  Poetry
This week: Poetry of Dorothea Mackeller Edited by: Stormy Lady  
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| This is poetry from the minds and the hearts of poets on Writing.Com. The poems I am going to be exposing throughout this newsletter are ones that I have found to be, very visual, mood setting and uniquely done. Stormy Lady |
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Burning Off
by Dorothea Mackeller
They're burning off at the Rampadells,
The tawny flames uprise,
With greedy licking around the trees;
The fierce breath sears our eyes.
From cores already grown furnace-hot -
The logs are well alight!
We fling more wood where the flameless heart
Is throbbing red and white.
The fire bites deep in that beating heart,
The creamy smoke-wreaths ooze
From cracks and knot-holes along the trunk
To melt in greys and blues.
The young horned moon has gone from the sky,
And night has settled down;
A red glare shows from the Rampadells,
Grim as a burning town.
Full seven fathoms above the rest
A tree stands, great and old,
A red-hot column whence fly the sparks,
One ceaseless shower of gold.
All hail the king of the fire before
He sway and crack and crash
To earth - for surely tomorrow's sun
Will see him white fine ash.
The king in his robe of falling stars,
No trace shall leave behind,
And where he stood with his silent court,
The wheat shall bow to the wind.
In a Southern Garden
by Dorothea Mackeller
When the tall bamboos are clicking to the restless little breeze,
And bats begin their jerky skimming flight,
And the creamy scented blossoms of the dark pittosporum trees,
Grow sweeter with the coming of the night.
And the harbour in the distance lies beneath a purple pall,
And nearer, at the garden's lowest fringe,
Loud the water soughs and gurgles 'mid the rocks below the wall,
Dark-heaving, with a dim uncanny tinge
Of a green as pale as beryls, like the strange faint-coloured flame
That burns around the Women of the Sea:
And the strip of sky to westward which the camphorlaurels frame,
Has turned to ash-of-rose and ivory-
And a chorus rises valiantly from where the crickets hide,
Close-shaded by the balsams drooping down-
It is evening in a garden by the kindly water-side,
A garden near the lights of Sydney town!
Dorothea Mackeller was born July 1st 1885, in Sydney, Australia. She was the only daughter of Doctor Charles and his wife Marion. Dorothea and had three brothers, two older one younger. Her family well established in their community and they sent her to private school for her education. Dorothea went onto college at the University of Sydney. She became fluent in many laguages and travelled often travelled with her father. Dorothea wrote the poem My Country at nineteen years old. This poem quickly made Dorothea Mackellar a well known poet in Australia.
As a young adult Dorothea accompanied her father as a translator. When she was at home she helped her mother out with keeping the household affairs in line. Dorothea had a great since of family obligations. Dorothea never married though it is said that she had many romances. Dorothea's anthology Closed Doors was published in 1911. Followed by her second anthology The Witch Maid published in 1914. Dream Harbor was published in 1923 and Fancy Dress was published three years later in 1926.
Dorothea spent the last years of her life at at St. Helenie Hospital at Paddington. In 1968 at the age eighty-two Dorothea died after being ill for an extend period of time.
The Open Sea
by Dorothea Mackeller
From my window I can see,
Where the sandhills dip,
One far glimpse of open sea.
Just a slender slip
Curving like a crescent moon-
Yet a greater prize
Than the harbour garden-fair
Spread beneath my eyes.
Just below me swings the bay,
Sings a sunny tune,
But my heart is far away
Out beyond the dune;
Clearer far the sea-gulls' cry
And the breakers' roar,
Than the little waves beneath
Lapping on the shore.
For that strip of sapphire sea
Set against the sky
Far horizons means to me-
And the ships go by
Framed between the empty sky
And the yellow sands,
While my freed thoughts follow them
Out to other lands.
All its changes who can tell?
I have seen it shine
Like a jewel polished well,
Hard and clear and fine;
Then soft lilac-and again
On another day
Glimpsed it through a veil of rain,
Shifting, drifting grey.
When the livid waters flee,
Flinching from the storm,
From my window I can see,
Standing safe and warm,
How the white foam tosses high
On the naked shore,
And the breakers' thunder grows
To a battle-roar...
Far and far I look-Ten miles?
No, for yesterday
Sure I saw the Blessed Isles
Twenty worlds away.
My blue moon of open sea,
Is it little worth?
At the least it gives to me
Keys of all the earth
Thank you all!
Stormy Lady
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The winner of "Stormy's poetry newsletter & contest" [ASR] is:
First Place:
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Time Changes Views
Like sun and shadows
memories mount the trails
through forest green,
and wander past the
crystal lakes
time has rendered
bluer than blue.
A remembrance of you
on rocky mountaintop
high above the world below,
so brave and strong;
your image
time has rendered
bluer than blue.
Second Place:
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#1700887 by Not Available. |
Broccoli and mashed potatoes,
Gravy steaming in a bowl,
Roasted beef, peas, sliced tomatoes
Stuffing, carrots, buttered rolls.
Yucky, icky, gross, atrocious!
Grandma makes such awful stuff.
That corn mush there looks half-ferocious.
I haven't tried but I've had enough!
But Grandpa smiles a knowing smile,
And places food upon his plate.
He shapes potatoes into a pile,
And sticks broccoli around the base.
Then suddenly I see the landscape:
A mountaintop and forest trail!
I quickly put mine in the same shape,
Add rocky peas for more detail.
A shadow creeps upon his mountain,
"VOLCANO!" Grandpa yells with glee.
As gravy drips down like a fountain,
Roast beef becomes brown debris.
We both dig into mountain peaks,
And drink down orange juice lakes galore.
There's crystal carrots in my cheeks.
"Hey Grandpa, can I have some more?"
Third Place::
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#1696069 by Not Available. |
I will never see the forest like you
with that imaginative twist
like your eyes doing acrobatic spins
to shape the world into a magical place.
When you say you see crystals
falling from a blue palette
descending to an array of upturned trellises
all I see is rain falling in the forest.
When you see a dangerous rocky quest
to the snow-drizzled mountaintop
where the air is almost too thin to breathe
all I see is a trail up a hill.
When you say you hear the music of the wild
played by silent ghosts that oversee us
and never speak a work but strident notes
all I hear is the plentiful evening birds.
When you say you see a lake strewn in shadows
and silvery net of light cast upon it
to protect the superficial currents
all I see is the moon reflected in the water.
When you say you see the glimmer of perseverance in my eyes
and the gentle graze of wind in my touch
and the silent rumbling of a tropical storm in my laughter
all I see is how much I love you.
I will never see the forest like you do
with that imaginative twist
But I see you in every mystic light possible
and begin to understand the world a little more.
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Poetry: September 01, 2010 Issue [#3945]
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