Most people will admit if asked that the last time they read poetry was at school. I grew up on the rhyming verse of bush poets such as Banjo Patterson quickly gravitating to Dante and Tennyson. I remain an avid fan of Phillip Larkin and admit to liking the work of Bryn Griffiths Sea Poems (Veritas 1988). However the romantic poets have always intrigued me with both the subject matter and the beauty of their language; although there are some who regard their work as mawkish. Interesting considering that these poets are considered some of the greatest born. Tastes may change, differ and come full circle, however should appreciation?  Poetry has always been important to me. A single poem curtailed by brevity and made evocative by language and tone can be the most satisfying of works to read. Therein lies the modern problem with poetry. You do actually have to read the work. Really read it by focusing on it, chewing it around a little. Every person will read a poem differently, take something differently from it. However if the poet has conveyed her meaning and the reader fully engages with the written form, then something fascinating happens: The transference of an idea. I have 2 copies of my poetry book Divertissements-Love. War. Society to give away. Entries close end of July. Simply read the poem Stranded below which is featured in Divertissments and in a paragraph tell me what you think the poem is about. Please use the comment section at the bottom of this post! 

STRANDED

 The water: Cool, lapping, sensuous lick of frail skin. 

Again at ocean’s edge this yearly tribute, recalling the

bullet-proofing with song and drink, of fear impaled in a

martini glass. And with it memory, slick, bitter, tinged

with the bile green of the Sargasso sea.

The creamy nibbling of her hunger entices. Withdrawing

gradually from sombre wards of valium glee, I lift my

gaze beyond the breakwater. Her interest in circling

seagulls temporarily abated, she waits, patience in her

smile. Remembering goodly fodder drops.

The chosen ones tossed from silver strutted albatrosses,

wings singed, flying rudderless through plumed air.

Deserted by love’s distant prayer. Horizon lost, caressed

by sweet allure, I too was launched, her siren wail breaching

bloody reality, soothing oblivion with a chill embrace.

Anchorless, inclined towards immortal depths I took her

hand, gulping medieval currents, shrouded by dissipating

light. Then, judged tasteless, she spat me back. Mismatched

with morphine a time before, I twice tunnelled the

salt-encrusted fog to be relieved of my Elysium.

Beyond the breakwater greying cumulous circulate,

billowing matrons recalling distant dog-fights, images of

a squadron’s gall. The ice heat of her soul bites, foaming

feverishly, conjuring a squall with which to slap. There are

no others. She regrets the giving-up, I the only escapee.

Driftwood of sweet sun-bleached youths, freed from her

pretentious airs ebb in perpetuity. Beyond the breakwater

glistening memory swells. Sand grains palm softened in

expectation lure me with fairy-floss pleas, squeals

heightened by fattening splats of cleansing rain.

Baptised anew the long walk home is fragrant with pride.

martini glass. And with it memory, slick, bitter, tinged

with the bile green of the Sargasso sea.

The creamy nibbling of her hunger entices. Withdrawing

gradually from sombre wards of valium glee, I lift my

gaze beyond the breakwater. Her interest in circling

seagulls temporarily abated, she waits, patience in her

smile. Remembering goodly fodder drops.

The chosen ones tossed from silver strutted albatrosses,

wings singed, flying rudderless through plumed air.

Deserted by love’s distant prayer. Horizon lost, caressed

by sweet allure, I too was launched, her siren wail breaching

bloody reality, soothing oblivion with a chill embrace.

Anchorless, inclined towards immortal depths I took her

hand, gulping medieval currents, shrouded by dissipating

light. Then, judged tasteless, she spat me back. Mismatched

with morphine a time before, I twice tunnelled the

salt-encrusted fog to be relieved of my Elysium.

Beyond the breakwater greying cumulous circulate,

billowing matrons recalling distant dog-fights, images of

a squadron’s gall. The ice heat of her soul bites, foaming

feverishly, conjuring a squall with which to slap. There are

no others. She regrets the giving-up, I the only escapee.

Driftwood of sweet sun-bleached youths, freed from her

pretentious airs ebb in perpetuity. Beyond the breakwater

glistening memory swells. Sand grains palm softened in

expectation lure me with fairy-floss pleas, squeals

heightened by fattening splats of cleansing rain.

Baptised anew the long walk home is fragrant with pride.