imagination. Skills that will allow them to still be expanding their knowledge of themselves and the world well into their old age. The end of labour, to paraphrase Aristotle is to gain leisure and goal of education is to teach us how to best use our leisure.

And then from the third in his junior fiction series Project Earth-Mend. As if on cue wild wind and squalls raced down the mountains, horizontal across the wide brown-eyed cow paddock. And the site was lashed with a short sharp rain shower.



Ann Morgan reads from The Sky Dreamer



Glasses of wine on offer and local cheese and a score or so of children. Next Anne Morgan read "The Sky Dreamer", her moving children's story about the young boy Liam and his struggles after losing his big sister. Lovingly illustrated by Céline Eimann, and honestly written by Anne this little book should be in every school library and in as many houses with children as possible. Learning needs to be more than simply building a workforce as we move into a more technical economy. Education needs to be about how to deal with life and loss and sorrow. More than just school, more than the family. The social production of the individual. This aspect of education as something more than the three R's is behind Aristotle's statement that neglect of education does harm to the constitution.

Simple things sometimes move me, the simple sight of the young children listening to the author reading from her work, while the younger ones played game games as little ones will. I thought about all the tales and stories and life lessons spoken taught down the generations unrolling deep into the past in and around this small community. This tiny bay of meeting sea and land. Intermittent afternoon around and the mountains, darkened with mist with the rain clouds, hurl gloomy clouds and glaring winds. And I went a couple of days later, with the children, to the museum. And we stood silent, sad, scared in the exhibiting convict days gallery, and saw the displays of chains and whips and uniforms and all that went with the transportation times. I thought about the generations, about all the tales told in languages now lost. Then Anne reads her story and the children look and listen.




Lyn Reeves captivates the little ones.


Lyn Reeves tailored her reading from her recent work "designs on the body" for the large number of children around. And offered up her well moulded poems with rhythms like the squally afternoon, where the fast moving clouds race and the shadow retreats across the wide eyed cow paddock, flooding the wet grass with the energy and light of the sun, dancing and sparkling off countless raindrops on countless blades of swaying in the wind grass. Lyn read of dogs with funny names and of wing drying cormorants and of bathing her infant son. From "Primal Sense"

Vertebrae ripple
beneath my hands like birdsong.






For the hungry artists.


Books for children, and books about teachers and books by teachers and the opportunity to speak and talk, and for the children to be given the chance to grow and learn and listen. Both physical and mental there is very little more important than the education of children, so much so I can easily agree with Aristotle when he writes "Those who educate children well are more to be honoured than parents, for these only gave life, those the art of living well." Hopefully the parents will also be strong teachers for their children, this would of course be the best situation. And of course a time for chatting and for discussing the works presented. A glass of red and some art and cheese and fruit all on a squally typically treacherous Tasmanian Sunday.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Yet another failed poem


Sent this off to a contest for Father's Day Poems. The structure is more Tonka than Tanka, as the third line is not a pivot for the stanza, and the number of beats is not 100% in the 5-7-5-5-5 schema, but pretty close. I tried hard not to create the image of victimhood. Leading into the unknown forest, it is up to us to find a way...





A Lesson Learnt

Drunk and abusive
Our Father disrupted
Our childhood
Abused my mother and sisters
Shattered our sense of self.

With my own children
I remember and have learnt
All a man can do
Is to break the cycle.
Of domestic violence.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Settlement Eve - The Witch of the Beach

Standing at yet again a cross roads of my life. went down to the cross roads (with my black dog cloud) fell down on my knees...









After four months the deed is all but done.

Purging new watery stomach illness.
Lunar flood and ebb, endless tidal rolls.

The flooding tide is exuberance.
The ebbing tide is melancholy.

Myriad shakers whispering over years
Of seashore and her myriad names and roles.

Fashioned a thigh bone unearthed dead child flute
To enchant with listless drowsiness the cruel ones.

The wailing sailing ship rolled industrial seas
And the crew felt jilted by the Boston and London
Owner masters. We need to increase our share.
For are we not the ones who toil the stony
Seas, who climb and fall monotonous motion waves?
Did we not, just last week, farewell mates young and true?
Sun burnt, wind burnt, cold burnt, salt burnt the crew flared
In impious revolt, and hacked about and threw
Christian captain headless over wave splashed side.
Face down the sand the entrance to the inlet.
Earth of the sun made his corpse swell and hotter he grew.
And vigorous came shining greenery and plants,
And ingenious came signing birds and stowaway
Creatures, soon he was covered with sandy life.
On the crew sailed on to fabulous islands
Of the Brazilian freedom coast where lived legion
Squads and ships of freebooters and ragamuffins,
Building families, enlightenment wealth promise,
Made for all in harmony and with equality.
Wisely had the masters insured again lost loot.
Boston and London slept no gains. And the caution
To this day still sleep guards the inlet. Dreaming songs
Remembering cloudless bells to jingle the sea foam
Rolling endless up and down ocean sand shore.

The old woman tosses and shakes her long wet hair,
The gardens of kelp swaying the turbulent seas.
Feared by some she dances and leaps playful dolphins.
Wandering sand songs and bells and haunts ancient
Walking the beach she reads and deciphers fortunes
To come, births and deaths into the future. The shape
Of the foam the sounds of rolling swells and sea shells.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Metal Box


Packing the house - and just the general day by day. things come into being and then pass away.




The metal box pops and cracks
Early mourning son warm wealth.

Disturbing dreams. Injured children.
Black night black dog slaughtered
Sacrificial meal.

Nectar gathering bees buzz hum
Pleasing flowering vines.

Mislaid keys hiding keys
Dog harness whispering.

Belly bulging moon mother
Mother to All of the Gods.

And needless they support the troops arguing
That freedoms are advanced by murder.
No No No. For that thank the dissident
The ones who stand up and out, who face jail
And worse flying the face of the old ways.
Where were the soldiers of 1967?
Where were the coppers the Day of Mourning?

Squat brown and black gargoyle beetles
Meander and plumb the extravagant
Exposed floral genitalia
A new bud appears. Faint crimson hint
Held tightly folded protective embrace.
The wide brimmed artichoke leaves wilt and droop
The worrying, the eviscerating sun,
The corrupting sun, the humiliating sun.

Black wound licking dog. Crone aware black dog
Howling meating place of many roads
Grandmother of the threshold, the crossroads,
Protector of pregnant women. When black dogs
Bark and wander the night, she is close at hand.

A raven verifies from north to south
Vision and fast and low she flies
All the while imitating the cries
Of a nearly born infant.

Before sunset - before night falls
The bulging moon smother.

A tiny leave falls, or a piece of a leaf
Falls transforms into a butterfly
Or a moth and the fantails piccolo
And posture display shattered clods move
And expose the expectant moon.

Harsh the echoing house is empty
Quiet is the clanking clattering kid sounds
No more are the triggers to memory.
The house is empty.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

Meandering Shelters

selling packing the house - delving with lawyers and banks and agents and all sorts - it's a bourgeois town. got a copy of 'The Golden Bough' for the trip. so we are almost there - just a few days to go.
this is, like all poetry, an autobiography. the last few days in a few lines.









I - Rex Nemorensis


Early Morning
Patty cakes &
Car tunes
Slight aroma
Burnt edge
Burnt toast
Butter Honey
Thick rich scent
Coffee's on
Blurry growl
Opens her eyes
Closes her eyes

Kookaburra sings
Chattering braying jackass
She holds enfolds the snake
The serpent in her strong beak
Breaking bones upon the branch

Deep dewdrop night
The trees show
The first blush
Of autumn

Butterflies spread
Their wings
Warming
Themselves

Chauntering
Chattering
Singsonging
Obsessions

The dog sits
East West Axis
Sphinx wise

EMERGENCY ISSUE RESCUE FLAGGED

No scanning of prison staff
And they are calling all the time
To see if we are okay

II - Laughter none

Puddles of bubbles and sinks
Of slops of last nights stew

Dreamy blue sky
King of the wood
Runaway slave
The mirror lake
Mortal combat
Forest husband

The purple bloom of Iola
The crimson crush of rose petal
Spilt blood and fleeting beauty
Point to an ancient
To a deep sorrow

A sad philosophy
Goods of the spindle

III - Violet Stained Dawn


Admixture is more everyday than Purity
Purity is blockage a dead end
The way of death constriction
A closure a resolution
Purity is a narrowing
Purity is delusion
Admixture is the everyday
The contact which brings
Renewal

Thin clear night wine stars electric sky
Sparkling

Overnight
High Pressure System
Clear clear jet clear
The earth gives up heat

The hollowed out immature dragonfly
Hangs Christlike across the fine
Lines of the spider dew drop web
Early morning low angled sun
Refracts the drops of water
Forming spherical rainbows
Around and about the corpse
Regeneration
Allowing the spider
To live another day

The light and the water mix
And rise and form a billowing
Blanket over the creek

The night time gentle weeps
The crimes of day light.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Disappointment

Apparently there is a disconnect between our desires and the external world. this is clearly seen in the realm of the commodity, how all things are engulfed the cash nexus. seems like i am adding nothing new to the discussion, and yet it needs to be said over and over again. or maybe the poem itself is a Disappointment, i know i am not very happy with it.









Woolgathering mornings of coffee and shivering
Inane frail sunlight. Overcast of overnight rain.
Playing sing song episodes of fancy. Sun and shade.
Pale mild eyed lotus eating of melting butter
And viscous honey milk swirl of slightly smoky bread.

Days of rain mean the creek behind the house is in flow.
Fingerlings pierce and dart the bent over shore side grass.
The sun falls in parallel lines alternating light
And dark as the surface constant flowing blades shift.
Fluffy clouds disperse and evaporate the afternoon.
The wild new green grass over recent hillside fire.

Walking with the children in the humid afternoon.
The others in wide directions of moving one two
Three four, unknown unknowable. Dirty shiny clothes
Sweating and puffing to never again see never more.
No response no acknowledgement no feelings social.
This is how commodities freedom communicate.
And the row shelves of tin canned packaged food and drink
All worldly goods bear odious white paper labels
Of Arabic numerals and laconic symbols.
This is how commodities are presented.

And in the library excitement of knowledge fails
As story time lack of imagination and funding
And smug narrow minded babbittry of risk averse
Satisfaction scrimps and steals from future generations.
And the rows of books collecting hundreds if not more
Years of human knowledge and striving, numbered and priced,
Odious and laconic. A type of rationing
As strong as any program of war communism.
Frayed and torn covers, splitting plastic jackets, brittle
Cellophane tape, mouldy yellow brown of Bovary,
Seeking approval unsteady underlines of students.

This is how commodities are presented
Disappointing in the particulars.
Disappointing in circulation.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Poetic Fragment

Some times it is so damned hard to write anything, walking home from the bus stop, through the park. And I had a vision of something or other and when I got home the kids just attacked me. So rather than write I wrassled with them. When I finally got to the keyboard, this was all I had.



The neighborhood kids build houses the thicket
The small patch of trees in the ground past the gate
Yellow knickers over a tree branch illicit
The hand crafted bong, beer bottles may relate.

And the children build imaginary castles
In the grove of trees growing hard the power lines
Springs and summers of long afternoon idylls
And loud pushy dreams find unknown dread entwines.

Tales news services homeless children eaters

Vomitoria



Just Foreign Policy Iraqi Death Estimator