You are currently browsing the category archive for the ‘Poem’ category.

Why can’t I read

novels

prose

as I once did

Devouring stories

lives

characters

immersion

I open a book

and close it

then another

and close it

within minutes

 

Is it the fault of poets

such as Clive James

Where every word counts

causing

prose

novels

to fall flat?

 

Or Samuel Wagan Watson

Ali Cobby Eckermann

Eleanor Lerman

Kenneth Rexroth

Other poets

names forgotten

sitting on the shelf

to be read and reread

 

Emotions linger

Specific poems

unremembered

Poets’ words

pierce

shine

penetrate

Leaving novels flat

colourless

Spoiled by chance

or choice

 

Now and then

poetry escapes me

the terms foreign

the language English

the context unknown

unwanted

unseen

 

A sometimes thing

poetry’s direct hit

reaching the heart

Pelicans Tucacas Venezuela

 

 

 

 

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24 Oct 2012

revised 11 July 2018

 

Sorting books

moving between

continents

Why do I choose

to keep poetry books?

Profound emotion

captured

in a few words

Like Chinese landscape

brush paintings

conveying

intense connection

with a few strokes

Sketch of Beach at  Tucacas, Venezuela

 

 

Silence Spoken

Poems and drawings by Pamela Collett

Available with a discount on http://www.lulu.com or

on Amazon or Barnes and Noble

with no discount.

Thank you for your interest.

A new blog coming soon about my novel

                                          Life Expectancy. 

29 June 2018

 

Carpet shampooing

brings change of venue

Moving furniture

to shampoo carpets

Spring cleaning in winter

to welcome VIP visitors

Son and daughter in law

coming from Kenya

Sitting in the kitchen

with my computer

Different outlook

than at my desk

 

Sometimes I ride the bus

to the Canberra CBD*

or the Kingston public library**

to write

Not for inspiration

but for change

of venue

of thought

If I set out to write

some place other

than at home

I am a writer

 

What has brought

the most change is

support from two women

in our writers’ group

AND writing the blog

Life Expectancy:

searching for reconciliation***

Reliving the time and travel

to research about my father’s life

 

Writing the blog

makes the story

the book

I am writing

Life Expectancy

come alive

I recognize

my own commitment

appreciate it

accept it

and will continue

My father W. Lon Hutchison as a young man                  
photograph with artificial colour added

———————————–

*Central Business District

**Kingston is a neighbourhood in Canberra, Australia

***Life Expectancy is the title of the fictional book I am writing, based on some events in my father’s life

Poetry in motion

(on the bus in Canberra Australia)

 

Grey green rain

Winter grass

surviving

Fog shrouding

Black Mountain

Softening the

harshness of

Telstra tower

Bare tree limbs

reach up

Edging the lake

Ride ending

Get off

Go on

 

Reading Gary Snyder

Grey shale roof

Mountain over village

A few lines

Others go nowhere

Awareness sharpened

By thought and travel

Can we all be poets

If we keep moving?

 

 

 

Pain of cars upon cars

taking up tree space

Metallic invaders

destroying people and plants

Square standing building

Windows in shadow

Books upon books inside

protected forever

Will someone read them?

Why write if not read?

Why paint if not seen?

Why breathe if not loved?

      Lonna, Bette, and Pamela

Reverse

Rewind

Recall

Remember

 

Today is

my sister’s birthday

She would have been

Seventy-one

 

Somewhere

somehow

along the way

we lost touch

with each other

 

We grew up together

then grew apart

Now

she’s gone

 

But I will

remember

her birthday

Facing life changes

a close friend

mentioned face lift

Shocked response

Why do that?

How would you

know yourself?

But age means

not always

recognizing

the wrinkled

sagging

double-chinned

face

looking back at you

An alternative?

Avoid mirrors

 

Path in Canberra Hills                                                                                                       This photo has nothing to do with the poem. Just a photo I like.

 

 

A certain numbness

trying to recreate

a family

both living and dead

Thinking of

my brother Lon

my only brother

Four years ago today

Riding his bike

in Mazatlan, Mexico

Waiting on a street corner

for the light to change

A bus clipped him

Down and dead

within minutes

Charming, intelligent

talented, difficult

My brother Lon

 

Lon with wife Olivia, stepdaughter Josefina, 2000

To be outside

one’s self

Listening

running water

screeching birds

machete chop

Smelling

tall grasses

wild jasmine

Watching

white and yellow butterflies

fluorescent blue-green birds

Trying to remember

what you thought

you’d never forget

A stream in Nanyuki, Kenya

If I could

 

If I could

rearrange his life

like I do his shoes

Move them over here

by the front door

accessible

The ones he needs

to go out

 

17 April 2018

Last night at Smith’s Alternative, Canberra, Australia, a night of poetry reading, speaking out for refugees and human rights.  That Poetry Thing: Not Very Quiet Journal Presents: Women’s Voices for Refugees – Poetry Fund Raiser for Canberra Refugee Support.

I was the last person to read after a series of poems by refugees and powerful spoken word presentations of the agony of asylum seekers imprisoned on Nauru and Manus by the Australian government.

As I listened to the poetry readings,  I had been thinking how could I possibly follow these powerful presentations?  Do I have anything to say? When called upon to read, I got up from the rear of the rather crowded venue, climbed over several people, stepped on a few toes and climbed up on the stage.

I read two poems, one an excerpt from Frontline by Tony Birch, the other poem Identity by me.  I focused on the expropriation of Australia by European settlers.  Why was I allowed to come to Australia but asylum seekers on Manus and Nauru were imprisoned?  Who determined who had a “right” to be here? All of us, except the Aboriginal peoples, were interlopers, invaders and migrants.

Here are the poems:

Broken Teeth: poetry collection

By Tony Birch

Excerpt from Poem:

Frontline Australia

 

we call on all white men

of military experience and

willing to defend

 

at whatever cost and vigilance

our coastlines, our cities

our clubs, wallets & women

 

against the vast mass

of humanity not of us

as we know us to be

———————–

24 Jan 2017 (date of writing)

Identity

By Pamela Collett

 

Mine was never based on

birthplace

religion

family

 

Mine was based on

Getting best grades

Going to university

a pragmatic

empirical

daily

identity

 

No roots

Just a bundle of

values

that could travel anywhere

A floater

living in my head

 

Confused by questions

of identity

in Australia

European people

living in a place based on

denial of place

of country

of those

who have been here

for 65,000 years

Upstarts

destroying records

bones

artifacts

to assert their right

to control identity

 

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