for three Ghanaians plus three equals three / Ghanaians still

Snow joke. Mount Wellington, as seen from Geilston Bay. July 2011.

Ezra's birthday party is due to begin in one hour's time. I hope that by the time this post goes up:

i) the cake is done and dusted,

ii) the party bags are brimming with goodies,

iii) the children are dressed, fed and watered, and,

iv) the sun is out.

But first, a poem...

More Hope More Dust, Kojo Laing

Three Ghanaians have taped goats’ backs, they block the dung.
I
By the dust-blown koobi stands a chief on one leg,
AM
taped goats grunt and move their dust onto the flat fish,
OBSESSED
and to the raised one leg the horn sends a low sympathy
WITH
of music, for three Ghanaians plus three equals three
Ghanaians still,
THE
who stand behind the bus and admire the exhaust-pipe
TOUCH
freshly sweet with sugar-cane that was exhaustedly brought
OF
as the goat escapes with a powerful blast, its
SKINS
own anti-hoarding exercise done through the hide of the rump.
AT
The chief dancing with the other leg expects koobi
in the evening
BUSY
provided his wives can get round the power of horn music.
DUSTY
The sympathy is higher, lies on the motoway of a tall
Tamale man,
PLACES
but the horn is full of dust, it blows a tactile music,
BUT
so that at last three Ghanaians reduce themselves yet
still remain three.
IT
The free goats attack the Ghanaians, the revenge in the hoof
rises,
IS
in the dust the koobi turns over to its wrong side, parries
the commotion,
THE
the chiefly leg fed with fish is seriously dancing, it goads
the horn
FORGOTTEN
as the bus groans off spreading memories with its exhaust,
high
FUTURE
there the fighting goes on regardless: see the authority
in kicking,
THE
the Ghanaians bleat, the goats cry,
FORGOTTEN
they change hides but can’t hide each other, even in dust,
dust,
HISTORY
the hearts of goats become the hearts of Ghanaians,
THAT
the hoof is a fist, the finger is a tail,
SHAMES
and over where the ground steadies them there is a wall:
ME
for out of the fight, out of the bruises
AND
rise man and beast, beast part-man, man part-beast,
ALL
spectators scatter, chief is one fin of koobi, hornblower
turns to dust,
THESE
the Tamale man is an Accra cat: call him claws.
MYSTERIOUS
Millions of Ghanaians bleat with one lip in the mornings,
BODIES
cry later with the other lip hot,
PULLED
they frighten the silent watcher with the free mouth,
BY
who sees the changes career about in history,
and who, who
A SLY
waits patiently for the beast parts to wither,
WILD
waits for the bruise and fight
FATE
to change to the forward creative thrust: More hope!
More dust!

Let's knock that high dynamic range down a little. Mount Wellington, as seen from Geilston Bay. July 2011.

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

There was nothing left. No reason, no conscience, no understanding; even the most rudimentary sense of life or death, good or evil, right or wrong.

Here is a self portrait. I’m calling it Portrait of a lady in a dirty window . Shocking, isn’t it? However, it is apt! Samhain , Nos Galan Gaeaf , Hop-tu-Naa , All Saints , All Hallows , Hallowmas , Hallowe'en or HALLOWEEN . It’s Theme Thursday and we’re talking about the festivals traditionally held at the end of the harvest season. Huh? No wonder Australians have trouble with the concept of HALLOWEEN. For the record, in my thirty-two L O N G years on the planet, I can’t say I’ve ever seen ghosts ‘n goblins, trick ‘n treaters or Michael Myers stalking Tasmania’s streets at the end of October. [That said, I did once see a woman as pale as a ghost turning tricks that looked like Michael Myers in late November one time.] Despite the best efforts of Hollywood, sitcoms, and innumerable companies; it seems Australians are impervious to the [ahem] charms of a corporatized variant of a celebration of the end of the "lighter half" of the year and beginning of the "darke

In dreams begin responsibilities.

A life at sea, that's for me, only I just don't have the BREAD. That's right, Theme Thursday yet again and I post a photo of a yacht dicking about in Bass Strait just off Wynyard. The problem is, I am yet again stuck at work, slogging away, because I knead need the dough . My understanding is that it is the dough that makes the BREAD. And it is the BREAD that buys the yacht. On my salary though, I will be lucky to have enough dough or BREAD for a half dozen dinner rolls. Happy Theme Thursday people, sorry for the rush.

This will hurt me...

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