1. My song is love unknown,
My Savior’s love to me;
Love to the loveless shown,
That they might lovely be.
O who am I, that for my sake
My Lord should take, frail flesh and die?

2. Christ came from heaven’s throne
Salvation to bestow;
But people scorned, and none
The longed-for Christ would know:
But O! my Friend, my Friend indeed,
Who at my need His life did spend.

3. Sometimes they strew His way,
And His sweet praises sing;
Resounding all the way
Hosannas to their King:
Then “Crucify!” is all their breath,
And for His death they thirst and cry.

4. They rise, and needs will have
My dear Lord made away;
A murderer they saved,
The Prince of life they slay,
Yet cheerful He to suffering goes,
That He His foes from thence might free.

5. Here might I stay and sing,
No story so divine;
Never was love, dear King!
Never was grief like Thine.
This is my Friend, in Whose sweet praise
I all my days could gladly spend.

Jesus_Resurrection_1778

OK, it’s more a hymn than a poem as such (whatever that may be), but it is quite lovely, with an interesting use of rhyme. And what a perfect name for someone who wrote hymns! If that happened today we’d think it was an advertising slogan, but this work dates from 1664.

The image is rather strange, as Jesus looks a little like a football player who has just scored a goal, or a cricketer who is appealing for a wicket. A tad arrogant? Mary Magdalen looks totally inspired; as you would be, being the first person to see the resurrected Christ. Or in this case the elbow of the resurrected Christ.

The first apostle with eyewitness news about to run off and spread the word. Amazing that some churches still don’t have women priests. I think they’d rather that Jesus appeared to a man. Silly mistake for the Son of God, what?

I had a quiet Easter and a chocolate Easter. Hope all my readers, whether atheists or religious in some way, also ate their weight in chocolate.

I’d hate to be the only fatty.

The painting is by Johann Heinrich Tischbein the Elder: Resurrection, 1778. Snatched from the vaults of Wikimedia Commons.

Take a moment to read some other poetry. Simply use this feather:
Tuesday Poem

My next post will have details of the Canberra and Melbourne launches of The Stars Like Sand.

Alice looks back

Since furniture regained its proper size
and animals ceased to speak;
since teapots evicted rodents
and the Queen became so very nice
I find myself looking back
more and more and more.
Everything now is normaler and normaler,
and normalcy has its limitations.
I play patience, play it out,
wishing that the cards would rise
and assume that manic thinness,
that monarchy would lose itself
in ordering the loss of heads
for no known reason at all.
But we have assumed the robes,
the tight beige robes of logic.
Mathematics begets statistics,
measuring the mundane.
One day we’ll hear again
of these parallel places,
rabbit holes or worm-holes,
and falls into other worlds.
For now, I corset myself in common-sense,
and stuff memory into quotidian hats.

P.S. Cottier
flamingo

This poem was first published in Eureka Street, and then in my book The Cancellation of Clouds.

Alice in Wonderland is a perfect book; one that can be dipped into again and again. It makes us all flamingos; turning pink as we sup on its immortal shrimp. And if that’s not the worst metaphor you read today, I will eat my quotidian hat.

This feather was dropped by a rare New Zealand flamingo, known for its total lack of defence, unique accent, and inability to fly. Click it to discover more poetry:

Tuesday Poem

Apparently, poetry is the WordPress theme/prompt/challenge for the week. I wrote this before knowing that, but given poetry is my life-long challenge, I’ll sneak in a link anyway.

Off to the printers -
the most beautiful four words
proofing is ended

SLS_Cov

Well, they are the most beautiful four words to an editor, anyway.

We’re finalising launch details for The Stars Like Sand: Australian Speculative Poetry, edited by Tim Jones and me. There will be a launch in Melbourne, and one in Canberra, both in June. Poets will read poems from their own copies of the book! One editor will probably drink too much! Details to follow. Of the time and venue, not of the drunk editor’s proclivities.

For more sensible entries, I suggest you tap the following feather. Feather-tapping is a thing now.

Tuesday Poem

cheers

Yes, Tuesday Poem is four years old today, and a what a rambunctious lass she is. Born in New Zealand, she simultaneously exists in Paris, Canberra (and lesser parts of Australia), England and even bits of the United States.

Every Tuesday you can read wonderful poetry at the hub site and the members’ sites. Click this feather and go to New Zealand, for a far more comprehensive explanation of the birth of Tuesday Poem, and a poem (nay, four poems) on a food theme, broadly interpreted.
Tuesday Poem

We all contributed a food related sentence, which have all been stewed together, by clever chef Michelle Elvy (TP Hub sub-editor) along with Mary McCallum and Claire Beynon. It’s all rather like this extract from Dickens:

“‘It’s a stew of tripe,’ said the landlord smacking his lips, ‘and cow-heel,’ smacking them again, ‘and bacon,’ smacking them once more, ‘and steak,’ smacking them for the fourth time, ‘and peas, cauliflowers, new potatoes, and sparrow-grass, all working up together in one delicious gravy.’ Having come to the climax, he smacked his lips a great many times, and taking a long hearty sniff of the fragrance that was hovering about, put on the cover again with the air of one whose toils on earth were over.”

The Old Curiosity Shop Chapter 18

Regular readers of this blog can probably spot the sentence (or part thereof) contributed by this poet. Think quirk. Think juxtaposition. Think ‘yuck!’.

Enjoy your dinner.


The Coming of Age

Knock knock at the door:
Quiet and insistent.
Not Dickinson’s courtly Death,
taking me for a ride.
No, this is another visitor,
who doesn’t wait for me to answer.
But she leaves three calling cards:
sensible shoes, false teeth,
and a Zimmer frame,
subtle as the Harbour Bridge.
Still young enough, I chase Age
down the curvy street.
I throw the flat shoes at her.
I bite her with the plastic teeth
(puppeted in my hand, please note).
And the Zimmer frame?
It holds up my climbing rose.
How long, though, before
I cling, and shuffle, oh so slow,
with carefully engineered stride?

P.S. Cottier
Melencolia_I_(Durero)

I’ve been writing a few poems about age recently. This one was first published in The Mozzie, Queensland.

Age doesn’t worry me that much, really. So long as it affects me in no way whatsoever…

The Tuesday Poets have discovered the secret of eternal yoof. Press this feather and so will you. (Note: no promises will be fulfilled. But there will be poems.)

Tuesday Poem

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