Growing a life of art and gentle anarchy, Narrative: Shamanic story, poetry, music, and visual art in all shapes, forms and ways. Art as everyday domestic based healing and the nuture of beauty.

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water vessel hero

The water vessel Hero

On what foundation stands the warriors pride? What sustains him when the night is dark? What quenches his thirst in the hot desert Sun ripple and death adder dance?

Holy saviour of child melt-down
On Katoomba st winter frost glitter
Or
Overheating engine car radiator bone dry on Roadside ruined and potholed?
On What foundation stands the warriors existence?
What terrors averted?
What dehydration subversions possible in the Intellectual too’s and fro’s
Of
Traditions that hit
Left right and centre?

The water vessel held tight in heroic hand Refilled each night at kitchen tap

at
food-cooperative water sink filter
filled at noon at strangers front yard garden tap
a dreadlocked fugitive
beneath eucalypt filled with crows
or at sacred forest spring seeping from clay fern bank held up
to storm cloud sky dark in radiant human hope the water vessel
by bedside in back pack
or
left overnight in the front seat of unlocked car
there at the new day of waking!
needed
at the call to adventure
sipped
careful at the threshold
shared supernatural in the challenge
or
fallen into the mortal abyss

of
despair and revelation
transformed in the return
the last drops saved to share as sacred offering
to the dirt road goddess ascent
gift of elixir reborn
in the victory
drunk deep against the force of wind and gust obstacles
outside the front gate of suburban heaven hearth fire encountered at return
avatar of futures imagined in the ecologies complex and thriving and stable
needed when loving or fucking
limbs entwined
in the forest or anywhere
needed to water indoor tabletop garden
of succulent and cacti
in the support of friend and lover
thirsty on the way
or witches cat on the driveway tar

or
in the belly of whale or cavern or beneath the
feather blanket morning time darkness
and
underworld temptress
of cognitive labyrinth and maze
genetic hydration of future generations
and
fallen fathers
a crumbling patriarch and feminist fertility atoned or stoned in the kitchen time
dish- rack or dinner made on the table
a solitary desire
of
government zombie apocalypse collapse instrument of anarchy and freedom
with squatters in abandoned sandstone mansion facing police over the barricades
of nation-state flag
sewn into bikini or undies or tea-towel burning

in the cure of illness the

delight of fluid regeneration
of
cosmic cell hydration
in the bubble and hiss of social change
a subverted empire of imagined barren rival blockheads

tackled by a brick with eyes
thrown through shop window or at the gates of empty graffiti’d church
vain nervous anxious
ready to walk
out
front screen door beneath red brick arch
down wood step and creek
onto
crystal shard ghost seed footpath
The water vessel historic and ancient
present since the dawn of fire and ash and smoke
clay round mythic carved

with spout or jewel polished lid wide narrow brass or glass spiritual in copper beaten shape shiny

modern black soot cauldron or
seashell spiral for ceremony or

leather sewed with animal hide chewed earthen ornament with strap or curved lid leashed
fashioned in specific design

from earth animal hide tailings ponds industrial thrown away discarded in gutter or sophisticated?

marked by gods ancient or
branded multi-national profit

margin and neo-liberal

mined earth mover and

by road-side

and profound

corporate

market myth

the phallic polished red mahogany hollow strung with rope
knotted and woven
druid stone spiral carved

Crosshatched thick spout
on Paris museum stand behind glass
with
security guards and camera and alarm
or
carried in rainbow crotched bag from Nimbin a relic of kombi or Nissan pop-top and white-ant eaten
caravan graveyard
The water vessel bottle!
blue scratched enamel with smiling Buddha printed
etched in the departure
in the initiation descent and return
dented in the call and task
of the warriors pride
traversed
in

the unknown mysterys of self in crisis forced to the ground in the ordeals
of
destruction

emptied of all
a
hollow vessel abandoned
in
friends home
returned after poem written refilled for hero with elixir of rainwater
caught from mountain
house roof
in
44 gallon black plastic drum!

+ For Gary Caganof Katoomba late Autumn 2015


Hatchet

hatchet


Awash

Awash


outside a story

outside a story


a forest room

aforestroom


Let me breath

let me breath


Blue Mountain poems

I am hoping to write a poem a day for the whole of Autumn and winter. I would like to explore the feeling of lovers – belonging to a land that gets icy, windy, misty and bleak. To find the beauty of fire and feathers. To explore the words written about lovers on the sheets – on the skin. To find a way with words through the cold months of winter. I will be publishing these poems on social media – trying to exist with a deep poetic in the sentiments of the poets of Instagram – let the journey of cold, wood-fire and smoke – bodies in beds, rain, wind and stone begin – welcome to the forest room, filled with absence, presence and mystic yellow clay paths!cold mountain


Story catcher/A more powerful Magic

 

I recently was apart of a story telling retreat run by my brother-in-law Nicolas Yu. Nicolas does a lot of social justice work, particularly in mental health and its effects on young people. After this retreat, i feel like i can say that: story is connective and therapeutic, it is also a profound form of self advocacy and education. Story is power, shared power from within. In the ‘story catcher’ retreat we Shared three days of personal stories while sitting in a circle and also while wandering the beautiful land around the Satyananda Yoga centre in Mangrove Mountain. I was very moved by the experience and realised yet again the power of not only stories, but also the profound healing of both listening and being heard. I really believe that just being able to speak your story can make the whole world shed its skin and find renewal. Sharing stories is a sacred act. Just being silent and opening to the deep listening…

This is the poem I caught!

Each story is a death

Leaf spin hot blue sky wind
dead tree skeleton
and death adder ghost
my skin fragile stretched on bone, life blood, breath
I stand before you vulnerable
ready to break
already broken
in a lost boy place lying
curled on the wood floor
grain tree board round saw ripped
tipped off and over
and
it is my own fire in this wind
catastrophic black storm ash chaotic atomic
but there is buds
beneath the bark
bird call and tree branch fall
leaves spinning in the wind way beyond our hands

obscure obscured obscuring

old piano suburban lid lifted peered in at
felt top wood hammers red and string and saw
his head bleeding on the waiting room floor
blue and cold with policeman in hospital bed
step thru the curtain to the patriarch lost
Kondallilla
waterfall home to rainforest brother friend
stuck beneath the water locks floating up
blood death and wound in forehead
bed with radio AM nursing home broken heart
death you saw for the blind man who could not see
no longer swimming in the springtime ocean
shruken in shallow breath cocoon and cool blue death
bleed out the size of your hand now at rest
beneath red shed tallowwood bark and Gurruga laughing

And me?

I’m naked on dust, clay, stone cement
or linoleoum tile where wild dogs are
eating me
intestines muscles eyeballs brains
then my red fox brother appears
the wild dogs dissapear all except one
which he chains to a stake in prefrontal
cortex medulla pons
he says “draw on stone – wild dog dust
then blow them to the wind” but still
that dog remains and each time you speak
it eats raw rabid bloody muscle tendon artery
rips rips rips rips rips rips
tears tears tears tears tears
bone crack bone crack bone crack
it is there and I cannot speak.

but somewhere somtime somehow

there is a more powerful magic
in the heat
a more powerful magic
in the healing
a more powerful magic
in the telling
a more powerful magic
in the meeting
in the grieving
in the learning
in the walking
in the waking
a more powerful magic
in the water
in each earth step
step by step
away towards or still
a more powerful magic
in dandelion chamomile
liqurice root nettle
in embrace in touch in fucking
in gazing
in sky, star, planet and moon
a more powerful magic
shared together in peace
a more powerful magic
brush turkey, black cockatoo
burrumgay
bundaluck
red ash angophora long legged heron
and platypus splash
a more powerful magic
a more powerful magic
in you
me
bare skinned full clothed
we!

 


stone child

1
Bark shed fern bed
Understory
Crystal hollow eucalypt tree
Lino, floorboard and back fence
Curled upcolonial horseman2
Grieving.

My ruin.

Tea tree cascade
And
Fallen eucalypt

I was still a child
When my father died
On a highway intersection
Dragged out of the car onto the tar

Man?

And I’ve always been strong
More than you know
Sassafras, coachwood, brush box giant ancient!

2
Rock face machine cut
Bulldozer road grader
Roadside drain into rainforest gully
Moss covered stone
Who’s alone?

In the night distant coal train
Dog bark

Building from the ruins
Of
The patriarch lost
A Man
Alive in the beauty Awake to the pain
Sometimes alone
Untamed, domestic, wild
With
Shame

Apple blossom and Banksia tree.

still life with crooked teapot

Infinite

I’m not building
with stone
I’m doing backstroke in the ocean
At dusk
Crescent moon setting
Or
Ankle deep in the cascade creek
Barefoot
Pants rolled up!

Sometimes you hear a man speak

It belongs to
You

Both.

Wire fence and lantana blossom
Reaching through

Children need lifting
With
The stones they are moving
Man woman all human

And

Fuck spilling our blood on the garden!

Take that small hand
And walk
Together!

Wattle through the window
Teapot and cup constellation on the table.
Fire, ash
And smoke in the mist evening time.


late night washing machine

late night poetryWashing machine

Vibrations

Possum thunder

Across the roof

down

the plum tree

chicken roosting

behind wire and gate

on eggs

ghost fox across the suburban streets

snoring

child

and piles of books on the table

i am wondering what you think at night?

fridge hum frogs croak

rain

On

the colour-bond.

(for Simon Leo)