WIRTSCHAFTSWUNDER DAY, an excerpt...

 

The President practiced his speech one last time, while
watching his reflection in the double doors that would soon
open for him to proceed onto the steps of the Sunshine Circus.
Peeping through a gap in the drapes, President Ongresowa saw
that the citizens of Luckycola were gathered expectantly in the
square. Pulling his stomach in and tightening his belt, he stepped
out through the double doors, followed by the Parliamentarians
and the upper echelons of the military. He lifted his right arm to
quell a wave of murmuring and whispering that suddenly rushed
through the crowd.

‘People of the country of Incognita,’ he began. High above
the square, Berisha Begari looked down from his perch two
hundred metres above the cupola of the Sunshine Circus.
‘People of Incognita,’ the President repeated, suddenly made
uneasy by the eerie stillness that now emanated from the 

enormous crowd.
‘I am your father,’ the President proceeded, suddenly unable
to remember his prepared speech. ‘You are my children, and,
like a good father, it is my sacred duty to protect my family
from the Outsiders.’
The President stopped and waited. Usually, the word ‘Outsiders’ 

was a trigger for uproarious cheering and applause. This

year, the President found himself gulping and running a finger
around inside his collar, which suddenly felt too tight. The
President cleared his throat.
‘ . . . from the Outsiders,’ he repeated.
At last, someone in the front of the crowd raised an arm, and
the President prepared himself for a cry of patriotism and
nationalistic punching of the air. However, the cry that issued
from the citizen was not Hurray for the President!, but a timid
Boo! that echoed from one side of the square to the other, and
was accompanied by the unexpected landing of an ovoid missile
at the President’s feet.
Before the Riot Police could intervene, an avalanche of offensive 

missiles had been launched from the sleeves and the pockets
of the people of Incognita. The crowd surged forward as one,
and the Riot Police ordered their Border Monkeys to disperse
the yelling and enraged crowd. However, the Border Monkeys
would not move, transfixed, as they were, by a white gorilla that
had waddled to the steps of the Sunshine Circus and shoved the
President out of centre stage.
No one knew what language it was that Snowflake the White
Gorilla spoke to the Border Monkeys. Some said, later, that he
had spoken to them of the dignity and pride in being a wild
monkey, and the shame and despair of being man’s servant.
Whatever it was that the white gorilla said, it was enough to
persuade the Border Monkeys to restrain their partners from
intervening in the mêlée. Just when the President thought that
the situation could not get worse, two or three hundred Outsiders 

marched on the square, followed by thousands of limping
ranks of geese, ducks, hens and turkeys. 

 

Feedback from Pete Hay in response to my poem, Drum...

 I think this is beautiful. It captures the 'love it and hate it' confusion even we fiercest of island patriots possess. And as for the power in the closing stanzas - absolutely unforgettable.

DRUM

These are my familiars:

a white gum veiled in a weaving of shadow,

stringy trunks leaning, one hip pushed to the side

as though an infant might be perched on each bulge.

*

I have lived here, in another lifetime.

Anorexic gums line the road,

reminding me of strangers’ funerals

when I was young.

*

Wattles have cropped up like weeds, as they always do.

A young pine forest, three power lines, arsenic posts.

Someone has written DRUM on the Pass Cyclists Safely sign,

and a No Trespassing addendum warns of 24 hour surveillance-

*

it is like a post-modern Lord’s Prayer.

I once camped in bush like this, but can’t imagine,

these days, setting up a tent amongst the trees.

I was twenty. Such things were possible- though,

*

even then, a murderer lurked behind every tree.

I wonder if newcomers sense it? the murderous intent?

the psycho-pathology of barbed wire fences?

the inanity of graffiti’d messages that mean nothing?

*

Clouds trundle overhead,

closing in the afternoon.

There is something sinister in this island.

We don’t belong.

Note: Pete Hay: These days, [though], Hay prefers to write in more creative modes. He has published six volumes of poetry; one of these as editor, and one, Last Days of the Mill, in collaboration with a visual artist (this book won the People’s Choice Award at the 2013 Tasmanian Book Prize). His most recent books of poetry are Girl Reading Lorca (Picaro, 2015) and Physick (Shoestring, 3016). He also writes personal essays (collected in 2002 as Vandiemonian Essays, with a second volume planned for 2017), commentary (including a stint as a newspaper columnist), and history.

Shrovetide Carnival

Shrovetide Carnival is one of the oldest folk traditions originating from the time before Christianity. In Slovenia, Shrovetide Carnival was first mentioned in the 17th century. Our ancestors believed that the ritual would chase evil spirits from the land.

The best-known Shrovetide figures include kurenti, laufarija, škoromati, otepovci, orači and zeleni Jurij or Green George...

Kurenti

On Shrovetide, hopping kurent carnival figures chase winter from the land.

Laurfarija

They wear wooden masks and run through the streets of Cerkno.

škoromati

Otepovci

Orači (Ploughmen)

Zeleni Jurij (Green Man)

The Cerknica Carnival is also reigned by Ursula the Witch alongside Jezerko the Lake Man, the Giant Pike Fish, the Dragon, Liza the Witch and Butalci. 

Ursula the Witch

Jezerko the Lake Man

Butale

A leap of faith...

Last night, I watched a documentary about the landing on the moon in the ‘60’s.  The first two-thirds of the documentary were about the preparation and landing.  It actually brought tears to my eyes, when Neil Armstrong said the famous sentence, as he stepped down off the last rung: One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.  That surprised me, that it should be so emotive.  I’m really not like that…

I recalled sitting in class with what seemed like the whole school packed into one hot room, watching a television set with doors on it that was wheeled out for the weekly educational programmes.  I was at a Catholic girls’ secondary school, and I must have been thirteen years old.  The school was only two years old, when I started there.  It was way out the back of town.  There was a sort of creek running through the school (more gully erosion than creek), with a log across which we teetered to get to the top “ovals” (read paddocks).  We saved all the scraps from lunch-time to give to the pig farmer up the road, and we burned all the burnable rubbish in an incinerator after lunch.  We all had jobs after lunch break.  For quite a while, mine was sorting the scrap-and-rubbish-buckets, putting the scrap buckets under the building, and setting light to the contents of the incinerator.  That was fun, as we (the two of us: a girl called Marguerite and I) were allowed into class a bit late, and we also had an exclusive kind of status.  However, Marguerite’s parents threatened to sue the school when she contracted hepatitis, and thus ended our foray into recycling.  I also recall looking out the window, one day, and seeing a cow meandering through the schoolyard.  Dora Stewart and I ran out to chase the animal out of the school grounds, and a good time was had by all. 

My father did not believe in the Moon Landing, even at the time.  He claimed that the moon did not exist- that it was merely the reflection of the earth in space.  He said that the publicity stunt was merely to take people’s minds off the Vietnam War.  He also said that someone had come and deliberately scraped the paint off our roof, that Mum was a communist, that some of the advertisements on TV were aimed at him, and that he was on a blacklist.  You get my drift…

So, last night, much of this came back to me, watching the ungainly, boxy shape of Neil Armstrong stepping down into the dust.  There was, unfortunately, a vague sense of cynicism in my enjoyment that had never really been there before.  What was it that the conspiracy theorists claimed about the American flag?  Something about a breeze that should not have been there, blowing the cloth.  They also claimed there was some object that didn’t belong, lying on the ground, that you could discern if you magnified the image.  These notions reminded me of the Beatles’ song that was supposed to say “Ringo is dead!” if you played the LP backwards.  Conspiracy theorists are often not cynics, at all, but people who long for mystery.

Anyway, the niggling of vague doubt was completely erased as I watched the third segment of the documentary in which the three astronauts spoke of the many years that followed the moon landing.  They spoke of being changed men; they spoke of the fact that they could never look at life or the universe in the same way.  “The landing on the moon was only one day in my life”, one of them said…”the rest has been devoted to Jesus”.  He explained that, on his return to earth, he had started attending a Bible-reading group, and that his newfound beliefs eclipsed that one day that was a turning-point in his life.  Another said how he remembered looking out of the Apollo and seeing the moon and the stars and thinking: “The earth, and everyone on the earth, and everything that man has made, is made of the stars… We are all one!” He told what a moving experience it was, to come to that realisation. 

I do not remember which old man it was who said which words, but I was struck by the awe with which they spoke, not of the moon, but of the earth.  “Sometimes, I just go out, and go on an escalator”, one of them said, “just to have people around me.  And I think to myself: We really do live in the Garden of Eden!”  All men spoke of the strangeness of being one of only two men standing on a planet uninhabited by any others; of knowing that everyone else was down there on the earth, but that they were so far away, and so alone.  One described the loneliness of this realisation, but another described the feeling as euphoric.

Thinking about the documentary, later, it struck me how ironic it was that three men could travel so far, and under such unnatural circumstances, to achieve these insights.  Listening to the wonder in their voices, seeing the openness on their faces, there was no question, in my mind, that these men had experienced something extraordinary.  The image of the Garden of Eden came up several times, and I remembered the day I came to my own epiphany.  I can’t recall what I was doing- I certainly wasn’t setting foot on any celestial body.  But I recall the sudden understanding that the Book of Genesis is not a story about the past, at all.  It is prophetic.  We are living in it right now. 

First Moon Landing 1969

 

Please scream inside your heart...

The Fuji-Q Highland amusement park near Tokyo has an unorthodox request for its roller coaster riders.
"Please scream inside your heart," and not out loud, the park is asking. The unusual ask is meant to reduce the risk of spreading the coronavirus.

Please scream inside your heart

Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal.

Thank you so much for sending your stunning poetry to Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal.

I'd be happy and honored to publish your poem "Sky God"

in Issue 4 of Sequoyah Cherokee River Journal.

I would be honored to translate your poem "Sky God".

EDITOR: MYSTI S. MILWEE

SEQUOYAH CHEROKEE RIVER JOURNAL

Ann Martin Wonderful! You're a treasure, Phili! 

1

Anne Morgan Congratulations, Philomena - you're a jewel in the crown of Tasmanian poetry.

Отава Ё - Про Ивана Groove (русское готическое R'N'B) - Otava Yo

Otava Yo (Russian: Отава Ё, ота́ва meaning "aftergrass") is a Russian folk rock band from Saint Petersburg, formed in 2003...

Otava Yo playlist

The Elusive Fern Flower

Fern (Athýrium fílix-fémina) – use an infusion of fern as a floor wash when cleansing the house to rid the house of evil spirits. In folk tradition, washing a house with infusion of fern helped appease Kikimora – a malevolent house spirit. Dried fern was placed in a charm-pouch for a traveler, so that he could achieve the goal of his journey. In witchcraft, fern is believed to intensify telepathic and telekinetic powers. It was used for contacting the Otherworld. As a moisture loving plant, fern was used in weather magic for summoning rain. 

A legendary fern flower was a real treasure to find and keep. It was believed to protect from snakes and any malevolent spirit, bring good luck to its owner, help become invisible, attract riches, find buried treasures, etc. However, not every legend about people finding fern flower ended well. Those who searched and found it for love indeed benefited from this find fully; however, fern flower is said to avoid greedy and dishonest people. Those who obtain it solely for the purpose of gaining riches they did not deserve usually are punished with madness in the end, while all the treasures they gained with its help become nothing but a pile of ashes and shards of broken pots. Fern, and especially its mystical flower, is sacred to Perun (for more information on fern flower see “Fern Flower” in the section devoted to mystical and mythical herbs). Collect fern on Kupala’s Eve (Eve of Summer Solstice).

Fern flower is the most famous among all the mystical herbs, primarily because fern (Athýrium fílix-fémina) is a very common plant that, no matter how much we’d want to, would never produce any real flowers (for more info on the fern plant, please see “Fern”). Researcher of Russian traditions, academic I.P. Sakharov writes the following about this plant: “Female fern, or fern is collected on St. John’s Day, with special rituals and incantations. According to folk view, only fern flower contains its power; it blooms only on St. John’s Eve and is protected by evil forces. Villagers provide all the details of fern blooming. Let’s repeat their story.
At midnight, from the bush of broad-leaf fern, a flower bud appears. It moves back and forth, then rocks like a river wave, then hops like a live bird. All of this happens because evil forces are trying to hide the precious blossom from human eyes. Then, expanding and growing upwards every minute, it blooms like hot coal. Finally, at 12 am precisely, the star-like flower unfolds with a cracking sound; its flame shines upon itself and in the distance. At the very same moment, evil forces show up and collect this flower.

One who dares to collect a fern flower must enter the forest in advance, find the bush [of fern], cast a circle around himself and wait for it to bloom. He has to be firm and unhesitant against evil forces, withstand all the temptations, be indifferent to all transformations of evil force. If he turns around when someone calls his name, the evil forces would twist his neck, or strangle him, or leave him mad for the rest of his life. So far, villagers don’t know anyone who was able to collect the fern flower besides sorcerers. Fern flower has a power over evil spirits, allows one rule over earth and water, find buried treasures, and become invisible. All this power would belong to the one that comes into possession of this flower. As they search for buried treasures, the seekers throw fern flower up in the air. If there is a buried treasure nearby, the flower would fly over it like a star and then fall straight to the ground.” (I.P. Sakharov, “Tales of Russian People: Tales of Russian Sorcery”)

Many ideas are suggested as to whether the fern flower really exists. Some say certain type of fungus may infect fern leaves and make them glow at night; others are certain that this is just a fairytale invented for fools; thirds claim that fern flower is not physical but appears as a burst of energy coming straight from the plant – this is why it is so difficult to collect it. Where is the truth? We wouldn’t know unless we experience it ourselves.

Slavic people believed that all herbs became magical on Kupala’s Eve. At this time, they could talk to humans and each other, bloom with absolutely magical “fiery” flowers, show a way to buried treasure, and even move, running away from an unworthy person daring to collect them. Who knows, maybe all these legends will come to life once again on this Kupala’s Eve, only if we are brave enough to open ourselves to nature and believe in Kupala’s magic, just as our ancestors a did long time ago.

- MagPie (aka Olga Stanton)

Ivan Kupala's Eve, Ukraine

Ivan Kupala's Eve, Ukraine

Hulla, Skogsra, Skogsfru, Tallemaja, Pine Tree Mary...

In Norwegian folklore it is believed a fairy-woman or nymph named Huldra ("secret" or "hidden") lives in the forest or mountains. Sometimes, she is said to be beautiful, but seen from behind, revealed to be hollow. Other times, she is said to be blue-skinned. In areas where she is known as "skogsnerte" ("blue"), she is said to be coloured blue and wearing a green petticoat.
As Huldra (by which she is most often known), she wears a blue petticoat and a white snood that barely covers a cow-like tail. She is particularly fond of brindled cattle, and keeps a herd of hornless cows. In the mountains, her song can be herd over a great distance- a low and mournful tune.

Aleksander L Nordaas

Heilung Norupo

Mary of the Pines

Hulderfolk

Description

Description

A hulder is a seductive forest creature found in Scandinavian folklore. Her name derives from a root meaning "covered" or "secret". In Norwegian folklore, she is known as huldra. She is known as the skogsrå "forest spirit" or Tallemaja "pine tree Mary" in Swedish folklore, and ulda in Sámi folklore. 

Hanne Tveter - HULDRA (Norwegian Folk Song)

the dancing man, in memory of

he called himself v sharp razor

but most people said the dancing man

and he cut himself

a fine figure

sometimes private school kids called alexander

or –dra

would strangle the necks of their violins

in the cat-and-fiddle arcade and

once I saw a boy juggling balls and

a girl with no guitar sang greensleeves

to the nth degree

but the dancing man busked his strangeness

like a cast-off five-stringed thing

his weirdness was his instrument

strung up tight

and tuned to a pitching fork

he played his alienation

like a maestro

and how the people loved

the way he practised the scales

of his quaint despair

just ask the great federico about otherness

and he’ll agree:

it’s so much more crowd-pleasing

with a soundtrack

but now the dancing man has danced himself safe

and the twisted pegs of his strings have come unsprung

and I always thought how coy the spanish are

to use the same verb for to touch for to play

to play the strings of your aloneness to touch them

the dancing man fondled the catgut of his strangeness

and we all stood by

outside a place called sanity

grinning

and absently tapping our leather-shod feet

A Night of Hot Quirky Shows 2019, Cygnet, Tasmania

A Night of Hot Quirky Shows

The theme was heat! I read this poem...

FAITH OF OUR FATHERS

The gully, a thurible

wafting bushfire smoke;

the smoke pungent, acrid.

Down in Ad-or-ation falling…

we used to sing…

this great sacrament Divine…

while the priest and his entourage filled the aisle

with the embroidered satin and pungent stink of godly things.

The smoke from scarlet-resined gums,

from purple-podded wattle,

from dry bracken and dogwood

cleaving to the towns down south

like burrs to an old grey blanket.

No one can tell where it’s coming from,

so thick and low-lying is the somnolent smoke.

We closet ourselves inside the house

while a million smoke-crazy midges

batter the windows.

At five minutes past ten, the rains begin,

staccato, percussive,

(a benediction!)

then fluid, a chrism,

a million small, finite heavens

sliding on the roof.

Falling, bouncing off,

making runnels in the corrugations,

on and on,

steady and strong,

cleansing the air.

I bring the washing indoors.

It is flecked with white ash

the size of the mosquitoes that

lazily, slothfully,

patrol us in the night.

The rain falls,

softening sometimes…

but on and on it falls,

dousing the terrible flames

we cannot even see.

Al-Khemia Poetica: Sunday, March 29, 2020: National Women's Month: Ph...

Al-Khemia Poetica: Sunday, March 29, 2020: National Women's Month: Ph...:                                   Shamanic Journey ©  2020 Philomena van Rijswijk Roza an...

Al-Khemia Poetica: Sunday, March 29, 2020 Sunday, March 29, 2020: National Women's Month: Philomena van Rijswijk's Three Paintings "Shamanic Journey", "Roza and Me", and "Mi amiga donde Ecuador”

Al-Khemia Poetica

Reading of the first chapter of "House of the Flight-helpers" by Rosalie Parker

House of the Flight-helpers

Do clouds watch us?

Do clouds watch our mute trundling

and try to see shapes there?

Do trees recall a forgotten history

from our time-layered skins?

Do the cliffs examine our faults and

extrusions, to map old seismic shifts;

and does the moon count

our florid waxings and wanings?

The ravening flames of a fire

know the way we are consumed

by oxygen, and so does

the rust on the bridge.

The farm furrows understand

the planting of the seed potatoes,

and the miracle of pushing out,

head-butting to the light.

Does a graveyard feel a terrible sorrow

for a future that’s not yet chiseled in granite?

Does the headstone wait nervously

to be given a name?

Does the earth fear the worst:

does she wake, wide-eyed, at night,

frantic for us, for the humans,

and the race they can’t, yet, put right?

-         Philomena van Rijswijk 2020

Do clouds watch us, and try to see pictures in us?

Moving clouds

Feedback from Edith Speers...

Edith Speers is a Tasmanian poet and publisher (Esperance Press).  This is her feedback on my recent novel, "House of the Flight-helpers"...

Anyway, I'm finally 
reading House of the Flight Helpers - about 50 pages so far. Your 
writing is so wonderful, the descriptions so powerful - I'm getting 
depressed! What a miserable world is Incognita. I'm feeling like I 
wish the birds would totally invade the place and send everyone 
running. Well, the fact is, you are even more brilliant as a writer 
than I ever suspected, and I already thought you were the best... 
love, E.

Only stating the obvious! Your writing so deserves that gorgeous 
hard-back publication. Oh, and also, just as a reader with not a lot 
of time for reading, I so appreciate the beautifully short chapters. 
No matter how scary or gloomy the scenario, I can move on to the next 
bit. The last few books I've read, the chapters were sooooo long, and 
I read late at night, and get sleepy, and just groan sometimes. And 
sometimes don't even finish the chapter - heresy!

And I'm now at 
the part of Flight-Helpers where Honeysuckle Rose and Juana Jubilee 
get out of Incognita. Thank heavens!

Have to admit, I'm breathing easier now that those 
poor people have some fresh air and open sky...

Hi there, you amazing person. What a great ending! And the stories and 
sagas and travels and meetings that converge at the end - wonderful. 
And yes, I noticed that Bird Boy ended up with a crown of thorns, and 
I'm glad he didn't get the gruesome demise that goes with it. And I 
noticed the "Havnotz" bread, too; this was the grimmest ever society 
of haves and have-nots.... It's great how you snuck in the religious 
and the political elements with barely a blip on the radar. That's 
subversive! Whew - trouble is, great literature seeps into my brain 
and my brain feels saturated and next thing, thoughts will come oozing 
out of my ears. I better pick up a trashy crime novel real quick, as 
an antidote... Love ya!

Aha - and that wonderful revolution, not a 'call to arms' but a call 
to compassion, blankets for people who were cold. Brilliant!

I hope you realize you have totally subverted the whole male-dominated 
warrior / cowboy orientation of the SF genre. The annoying thing is 
that few people will buy a book of that price. Any hope of a 
paperback...?

Oh good! I was wondering it they'd put the book in contests. Well - 
win a prize and they might bring out a paperback!