Sunday, July 31, 2011

Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 88, August 2011

Fear Of Darkness

A serial novel by Joe Lake.

(So far: Julie’s husband has an accident, after which he disappears. Julie goes to the police and then returns to the campervan, which is gone. She books into a motel. In the night, a kidnapper demands money over the telephone for her husband’s return. At the police station the next morning, in the two-way mirror over the counter, she sees the door open by itself and when she looks, a young couple enter. “Vampires,” she thinks but is told that it is a trick of the light.)

The next morning, as Julie slowly wakes in the double bed in the Winnebago, she finds someone lying next to her. The grey of morning is slowly seeping through the van’s blinds as she tries to recall the previous day when she was put to bed by the girl detective who embraced her sleepy body kindly and seemed to give her a love bite that made her drift into oblivion where she dreamt of floating and flying like a seagull through the night, circling way above the city of Burnie to the hypnotic blinking of the harbour lights.

Slowly her consciousness returns as she tries to focus on the ceiling of the mobile home. She daren’t touch the person sleeping next to her as she is afraid that it might be one of the detectives of the previous night. Then she notices the person’s gentle snore is clearly that of her husband who had disappeared and who could not, possibly, be lying there next to her after all that has happened. “It must all have been a dream”, she whispers to herself: “The woman in the park with the Obama mask and the rocking of the van and the shotgun and her husband falling backwards; then ambulance arriving and the police and then her husband’s disappearance and the missing van; then her interview at the Burnie police station where she had seen the two young people she thought were detectives and who had had no image in the mirror and her suspicion of vampirism.

“Bob, is that you?” she whispers. “Bob?”

The person next to her takes a deep in-breath, sits up, stretches both arms and exhales deeply with a kind of relief. “Julie, you awake?”

She held her breath for a moment and said, “Yes, dear. Did you have a good sleep?”

“Yes, I did. There was a kind of dream where I had been whisked away. It seemed so real.”

Julie snuggles up to him. As she stretches towards him, she feels a slight sting on the right hand side of her throat and when she touches it, she feels two small scabs like a snake bite.

(To be continued next month.)

Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 88, August 2011

The best creations rise from deep within,

As truths may be elusive and obscure.

The poet tries to guess where life has been

And shows the reader how one can endure.

With sceptic’s ear and tongue, and open sense

One should create a feeling with control

And then to banish it and make it dance,

With tales and stories which you then enrol.

But poems may be loved or deeply feared,

Where words begin our stumble towards death;

We can’t refute them even though they’re jeered,

And let them float where they may teach and bless.

All past and present futures are as one,

Where software speaks, as life, when it is done.

© Joe Lake

Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 88, August 2011

The best creations rise from deep within,

As truths may be elusive and obscure.

The poet tries to guess where life has been

And shows the reader how one can endure.

With sceptic’s ear and tongue, and open sense

One should create a feeling with control

And then to banish it and make it dance,

With tales and stories which you then enrol.

But poems may be loved or deeply feared,

Where words begin our stumble towards death;

We can’t refute them even though they’re jeered,

And let them float where they may teach and bless.

All past and present futures are as one,

Where software speaks, as life, when it is done.

© Joe Lake

Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 88, August 2011

Congratulations to the winners of the Burnie Gold Pot. As you can see on the front page, the pot was won by John Duncan and second prize went to Declan Fahey. Vi Woodhouse came third.

We are also looking forward to our main event on September 4 at the Burnie Regional Art Gallery with the BRAG boys.

Judy had part of her poem, The Blue-Smock Girls, published at the conclusion of Allan Jamieson’s book The Pulp The Rise And Fall Of An Industry. It would be nice if you could buy a copy as we like to support local historical and artistic endeavour.

Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 88, August 2011

Congratulations to the winners of the Burnie Gold Pot. As you can see on the front page, the pot was won by John Duncan and second prize went to Declan Fahey. Vi Woodhouse came third.

We are also looking forward to our main event on September 4 at the Burnie Regional Art Gallery with the BRAG boys.

Judy had part of her poem, The Blue-Smock Girls, published at the conclusion of Allan Jamieson’s book The Pulp The Rise And Fall Of An Industry. It would be nice if you could buy a copy as we like to support local historical and artistic endeavour.

Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 88, August 2011

Notting Hill

Sharp the memory at Notting Hill,

On The Tube, the image still,

Like crystal, when white and black ignited,

Teddy Boy, Calypso Man violent and excited,

They fought in hundreds on the street,

And the Bobby, on his beat,

could scarce separate warring factions,

Terror, hate were the new attractions,

Intolerance embedded in 1958,

With bike chains, the Boys could not satiate

their lust for Caribbean blood

which spilt on brutal bitumen in a flood

until all was said and done,

Battle neither lost nor won,

Battered pride and bodies, too,

Catch The Underground to Waterloo,

There, read the papers, early edition,

News bare and raw, no condition,

Then was then and then is now,

This storyteller wonders how

imploded London has forgotten

race divide was entrenched and rotten.

© Michael Garrad July 2011

Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 88, August 2011

The Pulp The Rise And Fall Of An Industry is the definitive account of the life and death of APPM, a masterpiece of technical analysis and human interest compiled by author Allan Jamieson.

The class hardback documents in fine detail the life of the Burnie mill from 1936 until 2010 and most importantly how The Pulp became such an integral component of the development of this town through to cityhood.

The Pulp was and is, even in its death, the place called Burnie.

If you needed a job, then go to The Pulp. It was family, an entire structure that provided security and a future for countless people.

As an Italian migrant told me so many years ago - in the event I wanted to make a change in career from journalism to something completely different - I could get a job at The Pulp (with the accent on P-u-l-p) where I could earn “plenty dollar”.

A bonus in Allan’s book is a contribution by Europa poet Judy Brumby-Lake. Judy’s work, The Blue-Smock Girls, is an insightful glimpse of the women who worked in the mill’s finishing room.

Were they “good girls” or “bad girls”? Judy tells it like it is - and was.