Here I am with my daughter catching a bus to the art museum.
We don’t talk but with our dark brown eyes look for
inspiration out at the land scrolling
past the windows.
What we share most is a love of the creative.
For her it’s online comics, art and stories.
She has a recommended reading list for me and
is itching to beta read my current book in progress.
Here anyhow’s one decent thing – the way she leaves post it notes
concerning dragons on the loose
and how she hopes I have the best writing day
on my desk.
She’s just making sure
a dragon makes it into the story
Today I attempted an important person poem. I have written these before but today’s inspiration is to use three starters to stanzas inspired by Wilfred Sassoon. I am not in a rhyming mood though.
Art in the city, not shut away in galleries, but everywhere you look.
It’s on power boxes, telegraph poles, railway station walls.
climbs onto walls and alleyways.
chalked, painted, sprayed, and poster papered.
It’s murals with messages from Martin Luther King
everytime I used to catch the bus in Marrickville
I’d see his face with an Aboriginal flag behind it.
It’s pieces that make you think, smile, wonder remember nature.
Driving past telegraph poles to the Gold Coast
we catch nature wrapping itself around telegraph poles,
birds and trees just in case we don’t see the real
they’re there in art.
I would love to go back and photograph these artistic poles.
I think of the artists commissioned or perhaps underground ones.
What are their names?
Are their signatures there? Is there a guidebook somewhere to tell me the story of the…
Sometimes there’s no words,
only the magic of the layers of
memory – peeled back
and re-layered to say something of
the dreaming that is
the journey from childhood to youth
and the times
family are together . . .
Always so positive
Giving life and love to her children
Supported by her husband,
Painter of trees
Doorways and open windows.
Soul of Dali
But now finding that
Which they did not,
Finding her spirit and art
Like the roots of a mangrove tree.
And what I know
Is they lived in the Outback
Spend time with the Aborigines
That she used to ride a motorbike
With a death wish
She can be Berneard Leech
Soft clay in God’s hands.
She can sing with her
Blowing out notes with the brush
To rival a Dizzy Gillespie improvisation.
Closing her eyes to the world
And all that is therein
She will travel a pathway
To pioneer with her art.
The lonely journey
To look inside
To not hypothesise but to activate
The energy around her
Energy from a bustling gum-booted
While fulfilling mother’s pledge to a sure Eleanor.
She has energy to
Give to thers
To support others
When work with other art forms.
She is pioneering,
Not to a distant land
But in art
To find the spirituality that has been
She will pass through the open windos
And leave a handprint on this mortal