Showing posts with label Secret Leopard. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Secret Leopard. Show all posts
31.8.26
Memory Lane (and a warning)
24.2.19
Poets Out Loud
They started with me! (Pardon my excitement.)
Enterprising young poet Sarah Temporal has just organised a new series of monthly poetry readings in Murwillumbah NSW where I live (and she lives). They began last Thursday with a varied and exciting program of two featured readers (me and Matt Hetherington) and lots of brilliance in the open sections. Here I am in full emote on the night:
And these are the poems I read, the first two from my book Secret Leopard, the second two much more recent. You can click the links for the individual poems, to read them on my poetry blogs, The Passionate Crone and Enheduanna's Dauggter.
16.8.17
ANNOUNCEMENT: New e-book
You can get it for only $2.99 USD in whatever format suits you (mobi for Kindle, epub for other e-readers or pdf for your computer).
Lots of wonderful poems, if I do say so myself, and you won't find them on my blog!
(There are still a VERY few paperback copies left which I am now selling for $10 USD — and to Aussies $10 AUD — plus postage. You'll have to message me if you want one of them.)
Here is the link to the ebook.
28.3.07
A Selection of Poems from SECRET LEOPARD by Rosemary Nissen-Wade
Bye-Bye Barbie
A fable of Leah’s dolls
Betty with the home-made clothes
glares across the room at Barbie
who is shop-dressed, brand new,
buxom and coolly smiling.
Betty with the home-made hate
sidles across the room on her rag bum
sneakily, bit by bit, so Leah won’t see.
She is dragging the toy soldier’s axe.
Betty with the built-up hours
of staring across the room
has been inventing stories.
She is calling herself Cinderella.
She is calling herself Beauty
and Orphan, and Princess – and right.
Barbie, watching round-eyed, is mesmerised
as Stepmother/Ogre/Troll lunges for her blood.
© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 1990
First published Second Degree Tampering (Sybylla 1992)
In Walking the Dogs (Pariah Press anthology)
Also in Secret Leopard: New and selected poems 1974-2005, Alyscamps Press (Paris) 2005
Traveller
My stepfather showed me oceans.
Now these midnight moments
call and flesh the ketch
from childhood,
dusted by moonlight,
perfectly still
at the end of the pier.
That New Year’s Eve we danced
in circles on the sand.
Sand and sea joined flat.
We might have walked straight out
with no dividing breath.
‘St. Elmo‘s Fire,’ he said
pointing, as flame without wind
blew in the bare poles
leaving them clean.
The moon’s long wake
pierced the horizon.
My stepfather gave me boats.
Tonight he’s dying,
I’m far from home.
Twin masts faintly gilded
rise perfectly still
through all my seas, all ships
poised ever since,
a track of light
widening across the water.
Gone by morning.
© Rosemary Nissen 1981
from Universe Cat, Pariah Press (Melb.) 1985
First published Meanjin
Also in Secret Leopard: New and selected poems 1974-2005, Alyscamps Press (Paris) 2005
Set to music by Clive Price
The Sword of Archangel Michael
The sword glows
in my right hand.
My arm swings from the shoulder
wielding blue flame:
sharp light, the cut of truth.
Precise moves.
Economy. Bite.
These are the qualities.
These and blue light —
a laser that heals where it touches.
In the beginning
the word.
The word true,
the word precise,
the word deliberately aimed.
It cuts to the heart,
my sword in flight.
From the heart of God
to the point of now
exactly aimed,
quick light.
© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 1995
First published Divan (e-zine) issue 4, Dec. 2001.
Also in Secret Leopard: New and selected poems 1974-2005, Alyscamps Press (Paris) 2005
The Goddess Without
Mickie said,
“You have a Goddess tummy.
I love to work on it.”
I’d wanted her Lomi Lomi massage
to melt it away, make it
hard and lean like Halle Berry’s
when she played the latest Bond girl.
Instead I found myself weeping
in exquisite relief. I —
to be seen naked and found beautiful!
Always I saw myself ugly.
I look in the bathroom mirror now
and see the archetype:
Venus of Willendorf —
only my breasts are plumper,
less pendulous,
the skin of my belly
smoother, unwrinkled yet.
Has everyone been wrong,
that statue not Mother, but Crone?
She is how grandmothers look!
I claim my ancient beauty.
© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2005
First published Secret Leopard: New and selected poems 1974-2005, Alyscamps Press (Paris) 2005
The Day We Lost the Volkswagen
During a momentary lull in her head,
the poor old thing lost her grip.
The boat she was towing towed her instead
ponderously down the slip.
backwards into the water.
For a swirling moment she almost floated,
she thought of setting sail.
But her bum tilted, her britches bloated —
she was heavy in the tail —
and the sly seaweed caught her.
I thought even then she might make a try
(she seemed to be righting her flank)
but she spun gravely, one eye on the sky,
gave a dignified splutter and sank.
The sea frothed briefly.
I don’t know — she wasn’t the kind to drift,
much less come apart at the seams.
But the sails and the clouds that day had a lift,
and perhaps she had some dreams.
It was a damn nuisance, chiefly.
© Rosemary Nissen 1974
from Universe Cat, Pariah Press (Melb.) 1985
and Secret Leopard: New and selected poems 1974-2005, Alyscamps Press (Paris) 2005
First published Nation Review.
Also in:
A Second Australian Poetry Book for Children, Oxford
Secondary English Book 3, Macmillan
Off the Record, Penguin
Penguin Book of Australian Women Poets.
Vagabond
Down near the flat rocks at the pool
the secret leopard sniffs the day.
He tilts his head by the striped bamboo,
calling me: come and play.
When I was seven, and nine, and twelve,
I watched for his furious, bell-shaped head,
but they always dragged me back from the track.
'He is terrible,' they said.
They stuffed my ears with cottonwool,
they tied my hands and feet to the bed,
but still the house shook silkenly
to his broad, electric tread.
That was a long, long time ago.
Now I am grown and free to run
to the white rocks and the dim bamboo
and the velvet hood of the sun.
He has been waiting by the yellow pool,
padding the black leaves patiently,
holding the flame in his narrow eyes,
wild and slow as the sea.
His handsome haunches are molten gold,
his perilous paws flow red through the shade.
You may mew forever from your pitiful bed —
I am deep in the spiky glade.
I will not tell of the spotted jungle
with silver trees that eat the sun.
I will not tell of the tawny trails
where I and the lavish leopard run.
© Rosemary Nissen 1974
from Universe Cat, Pariah Press (Melb.) 1985
First published A Second Australian Poetry Book for Children (Oxford)
Also in Secondary English Book 3, Macmillan and Secret Leopard, Alyscamps (Paris), 2005
Walk With This Spirit
(A meeting of the Kingscliff-Cudgen Reconciliation Circle)
No wonder it's called Rosella Tomato Sauce —
they're that red, lined up on the wide rail.
But their yellow-green wings can't be compared
to any tree or grass, or even the ferns
crowding up and over the high verandah
They are unique, and have their own colour.
Bright. Bold. In your face
like the big Reconciliation badge I wear:
red, green and yellow, black and white.
"Walking Together" it says. And we sit together,
a circle of Australians, indigenous and non.
We sit together talking, even after the last light
strikes the opposite hill in a sudden blaze.
We're dreaming up a monument,
a reminder of who came first —
something to touch, like the rock or tree
that has always been the place
to speak to ancestral spirits.
We dream it could heal all hearts.
We invent phrases, like, "Walk with this spirit."
Somebody mentions earth.
Grey beard, gentle eyes, brown face,
a man of measured words.
"What do you mean exactly when you say earth?"
I ask, flushed and earnest, wanting to get it right.
"Australia? This bit of land? Or the whole planet?"
For the first time, he stammers.
"All that. The earth supports us.
She is our Mother!" His eyes fill with tears.
We fall silent. On the rail, the Rosellas jostle.
The forested valley begins to grow dark.
We sit together, sipping coffee, watching
one green patch of shared, beloved earth.
© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2000
First published Secret Leopard: New and selected poems 1974-2005, Alyscamps Press (Paris) 2005
A review of SECRET LEOPARD
Responses to Rosemary's poetry
For more poetry by Rosemary, go to her poetry blogs, The Passionate Crone, Enheduanna's Daughter, and her 'mindful writing' blog, Stones for the River.
A fable of Leah’s dolls
Betty with the home-made clothes
glares across the room at Barbie
who is shop-dressed, brand new,
buxom and coolly smiling.
Betty with the home-made hate
sidles across the room on her rag bum
sneakily, bit by bit, so Leah won’t see.
She is dragging the toy soldier’s axe.
Betty with the built-up hours
of staring across the room
has been inventing stories.
She is calling herself Cinderella.
She is calling herself Beauty
and Orphan, and Princess – and right.
Barbie, watching round-eyed, is mesmerised
as Stepmother/Ogre/Troll lunges for her blood.
© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 1990
First published Second Degree Tampering (Sybylla 1992)
In Walking the Dogs (Pariah Press anthology)
Also in Secret Leopard: New and selected poems 1974-2005, Alyscamps Press (Paris) 2005
Traveller
My stepfather showed me oceans.
Now these midnight moments
call and flesh the ketch
from childhood,
dusted by moonlight,
perfectly still
at the end of the pier.
That New Year’s Eve we danced
in circles on the sand.
Sand and sea joined flat.
We might have walked straight out
with no dividing breath.
‘St. Elmo‘s Fire,’ he said
pointing, as flame without wind
blew in the bare poles
leaving them clean.
The moon’s long wake
pierced the horizon.
My stepfather gave me boats.
Tonight he’s dying,
I’m far from home.
Twin masts faintly gilded
rise perfectly still
through all my seas, all ships
poised ever since,
a track of light
widening across the water.
Gone by morning.
© Rosemary Nissen 1981
from Universe Cat, Pariah Press (Melb.) 1985
First published Meanjin
Also in Secret Leopard: New and selected poems 1974-2005, Alyscamps Press (Paris) 2005
Set to music by Clive Price
The Sword of Archangel Michael
The sword glows
in my right hand.
My arm swings from the shoulder
wielding blue flame:
sharp light, the cut of truth.
Precise moves.
Economy. Bite.
These are the qualities.
These and blue light —
a laser that heals where it touches.
In the beginning
the word.
The word true,
the word precise,
the word deliberately aimed.
It cuts to the heart,
my sword in flight.
From the heart of God
to the point of now
exactly aimed,
quick light.
© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 1995
First published Divan (e-zine) issue 4, Dec. 2001.
Also in Secret Leopard: New and selected poems 1974-2005, Alyscamps Press (Paris) 2005
The Goddess Without
Mickie said,
“You have a Goddess tummy.
I love to work on it.”
I’d wanted her Lomi Lomi massage
to melt it away, make it
hard and lean like Halle Berry’s
when she played the latest Bond girl.
Instead I found myself weeping
in exquisite relief. I —
to be seen naked and found beautiful!
Always I saw myself ugly.
I look in the bathroom mirror now
and see the archetype:
Venus of Willendorf —
only my breasts are plumper,
less pendulous,
the skin of my belly
smoother, unwrinkled yet.
Has everyone been wrong,
that statue not Mother, but Crone?
She is how grandmothers look!
I claim my ancient beauty.
© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2005
First published Secret Leopard: New and selected poems 1974-2005, Alyscamps Press (Paris) 2005
The Day We Lost the Volkswagen
During a momentary lull in her head,
the poor old thing lost her grip.
The boat she was towing towed her instead
ponderously down the slip.
backwards into the water.
For a swirling moment she almost floated,
she thought of setting sail.
But her bum tilted, her britches bloated —
she was heavy in the tail —
and the sly seaweed caught her.
I thought even then she might make a try
(she seemed to be righting her flank)
but she spun gravely, one eye on the sky,
gave a dignified splutter and sank.
The sea frothed briefly.
I don’t know — she wasn’t the kind to drift,
much less come apart at the seams.
But the sails and the clouds that day had a lift,
and perhaps she had some dreams.
It was a damn nuisance, chiefly.
© Rosemary Nissen 1974
from Universe Cat, Pariah Press (Melb.) 1985
and Secret Leopard: New and selected poems 1974-2005, Alyscamps Press (Paris) 2005
First published Nation Review.
Also in:
A Second Australian Poetry Book for Children, Oxford
Secondary English Book 3, Macmillan
Off the Record, Penguin
Penguin Book of Australian Women Poets.
Vagabond
Down near the flat rocks at the pool
the secret leopard sniffs the day.
He tilts his head by the striped bamboo,
calling me: come and play.
When I was seven, and nine, and twelve,
I watched for his furious, bell-shaped head,
but they always dragged me back from the track.
'He is terrible,' they said.
They stuffed my ears with cottonwool,
they tied my hands and feet to the bed,
but still the house shook silkenly
to his broad, electric tread.
That was a long, long time ago.
Now I am grown and free to run
to the white rocks and the dim bamboo
and the velvet hood of the sun.
He has been waiting by the yellow pool,
padding the black leaves patiently,
holding the flame in his narrow eyes,
wild and slow as the sea.
His handsome haunches are molten gold,
his perilous paws flow red through the shade.
You may mew forever from your pitiful bed —
I am deep in the spiky glade.
I will not tell of the spotted jungle
with silver trees that eat the sun.
I will not tell of the tawny trails
where I and the lavish leopard run.
© Rosemary Nissen 1974
from Universe Cat, Pariah Press (Melb.) 1985
First published A Second Australian Poetry Book for Children (Oxford)
Also in Secondary English Book 3, Macmillan and Secret Leopard, Alyscamps (Paris), 2005
Walk With This Spirit
(A meeting of the Kingscliff-Cudgen Reconciliation Circle)
No wonder it's called Rosella Tomato Sauce —
they're that red, lined up on the wide rail.
But their yellow-green wings can't be compared
to any tree or grass, or even the ferns
crowding up and over the high verandah
They are unique, and have their own colour.
Bright. Bold. In your face
like the big Reconciliation badge I wear:
red, green and yellow, black and white.
"Walking Together" it says. And we sit together,
a circle of Australians, indigenous and non.
We sit together talking, even after the last light
strikes the opposite hill in a sudden blaze.
We're dreaming up a monument,
a reminder of who came first —
something to touch, like the rock or tree
that has always been the place
to speak to ancestral spirits.
We dream it could heal all hearts.
We invent phrases, like, "Walk with this spirit."
Somebody mentions earth.
Grey beard, gentle eyes, brown face,
a man of measured words.
"What do you mean exactly when you say earth?"
I ask, flushed and earnest, wanting to get it right.
"Australia? This bit of land? Or the whole planet?"
For the first time, he stammers.
"All that. The earth supports us.
She is our Mother!" His eyes fill with tears.
We fall silent. On the rail, the Rosellas jostle.
The forested valley begins to grow dark.
We sit together, sipping coffee, watching
one green patch of shared, beloved earth.
© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 2000
First published Secret Leopard: New and selected poems 1974-2005, Alyscamps Press (Paris) 2005
A review of SECRET LEOPARD
Responses to Rosemary's poetry
For more poetry by Rosemary, go to her poetry blogs, The Passionate Crone, Enheduanna's Daughter, and her 'mindful writing' blog, Stones for the River.
27.3.07
A Review of SECRET LEOPARD
From The Smoking Poet
Book Review by Zinta Aistars
Secret Leopard: New & Selected Poems 1974-2005 by Rosemary Nissen-Wade
Softcover
124 pages
Publisher: Alyscamps Press, 2005
ISBN: 0-9764509-1-7
The Australian poet Rosemary Nissen-Wade writes in her poem titled, “Crossing the Great Water:”
Words are such useless things
compared with the touch of a hand,
a smiling mouth, a soft eye…
Useless things, words. But all we have
when we live so distant.
All that we have to cross
the great spaces of air and ocean
lengthening between us.
But Nissen-Wade has taken those “useless words” and given them wings to cross the space between the poet and the reader. In an extensive collection of poetry written over a span of more than 30 years, we are witness to the poet’s literary growth. Her topics are large and timeless, yet Nissen-Wade brings them home to the individual reader in the everyday, unadorned words we all know, and with words that reach to the hidden heart, where large things live: love, death, faith, hope — and just in time, without waste, aimed true. In “Supreme Compliment,” she writes:
I miss one lover.
Easy man, unfurling
as a fronded fern to sip the sun
leisurely
uncontrived.
Revealed:
The fragile core firming,
stretching alive. Sensitive
in touch and movement,
playfully intent.
He made love like a woman.
The whole person.
In admirable economy of words, Nissen-Wade sums up the wish of women everywhere, the struggle for what satisfies and lasts, the largesse of love for person from person, without a hint of unnecessary drama, no soapbox in sight, no garish decoration, because none is needed. This is the lover she misses, this one, and none of the others. In that, saying it all.
Other near perfect poems are “Incarnation” (“What ancient wind now sucks and cries/at our stones and walled places?”), “Autumn” (“lost faces/drifting on memory”), and again the stunning economy of words expressing something nearly too big for words in “The Same Valleys” (“I’m with you and alone, it’s quiet, my outline fills”). Nissen-Wade’s talent is in using the bare bones of big ideas and letting the reader fill in their own outlines with the echo of their own experiences. She says, simply, what we suddenly recognize we have been trying and trying to say all along, now only gasp in recognition: yes! That’s it… exactly.
An occasional miss, as in “Writing the Prison” or a section called “From Small Poems of April, 1991” that could be eliminated entirely without lessening the value of the whole, doesn’t keep this collection from being an overall poetic goldmine. Even in that obligatory poem every poet seems to eventually write in some version about writing itself, Nissen-Wade’s “Always the Writing” is fresh and personal. The collection concludes with a fitting series of goodbye poems, written about the poet’s mother and a friend named Karen, observing and capturing the process of human disintegration without melodrama or pity.
“…Each word brings me/closer to the edge of being singular,/discovering my own pains and rewards…”
It takes courage to take on the turning points of life, the rites of passage, but what else truly matters? Nissen-Wade has not only the courage, but the skill and talent to do so successfully.
Book Review by Zinta Aistars
Secret Leopard: New & Selected Poems 1974-2005 by Rosemary Nissen-Wade
Softcover
124 pages
Publisher: Alyscamps Press, 2005
ISBN: 0-9764509-1-7
The Australian poet Rosemary Nissen-Wade writes in her poem titled, “Crossing the Great Water:”
Words are such useless things
compared with the touch of a hand,
a smiling mouth, a soft eye…
Useless things, words. But all we have
when we live so distant.
All that we have to cross
the great spaces of air and ocean
lengthening between us.
But Nissen-Wade has taken those “useless words” and given them wings to cross the space between the poet and the reader. In an extensive collection of poetry written over a span of more than 30 years, we are witness to the poet’s literary growth. Her topics are large and timeless, yet Nissen-Wade brings them home to the individual reader in the everyday, unadorned words we all know, and with words that reach to the hidden heart, where large things live: love, death, faith, hope — and just in time, without waste, aimed true. In “Supreme Compliment,” she writes:
I miss one lover.
Easy man, unfurling
as a fronded fern to sip the sun
leisurely
uncontrived.
Revealed:
The fragile core firming,
stretching alive. Sensitive
in touch and movement,
playfully intent.
He made love like a woman.
The whole person.
In admirable economy of words, Nissen-Wade sums up the wish of women everywhere, the struggle for what satisfies and lasts, the largesse of love for person from person, without a hint of unnecessary drama, no soapbox in sight, no garish decoration, because none is needed. This is the lover she misses, this one, and none of the others. In that, saying it all.
Other near perfect poems are “Incarnation” (“What ancient wind now sucks and cries/at our stones and walled places?”), “Autumn” (“lost faces/drifting on memory”), and again the stunning economy of words expressing something nearly too big for words in “The Same Valleys” (“I’m with you and alone, it’s quiet, my outline fills”). Nissen-Wade’s talent is in using the bare bones of big ideas and letting the reader fill in their own outlines with the echo of their own experiences. She says, simply, what we suddenly recognize we have been trying and trying to say all along, now only gasp in recognition: yes! That’s it… exactly.
An occasional miss, as in “Writing the Prison” or a section called “From Small Poems of April, 1991” that could be eliminated entirely without lessening the value of the whole, doesn’t keep this collection from being an overall poetic goldmine. Even in that obligatory poem every poet seems to eventually write in some version about writing itself, Nissen-Wade’s “Always the Writing” is fresh and personal. The collection concludes with a fitting series of goodbye poems, written about the poet’s mother and a friend named Karen, observing and capturing the process of human disintegration without melodrama or pity.
“…Each word brings me/closer to the edge of being singular,/discovering my own pains and rewards…”
It takes courage to take on the turning points of life, the rites of passage, but what else truly matters? Nissen-Wade has not only the courage, but the skill and talent to do so successfully.
25.3.07
Responses to Rosemary's Poetry
Rosemary Nissen-Wade is both original and a powerful voice—a voice of humanity in all its suffering and joy.…These are poems of great immediacy and power—but the one word that has been, most accurately, used to describe their underlying unity is love.
– Karl Orend, former Manager of Shakespeare & Company, Paris.
These are poems that look with a steady and perceptive eye on poetry’s grand themes – love, death, the natural world – but can spare a sideways glance for things small and things fantastic – the warmth of a cat curled on the bed, unicorns in the laundry.
— Jennifer Strauss, poet, critic and Honorary Senior Research Fellow at Monash University, Melbourne.
... tough-minded when that’s needed, she can be hauntingly, delicately moving ...’
– Philip Martin, poet, critic and translator.
Rosemary, I cannot tell you what a relief it is to read your poetry. It's actually beautifully written! You have no idea how many REALLY BAD books I have been given to read. So when I find one that's a joy I nearly lose my mind with delight! THANK YOU for sending this to me! It truly is a lovely book!
– Vila SpiderHawk, author
Don't minimise your ability to reach, to reach out. People will need poetry. Healing works on a level in which there is something wrong. Poetry gets to the core, the heart. That is the pertinence of poetry now. It is essential for people to have access to poetry as a means for activation of the heart.
– Raeline Brady, Reiki/SKHM Master, Vibrational Essence Practitioner
– Karl Orend, former Manager of Shakespeare & Company, Paris.
These are poems that look with a steady and perceptive eye on poetry’s grand themes – love, death, the natural world – but can spare a sideways glance for things small and things fantastic – the warmth of a cat curled on the bed, unicorns in the laundry.
— Jennifer Strauss, poet, critic and Honorary Senior Research Fellow at Monash University, Melbourne.
... tough-minded when that’s needed, she can be hauntingly, delicately moving ...’
– Philip Martin, poet, critic and translator.
Rosemary, I cannot tell you what a relief it is to read your poetry. It's actually beautifully written! You have no idea how many REALLY BAD books I have been given to read. So when I find one that's a joy I nearly lose my mind with delight! THANK YOU for sending this to me! It truly is a lovely book!
– Vila SpiderHawk, author
Don't minimise your ability to reach, to reach out. People will need poetry. Healing works on a level in which there is something wrong. Poetry gets to the core, the heart. That is the pertinence of poetry now. It is essential for people to have access to poetry as a means for activation of the heart.
– Raeline Brady, Reiki/SKHM Master, Vibrational Essence Practitioner
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