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SPEAK WITH ME - Australasian poetry & more


SPEAK WITH ME COVER

Speak With Me – Australasian Poetry and More… is Caroline Glen’s seventh book of published poetry.  

In 2005 she won a scholarship to a seminar at Sarah Lawrence College, New York and was welcomed to the USA Palm Beach Poetry Festival. 

Her work has been published in England, Australia, New Zealand and USA. She edits and regularly performs poetry. 

 

In Store Price: $21.95 
Online Price:   $20.95

 

AMAZON

EBOOKS
Ebook version - $AUD9.00 upload.

ISBN:978-0-9946271-6-2       
Format: Paperback
Number of pages: 145
Genre:
Australian Poetry

 

 


 


Author
-
Caroline Glen
Publisher: Zeus Publications
Date Published:  2016
Language: English


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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

 

Caroline has published six poetry books. The last one is called Fraser Island Dingo, featuring a long poem about a mother dingo’s life.  

Caroline has given public and private poetry readings in Sydney, Gold Coast, Brisbane, USA, and talks to schoolchildren. For eight years she co-ordinated the Gold Coast Writers’ Poetry Group. 

In 2004, she was short-listed for the Newcastle Prize. In 2005, she attended the first Florida Poetry Festival.  In the same year she won a scholarship to a poetry seminar at Sarah Lawrence College, New York. On return to Australia she cut a CD, reading twenty-one of her poems. 

In July 2006, she conducted a workshop supported by the Gold Coast Writers’ Association. 

She has had competition success. Her work has been published in Australia, New Zealand and America. 

Caroline edits poems for private collections and can be contacted at dollyglen@bigpond.com.

 

These Days

 

Whatever you have to say, leave

the roots on, let them

dangle

 

And the dirt

 

            Just to make clear

Where they come from

 

Charles Olson


READ A SAMPLE:

 

ACREAGE

 

How big the Queensland property?

Plenty big; too big for the city mind

to encompass.

 

From my city office I would see cattle

stretched over plains, under gum trees.

I would be hurrying their complacency

with my voice and the authority of my horse

through gates or baked wooden yards.

 

I would catch the train west, past the city’s

last houses, through hours of watching trees

to a small town, a small station, the pick-up ute

and a stockman leaning, cross-ankled against it.

He drove earth roads to the homestead,

its eiderdown of stars, cups of tea,

home-made cake, rough mattress, then oblivion.

 

I would wake newborn to the smell of earth

rolled out by the sun, and with that soul-renewing

smell of horse, leather and dirt, ride out

to the real and natural.

 

How many cattle in the homestead paddock?

Plenty, and easy to be lost.

 

Once young musterers left me

for the thrill to chase a native animal.

I shouted, rode in circles,

waited, listened.


  

 

I rode my horse until my bottom ached,

led him until my feet ached, rode him,

led him, reliant he would take me home,

as horses do, or to water, as horses can,

but indifference lay smooth in his fetlock.

 

The three dogs stayed. They played.

They sniffed amongst gum leaves

and clutches of grass at tree base;

jumped scrub to chase hares and wallabies.

 

The sun wouldn’t stop shining.

The trees kept advancing.

My mind slipped amongst them.

None gathered as guides besides

the banks of a creek.

My canvas waterbag swung empty.

We all bled salt.

 

At dusk we found a shallow creek.

In line we all drank the brown water,

heaved our lungs, blew out our bellies,

then followed the creek.

The late breezes smoothed the heat

on our bodies, but not my anxieties.

I expected a night curled between saddle flaps;

 

then a clearing, and tyre marks yielding

to the gate of the square homestead,

brown, bland and beautiful

that breathed man’s pioneer spirit,

his relationship with himself.

 

~~~

 


 

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