We siblings, five of us, lost our father recently after a twelve month bout of failing health. He was eighty-nine years old (he would have made ninety in January 2012). His was an interesting life full of travel and strange tales.
One of his achievements, which, of course, is shared by our mother, is sixty-five years of happy marriage. They individually admitted to me on separate occasions that each was the other's best friend. With that wonderful admission in mind, I penned the following poem in honour of them. I hope you enjoy it as much Mum has.
BEST MATES
Hand in hand, conjoining fates,
Eight hundred plus new moons ago.
In Singapore, so far from home,
Through wartime's lonely afterglow,
Those two became best mates.
On board a ship with other folk
Who shared the Antipodean dream,
They sailed halfway around our world
To build their life that we would share,
With strength from being best mates.
As time went by we flew the nest,
Our fledgling lives to each pursue.
We left them on their own once more
To watch us grow our own sweet dreams,
And still they stayed best mates.
The creaking wheel of Life has turned
And driven Death's quiet wedge between
The players of this play of ours,
To take away the breath from one
And sunder these best mates.
But realize this all ye who read
That even if you don't believe
In mystic things and any god,
That Love's immortal life is real,
They'll always be best mates.
(c) Kim Randell 2011
Monday, December 19, 2011
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
SALT IN THE BLOOD
We come from the Camarthenshire Randells who all descended from an English sea captain, Francis Randell of Clovelly in North Devon, who settled in South Wales in the late 1700s. His son was also a sea captain, plying the British coast carrying cargoes of coal and tin. I'm sure sea salt is in my blood as I'm never happier than when I am travelling on a ship somewhere.......
THE STORM
Oh, heave her hard, me hearties, heave that sheet for all you're worth,
We need to set the mizzen now the storm has done its worst.
The Lord has smiled on our fair ship whilst in that storm's black maw,
And kept us safe in this poor world, away from Heaven's door.
We felt our families' prayers for us whilst with that storm we fought,
Foul lightening struck our bare pine poles as for our lives it sought.
The waves of grey and angry brine built mountains in our path
That crashed upon our straining decks with boiling aftermath.
Our creaking home upon the waves was tossed like a stray cork,
The presence of a storm like this we'd only heard in talk.
Its screaming, screeching banshee-call swung terror like a sword,
Which slashed its way through all our decks to cower all on board.
The storm jibs cracked like cannon as they ripped and then gave way,
Our skipper stayed lashed to the helm from midnight to next day.
The boys who manned the pumps below had less time to court fear
Than those of us on heaving watch 'tween decks in our wet gear.
When came the light of morning, to our Lord we all gave thanks,
Though seas had not abated still our vessel hadn't sunk.
By midday Sun had scoured away the grey-black clouds of Hell,
And Ocean had returned to us her calm familiar swell.
So heave her hard, me hearties, heave that sheet with joyful hearts,
Set those sails of celebration as our fearfulness departs.
Having sailed through fair and foulness, glorious sunsets, angry foam,
When we point our ship's bows landward, we rejoice for reaching home.
© Kim Randell
THANKFUL
To feel the living power of the wind,
As it bellies out the sail in your hand,
As it pushes your small craft across the waves,
As it carries you so swift away from land,
Makes you thankful for this moment in your life.
To feel the healing strength of the sun,
As it warms you from the chill of a malaise,
As it lights your world and drives away your dark,
As it helps you keep a count of all your days,
Makes you thankful for this moment in your life.
To feel the cleansing freshness of the rain,
As it washes all the dust from Nature's back,
As it nutures all of life upon this earth,
As to Mother Ocean makes the rivers track,
Makes you thankful for all moments in your life.
THE STORM
Oh, heave her hard, me hearties, heave that sheet for all you're worth,
We need to set the mizzen now the storm has done its worst.
The Lord has smiled on our fair ship whilst in that storm's black maw,
And kept us safe in this poor world, away from Heaven's door.
We felt our families' prayers for us whilst with that storm we fought,
Foul lightening struck our bare pine poles as for our lives it sought.
The waves of grey and angry brine built mountains in our path
That crashed upon our straining decks with boiling aftermath.
Our creaking home upon the waves was tossed like a stray cork,
The presence of a storm like this we'd only heard in talk.
Its screaming, screeching banshee-call swung terror like a sword,
Which slashed its way through all our decks to cower all on board.
The storm jibs cracked like cannon as they ripped and then gave way,
Our skipper stayed lashed to the helm from midnight to next day.
The boys who manned the pumps below had less time to court fear
Than those of us on heaving watch 'tween decks in our wet gear.
When came the light of morning, to our Lord we all gave thanks,
Though seas had not abated still our vessel hadn't sunk.
By midday Sun had scoured away the grey-black clouds of Hell,
And Ocean had returned to us her calm familiar swell.
So heave her hard, me hearties, heave that sheet with joyful hearts,
Set those sails of celebration as our fearfulness departs.
Having sailed through fair and foulness, glorious sunsets, angry foam,
When we point our ship's bows landward, we rejoice for reaching home.
© Kim Randell
THANKFUL
To feel the living power of the wind,
As it bellies out the sail in your hand,
As it pushes your small craft across the waves,
As it carries you so swift away from land,
Makes you thankful for this moment in your life.
To feel the healing strength of the sun,
As it warms you from the chill of a malaise,
As it lights your world and drives away your dark,
As it helps you keep a count of all your days,
Makes you thankful for this moment in your life.
To feel the cleansing freshness of the rain,
As it washes all the dust from Nature's back,
As it nutures all of life upon this earth,
As to Mother Ocean makes the rivers track,
Makes you thankful for all moments in your life.
© Kim Randell
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Poetry - A Declining Art? - a follow-on......
As a brief follow-on from my article in August please find below a classically styled modern poem lovingly crafted and aged in old oak barrels (I'm joking....about the barrels, of course).
The point being made is that this is what Joe Public calls poetry - rhyme, rhythm, metaphor that is recognizable and an empathic message. It takes a bit of patience and practice, but the real crafting of a poem is its own reward once the work is complete. Liken it to the carving of a fine statue. You get out only what you put in. Enjoy!
MERE MORTAL MAN
The tasks I must perform as routine every day
Just rob me of another brightly shining act.
My time on this poor planet surely melts away
The more I battle with the darkly morbid fact
That bitter tastes the irony in all our dreams,
The kernel of a nut no mortal man has cracked;
Too short our bodies’ lives to us it seems,
Our mind spans truly crippled by a time span sacked.
When youth had clothed my waking dreams an aeon back,
The Universe I owned, as well as hoary Time itself.
Vast glowing projects plotted for a grand attack,
And many more bright goals just waiting on the shelf.
It seemed Forever’s boundary lines could not be tracked,
Nor did that word Infinity have meaning in itself.
My grand achievements lying more in fiction than in fact,
The world my oyster, gleaming pearl all set in glistening gilt.
As I meandered on along Life’s winding coil,
A chunk of time would dissipate each sleepy night.
Plans and projects moving softly off the boil,
One by one they’d quietly vanish from my sight,
Replaced by daily deeds that paid me for my toil,
Necessities of bread and shelter, holding back my flight.
Bright beacons of my dreams and projects without oil
That only time can brew slipped slowly into night.
© Kim Randell
The point being made is that this is what Joe Public calls poetry - rhyme, rhythm, metaphor that is recognizable and an empathic message. It takes a bit of patience and practice, but the real crafting of a poem is its own reward once the work is complete. Liken it to the carving of a fine statue. You get out only what you put in. Enjoy!
MERE MORTAL MAN
The tasks I must perform as routine every day
Just rob me of another brightly shining act.
My time on this poor planet surely melts away
The more I battle with the darkly morbid fact
That bitter tastes the irony in all our dreams,
The kernel of a nut no mortal man has cracked;
Too short our bodies’ lives to us it seems,
Our mind spans truly crippled by a time span sacked.
When youth had clothed my waking dreams an aeon back,
The Universe I owned, as well as hoary Time itself.
Vast glowing projects plotted for a grand attack,
And many more bright goals just waiting on the shelf.
It seemed Forever’s boundary lines could not be tracked,
Nor did that word Infinity have meaning in itself.
My grand achievements lying more in fiction than in fact,
The world my oyster, gleaming pearl all set in glistening gilt.
As I meandered on along Life’s winding coil,
A chunk of time would dissipate each sleepy night.
Plans and projects moving softly off the boil,
One by one they’d quietly vanish from my sight,
Replaced by daily deeds that paid me for my toil,
Necessities of bread and shelter, holding back my flight.
Bright beacons of my dreams and projects without oil
That only time can brew slipped slowly into night.
© Kim Randell
Monday, August 22, 2011
Aussie Flavour (I can smell that Billy Tea brewing over a gum twig fire right now....)
OUTBACK JACK
Poke the smoking embers while I watch the billy boil,
As the bushflies buzz an anthem round my head.
I've tramped the dusty miles through the Spinifex and scrub
And will tramp yet fifty more before my bed.
I trudged the mulga trail, kicking red and dusty clay,
About five years' past, I vaguely recollect.
Gone bush, for what that's worth, camping out the swaggie's way
While I'm looking for old Harold's lost prospect.
Heading North by East while munching on roast snake,
The crows keep telling me to go back home.
I spear one of their mates to have for tucker on my break.
They all flap off to leave me well alone.
Travelling dried-out creeks begging for the next Big Wet,
Waterbottles clink-clank empty by my side.
Just Witchety grubs to satisfy my desert-driven thirst,
I dream that I would find some camel ride.
Wading endless sandhills under bronze Australian sun
Is no way for any bloke to carry on.
That Lasseters old reef stays a legend to this day,
If I don't quit this search I'll soon be gone.
So, poke the smoking embers on another campsite fire,
And make another dose of billy tea.
Redgum smoke adds flavour to my dreamtime mug of brew,
While birds and insects sing their lives to me.
© Kim Randell 2007
FAR KINNELL
There is a place that's mentioned quite a lot,
A place where one might have a quiet spell,
Its name evokes no memories that I know,
The place I tell you now is Far Kinnell.
I know where someone once did lose his way
Upon the path that he had set himself,
He stumbled, fell and bruised his mortal bones,
Then realised where he was, "Ah, Far Kinnell!"
It's mentioned in wide circles constantly,
This place whereat I've never been to tell.
One day, no doubt, the chance will come my way
And I will cry with joy, "Oh, Far Kinnell!"
© Kim Randell 2007
New Zealand Flavour
MISSION BAY EVENING
Sea breeze softly stirring shoreline trees,
Setting sun paints fading twighlight glow,
Harbour waters gently lapping sand,
Seabirds hushed in clumps along the shore.
Sparkling jewels of night adorn the strand,
Hints of bistro wafting on the breeze,
Mixed with muted laughter and with song.
Night's promenade proceeds with quiet ease.
Trails of light with muffled hiss and roar
Wind serpent-like and slowly through the eve.
Night riders ghosting by on mystery quest,
Quiet couples stroll the beach before they leave.
© Kim Randell 1999
NIGHTFALL
Grey and white ramparts edged with fire,
Violet mountains in turquoise sea.
Scenes shift and darken as I watch,
Last rays of sunset turn and flee.
Dull red echoes of daylight's demise
Brush the horizon as night begins.
Stars call each other from places far,
Fair maiden moon stirs velvet limbs.
© Kim Randell 2001
JAFFA ANTHEM
(JAFFA: Just Another Fabulously Fashionable Aucklander)
If you could fly at night beyond where eagles may,
And look upon the isthmus from that height,
A diamond choker, Auckland shines into the sky,
A glowing beauty filling up your sight.
You can't but feel your chest expand with rightful pride
And hope to never end your awesome flight.
The Waitemata harbour on a sunny day
With yachts like scattered pearls upon her back,
Will lift your mood and sail all dark thoughts far away,
To scuttle them in some deep distant crack.
This ocean gateway to our fair metropolis
Perpetually brings the cruise ships sailing back.
From Ferry Building at the city's harbour edge,
To Aotea Square by old Town Hall,
A tiring travail up the Queen street shopping strip
Will have you asking, “What? Is that it all?"
A few boutiques and many little tourist shops,
Our hard-core shoppers live in shopping malls!
A saunter down the road in stylish Ponsonby
Displays to you Humanity anew.
The quiet clink of conversational coffee cups,
As patrons on the sidewalks air their views,
Café aromas truly cosmopolitan
Traverse your path, there's always something new.
Each evening greets a jungle at the Viaduct,
Rhythmic beating drums and strobing lights.
Young and old, a dazzling bright kaleidoscope
That spins and flows far into every night.
The music, dancing, laughter, change the Viaduct
Into a world where fancy does take flight.
We're proud to share our Auckland with all visitors,
To show them all our wondrous sights and sounds,
From Kelly Tarlton's place upon Tamaki Drive,
To Western Springs where you can walk around.
So fare you well, and take with you kind images.
Please come again and visit our fair town.
© Kim Randell 2006
MAUNGAKEIKEI
A singing axe made naked Maungakeikei,
Some settler men a sacred Totara killed.
The grief of Tane Mahuta was vented,
And Rongo wept upon that naked hill.
Those Pakeha then realized their error
Of desecrating Maungakeikei's crown.
To ease the grief of Tangata Whenua,
A pine from Monterey was bedded down.
It grew to massive size, that sacred pine tree,
And shaded Maungakeikei from the sun.
Tane Mahuta had smiled upon it
And made sure that his curse was well undone.
Then came a man of very twisted vision,
Who saw himself a warrior of the past.
Imagined all the warpaint and the feathers,
Attacked poor Maungakeikei in the dark.
The shadow of his moku echoes visions
Of imaginary battles with his foes.
Their juices stain his chin in feasts of conquest,
It's how, in his skewed mind, his mana grows.
He grunts and wields his mere with conviction.
It roars and spins its hungry metal teeth.
Chewing through the whiteness of the tree-flesh,
Carpeting the ground like snow beneath.
That pine tree through its stature had grown tapu.
A child of Tane Mahuta indeed!
The twisted one could not cut through at that time,
But struck a mortal blow that would succeed.
Six years it took before that pine tree's passing,
A time to stand in awe and say farewell.
Tane Mahuta's new child will grow there,
And once again we'll see our One Tree Hill.
Kim Randell © 2005
CRITICAL ADVICE
It's clearly so much easier to dismember and destroy,
Than to build a careful structure full of wisdom and of joy,
To criticise one's neighbour with a log stuck in your eye,
When all that neighbour's suffering is blurred vision from a sty.
It's not as if we're brainless, living life like boring sheep,
Who are always needing guidance what to eat and where to sleep.
We form our own opinions when we read a brand new poem,
So we don't need twisted visions from some wrinkled, gnarly gnome.
And so it didn't shock me after reading of Sam Hunt,
To pick up how some critic took Sam's meanings for a punt.
Interpreting in some way many miles from what was writ,
Clearly showed the criticizer had a very faulty wit.
The backlash from Joe Public was amazing to behold,
That foolish criticizer got far more than just a scold.
For tackling our dear icon, he was punished suitably,
And now cleans out the toilets in a place of purgatory.
So those of you called critics need to search for nobleness,
Please think twice before you call a writer's work a sorry mess.
Your usefulness is suspect in this great wide world of ours,
It is best you all join monasteries and take some silence vows.
© Kim Randell 2001
POP GOES THE JAFFA
It shows extreme intelligence,
This push to populate.
Our city fathers in a rush
Like bulls charging a gate.
We've got to fill the isthmus up,
We cannot stay half-full.
Just add a few more thousand
To our population pool.
We live on a volcanic field
The experts all tell us.
The danger here is very real,
Yet who will make a fuss?
They say a blast is overdue
In this, our crowded house,
The TV preaches readiness,
But all we do is grouse!
The Realty folk and government
Know something that we don't.
They pack us in like canned sardines,
And chase us if we won't.
The whereabouts of the new vent
Is too hard to predict.
No matter where the thing erupts,
We'll all be pretty sick.
So what are they not telling us,
This knowing group of folk?
To densify the rating base
Is far from a cool joke.
The fifty-fourth volcanic cone
Will smother lots of us.
Financial aid will then pour in
While tourists tramp our dust!
Ah, that's the awful plan of theirs,
These cunning, knowing folk.
Make some money packing us,
And chuckling at their joke.
When Mother Nature has a burp,
They stand to make some more,
Sell poor Auckland once again,
Then auction off North Shore!
© Kim Randell 2007
SO YOU'RE A MODERN POET, ARE YOU? YAIR, RIGHT!
Clever tricking words for the cleverer few
Where is their spring-clear imagery?
They write to please their own odd view,
Not please the likes of you and me.
Their end must come
And like all things,
Their sad demise
Evokes no sighs,
Nor lasting lies.
No anguished cries.
The bell will toll,
And with its roll
Their time........
has gone.
Clear trickling words that are just and true,
A babbling brook of imagery.
A fern clad glen that fills the view,
Where Tuis sing for you and me!
Our time will come,
The truth, it rings!
A glorious peal
Of poetry real,
The words that heal,
That show we feel
For fellow men,
And not condemn
Their minds.......
to dust.
© Kim Randell 2007
IS THERE ANYBODY OUT THERE?
(A call to fellow poets on AucklandPoetry.com when posting became too quiet)
I haven't heard a solitary Kiwi call.
No voices from New Zealand anymore.
It seems that they have all been frightened off
By strident statements aimed from far offshore.
A Viking voice from old Iberia
Chased them away then slammed the bloody door.
New Zealand's voice I don't hear anymore.
Come on you poets, let's make that Kiwi call,
Become Tamaki's true and vibrant bards.
Don't act as if in some strange spiritual thrall,
Get up and write, don't rot in your backyards!
The gauntlet's down, now pick it up and fight,
Or leave your mana cracked in useless shards
New Zealand's poems should shout forevermore!
© Kim Randell 2006
Poetry - A Declining Art?
"One of the reasons for the decline in the popularity of poetry today may be the prevalence of writing in freer forms of the art.
No more rigid structure of line and verse, no rhyming couplets and quatrains.
Odes, sonnets and ballads no longer seem to have expected forms.
The very texture of the thoughts behind the words has apparently become the poems in some of these new evolutions and such forms of expressive language and thought totally lose the general public.
We have all been brought up and educated with “classical” metred and rhymed structures, from pre-school to University ( nursery rhymes to Shakespeare), from television “jingles” to popular music, and anything without the repeating and organised patterns that we’ve all learned to recognise as poetry, will tend to be dismissed as prose, albeit written and laid out in an unfamiliar non-prosaic manner.
Our bodies and lives run to many rhythms from heartbeat to circadian to celestial.
Our songs whether Bach, Handel, Abba or Puff Daddy are rhythmic and their lyrics rhyme, so to my mind it is not surprising that the modern and experimental poets are given short shrift by the general public if their work is not to expected shapes.
Shakespearian Iambic Pentametre, for example, is a copy of the rhythm of the human heartbeat. John Masefield’s use of rhythm and rhyme in poems such as “Cargoes” enhances the word pictures of the various vessels in the poem.
One could define classic poetry as a “song without music” which suggests the requirement of recurrent themes of sound and structure. Take these rhythms away and the free-flowing shape of modern poetic writing is rejected by the majority of our peers as directionless, shapeless and untenable (the Universe is full of finite and recognisable shapes and thus shall be our poetry).
Today’s poetry scene has become asymmetrically bi-polar.
On the one hand a small group of modern poets and supporters with their new definitions of poetry, and on the other hand a massive public which is still being fed and educated with rhyme and rhythm, and whose expectation is more of the same.
Modern poetry, if thought about at all, is being perceived by ordinary folk as an exclusive domain for the erudite few, a past-time for unkempt and bearded introverts, or in its worst form, absolute rubbish. We all know where the money is, and so professional promotion also supports the expectations of the greater public.
What is most ironic is that the classical poet is not always recognised now by his modern peers and thus is denied their encouragement and support, which, in turn, denies the paying public the poetry they expect.
Poetry to the man in the street has now become a dying and irrelevant art form restricted to dusty halls of learning and old libraries.
Renaissance for the art form rests, in my opinion, with the classical styles the greater public expects. A collection of contemporary classical poetry could contain a few introductory modern poems as a means of educating the public to the newer forms of poetry, and so everyone would benefit from this inclusive, non-partisan approach.
My oldest son, when he was just thirteen, told me that he was discouraged by his English teacher from writing in rhyme that year, as he and his peers had not developed sufficient language skills in her opinion. How will he and others develop those skills and disciplines without encouragement at an earlier age by their teachers?
Free form styles rule in school!
So, as very few people in educational institutions appear today to be promoting the necessary English language skills and dedicated craftsmanship needed for production of classical poetry styles, the situation for poetry in general is going to continue to deteriorate.For those of you who say, “But look at the recent increase in the numbers of our poets,” I will say, “But look at the even greater increase in our general population!” The ironic twist mentioned above will continue screwing contemporary poetry as a whole into the ground whilst the craft and skills of classical poetry writing are being allowed to dissipate."
© Kim Randell 2006
No more rigid structure of line and verse, no rhyming couplets and quatrains.
Odes, sonnets and ballads no longer seem to have expected forms.
The very texture of the thoughts behind the words has apparently become the poems in some of these new evolutions and such forms of expressive language and thought totally lose the general public.
We have all been brought up and educated with “classical” metred and rhymed structures, from pre-school to University ( nursery rhymes to Shakespeare), from television “jingles” to popular music, and anything without the repeating and organised patterns that we’ve all learned to recognise as poetry, will tend to be dismissed as prose, albeit written and laid out in an unfamiliar non-prosaic manner.
Our bodies and lives run to many rhythms from heartbeat to circadian to celestial.
Our songs whether Bach, Handel, Abba or Puff Daddy are rhythmic and their lyrics rhyme, so to my mind it is not surprising that the modern and experimental poets are given short shrift by the general public if their work is not to expected shapes.
Shakespearian Iambic Pentametre, for example, is a copy of the rhythm of the human heartbeat. John Masefield’s use of rhythm and rhyme in poems such as “Cargoes” enhances the word pictures of the various vessels in the poem.
One could define classic poetry as a “song without music” which suggests the requirement of recurrent themes of sound and structure. Take these rhythms away and the free-flowing shape of modern poetic writing is rejected by the majority of our peers as directionless, shapeless and untenable (the Universe is full of finite and recognisable shapes and thus shall be our poetry).
Today’s poetry scene has become asymmetrically bi-polar.
On the one hand a small group of modern poets and supporters with their new definitions of poetry, and on the other hand a massive public which is still being fed and educated with rhyme and rhythm, and whose expectation is more of the same.
Modern poetry, if thought about at all, is being perceived by ordinary folk as an exclusive domain for the erudite few, a past-time for unkempt and bearded introverts, or in its worst form, absolute rubbish. We all know where the money is, and so professional promotion also supports the expectations of the greater public.
What is most ironic is that the classical poet is not always recognised now by his modern peers and thus is denied their encouragement and support, which, in turn, denies the paying public the poetry they expect.
Poetry to the man in the street has now become a dying and irrelevant art form restricted to dusty halls of learning and old libraries.
Renaissance for the art form rests, in my opinion, with the classical styles the greater public expects. A collection of contemporary classical poetry could contain a few introductory modern poems as a means of educating the public to the newer forms of poetry, and so everyone would benefit from this inclusive, non-partisan approach.
My oldest son, when he was just thirteen, told me that he was discouraged by his English teacher from writing in rhyme that year, as he and his peers had not developed sufficient language skills in her opinion. How will he and others develop those skills and disciplines without encouragement at an earlier age by their teachers?
Free form styles rule in school!
So, as very few people in educational institutions appear today to be promoting the necessary English language skills and dedicated craftsmanship needed for production of classical poetry styles, the situation for poetry in general is going to continue to deteriorate.For those of you who say, “But look at the recent increase in the numbers of our poets,” I will say, “But look at the even greater increase in our general population!” The ironic twist mentioned above will continue screwing contemporary poetry as a whole into the ground whilst the craft and skills of classical poetry writing are being allowed to dissipate."
© Kim Randell 2006
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