SNAPPER ROCKS

SNAPPER ROCKS

We pass the curve of Rainbow Beach,

rearing up to Greenmount’s outcrop,

Point Danger marking the state-line border as the

wide-mouthed river ends a long safari 

from the layered peaks of wild ridged mountains

to meet up with Pacific waters.

This place - it reaches deep within,

makes me listen, feel its rhythms,

while I gather strength, trust intuition,

to leave one phase,

pursue the next.

For there’s innocence in the sunlit coast,

a freshness that is self renewing,

where rolling waves cleanse the sweep of shore,

and powdered sand stays pure and silky

as light bejewels the emerald sea.

Caress of air round sculpted rocks

brings clarity, a late-life promise of

affection found in precious friendship,

welcome warmth from a clutch of strangers,

the bliss of kids in shining rock-pools.

Time to move past shapely words,

febrile ‘what if’s’ and sad-faced ghosts,

to tune into the ocean's whispers of

peace found in this sacred space,

deliverance in a new-found silence,

beauty in the grace of surfers

catching breaks at Snapper Rocks.

© bba ,  December 4,  2011

A Building Called 'Id"

A Building Called ‘Id’…

He told them of nocturnal sounds,

the thump, thump, thump of basement chords,

weird moans rising through the floors,  

high pitched squealing in echo chambers,

scaling heights through steel and concrete,

disturbing sleep, 

breaking dreams.

‘Id’, they’d called the massive complex,

a prescient name as unconscious fears

grew monstrous in the witching hours

as the building groaned its febrile darkness, 

death drives speaking clear and loud.

The old man spoke, described it well,

a narrative that conjured dread

for owners of the fine apartments,

for buyers queuing up to purchase

the prestige dwellings by the bay.

He spoke of hauntings and ancient ground,

of spirits of the Kulin nation,

people of the Wurundjeri tribe,

custodians of soft, reedy marshes,

those who lived and loved this place,

though they never sought to buy or own it.

They mourned the plunder, desecration

of the crystal waters, soft white sand,

soon sacrificed in shocking haste

to the bump and grind

of a gold rush city.

No tradesman could locate the sounds.

No one believed the building’s cries,

though at night the old man sits and listens

to sobbing from the tower’s heart.

He hears lost songs in pipes and chambers,

fatigue spread wide through iron lungs.

But who will listen to an old man’s tale,
a history coming back to teach us,

a story charged with swift demise…

© bba, 20/08/2011

Reflections...

Reflections on a Winter Morning 

The heavens are black, devoid of warmth

as we drive into the chill wet air.

Gearing up for an early swim,

mid traffic’s scattered, blear-eyed blinking,

we yawn and stretch and wait for lights.

Here’s amber’s ‘Caution’. 

Green’s for ‘Go’.

And flashing in comes the red gold sunrise,

flooding skies with bronze foil glow.

Light shakes, it shimmers,

sculpts the skyline,

surreal and shocking in lucent power. 

It’s a morning glory to humble all

with a mirror image across the lake,

where black swans sail on fire-bright waters,

silhouetted in graceful curves -

families with their baby cygnets,

parents fond, but flighty, feisty,

as the skies bruise up

with purple clouds.

But through gleaming glass our sporting Centre,

its wide expanses sparkle, shine

with the blue luxe light of aquatic worlds,

where sunrise spangles satin waters,

spilling light on indoor pools,

on the daily visit of a special pair -

an aged mother and her gentle son.

Winter blues seem pathetic here,

dissolving fast in calm reflection,

as my veteran swimmer’s moving slow

like an ancient turtle along the lap lane.

Her body’s frail, her stroke so fragile, 

but her mind is steady, fresh as spring.

Near ninety years, she’s still here swimming.

Sweet Celestine at heaven’s gate.

© bba 15/08/2011.  

Maia Duerr on creativity...

'What drives your creative work? I feel alive and happy when I'm creating something -- in my case, that usually means writing, or else organizing projects that bring people together to work toward a common vision. I think that feeling of being alive and happiness are the best motivators in the world!

What would you say to yourself if you could go back in time and meet yourself at the beginning of your creative career? Don't underestimate your powers and your gifts! It's not possible to over-invest your energy in being creative -- give it a lot more time than you think you 'should.' Over-indulge yourself in time and space to create. 

How do you keep creating when things get difficult? It's actually the process of creation that helps me get through difficult times. When I'm in the most emotional pain, that's when you'll see me writing the most. That's my way of working out what's going on inside of me. I remember once reading somewhere that it's critical that we find a way to give our pain form. In fact, we always do. It's just that usually this takes an unhealthy form, like eating too much or watching too much TV. If we can turn that into life-giving creative forms, like journaling or painting or dancing, we'll be so much better off. 

How does your creative work affect the rest of your life? It's hard for me to separate the two--I try to be creative in all aspects of my life, whether that's cooking breakfast, cleaning the house, or even paying bills. That's what I strive for, anyway. 

What is it like to send your work out into the world? If it's a 'true' piece of work, in the sense that it is an honest reflection of my internal state in that moment, it can be kind of scary. And also exhilirating. Being transparent and vulnerable in that way is often scary. 

Sending my work out in the world is also very rewarding... it feels like it completes the loop, so to speak. I have a hard time creating in a vacuum... I think almost all of my creations are about being in relationship with the world, so it feels right to send them out to the world and then have interactions with people who see this creative work. I like to hear what their experience is, so that I can expand my perspective as well. 

What was the best advice anyone gave to you? When something doesn't turn out the way I hoped it would, I keep in mind a mantra that a good friend once shared with me: "This .... or something better." Meaning that we can never know what the universe has in store for us. What we think might have been exactly what we wanted or needed might not actually be what supports us on our path. And things we think of as "adversity" can really be a gift. So you never know... and it's important to stay open to everything. 

What helps you to pay attention to the world? Walking -- I love to walk. I notice more things when I walk -- the expressions of the people going by me, the song of the birds in the trees, the feeling of the wind on my face on a spring day. Recently, I broke a bone in my foot which stopped me from walking altogether for a number of weeks. Now I'm back at it again, but I have to go kind of slowly and mindfully. Which is actually a gift, because I notice even more.'


http://liberatedlifeproject.com  
http://plantingwords.blogspot.com/search/label/creativity%20interviews

Sailor Boy...

If I were to look up one day,

would I see him coming through my door,

filling in that frame,

with laughter and his eyes,

steady, strong, 

secure with wife and son, 

but bringing me

a precious glimpse  

of a salt air, sea-kissed life?

Would I recognize my boy,

that restless child within, 

blonde hair flopping, blue eyes charming,

my cheeky rebel forever questing,

with overflows of mischief, 

but no dark tides of malice?

Would I see that boy there now?

And would he see his single Mum,

her boho years of exploration, 

blue eyes mirroring 

his leap of faith,

the wanderlust as he left too soon, 

as freedom’s lure took him

far away,

with the Pacific Ocean, smiling wide, 

rolling in to greet him?

Would he recognize in his mother’s face,

the girl within, wistful, brave,

serving her apprenticeship 

in motherhood, in love,

facing family storms and tempers, 

the sorry slew of wounded seasons,

but that girl 

still hoping, trusting, 

waiting here for him?

And if you were to look up and wonder

would we, did we 

navigate those worlds we dreamed,

bring ships to shore 

in clear-eyed understanding,

this boy, this girl, 

this man, this mother ?

I’d have to say, 

‘It’s a lifetime’s work you know.’

© bba 17/11/2010

Surfers' Paradise...

GOLDEN  GIRL  OF  SURFERS' PARADISE

A tangled mess of ripe, blonde hair

sun-bleached, tumbling,

rippling down,

uncombed, unkempt,

sweet, seductive. 

Sea blue eyes 

mirror scenes below,

the high wide rollers

of the great Pacific ,

as a young girl, wired
to waves and iPod,

waits, angel faced 

in sun-blessed fantasy, 

secretive in teenage dreaming.

Her Paradise? It's here, surrounds her,

as morning strokes her golden skin,

and sea-spray flies in on the breeze,

and powdered white sand sings, surrenders, 

while surfers listen to ocean breathing, 

watch splendour spread through turquoise skies.

Perched high on dunes,

she surveys the beach -

bronzed boys on boards,

their muscles taut,

stance erect, perfect, poised

to hear and heed

an ancient call,

insistent rhythms drumming deep

from hidden reefs below.

Now they steady

as the ocean lifts.

They'll ride that swell,

that surge of Being,

in careless, casual, bold-limbed grace -

a parade of prowess

for a nymphet queen.

And she smiles

her distant, siren smile,

as up they rise

seeking immortality,

proud upon the waves...

©bba 02/07/2011

http://www.coastalwatch.com

We Take So Much for Granted...

FALLIBILITY
Always it was there, our bay,

a complacency of summer dreaming -

a wide-eyed stare of crystal sea

with tang of salt, crunch of shell,

the sweet-sour mess of sand and seaweed,

periwinkles and blue-veined jellyfish

in curving rockpools, sleepy coves. 

The beach, our refuge

from long hours of work,

from chimneys smoking portside air,

distraction from the cramp of cottage,

dull, domestic disappointment.

But we saw the deep-hulled cargo ships

dump heavy loads on creaking wharves

and steam away for fresh horizons,


where sky and sea conjoined to form

a distant, fragile, shining clarity.

We heard the whispers, intimations,

'No safety in old faded legacies.

No peace, repose in worn-out ways.'

as novelty became our beacon,

 ‘What if?’

a mantra

for wanton change.

It’s summer on the cluttered coast.

The Port’s rebuilt, re-jigged, transformed,

with more to come as towers spawn

on shifting sands,

bold demographics.


See rising waters, dredged and damaged,

as fish-catch dwindles and starfish thrive.

We’re facing change, a fretful planet -

Gaia’s whiplash rage and grief

 and the fault-lines of our fallibility.

© bba, 29/6/ 2011


www.saveourmarinelife.org.au,

http://www.svpelican.com.au,

http://www.iucn.org

My home, my heart, my history...

Cloud drift of pearly mist-puffs,

ships skimming through the breath of fog,


tall masted vessels, hulks and transports


carting folk from Europe's lands -

convicts, settlers,

across the bay to Liardet's beach,


not far from here

where I lie sleeping,


cocooned in woolly caves of dreaming.

We braved the black and storm-whipped seas,


survived damn lies and trite betrayals,

a wicked string of cunning seasons,


and yes, in there, the family treasons,


poverty, love and cruel romances,


births and deaths and even rape.


All gone old soldiers, sailors, airmen,

bold bastard boys and greedy bosses.


Yes, we survived them all.

Parents, husband, neighbours, kids -


their voices fade as I shift and stir

as the clock ticks in the welcome hours,

syncopating city rhythms,

curving sounds from busy bridges -


echoes from the workers' world,


throb of trucks and swish of cars


while fast-paced footsteps beat a tempo,


pass outside my pavement, door.

It's early still, but time to rise

for it's mornings I love best,


as rays of sun, finessed, light-fingered,


slide in corners down my hall


on liquid honey knotted pine boards,

reclaimed and buffed with perfumed care.

See blossom starburst pink in leadlight,

where curtains scrim the bright Spring day -


a luminosity of life transparent

as the kettle whistles on my stove,

a sputtered tune, its modest trill


a welcome to my portside house,

this timber cottage, this sturdy shell,


my home, my heart, my history -


all here.

Through clouds one day my people came

and to clouds one day I'll go.


Till then let peaceful days accrue


in memories, mementoes,


as I gather songlines, tales and truths –

weave keepsakes for new generations.

Hello my sweethearts,

Come greet the spirits of the port.

© bba, 15/06/2011

I'm fascinated by...

'I’m fascinated by the concepts of happiness,

memory,

loss,

death,

regret,

settling,

staying put,

personal choice,

homes,

family,

corporations,

rituals,

beginnings and endings.

The 3 things most important to me: love, passion, and freedom...'

Jane Friedman

Questions...

"The simplest questions are the most profound.

Where were you born?

Where is your home?

Where are you going?

What are you doing?

Think about these once in a while, and watch your answers change."

(Richard Bach)

Learning the language of film..

Making Movies

My favourites were extreme wide shots,

distant views, panoramas -

a city fringed by bright blue bay,


gold sunshine sliding up tall towers,


black Angus steers on spring green pasture,


background cobalt humps of mountains,


foreground curve - white highway snaking,

landscapes crisp, composed and sharp,


spooling out and on forever.

A harmony of perfect images.

I liked my world that way.

And with camera shifts,

more shots were framed.


Wide shots, mid shots, done and dusted.

But he said,

‘You need to try more close-ups, Barb.’


And I looked, I learned. He taught me well.

With a different focus

the images sang.

And a richer world began.

© bba, 10/10/2010

How our love affair began...

Art & the Aussie Cinematographer

The director said "Roll camera!"
The Cinematographer switched on
and the pictures told his story -
seductive, haunting, strong.

His language? Living colour
with dazzling light, design.
And I loved the romance, the image,
its proud and lucent shine.

For who could resist the magic,
a siren-song lullaby,
from this maestro of the movies -
the "hit", a Hollywood "high" ?

The tingle of our summer love,
that dizzy rush of feeling -
he crossed my darkest winters,
pushed past the bad times reeling.

He brought a lyric impulse
from tenderness arising,
to swathe my soul in loveliness
with beauty fresh, surprising.

Let others hoard blurred snapshots -
their vintage scraps of yearning.
My love brings wonder, art and joy
in light-filled passion burning.

© bba, 01/10/2010