When . . . .

 

When Betelgeuse holds out her shining hand

Across the hundreds of her years of light,

I marvel that I should be here at gaze

Upon the starry wonders of the night.

Betelguese 

 

It matters not that I am poor and ill,

A pallid ghost waiting the pallid pall;

When I see wonder, all the marvel is

That I am here at all.

 

Llywelyn Lucas (1943)

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Four Aphorisms

Llywelyn Lucas 

 

Nature didn’t invent marriage, let alone monogamy. 

Mere tidiness is the destroyer of creativity.

The only real poverty is possession of a mean spirit

We may seem to be and we may try to be, but we cannot really be – other than we are.

                                                                                                         Llywelyn Lucas.

 

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Taringa

The air at sweet Taringa

Is like Taringa's name,

Clanging and sweet and streaming forth

In a blue morning flame;

Bullock Team, Taringa 1921

 

The great hills of Mount Coot-tha

So gloriously steep

And the valleys that they mother

Distil it in their sleep.

 

It dissipates like dreaming,

It uplifts like a cloud,

It sets the people walking

With step remote and proud.

 

The air at sweet Taringa

Is like Taringa's name,

Clanging and sweet and streaming forth

In a blue morning flame!

                                                   Llywelyn Lucas: Brisbane Courier, 9 February, 1929, p 22

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Age

I love old flowers: the withering

Is natural and right: in mellowness to fall away;

Secession of a pear to pulp and tiny pips of seed,

The rot, the mother-date enriching wordless earth

                and earth's divinity – the incessant spark.

Why should you throw away a flower that droops

its dress of insect-call?

The godling Pan has not yet come.

I love old flowers: their autumn days

To me are lovely, lovable.  The mellowing, the withering,

The bronze and brown and seeding off, even in 

                a bowl the ghosting time,

The greying character of things inanimate or animate,

Beseeches, teaches: benison[1].

 

I love old horses: made, unmade by destiny of fate's decree

Sharp, sour, or humble, suns of power, as Jupiter's across our sky:

Earth takes the lightning of their eyes and man heaps up  his obloquy[2].

 

I love old people, craggy, rocked,

with purpose of their pilgrimage.

(The young are but a bladder-pulse

of formlessness within a form).

Life is the fashioning of age.

Let others  keep their new-born buds,

Their matron beauties, all the prime

Of creatures burgeoning and bold.

Within my heart the old I fold.

 

Llywellyn Lucas, (1965).

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[1]A blessing

[2]Public criticism

 

Dark Angel

 

The wings of the great dark angel – I heard them brushing,

I heard them brushing but thank God not by me,

And the tide of battle came suddenly to me rushing

From a dark Malayan jungle over the sea:

And a child not six years old who had lost her brother,

Was hiding her face from me.

The wings of the great dark angel I heard them brushing

  • And the darkness fell on another’s Calvary.

 

And my own little one came running to me frightened,

Crying ‘Mummy, what was it made him killed?’

And I said, ‘It is destiny dark and doom the dreadful,’

And I showed her then how golden the sunlight spilled.

‘But Mummy what was it made him have to die?’

And I answered her gently of was in tribal places

And the cross of man with his endless battle-cry.

                                                  Llywelyn Lucas 1943

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