… sharing a Christmas Letter from a close friend –
Christmas Letter
I know you appreciate a Christmas Letter. And I guess you have been sending out a few to family and friends. Look guys, I wrote this letter to you a few years ago now, I’m not sure whether you understood what I was trying to say and whether you remember the essence.
Well, I just want to reiterate that I do love you dearly and I will be there for you throughout 2022. You are that bit special!
And yes, I know you think of me at times. And you are good at remembering birthdays; I thank you for that.
How could you forget my name LOL. We do have that unique relationship!
I starred that night, I shone: I was footwork and firework in one,
a rocket that wriggled up and shot darkness with a parasol of brilliants and a peewee descant on a flung bit; I was blusters of glitter-bombs expanding to mantle and aurora from a crown, I was fouéttes, falls of blazing paint, para-flares spot-welding cloudy heaven, loose gold off fierce toeholds of white, a finale red-tongued as a haka leap: that too was a butt of all right!
As usual after any triumph, I was of course, inconsolable.
Les Murray (1938 – 2019)
fouéttes = a pirouette performed with a circular whipping movement of the raised leg to the side haka = a ceremonial dance in New Zealand Māori culture, with quite an aggressive end-shout
Well, it is approaching the year end and a time to reflect on goals achieved. How have we performed. Although in this poem we probably think of performance in relation to stage and audience.
It is a list poem, a list of superlatives in self appraisal in terms of originality in word expression. Brilliance and fire feature throughout with a nice butt ending as in the throwing away of a cigarette.
I do like that word inconsolable in the last two lines. It has a certain ambivalent mind feel. It usually refers to a person unable to be comforted. Perhaps inconsolable because of the immense empty hole that follows such flaming achievement that can never ever be repeated. And perhaps comfort is needed to bring down from the heights of self-emotional gratification.
My advice is to have a succession of goals to keep you on your toes. And I will in no way elaborate on my successes over the year!
Irrespective of his quick minded erudite nature there is a certain irony about this poem in that I attended several readings by LM and from the recipient end I found his readings and repour with attendees not akin to justify such extravagant words.
Les Murray was arguably of that standing in Australian Poetry to be considered a de facto Australian Poet Laureate but Australia does not have a ‘Poet Laureate’ as such. In 1998 LM received the Queen’s Medal for Poetry.
What word is this
what word is this that sullies forth
its annual opening of eye
that generates such hope that more
meaning such to the hopeful gives
bandied before the year does end
but no end if known of knowing blend
what word is this that bleeds the heart
to pray suffer such indigent love unknown
yet same vein courses all life through
in never-ending beauty, unveiling of
eternal body splendid, that imperfect
diamond creator spirit shines
tis Christmas
Christmas!
where the forever gift is born
and in the perpetrators mind
becomes again that one great joy
everlasting in the flesh absorbed
Richard Scutter Advent 2021
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue. The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place. Separated from my house by a row of headstones. I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here. Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky -- Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection At the end, they soberly bong out their names.
The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape. The eyes lift after it and find the moon. The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary. Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls. How I would like to believe in tenderness - The face of the effigy, gentled by candles, Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering Blue and mystical over the face of the stars Inside the church, the saints will all be blue, Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews, Their hands and faces stiff with holiness. The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild. And the message of the yew tree is blackness - blackness and silence.
Sylvia Plath (1932 – 1963)
This poem was composed in October 1961 when SP was living at ‘Court Green’ cottage North Tawton, Devon. At that stage her marriage with Ted Hughes was still intact. The cottage was close to St Peter’s Church which was visible when she was writing. And at some stage she would have ventured inside.
A carefully designed poem of four seven-line stanzas with distinct sentence punctuation.
S1 … Clearly written at nighttime where SP invokes a ghostly graveyard presence. And there was a mist evident to add to such a scene. The moon has that association with the mind and lunacy. The griefs being the gravestones in rows. As if I was God – well, SP is not God and cannot perform miracles on the dead. The trees stand out black and the light from the moon blue. She cannot see the path through to the Church
S2 … This stanza has two distinct parts. SP personifies her emotional state on to the moon – white as a knuckle and terribly upset. I like the image of the moon dragging or sucking up the sea like a thief. It conjures up a rain squall coming off the sea. SP says this is where she lives, and she knows the sound the church bells make every Sunday morning.
Christianity and resurrection then come to mind in relation to the dead and the gravestones. But the bells only bong out their names – the names on the gravestones. SP is clearly dead to the thoughts of any resurrection to an afterlife.
S3 … The yew tree points up. Gothic shape implying dark and morbid. It is worth considering the symbolic representation of the yew tree –
Christian stories of resurrection led the tree to become a symbol of eternal life. As the trunk of the tree begins to decay, a new tree can form. This represents the cycle of life that makes Yew trees a symbol of rebirth as well.
But there is no tenderness, sadly only a Mother Moon image associated with a wild nature represented by seeing bats and owls fly up unleashed against the ghostly blue light.
How SP would like it to be otherwise.
S4 … It looks like clouds are causing the firmaments to be seen and not seen. The inside of the church is the scene of fixed figures and maybe the stained-glass windows can record saints seen above the pews. Again, a cold dead image of being stiff with holiness as in no resurrection. The moon is wild and full of life unknowing of such human quandaries concerning death. The message of the Yew tree is black. SP is displaying her view on religion and the resurrection. The poem ends with a dark depressive feeling.
No bull, this is real he looks at me chewing cud I look at him you have quite a bit of muscle
I’m glad the fence is in-between
how many press-ups, weights? or is all just natural with you he doesn’t ruffle to my thoughts and just goes on a-chewing
but I can imagine action,
I wouldn’t want to get in his way!
it reminded me, as a boy, when camping
with the ‘Scouts’ in Scotland
No bull, this is true history we pulled up late at dusk and hurriedly put the tents up in the corner of a field and were soon fast asleep
it was in unsuspecting morning light and you can guess! when opening the tent flap door to be confronted so!
No bull, it was shock of the first degree
then ‘Scout’ action never seen before
and ever since then I have, what can I say
a certain face-to-face respect.
Richard Scutter October 2021
The context of this poem is embedded in the text, what is more interesting is what prompted these words. We were visiting an historic cemetery in Canberra which entailed walking along a path adjacent to a paddock with this bull close by and the photograph above is of that animal. And by association it took me back to camping with the Scouts in Scotland. This triggered a latent experience long forgotten. And Scottish highland cattle are quite something to behold but this animal certainly had a touch of menace as I looked at him with interest.
Everyone suddenly burst out singing; And I was filled with such delight As prisoned birds must find in freedom, Winging wildly across the white Orchards and dark-green fields; on - on - and out of sight.
Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted; And beauty came like the setting sun: My heart was shaken with tears; and horror Drifted away ... O, but Everyone Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.
Siegfried Sassoon (1886 – 1967)
Yesterday was ‘Remembrance Day’ it also coincided with the easing in Canberra of the restrictions associated with the virus.
This well-known poem is all about freedom and release from war.
The first stanza highlights the immediacy of the release in a sudden outburst of joy. But there is a hint of the transient nature of this emotion with the disappearance of the birds in the last line of the stanza on – and out of sight.
The second stanza shows the joy to be short lived being counteracted by grief – and beauty came like the setting sun. And ends with the dramatic statement – and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done. The song being wordless; without meaning. Siegfried Sassoon remembers those that died in the war and those that are maimed and unable to join the celebration.
In similar fashion there is a degree of immediate relief at the easing of virus-restrictions counteracted by the unease that the virus is still a threat to life. And for those families that have lost members there is that on-going shadow to life. We are fortunate for currently there are no virus-related patients in Canberra hospitals.
Ancient Egyptian Love Poems – John L Foster translation
We explored some Egyptian Love Poems created 3,000 years ago at a recent U3A Poetry Appreciation session.
They were translated from the Ancient Egyptian by John L Foster from the book Love Songs of the New Kingdom (Charles Scribner’s Sons – New York 1974)
In 2003 the ABC Radio National program ‘Poetica’ explored this work … the summary text – Four small collections of anonymous poems have survived from the New Kingdom of pharaonic Egypt. Written on papyri and a stone vase, they are approximately 3,000 years old, but John L Foster’s translations make them seem very contemporary, fresh and erotic. This program presents a selection of the poems accompanied by music from Michael Atherton and the Musicians of the Nile.
Here are two of the poems …
How clever my love with a lasso
How clever my love with a lasso -
she'll never need a kept bull!
She lets fly the rope at me
(from her dark hair),
Draws me in with her comehither eyes,
wrestles me down between her bent thighs,
Branding me hers with her burning seal.
(Cowgirl, the fire from those thighs!)
… this example is quite contemporary … and makes that universal statement on how passionate love flows endlessly through the years
Your love, dear man, is as lovely to me
Your love, dear man, is as lovely to me
As sweet soothing oil to the limbs of the restless,
as clean ritual robes to the flesh of gods,
As fragrance of incense to one coming home
It is like nipple-berries ripe in the hand,
like the tang of grain-meal mingled with beer
Like wine to the palate when taken with white bread.
While unhurried days come and go,
Let us turn to each other in quiet affection,
walk in peace to the edge of old age.
And I shall be with you each unhurried day,
a woman given her one wish: to see
For a lifetime the face of her lord.
… love, food wine nicely married … and oil is referenced so important in ancient times … and it does say something about the culture of the day and the place of woman in society … that very last word Lord … if it was changed to love it would remove the subservient nature
… but I do like the line – walk in peace to the edge of old age … taking quiet affectionate togetherness to the precipice … implying parting at death
It is interesting to see how love is articulated through the centuries in words. And the importance given to love by making it remembered by transcribing on material objects.
my word in your ear 