A SLIDE RULE
Category Archives: Poetry
Christmas Greetings 2015
Merry Christmas Everybody!!
HARRY THE HAIRY WOODPECKER
While the world in slumber lay
Santa sailed upon his sleigh
As Harry, hungry pecked his way
Up and down his tree
Seeking ants and juicy grubs
To make a Christmas dinner of
With frozen toes and ice bound beak
Harry saw not Claus, thus weak
Who seeing Harry shivering there
Had caused his sled to stop in air
His sainted heart did almost melt
Such sadness for poor Harry felt
Nearly dead and almost froze
Harry feared to lose his toes
So he retired to his nest
Hungry with a frozen nose
In dreams were summer feasts of bugs
A mate to give him feathery hugs
Struggling hard to carry on
All night he shivered until dawn
Christmas morn with opened eye
His tree bedecked he did espy
And on his head a woolly hat
But on the ground beneath, what’s that?
He scurried down the trunk post haste
On frosty feet, no time to waste
Frantic he was, but awfully weak
He almost broke his frozen beak
Pecked off the ribbon, pulled it free
And there before his eyes did see
A tasty edible dish you say?
Alas, ‘twas coupons for Boxing Day!
Filed under Animal psychology, Birds, Photography, Poetry
This ‘n That
Weather = rain all week. Yesterday, however, we had a brief interlude (remember when TV did those?) of sunshine. Off for a walk around the pond – we encountered first a Red Tailed Hawk, and then a Cooper’s Hawk. The Red Tail was sitting in a huge oak, and while we watched it took off and flew down towards us. Several hundred metres on we found it again, in a smaller tree.
if only my camera could focus fast enough..
I was able to get closer the second time. The hawk stretched its claws for us.
This Cooper’s was way up in a tree, and seemed tiny compared to the Red Tail.
OTHER SUBJECTS
Rediscovered Poem Dept
From too much love of living
From hope and fear set free
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be
That no life lives for ever
That dead men rise up never
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea
I saw this verse in the weekend paper, attached to an obituary. Something about it was familiar, and I remembered my father would occasionally recite these words. The line “dead men rise up never” must have burrowed into my brain. Perhaps my father told this to me at bedtime, thinking it was appropriate for a child to hear before sleeping. He was odd that way.
It’s part of a poem by AC Swinburne, The Garden of Proserpine. In university we never read Swinburne, who must have been long out of fashion for being lyrical. We read Waiting for Godot, and The Hollow Men, however, which seemed to cover similar ideas in more avant-garde terms. My bet’s on Swinburne.
Filed under Birds, Photography, Poetry
Lunchtime for Old Men
The room was almost empty
I sat down on my chair
Gazing into space
I saw her sitting there
The kitchen had my order
My lunch was on its way
I flipped my lucky quarter
And then I heard her say
“The room was almost empty
I sat down on this chair
Then I saw him enter
He’s sitting over there”
She flipped her lucky dollar
It landed by her plate
Just then our eyes met briefly
As someone yelled out “eight”
I rose to get my order
But something in her eyes
Evoked a distant memory
And then I realized
She was the girl I’d lost
When I was twenty one
We’d had a brief affair
One summer in the sun
I walked up to the counter
My heart began to pound
I thought “at last I’ve found her”
And then I turned around
The room was almost empty
And at the corner chair
I smiled in expectation
But there was no one there
Filed under Photography, Poetry
Blasted Weather
FAREWELL SUMMER
Windstorms rip the sky
Tearing at clouds
Which, torn
Release the deluge
Once living leaves drift silently
When naked branches quiver
A rotting carpet soon to join
Above them bare trees shiver
Fields of flowers
With nectar sweet
Are now asleep
Their peace they keep
The bee retreats
Within the hive
The shivering mass
Will keep alive
Before the blast
The birds are few
In the bush
They hide from view
But on the tree tops
Can be seen
The golden buds
A future green
Filed under Photography, Poetry, Uncategorized
Avian Nursery Rhyme
Owl and a Cooper’s Hawk
My Little Raptor
Two brown raptors
Perched on a tree
Looking for a mouse
Quiet as can be
One flew away
The other went to sleep
Two brown raptors
Which one shall I keep?
Filed under Birds, Photography, Poetry
21,413 Words
By Typewriter
Week two and almost halfway there
Halfway pulling a tale from nowhere
Half baked plans with dubious inspiration
Now is the winter of our fermentation
Later to be baked boiled and spiced
Offered on a plate, sliced
Made tasty perhaps if not edible
With a slice of words incredible
The Photo Corner: The Flight Theme
All this seen in less than one hour:
Filed under Birds, Photography, Poetry, Typewriters
Splendid Scraps
Recent treks to the thrift shop turned up a lovely Olympia Splendid 33. Aside from vacuuming out all the dust and bits of rubber erasings it required a minor repair: the carriage was off the lifting arms. This was easily fixed with the aid of a small wrench and a jeweller’s screwdriver. I also treated the platen with a very light coating of silicone lubricant, rubbed on with a rag. Silicone seems to do wonders for platens, but should be used sparingly. This platen now has a perfect grip. It took a few days for the treatment to dry properly however, as at first the rubber was a bit too soft and impressionable – like a lot of people..
olympia splendid 33
I’ve left this machine on my desktop, the real one that is, where from time to time I like to doodle away with random musings – here’s a couple.
Filed under Photography, Poetry, Thrift shop finds, Typewriters
Can’t Help It
Falling in love again
What am I to do?
Never wanted to
Can’t help it.
Now imagine Marlene Dietrich.. or was her name Gabriele?
i am gabriele
Is this love?
Or just infatuation?
multilingual
she lived in Switzerland…
Filed under Poetry, Typewriters
Plein Air Countdown T-10
Fountain Lake – Beacon Hill Park – Victoria
Yesterday’s outing produce this sketch of Fountain Lake in Beacon Hill Park. The lake was built in 1888 before the park was designed by Scottish landscape architect Blair. I find the abundance of green tones a huge challenge, obviously!
I was also prompted to pull out my Brother 750TR after reading about poet Les Murray and his very similar machine on oz.typewriter. But oz also had a post about typewriters used in the Fuhrer bunker, notably Adlers. I pulled out the Brother and gave it a short workout on the bench to see if there was ink left in the ribbon. Good enough. I carried it up stairs. Then I went to the living room and saw my Adler Tippa behind the couch. Which one to use? I set up the Adler on the table, fed in a piece of 9×12 sketch paper, the closest thing at hand, and just blurted out the first thing that came to mind. Maybe the Brother tomorrow.
Filed under Painting, Poetry, Typewriters, Uncategorized
nathanguitars 