June 2011 ~ Helen Hagemann

Thursday, June 30, 2011

Two Poems published in French/English in mg2_68: Indian Ocean Voices

Just published by mgversion2 at ISSUU, Calaméo and Lulu.com. You can purchase mgv2_68: Indian Ocean Voices @ LULU
There are photographs and an article on Western Australia by moi. Page 103.
Here's the beginnings of "Paperbark Owl & No-Ghost Mountain" in French - ooh la la, mais oui, merci beaucoup to Walter Ruhlmann.

La chouette du paperbark - Paperbark Owl

Ta vision n'est qu'un ciel du soir cramoisi
après une journée de sommeil dans le creux d'un banksia des marais
Paisible obserateur sur fond de lune,
tu tournes la tête: un cadran cyclopéen.

----
Pas une montagne fantôme - No-Ghost Mountain

Blackwall, tu ne's plus un fantôme
mais un souvenir vert de jeunesse.
Montagne rusée! Quelle surprise.
Tu t'es cachée des promoteurs,
une seule route où des pneus brûlent passe à ta base.

Par écrit: poetry of the feminine - e-book by Helen Hagemann

Open publication - Free publishing - More from Evangelyne

Latest Westerly Journal 56.1 out now!

This issue is officially announced on Westerly's website. The cover is impressive - once again - so is the list of contributors. I find myself published alongside so many "ladies", poets I know, have met or been on poetry webs with. Congrats to Annamaria, Caitlin, Renee and Janet! Check out the latest journal here...

Poem for the Day - from the Mawson Poems

The Aurora

A Summer Visit to Caroline Cove
December 1911

Caroline Cove, and away from the strong westerly’s, the Aurora
anchored its length and breadth in a plateau-like interior. In a channel
no more than eighty yards wide, Captain Davis knew what to focus on.
He was a man who knew the reefs from earlier days. Although
anchorage quickly changes identity, we were circumspect, eager to
rendezvous with what we’d heard. We rowed towards the entrance,
leaving the ship’s masts, sails drawn, skeletal. The landscape painted
us in, thick tussock-grass, steep hillsides, rocky shores and a crowded
sunlight swirling with sea-birds. The land was a treasure trove of
primitive nature, rookeries of eggs, nests of giant petrels and
thousands of penguins. In mild weather we were a band of schoolboys
on excursion. Royal penguins called to us as slaves, they
pecked our legs, chattered at the highest pitch, and as if we were
marched to court, we followed their whirring flippers, their crested
eyebrows pointing us south. Massed in uniforms of long golden
feathers they filed into rank, lead us away in haste, not by
danger from waves, but with their own desire not to swim.