Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Signalling the end of summer

Art proposals 

There's never just one deadline, there are several and they arrive at the same time. Augh. It's been a mad rush to submit art proposals. I've done two now, and one more to go. Sometimes when a proposal of mine is turned down, I feel as though I had busted my gut for nothing. But then I think of it this way: an artist doesn't lose as much money when a proposal is turned down as, say, the amount of money architects lose when they don't secure the tender for a project. And if I just keep at it, someone will give me a chance eventually. I'm a believer!

Two poems about the end of summer

I would like to share with you two poems by two very different New Zealand writers. The first, March and Mrs Simpson by Brian Turner, combines the atmosphere of cool early autumn nights with the author's favourite pastime, fishing. "Mrs Simpson" (I had to google it) is the name of a trout fly, those colour feathery things to lure fish at the ends of fishing lines. "The King was lured by the latter" refers, of course, to the incident where King Edward VIII abdicated his throne to marry a Mrs Wallis Simpson. "Ida" refers to the Ida Valley in Central Otago.

March and Mrs Simpson
by Brian Turner

March, and all of a dewy, brisk sudden
the nights have drawn in, and all
that I know by name has finished flowering
weeks ago, so it's autumnal,

though the Ida's mostly still dry
and the dam's as low as it gets
and slummy. The trout sulk by day
and don't begin to move

before eleven. But after that, stars
brilliant and perky above, I toss up
between tying on a Hamill's Killer,
a Fuzzy Wuzzy, a Woolly Bugger

or a Mrs Simpson. The King
was lured by the latter, so Mrs Simpson
it is. And ten minutes later I feel
the tug that says, Works every time.

The second poem is Bidding the lover goodbye by CK Stead. I just love this poem so much. Goodbye, summer!

Bidding the lover goodbye
by CK Stead

Pampas heads
in wind
against the sun
are white flame
at the sky's blue altar.

They are the plumes of horsemen
riding away
over the hill.

Farewell summer!
There will never be another like you.

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