Tuesday in the Cottage . Out the side, the farrier is attending to the horses and out the front, the plumber is trying to locate the break in the waterpipes. A bit later, the famers whose cattle are grazing in the bottom paddocks, are coming to graze them on the drive and do some mowing. The rain is holding off which is something it doesn’t do much of this year. The weekend was WET again and we had the Girls up from Down South.
Mary Oliver writes this poem. Wouldn’t say I am terribly fond of it but it has elements.
Mary Oliver – The Kingfisher
The kingfisher rises out of the black wave like a blue flower, in his beak he carries a silver leaf. I think this is the prettiest world--so long as you don't mind a little dying, how could there be a day in your whole life that doesn't have its splash of happiness? There are more fish than there are leaves on a thousand trees, and anyway the kingfisher wasn't born to think about it, or anything else. When the wave snaps shut over his blue head, the water remains water--hunger is the only story he has ever heard in his life that he could believe. I don't say he's right. Neither do I say he's wrong. Religiously he swallows the silver leaf with its broken red river, and with a rough and easy cry I couldn't rouse out of my thoughtful body if my life depended on it, he swings back over the bright sea to do the same thing, to do it (as I long to do something, anything) perfectly.
Mary Oliver is an American Poet so I shall search a little further and see what’s been written in Australia. I shall avoid Henry Kendall who haunts me mercilessly.
While I am looking for what I want, consider this from Facebook this morning. :
Northbank Community Garden: well this aint right!!!!there has been a spate of gear going missing from the northbank community gardens.This is a non profit group who work hard to provide the peopel of bellingen cheap oganic food straight from the garden. we dont expect much, IS AINT RIGHTnow people are thieving shit from our refuge.about a minute
Northbank Community Garden : 2 pair
ofbolt cutters worth about 50 each, a hand carved sign which was loving
carved and donated to the gardens by a local artist, as well as a few
other pieces. THIS AINT RIGHT!!!!!If any one has any clues tell me.lets helps each other live healthy organic live without this shit.
The Welsh Poet W.H. Davies runs lyrical. A touch of the Kendall inc the doss house lifsetyle.
The Kingfisher by William Henry Davies
It was the Rainbow gave thee birth,
And left thee all her lovely hues;
And, as her mother’s name was Tears,
So runs it in my blood to choose
For haunts the lonely pools, and keep
In company with trees that weep.
Go you and, with such glorious hues,
Live with proud peacocks in green parks;
On lawns as smooth as shining glass,
Let every feather show its marks;
Get thee on boughs and clap thy wings
Before the windows of proud kings.
Nay, lovely Bird, thou art not vain;
Thou hast no proud, ambitious mind;
I also love a quiet place
That’s green, away from all mankind;
A lonely pool, and let a tree
Sigh with her bosom over me.
Now to Gerald Manly Hopkins : I think I like this one better. it has a bite to it.
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying What I do is me: for that I came.
Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces;
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.
Ok. I shall wrap up this Kingfisher diversion with the Kingfisher Journal and a poem by Wagoner.
The blunt big slate-blue dashing cockaded head
Cocked and the tapering thick of the bill
Sidelong for a black eye staring down
From the elm branch over the pool now poised
Exactly for this immediate movement diving
In a single wingflap wingfold plunging
Slapwash not quite all the way under
The swirling water and upward instantly
In a swerving spiral back to the good branch
With a fingerling catfish before the ripples
Have reached me sitting nearby to follow it
With a flip of a shake from crestfeathers to white
Bibcoker down the crawhatch suddenly
Seeing me and swooping away cackling
From the belt streaked rusty over the full belly.