tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-73471929123589639492024-02-11T08:48:00.458+11:00Colleen Z BurkePoet and WriterColleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comBlogger63125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-4219939572853450572024-02-10T14:39:00.003+11:002024-02-10T14:49:37.751+11:00<p> <span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><b>Colleen Z Burke's </b></p><p><b>new </b><b>and 13th poetry collection </b></p><p><i><b><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>Cloud Hands</b> </i></p><p>will be launched by Kate Delaney</p><p><b><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>2.30 pm for 3 pm </b></p><p><b>on Saturday 13 April 2024</b></p><p><b>at the Gaelic Club,</b> </p><p>1st floor, 64 Devonshire Street Surry Hills</p>Colleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-80669228322655034772020-03-16T12:35:00.000+11:002019-02-26T13:20:39.373+11:00<b>Colleen Z Burke's </b><br />
<br />
<b>twelfth poetry collection</b><br />
<br />
<i><b>Sculpting a landscape </b><b><br /></b></i><br />
<br />
<b>will be launched by Alison Lyssa</b><br />
<br />
<b>Sunday 31st March 2019, 2.30 for 3 pm</b><br />
<b>at the Gaelic Club, 1st floor,</b><br />
<b>64 Devonshire St., Surry Hills.</b><br />
<br />
<b>Colleen Z Burke's </b><br />
<br />
<b>new poetry collection</b><br />
<br />
<i><b>Sculpting a landscape </b><b><br /></b></i><br />
<br />
<b>will be launched at 10.30 am</b><br />
<b>on Sunday 21st April 2019, </b><br />
<b>at the National Folk Festival,</b><br />
<b>Canberra. </b><br />
<br />
<b>Sculpting a landscape</b><br />
is available from Gleebooks<br />
<br />
or contact email: colleenzburke@gmail.com<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Colleen did a presentation from her memoir </b><br />
<b><i>The Waves Turn, 2016,</i></b><br />
<b>for the Jessie Street National Women's Library</b><br />
<b>in August 2017.</b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Colleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-88201123105638448282017-08-09T11:32:00.002+10:002017-08-09T11:32:40.213+10:00<b><i>The Waves Turn: a memoir, Colleen Z Burke.</i></b><br />
<br />
I will be doing a presentation from my memoir for the Jessie Street National Women's Library on Thursday 17 August, 11.30 am,<br />
2nd floor, Customs House, Circular Quay.<br />
<br />
Books will be available on the day.<br />
<br />Colleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-60004491482411266682017-01-16T12:39:00.001+11:002017-01-16T12:39:02.491+11:00The Waves Turn was launched at The Illawarra Folk Festival, Bulli, NSW in January 2017.Colleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-83561855988569455312016-06-19T12:56:00.003+10:002016-06-19T12:56:23.855+10:00Born and Bred<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-46373075992667172382016-05-01T15:46:00.003+10:002016-05-02T10:54:06.026+10:00The Waves Turn: a memoir<br />
Colleen Z Burke<br />
<br />
Available from bookshops:<br />
<br />
Gleebooks, Glebe, NSW or<br />
<br />
Better Read Than Dead, Newtown, NSW<br />
<br />
or contact<br />
email: colleenzburke@gmail.com.auColleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-12512514299502598902016-03-16T19:40:00.005+11:002016-04-19T14:40:47.890+10:00Born and bred<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<b>Born and bred</b><br />
<br />
I was born and bred at Bondi<br />
under the smell<br />
of surging surf, sewage.<br />
Scent of lonely Sundays<br />
and trams hurtling to the<br />
cluttered sea. Asphalt days.<br />
Pools of summer shadows.<br />
gullies, ferns, coral trees,<br />
billycart corners. Tadpoles<br />
changing shape<br />
jumping away.<br />
Growing up we took<br />
tentative steps around<br />
corners. Leapt across<br />
rock pool worlds.<br />
At 15 they took us away<br />
to become drudges<br />
of the city streets. The sea<br />
a limp memory at lunchtime.<br />
A sunset image<br />
from hostile buses.<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-31898218764437001632014-03-16T18:50:00.000+11:002016-04-19T14:41:01.560+10:00Cockroach heaven <audio controls="">
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<br />
<b>Cockroach heaven</b><br />
<br />
In cooking classes we made everything<br />
from scratch, including custard–<br />
it all had to he perfect: measurements,<br />
mixing, decorative icing gently squeezed<br />
through stainless steel nozzles,<br />
challenging and not my forte.<br />
Sister Joseph, nurturing a<br />
huntsman spider on the window,<br />
gently admonished us if we made mistakes.<br />
<br />
I loathed home science and domestic subjects<br />
but have made desserts<br />
from these ancient exercise books—<br />
the only things kept from school days—<br />
rice puddings, scones, lemon butter,<br />
Anzac biscuits with malt<br />
not golden syrup, handfuls of sultanas.<br />
Scrolling through pages,<br />
a way of life long since gone,<br />
I salivate over names reading like a litany of excess.<br />
<br />
When my kids were small I made<br />
toffee apples and chocolate crackles<br />
from books disintegrating not just with age but from providing<br />
nourishment for baby cockroaches<br />
enthusiastically chewing through paper<br />
redolent with strawberry cream biscuits,<br />
jam rolls and steamed date puddings—<br />
their version of heaven.<br />
<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-42065034333226328982012-02-22T08:32:00.038+11:002024-02-10T15:16:37.094+11:00Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQcPXnwpRCEqopi7RQ6YtY4sxH613g48OesloLC8EUVmDGb261tj0p4w7jD3bC9gQ45HISVsRbi9PgkDfi81WJB-9BG00flVXhhLSakMtK4CXJF43blz1FgBRroBu3axWbVo8lZfnLIHo/s1600-h/colleen+feb+10+006.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQcPXnwpRCEqopi7RQ6YtY4sxH613g48OesloLC8EUVmDGb261tj0p4w7jD3bC9gQ45HISVsRbi9PgkDfi81WJB-9BG00flVXhhLSakMtK4CXJF43blz1FgBRroBu3axWbVo8lZfnLIHo/s400/colleen+feb+10+006.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><b>
Colleen Z Burke</b>, poet and author, has had numerous books published and <i>Cloud Hands </i>her latest and 13th poetry book will be published in April 2024. She's also the author of <i>Doherty's Corner</i>, the life and work of Australian poet M.E.J. Pitt and co-editor of <i>The Turning Wave - Poems and Songs of Irish Australia </i>with Vincent Woods<i>. She has published two memoirs, The Waves Turn and The Human Heart is a Bold Traveller.</i><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11pt;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 11pt;">Colleen grew up in a working-class family with an Irish
background in Bondi, Sydney, and now lives in the inner city. She has been a
shorthand typist, research assistant, community worker and
Writer-in-the-Community and Workplace. Leaving school at 15, she later
matriculated, completing a BA. For many years she facilitated poetry and creative writing
workshops in adult and community education.</span></div><div>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">Her
poetry collection </span><i style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;">the edge of it</i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif;"> was shortlisted for the Kenneth Slessor
Poetry Prize, part of the NSW Literary Awards. Colleen was awarded the NSW
Writers’ Fellowship in 2000 to work on her memoirs and poetry.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"> </span></b></p>
<br /><br />
<i><br /></i></div>Colleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-47467988118048529082010-09-07T13:45:00.000+10:002014-03-20T15:40:14.890+11:00Better Read's Talking Heads, Colleen Z BurkeTuesday, 25/3/'2014 - Better Read's Talking Heads<br />
with poet and writer Colleen Z Burke <br />
6.30-7.30 pm, Newtown Library, 8-10 Brown St., Newtown.<br />
This is a free event. Enq. 85124250.<br />
<br />
Colleen's new and eleventh poetry collection <i>Splicing air </i>was launched at the Gaelic Club, Sydney on 2/2/2013 by Alison Lyssa and at the National Folk Festival, Canberra, Easter 2013 by Margaret Fagan.<br />
<br />
Colleen read her poetry at the Writers' Tent, Newtown Festival on Sunday 10/11/2013.<br />
<br />
Colleen read her poetry at the Brett Whitely Studio on 27/10/2013.Colleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-50250696010358279852010-03-02T14:07:00.001+11:002016-04-19T14:42:58.142+10:00Distortion<b>Distortion</b><br />
<br />
last night<br />
i was intoxicated<br />
by Lebanese food - baclava;<br />
a chinese poem slipping<br />
off thin paper &<br />
singing loudly;<br />
irish pipes fluting the<br />
windswept stones<br />
of connemara<br />
around my heart<br />
and<br />
i went to sleep beside you<br />
wakeful<br />
to street rhythms<br />
of greeks<br />
stamping slowly<br />
around me.<br />
This morning<br />
i woke to the sound of<br />
sun shadows<br />
distorted<br />
by sunday lawnmowers.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Colleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-69957180177861590272010-03-01T13:55:00.000+11:002016-04-19T14:43:29.344+10:00A Vision of Wings<b> A vision of winds</b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> for Irene Stevens</span><br />
<br />
Emperor penguins waddle<br />
a hundred miles or so<br />
across glaciers and snow<br />
and slide, waggle on bellies<br />
down hills and slopes.<br />
They're black and white<br />
with bursts of yellow<br />
on neck and head.<br />
Flightless seabirds -<br />
flippers now where once were wings<br />
who zoom up high from the sea to land<br />
hurtling through the air.<br />
Heads bowed<br />
they move in ragged lines<br />
over the blue glow of ice and snow<br />
under craggy cliffs;<br />
translucent light of a distant sun<br />
but there's always one who dawdles<br />
looks around - gets lost<br />
Always one who has<br />
a vision of wings<br />
and tries<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
to fly awayColleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-13317332445383250882010-03-01T13:52:00.002+11:002016-04-19T14:41:24.617+10:00A lullaby<audio controls="">
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<br />
<b>A lullaby</b><br />
<br />
Although<br />
Tamarama<br />
was just around<br />
the corner<br />
we still listened<br />
to swish<br />
of oceans<br />
in seashells<br />
lulled<br />
to sleep by<br />
sea breath<br />
gentle in ears<br />
soft on<br />
tonguesColleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-82053173620052789262010-03-01T13:49:00.001+11:002016-04-19T14:43:50.506+10:00See-saws<b>See-saws</b><br />
<br />
our love<br />
is like<br />
a see-saw<br />
the more cheerful<br />
you get<br />
the lower i go<br />
someone<br />
will have to jump<br />
offColleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-9773199649920827372010-03-01T13:44:00.003+11:002010-03-01T13:45:39.348+11:00"Thine eyes see me and I am no longer there."<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Job. Chap 7.v.8</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Grains of moss lie close to</span><br />
the weathered gravestones.<br />
August winds nibble our thin<br />
bones. Slowly. Leaves shiver<br />
underfoot. The green air trails<br />
on the ground. Heavy. Eyes<br />
closed. We see you blown lightly<br />
off the South Head Cliff. Drowned<br />
deeply in Sydney Harbour. Passing<br />
away peacefully at Pyrmont. We<br />
see you. The wind gnaws the bones<br />
stark and bare the dead leaves<br />
shiver. I see you and you are<br />
no longer there.Colleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-32628934051965112732010-03-01T13:40:00.002+11:002016-04-19T14:48:45.717+10:00Rejuvenation<b>Rejuvenation</b><br />
<br />
Despite voluntary<br />
or mandatory<br />
water restrictions<br />
endless drought<br />
my next door neighbour<br />
religiously waters<br />
her paved courtyard<br />
perhaps hoping<br />
for rejuvenation -<br />
another<br />
sprout<br />
of concreteColleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-28237201687327137112010-03-01T13:39:00.002+11:002016-04-19T14:42:14.869+10:00A good cook<b>A good cook</b><br />
<br />
Food. It's a necessity. A basic of life. But sometimes I<br />
hate it - the preparation, organisation needed to feed<br />
my kids and me. And it doesn't matter what I give<br />
them to eat they still drown it in tomato sauce. Even<br />
salads and bean sprouts. When I say, "no tomato<br />
sauce" - they say, "please mum it makes it taste so<br />
yummy." My daughter said the other day that baked<br />
beans would taste revolting without tomato sauce.<br />
"How can you tell the difference in food if everything<br />
is in drowned in tomato sauce?" I asked.<br />
Yesterday was an exhausting day and I forgot to buy<br />
something for tea. At my wits end I cut bits of coloured<br />
cardboard into tiny pieces and drowned it in tomato<br />
sauce. "Delicious," they both said, "You're a good<br />
cook Mum."Colleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-12319124664859176312010-03-01T13:33:00.002+11:002016-04-19T14:44:30.211+10:00What I Miss<b>What I miss</b><br />
<br />
Most days I walk Claddagh Quay<br />
to commune with white swans.<br />
Walk the exposed promenade<br />
and the park prickly<br />
with psychedelic green grass<br />
defining the wide expanse<br />
of water sky<br />
the misty coastline of Clare;<br />
a solitary wind blasted tree<br />
etched against a tumult of clouds;<br />
shimmer of watery air.<br />
Here in the northern<br />
hemisphere a trawl of winds<br />
keens the plight of refugees<br />
adrift in southern oceans.<br />
And as autumn crinkles air<br />
I sometimes miss<br />
smell of gumleaves;<br />
languid heat;<br />
manic birdsong<br />
but I don't miss<br />
our official sanction<br />
of rampant racism.Colleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-79730955893513121932010-03-01T13:31:00.002+11:002016-04-19T14:44:55.369+10:00Anything is possible in Ireland<b>Anything is possible in Ireland</b><br />
<br />
Meshed with<br />
soft gold<br />
shimmers<br />
of dusky<br />
half light<br />
tremble<br />
tantalised<br />
by the aroma<br />
stench<br />
of visionsColleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-5515740457188366912010-03-01T13:30:00.002+11:002016-04-19T14:45:19.228+10:00Married to the snakeman<b>Married to the snakeman</b><br />
<br />
Bettina told dramatic stories,<br />
wrote witty, insightful poems<br />
and never let on that she was<br />
married to the snakeman.<br />
After her husband's death<br />
they still slid around her face, body.<br />
Slithered in dreams nightmares<br />
cold as life/death.<br />
Suffocating...<br />
Sleep elusive in the slink of shadows.<br />
Her life consumed by writing snakes<br />
slow shivering days away,<br />
because even in stifling<br />
humid summers<br />
she feels the chill sizzling skin.<br />
Frozen to the bone.<br />
Some poems are barbed. Viperous.<br />
Others saturated with sunshine<br />
are soporific - sleek and fat.<br />
Only belatedly she realised<br />
that not only did she marry the snakeman<br />
but also the snakes<br />
and was bound, tied to them forever.Colleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-35035216697299956112010-03-01T13:26:00.002+11:002016-04-19T14:46:15.914+10:00The orange and the cat<br />
<br />
<b>The orange and the cat</b><br />
for Paddy<br />
<br />
A cat,<br />
Black, white,<br />
fluffy, suns itself<br />
on the edge of a low<br />
brick fence. Its face is<br />
battered. An orange<br />
round and smooth<br />
balances on the<br />
same fence.<br />
Sunlight gushes<br />
down from a<br />
mildly blue<br />
autumn sky. In the<br />
overgrown garden<br />
sunflowers<br />
bloom wildly.<br />
A slight<br />
breeze ruffles<br />
the fur of the<br />
sleeping cat.<br />
The orange<br />
is perfectly<br />
poisedColleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-30060835074329435382010-03-01T13:24:00.002+11:002016-04-19T14:46:53.589+10:00Easily distracted<b>Easily distracted</b><br />
for Maree<br />
<br />
Silvery gums<br />
flourish on<br />
cliff edge.<br />
Beneath overhang<br />
of thin<br />
swaying grasses<br />
sandstone's<br />
rippled<br />
with blossoms<br />
<br />
Entranced<br />
I slip on a stone.<br />
The soil is crumbly.<br />
There are no safety rails here.<br />
You have to watch<br />
your every step<br />
but I'm easily distracted<br />
by wildflowersColleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-84893006807831802852010-03-01T13:20:00.000+11:002016-04-19T14:47:25.483+10:00After Valentine's day<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #55524b; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;"></span><br />
<div class="narrow pb" style="color: #55524b; font-family: arial, helvetica, verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 18px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 1px; padding-right: 5px; padding-top: 0px;">
<br /></div>
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<b>After Valentine's day</b><br />
<br />
I went into a Newtown<br />
newsagency to buy </div>
<div class="narrow pb" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 1px; padding-right: 5px; padding-top: 0px;">
Monday’s paper</div>
<div class="narrow pb" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 1px; padding-right: 5px; padding-top: 0px;">
mainly for the TV guide.</div>
<div class="narrow pb" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 1px; padding-right: 5px; padding-top: 0px;">
Along with my change</div>
<div class="narrow pb" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 1px; padding-right: 5px; padding-top: 0px;">
the sales person, a woman,</div>
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gave me a single dead </div>
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red rose </div>
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wrapped in clear cellophane -</div>
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“A present”, she said, smiling. </div>
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Hoping to revive the rose</div>
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I put it in a glass of water.</div>
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When she came home from work </div>
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my daughter was curious</div>
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mildly jealous –</div>
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the only valentine between us</div>
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a wilting red rose</div>
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way way beyond </div>
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resuscitation</div>
Colleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-6475628550248318282010-03-01T13:18:00.003+11:002016-04-19T14:48:03.989+10:00A backwards journey<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #55524b; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">A backwards journey</span></b><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #55524b; font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , "verdana" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">From new south wales<br />
i have travelled<br />
back into the land<br />
of myself<br />
where the ruins<br />
of the O'Briens'<br />
castle stand<br />
in a land brittle<br />
as sunshine<br />
calmer than time<br />
encompassing<br />
brian boru;<br />
the high kings of<br />
Munster<br />
& ireland<br />
& all the O'Briens<br />
descended from<br />
kings<br />
floating like driftwood<br />
on the four oceans<br />
of the world.<br />
The sea<br />
is around the island<br />
but there is drought<br />
on the stonefields<br />
where<br />
wildflowers hint<br />
at colours vague<br />
as windshadows moving<br />
over stone.<br />
In my land there are<br />
drought, dreams and<br />
memory</span>Colleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7347192912358963949.post-37884518467166824532010-03-01T13:14:00.002+11:002016-03-17T13:36:48.699+11:00Call around and see usI am alone<br />
the house is empty<br />
it breathes<br />
& creaks like people<br />
walking<br />
slow<br />
the greeks next door<br />
but one are having a barbecue<br />
I hear them through the<br />
cracks singing loudly<br />
they sound happy<br />
I stood for a while<br />
feeling the warm skin<br />
of the frangipani flowers<br />
listening to them<br />
falling dead around me<br />
burning<br />
the darkgrass smelling the music/<br />
woodsmoke sometimes the greeks and I say<br />
hullo but mostly we don't<br />
maybe we are shy maybe<br />
I sit here alone<br />
& think<br />
of the men friends who criticise<br />
my writing for being too personal<br />
whatever that means<br />
ah I know<br />
and ever since I can remember I<br />
strove to be depersonalised - did you?<br />
dark interesting colours avoided<br />
sunlight rarely spoke<br />
never 'lost' my 'irish' temper<br />
sometimes smiled<br />
mostly hovered<br />
sometimes thought of suicide<br />
mostly hovered<br />
passive<br />
invisible<br />
watching others act<br />
& refraining<br />
myself invisible<br />
sometimes looked obliquely<br />
through windows & doors and people<br />
called me efficient<br />
fallen flowers singe<br />
the darkness the petals are warm<br />
like skin I still have my role<br />
my invisibility<br />
but changed older different<br />
I am uneasy<br />
in these close fitting garments<br />
and to my male friends<br />
I say<br />
I will talk about you me us<br />
women<br />
I will drag us out of cupboards<br />
expose us because we are personal<br />
dark burning flowers of madness alive<br />
alone together and we are<br />
going to criticise you your world<br />
say our clothes are too small<br />
and that the house<br />
is empty and has always been empty<br />
and we say to you<br />
look at yourselves (if you have the guts)<br />
call around and see us<br />
but we are going outColleen Z Burkehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14513762824973254314noreply@blogger.com