I have been in hospital

I have recently been in hospital for emergency abdominal surgery, so apologies for the delay in posts.

When I feel a little stronger I will continue with this blog. 

War wounds © Jennifer Phillips

Picture shows laparoscopic insertion points, and me trying to get some vitamin D for wound healing outside!

A most beautiful piece of music

Soprano YeNa Yang sings an aria: "Ruhe sanft, mein holdes Leben..." ("Rest in peace, my sweet life") from the unfinished Opera "Zaide" by Mozart:

African daisies © Jennifer Phillips

The pie of life

The pie of life

Is hurled into your face

Every day,

But that is no disgrace.

A life worth living

Gets splattered on your shirt,

And though you're shocked

And rather deeply hurt,

These pies of life

Which fly out of the blue - 

You're made for them

And they were made for you.

by Michael Leunig

Mulberry pie made by © Jennifer Phillips

Night lily

Amaryllis belladonna (Naked lady lily) at night © Jennifer Phillips

Who says words with my mouth?

All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that,
And I intend to end up there.

This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I'll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I'm like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
But who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?

Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn't come here of my own accord, and I can't leave that way.
Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.

This poetry. I never know what I'm going to say.
I don't plan it.
When I'm outside the saying of it, I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.

We have a huge barrel of wine, but no cups.
That's fine with us. Every morning
We glow and in the evening we glow again.

by Rumi

Wine © Jennifer Phillips

The wagon of hope

The wagon of hope

Is pulled by ducks,

Two fine ducks

As white as snow.

The boat of faith

Is kept afloat

By stars above

And fish below.

The way ahead

Is known to birds,

Is told by birds

Each day at dawn.

The song of doom

Composed by men

Is played upon

A paper horn.

by Michael Leunig

Clown - Geelong Foreshore © Jennifer Phillips

Confluence

I want to just take you by the hand
and walk with you down grassy ways,
through peerless climes, and lie together
with knowing, on a blanket in the shade.

Let us take this precious day,
and hold it nestled in our hands,
pass the moments gently to and fro...
Let's have this one, this holiday from our lives.

Let's meet in a field together, gold and wheat,
free from pain, with joy, and clear of guilt.
Look free into eyes finally met, out of time and place,
in this dreamland, where our shared pulse arrests the sun's path.

So that we can drink the liquor
that drips from the low-hanging fruit
along the bough, as night-birds sing,
and prepare their roosts, peaceful and secure.

We must gather the dropped sheaves
of our short and winnowed experience,
parcel them up tenderly, then place them gently
in our secret box of desires, and close the lid.

Wend our way then, and carefully,
slowly, trace the path of the moon,
and watch as the track of the sun
ticks and tocks our last minutes
over memory's horizon.

© Jennifer Phillips (All rights reserved)

Australian eucalyptus open woodland © Jennifer Phillips

Strange Fruit

Southern trees

Bear strange fruit

Blood on the leaves

And blood at the roots

Black bodies

Swinging in the southern breeze

Strange fruit hangin'

From the poplar trees

Pastoral scene

Of the gallant south

Them big bulging eyes

And the twisted mouth

Scent of magnolia

Clean and fresh

Then the sudden smell

Of burnin' flesh

Here is a fruit

For the crows to pluck

For the rain to gather

For the wind to suck

For the sun to rot

For the leaves to drop

Here is a

Strange and bitter crop

by Dwayne Wiggins, Maurice Pearl, Lewis Allan, Sonny White,
& sung by Nina Simone.

Black and white barred plumage © Jennifer Phillips

Bridging time

Lights spanning a bridge,
stretching their spangles over the blackness of a grey sky.
The eternal waters running shining and golden,
rippling underneath currents of change.

The future … let it be and live in the present.
Footsore and weary I will find my home
in another’s heart.
I will hold to this hope,
my dream of happiness …
I must be strong and chase it.
Only by losing myself, will I find myself.

Can you see me? Can you catch me?
I’ll carry you, you’ll carry me.
This is how it could be.

© Jennifer Phillips (All rights reserved)

Bridge at Swan Hill © Jennifer Phillips

Alligator poem

I knelt down  

at the edge of the water, 

and if the white birds standing  

in the tops of the trees whistled any warning 

I didn’t understand, 

I drank up to the very moment it came 

crashing toward me, 

its tail flailing 

like a bundle of swords, 

slashing the grass, 

and the inside of its cradle-shaped mouth 

gaping, 

and rimmed with teeth— 

and that’s how I almost died 

of foolishness 

in beautiful Florida. 

But I didn’t.  

I leaped aside, and fell, 

and it streamed past me, crushing everything in its path 

as it swept down to the water 

and threw itself in, 

and, in the end, 

this isn’t a poem about foolishness 

but about how I rose from the ground 

and saw the world as if for the second time, 

the way it really is. 

The water, that circle of shattered glass, 

healed itself with a slow whisper 

and lay back 

with the back-lit light of polished steel, 

and the birds, in the endless waterfalls of the trees, 

shook open the snowy pleats of their wings, and drifted away, 

while, for a keepsake, and to steady myself, 

I reached out, 

I picked the wild flowers from the grass around me—

blue stars 

and blood-red trumpets 

on long green stems— 

for hours in my trembling hands they glittered  

like fire. 

by Mary Oliver

Baby alligators intertwined at Melbourne Zoo © Jennifer Phillips

The rainbow connection

Why are there so many songs about rainbows, and what's on the other side?

Rainbows are visions, but only illusions, and rainbows have nothing to hide.

So we've been told and some choose to believe it.

I know they're wrong - wait and see.

Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection.

The lovers, the dreamers and me.

Who said that wishes would be heard, and answered when wished on the morningstar?

Someone thought of that, and someone believed it.

Look what it's done so far.

What's so amazing that keeps us stargazing, and what do we think we might see?

Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection.

The lovers, the dreamers and me.

All of us under its spell.

We know that it's probably magic.

Have you been half asleep, and have you heard voices?

I've heard them calling my name.

Is this the sweet sound that calls the young sailors?

The voice might be one and the same.

I've heard it too many times to ignore it.

It's something that I'm supposed to be.

Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers and me.

Someday we'll find it, the rainbow connection, the lovers, the dreamers and me.

by Jim Henson, performed by 'Kermit the Frog' (Muppets)

Rainbow through palms - Tura Beach © Jennifer Phillips

A certain kind of flaming

Consider the voice of the nightbird,

how it seeks assurance from the approaching sun

then fills its mouth with starlight.

I have heard the nightbird and thought of you.

I have made a bracelet from a string of low stars

and fastened it to your wrist.

With a hawk's feather I have traced

the curve of your breasts as you slept - 

the goose-bumps erupting under my thumb

as I counted your ribs.

You speak in the dark, and our fingers

explore a certain kind of flaming.

Let us be like the dolphins,

sharing each other's breath

through bad water, through calm water.

by Anthony Lawrence

Australian bird © Jennifer Phillips

Upon the sagging mattress

Upon the sagging mattress

The weary husband lays down with 

his wife

To feel the nasty shapes and awful lumps

To get no rest, to only get the grumps.

And yet upon this drooping bag of woe

They close their eyes and sometimes

have a go

At fantasising sweeter, better things:

A life with good support and inner springs.

by Michael Leunig

Image from Copyright Free Images

The laundress

My love washes her clothes in the water of my tears 

and spreads them out in the sun of her beauty. 

She has no need of spring-water - she has my two eyes; 

nor of the sun - she has her own radiance.

by Judah Halevi (1075-1141)

Image © Jennifer Phillips

Several quotes from Rumi

Put your thoughts to sleep,

do not let them cast a shadow

over the moon of your heart.

Let go of thinking.

___________________________________________________________

Nothing can help me but that beauty.

There was a dawn I remember

when my soul heard something from your soul.

___________________________________________________________

I drank water from your spring, and felt the current take me.

___________________________________________________________

Let silence take you to the core of life.

Be a lamp, or a lifeboat, or a ladder.

Help someone's soul heal.

Walk out of your house like a shepherd.

___________________________________________________________

And watch two men washing clothes,

one makes dry clothes wet.

The other makes wet clothes dry.

They seem to be thwarting each other, 

but their work is a perfect harmony.

Every holy person seems to have a different doctrine and practice, 

but there's really only one work.

___________________________________________________________

You think of yourself

as a citizen of the universe.

You think you belong

to this world of dust and matter.

Out of this dust

you have created a personal image,

and have forgotten

about the essence of your true origin

___________________________________________________________

Birch tree sunset © Jennifer Phillips

Orchid

Orchid at Marysville © Jennifer Phillips

Spring

A late thirteenth-century spring song by the poet Nahum, a Jew from Spain.

Winter is gone, gone is my sorrow. 

The fruit tree is in flower, 

and my heart flowers with joy.

The spikenards, as one, give forth their scent; 

the orchard of rare fruits is in full blossom. 

The hearts of friends are filled with merriment. 

O hunted gazelle who escaped far from my hut, 

come back, come drink my mulled wine and my milk!

Sorrow fled the day the flower beds revived, 

fenced in by myrtles, braided with embroideries. 

Swiftly, then, all cares took flight. 

I am surrounded by coffers full of perfumes, dripping liquid myrrh. 

The boughs of the nut tree trail low along my couch.

Trees of delight sway among the shadows: 

assia on the left, aloes on the right. 

With an emerald coloured cup, ringed [with gold], 

and garnet coloured wine, mixed with dew, 

I shall forget the misery and grief hidden deep in my heart.

What made my beloved, who used to graze 

between my fawn -[like breasts], leave me and take to the woods? 

Come to the arms of your dearest, who sings of her longing for you. 

O, my fair love, light the western lamp for me. 

In you, towering cherub, my flame will burn anew.

Crepe myrtle sunset © Jennifer Phillips

NASA Johnson Style (Gangnam Style Parody)

Image © ReelNASA

My daughter's toilet roll people...

...on the edge of the vegetable patch.

Toilet roll people © Jennifer Phillips 

Norah Jones - a voice like honey

I love Norah Jones's music because her voice is like butter or honey.
Here are three of her songs to listen to.

"I wouldn't need you"

If I touched myself the way you touched me

If I could hold myself the way you held me

Then I wouldn't need you, no, I wouldn't need you

No, I wouldn't need you to love me

If I could replace the things you gave me

If I could see my face without the tragedy

Then I wouldn't need you, no, I wouldn't need you

No, I wouldn't need you to love me

But I do so come back, come back

If you could see the way I act when I'm alone

If you could hear my voice crack over the phone

Then you'd know I need you, oh, you'd know I need you

Oh, you'd know I need you to love me

by Norah Jones

"I've got to see you again"

Lines on your face don't bother me

Down in my chair when you dance over me

I can't help myself

I've got to see you again

Late in the night when I'm all alone

And I look at the clock and I know you're not home

I can't help myself

I've got to see you again

I could almost go there

Just to watch you be seen

I could almost go there

Just to live in a dream

But no I won't go for any of those things

To not touch your skin is not why I sing

I can't help myself 

I've got to see you again

I could almost go there

Just to watch you be seen

I could almost go there

Just to live in a dream

No I won't go to share you with them

But oh! even though I know where you've been

I can't help myself

I've got to see you again

Oh, I can't help myself

I've got to see you again

By Jesse Harris for Norah Jones

"Moon Song"

Want to find out where the moon goes

When it leaves the western sky

And night dissolves again to morning

Azure turns to gold

Azure turns to gold

Gonna sleep with one eye open

Gonna keep the shades half drawn

Nearly silent dressed in shadows

Lines and colors fall

Lines and colors fall

Gonna watch her through the window

Just as I watched you before

Smile knows but just won't tell me

I just watch her go

I just watch her go

Now I know just where the moon goes

When it leaves the western sky

And night dissolves again to morning

The moon is in your eyes

The moon is in your eyes

The moon is in your eyes

The moon is in your eyes

by Norah Jones

Image from Go4Celebrity - Free Celebrity Wallpapers

Crepuscule

Daylesford © Jennifer Phillips

Times past, I've looked at the idea of death.

 Is the cumulation of a life just dust to dust, 
only a dark and sordid stain remaining,
or does the soul in apotheosis rise to afterlife?

Death might whisper and creep slowly in the night,

 perhaps toy with you like little waves against the shore,
or snatch you unwittingly, in an instant.

It is appointed to men once to die, 

but after this be the Judgement.

Which souls may descend with mortal fear, 

facing enduring punishment to their level,
one of the nine loathsome circles of Hades,

and which dance lightly as a feather,  

to idyllic Heavenly realms?

Will my life stand analysis,

when I am naked and trembling?

The answer is simple:

Humata, Hukhta, Huvarshta.

© Jennifer Phillips (All rights reserved)

Clare Valley © Jennifer Phillips

Rainbow lorikeet

A group of rainbow lorikeets have been visiting our garden lately to nibble the nuts and pollen from a cypress tree in our front garden. We have enjoyed watching these beautiful native Australian birds. I took this picture this morning.

Rainbow lorikeet © Jennifer Phillips

Dropped leaf

Dropped leaf - Green's Bush near Flinders © Jennifer Phillips

Branch etchwork

The etchwork of branches of trees seen
pasted on the sky,
imprint themselves on the lid of my inner eye.
Dark stick-patterns in the space of black
under closed eyes.
The underside of light.

But now the sun returns.
I look across a green expanse,
through hair which shines red in the breeze.
Colours of my mood.

The external, the internal.
Etchings of branches,
pathways on the inner eye.
Can I see to follow, 
or does the bracken close in too deep?

© Jennifer Phillips (All rights reserved)

Branches reflected © Jennifer Phillips

On stillness

In his bestselling book, "Stillness speaks," Eckhart Tolle states: "Look at a tree, a flower, a plant. Let your awareness rest upon it. How still they are, how deeply rooted in being. Allow nature to teach you stillness."

"When you look at a tree and perceive its stillness, you become still yourself. You connect with it at a very deep level. You feel a oneness with whatever you perceive in and through stillness. Feeling the oneness of yourself with all things is true love."

From "Serenity of stillness" by Dr. Ajantha Dharmasiri in DailyFT - August 6, 2012

Bruno Torfs' Art & Sculpture Garden © Jennifer Phillips

The reassurance

About ten days or so 

After we saw you dead 

You came back in a dream. 

'I'm all right now', you said.

And it was you, although 

You were all fleshed out again: 

You hugged us all round then, 

And gave your welcoming beam.

How like you to be kind, 

Seeking to reassure. 

And, yes, how like my mind 

To make itself secure.

by Thom Gunn

White lily © Jennifer Phillips

Butterfly

Butterfly at Melbourne Zoo © Jennifer Phillips

Us against the world

Oh morning come bursting the clouds, Amen.

Lift off this blindfold, let me see again.

And bring back the water, let your ships roll in, in my heart, she left a hole.

The tightrope that I'm walking just sways and ties.

The devil, as he's talking, with those angel's eyes.

And I just wanna be there when the lightning strikes.

And the saints go marching in

And sing slow it down,

Through chaos as it swirls,

It's us against the world.

Like a river to a raindrop,

I lost a friend.

My drunken has a Daniel in a lion's den.

And tonight I know it all has to begin again,

So whatever you do,

Don't let go.

And if we could float away,

Fly up to the surface and just start again.

And lift off before trouble just erodes us in the rain

Just erodes us in the rain

Just erodes us and see roses in the rain

Sing slow it down

Slow it down

Through chaos as it swirls,

It's us against the world.

Through chaos as it swirls,

It's us against the world.

by Chris Martin

Sea at Robe © Jennifer Phillips

Serious illness

In suffering serious illness, your boundaries transmogrify,

uncomfortable in fragile permeability.

Fear skitters down the hallways of your mind,

hides chuckling manically, in dark corners -

encased in crackling transparency.

Your breath shudders shallowly as you stare

at your pale limp hand upon the sheet.

Your eyes close and disjointed imaginings dance

their scenes under your lids.

Time passes slowly, almost in stupor,

as curtains waft in the breeze.

Pain marks the minutes and the hours.

Fever draws hot rank sweat -

nausea, shivering, clutching, retching

for days and days and days and days.

Intense suffering realigns your being, redefines you.

Visions of you in health, running along the beach,

wind behind you, fade into the reality:

a crouched shadow, desperately clinging to hope for a cure.

Depression mounts with reserves of positivity spent, and fear reigns.

Once finally well enough, you find the illness has shaped you -

in some ways stronger, in some ways weaker.

But the message is clear, and the lesson learnt:
Life is short, make and give whatever you can -
carpe diem.

© Jennifer Phillips (All rights reserved)

Sick bear © Jennifer Phillips

Cactus flowers

Cactus flowers at Heronswood © Jennifer Phillips

A river

Water brings reflection
In its surface, patterns form and dissolve,
the mind wanders in tangents
Floating shapes, wet spaces,
thoughts of the past and future...
like the currents, they flow.

Feelings are more tangible, looking at water.
Loneliness presses on my heart,
the water draws me...
images of restful peace in its depths.

Quiet, another time, another place
Me in an alternate reality...
the ideas, wishes, and dreams eddy and flow
away, away.

I am left with reality - loneliness beside a river.

© Jennifer Phillips (All rights reserved)

Murray River © Jennifer Phillips

Donal Og ("Young Donal")

It is late last night the dog was speaking of you;

the snipe was speaking of you in her deep marsh.

It is you are the lonely bird through the woods;

and that you may be without a mate until you find me.

You promised me, and you said a lie to me,

that you would be before me where the sheep are flocked;

I gave a whistle and three hundred cries to you,

and I found nothing there but a bleating lamb.

You promised me a thing that was hard for you,

a ship of gold under a silver mast;

twelve towns with a market in all of them,

and a fine white court by the side of the sea.

You promised me a thing that is not possible,

that you would give me gloves of the skin of a fish;

that you would give me shoes of the skin of a bird;

and a suit of the dearest silk in Ireland.

When I go by myself to the Well of Loneliness,

I sit down and I go through my trouble;

when I see the world and do not see my boy,

he that has an amber shade in his hair.

It was on that Sunday I gave my love to you;

the Sunday that is last before Easter Sunday

and myself on my knees reading the Passion;

and my two eyes giving love to you for ever.

My mother has said to me not to be talking with you today,

or tomorrow, or on the Sunday;

it was a bad time she took for telling me that;

it was shutting the door after the house was robbed.

My heart is as black as the blackness of the sloe,

or as the black coal that is on the smith's forge;

or as the sole of a shoe left in white halls;

it was you put that darkness over my life.

You have taken the east from me, you have taken the west from me;

you have taken what is before me and what is behind me;

you have taken the moon, you have taken the sun from me;

and my fear is great that you have taken God from me!

by Lady Augusta Gregory

Fern frond © Jennifer Phillips

On performing artists who become stars

Extract from: 
Simon Napier-Bell talks to Lesley-Ann Jones in the Sunday Express, February 7th, 2010

... "That’s why I say that being an artist is a cry for help. All artists are terribly insecure people. They are desperate to get noticed. They are constantly seeking an audience. They are forced to be commercial, which I think makes their ‘art’ all the better."

"Plus", he adds, "all artists have the same story. When I first saw Eric Clapton, I thought 'he isn’t an artist, he’s just a musician'. In John Mayall’s band he played with his back to the audience, he was so shy. But as he evolved, I saw that he was an artist. And when you look into his background, he had the missing father, a sister who was really his mother and a grandmother he thought was his mum."

"Artists always have an abusive childhood, at least in terms of emotional deprivation. So they have this desperation to succeed, to get love and attention. All the others just drop out eventually. Because I’m telling you, it’s absolutely horrible to be a star."

"It’s nice to get a good table in a restaurant, of course, but then you have to put up with people coming up to you every 30 seconds throughout the meal – we’re not even stars, and it’s happening every five minutes to us - so that you can hardly get it eaten. It’s a nightmare. Yet stars are perfectly happy to put up with that kind of thing. It comes with the territory. Stars are usually utterly charming with new people but there’s a dark side. When they’ve taken everything they possibly can from someone, they have no further use for them, and they spit them out."

"I’ve been spat out", he admits, "but I couldn’t give a toss, to be honest. I understand these people, I know what makes them tick. It’s no use getting upset or angry about being treated unkindly or cruelly by some star. They are what they are. There is a certain psychological damage that runs through every one of them, and I guarantee that if you look through their childhoods, you will find it."

"What else makes you so desperate to win applause and adulation? So desperate that you’ll lead a lousy life that you can never really call your own? No normal person would ever want to be a star, not for any money. No one knows this better than I do. I’ll tell you who has the best job in the world: I do. I have money in the bank and the gift of the gab, which has earned me the right to get up to no good and hang out with superstars, without ever having any desire to be one of them. What could be better than that?"

Like rain, like stars

I want to hold her hand in the sunlight and kiss her

while the petals fall down around us, like rain, like stars

Hold my cheek against the warm, scented curve of her neck. 

Let her tears fall into my mouth. I will hide them in my heart,

away from her.

Her voice surrounds me, and I expand to be filled with it. 

Her laughter rings true in the spaces in my soul.

A connection is made, sparkles, and is gone.

By "Helena" in "Blender of Love"

Spiderweb © Jennifer Phillips

Night on the island

All night I have slept with you 

next to the sea, on the island. 

Wild and sweet you were between pleasure and sleep, 

between fire and water.

Perhaps very late 

our dreams joined 

at the top or at the bottom, 

up above like branches moved by a common wind, 

down below like red roots that touch.

Perhaps your dream 

drifted from mine 

and through the dark sea

was seeking me

as before, 

when you did not yet exist, 

when without sighting you 

I sailed by your side, 

and your eyes sought 

what now- 

bread, wine, love, and anger- 

I heap upon you 

because you are the cup 

that was waiting for the gifts of my life.

I have slept with you 

all night long while 

the dark earth spins 

with the living and the dead, 

and on waking suddenly 

in the midst of the shadow 

my arm encircled your waist.

Neither night 

nor sleep could separate us.

I have slept with you 

and on waking, your mouth, 

come from your dream, 

gave me the taste of earth, 

of sea water, of seaweed, 

of the depths of your life, 

and I received your kiss 

moistened by the dawn 

as if it came to me 

from the sea that surrounds us.

by Pablo Neruda - "The Captain's Verses"

Seaweed scene © Jennifer Phillips

Bittersweet

A little light looks through, her bedroom window.

She dances and I dream, she's not so far as she seems,

Of brighter meadows, melting sunsets,

Her hair blowing in the breeze.

And she can't see me watching.

I'm thinking, love...

It's bittersweet, both and sweet and bitter, bitter and sweet

It's a bitter sweet, surrender

It's bitter sweet, both sweet and bitter

Bitter and sweet, It's a bitter sweet, surrender

I said I'm older now. I work in a city. We live together.

But it's different than my dream.

Morning light fills the room. I rise.

She pretends she's sleeping.

Are we everything we wanted?

I'm thinking, love...

I said I know we don't talk about it.

We don't tell each other...

All the little things that we need.

We work our way around each other

As we tremble and we... as we tremble and we bleed.

by Big Head Todd And The Monsters

Tura Beach © Jennifer Phillips

The stars

"Walking down the street, where I walk in memory morning, noon and night, I could not tell what it was, precisely, that reduced me to such wretchedness. Indeed it was not death but rather the growing conviction of not having yet lived. All I could tell was that the stars were as singular and as wondrous as I remembered them and that they seemed like a link, an enticement to the great heavens, and that one day I would reach them and be absorbed into their glory, and pass from a world, that at that moment, I found to be rife with cruelty and stupidity, a world that had forgotten how to give."

From "Returning" by Edna O'Brien

Plumage star pattern © Jennifer Phillips