Skip to main content

A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.


Here we are on Hunter Street, outside the University of Tasmania's Art School looking towards what remains of the working port. It's an interesting nexus of ideas at work here, and is replicated in Launceston, where their Art School is located with an old railyard. Deliberate? Who knows!

Here's a romantic poem today.

Woman

Her hair...
shimmered.

Her eyes...
sparkled.

Her smile...
glimmered.

Her neck...
glistened.

Her pancreas...
excreted.

Comments

freefalling said…
I'm really loving your poems lately.
Kris McCracken said…
FF, they're all worthy of Keats and Wordsworth!
Tania said…
or U2
Kris McCracken said…
Tania, Bono just stole the line from Gloria Steinem.
Priyanka Khot said…
Hahahahah... what a laugh riot... ur idea of romance worries me a tad bit.
Candie said…
Pancreas romantic?not sure..:D
Babzy.B said…
nice poem ;)
Z said…
Urm, the absurdity of romance indeed.
Kris McCracken said…
Priyanka, romance is a bit silly really. It makes people do profoundly stupid things.
Kris McCracken said…
Candie, all of wife's organs are wonderful to me.
Kris McCracken said…
Z, got it in one!
yamini said…
What is actually your idea of romance???

does seem frightening if we go by the poem ;))
Kris McCracken said…
Yamini, a bit of slap 'n tickle!

Popular posts from this blog

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

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