Wednesday, 21 March 2012
Elegy for Pete
I wrote this poem in memory of our friend Dr Ian "Pete" Griffith who died in December 2011, just before his 70th birthday. Laurie MacDonald read it at his memorial service in January.
Death is like a stone
thrown in a pond
bringing a ring of ripples
and a few fond
memories then it all
fades away
as the stone embeds itself
in sand and clay
leaving the stillness - so
it was your turn
to listen to the final sweet
nocturne
you were a skeptic but
I like to think
that those left stay connected
through the links
that forge relationships
and destinies
to live on in our veins
and arteries
it's just a little sojourn
here on earth
each of us struggles - but
each struggle's worth
the effort - though you
never did believe
in after-worlds - in this life
you achieved
enough to stir the urge
to carry on
our word-journeys - as if you hadn't gone
we won't forget - each Christmas
we will meet
to drink to your uniqueness -
farewell Pete
© Hazel S S Hall
12 December 2011
Death is like a stone
thrown in a pond
bringing a ring of ripples
and a few fond
memories then it all
fades away
as the stone embeds itself
in sand and clay
leaving the stillness - so
it was your turn
to listen to the final sweet
nocturne
you were a skeptic but
I like to think
that those left stay connected
through the links
that forge relationships
and destinies
to live on in our veins
and arteries
it's just a little sojourn
here on earth
each of us struggles - but
each struggle's worth
the effort - though you
never did believe
in after-worlds - in this life
you achieved
enough to stir the urge
to carry on
our word-journeys - as if you hadn't gone
we won't forget - each Christmas
we will meet
to drink to your uniqueness -
farewell Pete
© Hazel S S Hall
12 December 2011
Sandakan Memorial
This poem was printed in the Sandakan Familes Newsletter 4, April 2011, pages 7-8. I took my inspiration from the following quotation at the Australian War Memorial in Sandakan, Borneo:
"This is something I never will be able to forget. I cannot get to sleep now - I cannot sleep until 3 or more in the morning. It's all buried somewhere inside me."
- Unknown Australian soldier, Australian War Memorial, Sandakan.
We are the heart of what was Sandakan.
where pert birds burst the silence with their song
and captivated couples walk along
neat pathways where dark marches once began.
There are ornamental plants here now:
red rows of uniforms stand on parade
by little resting places giving shade
near rusty relics where the jungle towered
as blood and sweat were washed away. The thud
of boots transformed the swamp into this pond
of mute pink budding tongues protruding from
green lily-faces, rising through the mud.
In the pavilion you will see us gaze
framed neatly in the past, safe in the mist
of the unspeakable, that still persists
exploding peace and purpose as it preys,
while nightly, the mosquitoes' piercing whines
are far off spitfires from the other times.
"This is something I never will be able to forget. I cannot get to sleep now - I cannot sleep until 3 or more in the morning. It's all buried somewhere inside me."
- Unknown Australian soldier, Australian War Memorial, Sandakan.
We are the heart of what was Sandakan.
where pert birds burst the silence with their song
and captivated couples walk along
neat pathways where dark marches once began.
There are ornamental plants here now:
red rows of uniforms stand on parade
by little resting places giving shade
near rusty relics where the jungle towered
as blood and sweat were washed away. The thud
of boots transformed the swamp into this pond
of mute pink budding tongues protruding from
green lily-faces, rising through the mud.
In the pavilion you will see us gaze
framed neatly in the past, safe in the mist
of the unspeakable, that still persists
exploding peace and purpose as it preys,
while nightly, the mosquitoes' piercing whines
are far off spitfires from the other times.
© Hazel S S Hall
29 December 2010.
Plastic bags
This poem was published in Mc Dowell M. (Ed.) 2011. Other People Other Worlds. Belconnen: Scribbler's, page 67.
1.
Subsistence is two supermarket bags
beneath the eaves. Not much less when we die.
They're safe enough there. Nobody would try
to steal recycled things. He took his fags.
Last night was minus five. The cold still nags.
While public servants, cozy in high-rise
admired the moon, the icy stars incised
him with their needles through the second-hand swag.
With collar over beanie he zigzags
past scurrying, well-clad workers for some fries,
and if a car collects him that should buy
some kind of bed; a different time that drags.
I gave him money once, change that I had.
His eyes accused, as sapphire as the sky.
2.
How sapphire is the sky? Today it sighs
with cloudy stratum, overcast and sad.
A surreptitious glance to scan a street
that seethes with vehicles; no figure there.
Then nearby, huddled on the dampened stair
a glimpse. A quickening of uneasy feet,
for discomfort hides in haste and has a neat
trick of ignoring what disturbs the air.
A problem that is best resolved in prayer.
No altruism needed. Be discreet!
Procrastination questions, jabs and gags
integrity. Shamefacedly rush by
home to complacency, at night to lie
in fretful dreaming of two plastic bags.
1.
Subsistence is two supermarket bags
beneath the eaves. Not much less when we die.
They're safe enough there. Nobody would try
to steal recycled things. He took his fags.
Last night was minus five. The cold still nags.
While public servants, cozy in high-rise
admired the moon, the icy stars incised
him with their needles through the second-hand swag.
With collar over beanie he zigzags
past scurrying, well-clad workers for some fries,
and if a car collects him that should buy
some kind of bed; a different time that drags.
I gave him money once, change that I had.
His eyes accused, as sapphire as the sky.
2.
How sapphire is the sky? Today it sighs
with cloudy stratum, overcast and sad.
A surreptitious glance to scan a street
that seethes with vehicles; no figure there.
Then nearby, huddled on the dampened stair
a glimpse. A quickening of uneasy feet,
for discomfort hides in haste and has a neat
trick of ignoring what disturbs the air.
A problem that is best resolved in prayer.
No altruism needed. Be discreet!
Procrastination questions, jabs and gags
integrity. Shamefacedly rush by
home to complacency, at night to lie
in fretful dreaming of two plastic bags.
© Hazel S S Hall
25 May 2011
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