These paper boats of mine are meant to dance on the ripples of hours, and not reach any destination... Rabindranath Tagore

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past...F. Scott Fitzgerald - The Great Gatsby

We were the people who were not in the papers. We lived in the blank white spaces at the edges of print. It gave us more freedom. We lived in the gaps between the stories.
On the way to the river are the old dormitories, used for something else now, with their fairy-tale turrets, painted white and gold and blue. When we think of the past it's the beautiful things we pick out. We want to believe it was all like that.
--from Margaret Atwood - The Handmaid's Tale

Reading is the sole means by which we slip, involuntarily, often helplessly, into another's skin, another's voice, another's soul.
- Joyce Carol Oates

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Raw Music of The Secret River

Thornhill's Point was so far from
Will's own Thames
As far as the convict ship Alexander
Could weather the distance
Without breaking

Untamed Thornhill's Point on
The untamed Hawkesbury was 
His adopted dream
(Once he had his ticket of freedom)
And Sal's interim 5 year dream
Till the real dream of Home
Could return

He changed
They changed
London became
Shapeless Story

And to the children
That Home was
Just a word

Confronting those who roamed this land before him
He felt naked
He felt small
Words were just a wall
But she felt...
She simply felt
Connected to 
The beauty of a black woman's

A scorching world in January
Flies and 
Speckled lizards
But in the cool of the mangroves and
The river oaks
And armed with a hearty pannikin of tea
A bit of kangaroo for
A bag of flour)
It could be easy 
To pretend
Here was heaven

But the Secret River funnelled into
A dark season
A fear of spears and 
Ruined corn and
Frozen eyes and
Ragged breathing

Seasons pass
Thornhill's Point faded and
And Cobham Hall 
Brandished a fine stone house with
A fine red velvet armchair

Had sailed

But heaven seemed

Give a little Take a little
A precious

Kate Grenville is an Australian writer from Sydney - The Secret River (2005)


The Secret RiverThe Secret River by Kate Grenville
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

For some, the Hawkesbury River north of Sydney, in the 19th century, was a wild place where only madmen venture. Some find its secret beauty, but only realise that priceless magic when the glittering wealths of life entice them away.

View all my reviews

Goodreads Discussion: I especially love the image of William Thornhill finally locked into his Cobham Hall and viewing his Hawkesbury escapades through a spyglass with a sad yearning! He knew that he came close to real beauty but let it slip through his "social status" fingers. Meanwhile, he saw that the Aboriginal, close to the Earth, really lived with true beauty. A very symbolic, challenging moment!

Linking to:
Real Toads ~ Open Link Monday

Friday, June 22, 2012

Poetic Impressions of The Wind Singer

Land of the Manth people
A giant scarecrow structure 
A special gift
From unknown special people
The wonder of the wind singer

But there emerged scarlet gowned examiners
Who sought to grind the human spirit into
Coloured labels
Maroon for those of valuable obedience
Orange for those with midstream potential and
Grey for those who verged on 

Ongoing tests
The right people were
In the right places

And the key to the windsinger's song was

But there are always those 
Who wish and will
A different world

Bowman and Kestrel
The twins
And the 

They were children
Just children
Down and
Up into
A labyrinth of journeys

Outer landscapes
Inner landscapes

Braving the muds of the Underlake
The crumbling parapet above the gorge
Riding wolves and
Soaring in eagles' claws

Seeking the identity of
Their lost souls

The Emperor held 
The map
Aging Queen Num wore
The silver clasp 
The key to
The windsinger's song

And in the shifting shades
Always smile
The old children
To touch
Their crippling touch
Hoping for some fire to burn them back
To what they should be

I selected this post to be featured on Poetry Blogs.
Please visit the site and vote for my blog!

The Wind Singer (2000)
William Nicholson is a British screenwriter, playwright and novelist.


The Wind Singer (Wind on Fire, #1)The Wind Singer by William Nicholson
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Sounds like some legendary jewel
But the gem
The walled city
Has lost the sparkle of the wind singer
The strangers' tall tower of
Wooden beams and metal pipes
Has lost the voice of
The soul
Extract from my poetic review - an alternative review on my Gemma's Greyscale Territory blog

An extraordinary fantasy that hints of breaths from old legends and becomes a chameleon of reality and dream! And if you feel the spirit deep down, you will feel the smudges of our society lurking.

View all my reviews

Good Reads discussion: For some strange reason, "The Wind Singer" seems to reflect elements of "The Handmaid's Tale" by Margaret Atwood. Both represent a world of crushing, stifling perfection and the journey of those who seek a way out. But this time, the travellers are children.

 Linking to:
Poets United The Think Tank Thursday ~ Labyrinth
dVerse Poets Pub ~ Open Link Night
Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...