Bindi Bur Blog


How can I give you this rock?
When it was given to me in my dreaming
the voice said, “This is a body.”

Stroke it.
Stroke it smooth like skin.
Stroke it like urgency.

It bears its history on its face,
its long time tumbling from the mountains
stroked by water, stroked by stone.

Time is a salt grain
and I remember exactly
what we were when we were earth,

when we were what the earth demands,
tumbling from the mountains,
stroked by water, stroked by stone.

This is a body and this is me.
I give you the stone-ness of it, weighty,
with its history on its face.


Rather a Lot of Thoughts

...but it looks like there are definite categories in her mind. Not like mine, where everything interacts or is jumbled up together.

what wonder

what wonder
challenging your life as if it were a plot

something occasionally surfaces
illusive and without form

it is a space with darkness
a voice in darkness

it is a sound-scape of garble
projected words fading in and out

you have to have a pure heart
you have to expect nothing

in between
it feels like hell

the flow will begin
it’s just biding its time –

thinking what do I want?
it will answer its own needs

free from driven ambition
and I will follow its whim

into the deepest part of the wood
it is the Grand Adventure

it is the sense of having no-path
of two left feet looking for a path

I wrote the above poem by following tangents and free association. Really rather surreal in the end. Hope it gives you some feelings or things to think about. Enjoy!

Mother and Daughter Collect Stones

In the dry riverbed we collect stones, each a jewel
or a small world — my daughter and I — ambling like cattle.

The wide riverbed is bank-to-bank beauty
of red, white, green stones,
black and yellow, veined and ribbed
quartz and sandstone, basalt and granite,
all tumbled smooth by the long time of the world.

I find a few treasures and my daughter, who is five,
comes and stands under my stoop, pounces
on stones at my feet, her eyes scanning, scanning.
If I move sideways, she moves sideways. If I turn, she turns.

All this space and she stands right here, shadowing
my shadow, seeking treasure at her mother’s feet,
seeing through her mother’s eyes, stealing her mother’s vision.

Well, our children do. It’s what we give the world — their greed
for life — and it’s ok that they look through our eyes for a while.

But Daughter, in that far off story of snow and sadness,
the little match-girl died.
She was fiddling with flames, dreaming of mother
when she could have been collecting wood.

Daughter, I am only a dreamt mother. I can’t save you.
I can’t give you the world, though I’d give you
each stone in this riverbed, I’d give enough beauty
to sustain you in your ever-after life.

But in the end, I’m as impotent as the match-girl’s mother.
And you can steal from me, my eyes, my very breath,
but sooner or later, you will have to find
your own stones to whisper your secrets to.

* * * * * * * * *

You can hear me read this poem on my Video Wall. You can access it via the menu or here. Have a listen.


​The Place of Pine Flowers

The days are lengthening and so
pine flowers burst forth at the tips
of branches, all vigour and hope,
each a tiny replica of the cones to come.

The tree, so huge and old, stands
more stolidly than a man could stand
each branch surging life into
the space it occupies, the place of itself.

Deep roots draw memory
not long fallen as rain, not long drawn
from some wide ocean by great winds
or tiny movements of air like the breath of a baby.

There are times when I don’t remember
my feet planted in this earth. I look to
ideas and delights, fingertips and quandaries
ice cream and books, love and sustenance.

There are times when I don’t remember
the flowers that I put forth into the world:
this, for example, or the children I reared
growing older in their houses.

There are times when I don’t remember
the space I occupy, my space and no one else’s.
And I forget that it has a place
no less deserving than this old tree

A place no less deserving than this old tree
giving and taking from the great field of life
with its roots delving, and moisture swelling
the supple clenched fists of its flowers.


Angry with God

I'm Angry with God

for filling mankind with an inflated view
of its own importance:

‘in My image, go forth and multiply,
subdue the earth.’

And here we are, having multiplied,
fighting each other for peace.

Having subdued the earth, we’re living
in our own shit, we’re cooking ourselves under heaven.

And I can’t remember God saying, ‘subdue the weather.’
Let alone how.

Memento Mori by Ervin Janek

The Artwork is by Ervin Janek. It's called Memento Mori. It's a double exposure, but the main image is shot on the salt flats at the Coorong in South Australia. I am the model and I'm wearing a yukata (Japanese summer kimino), a plaited raffia wig (homemade), and the spine of some beast that we had found, probably a Kangaroo, hopefully not still stinky, I can't remember. Strange weird and wonderful things that man does.

The poem is a rant about Genesis. Seriously, was it good to make people think they are the centre of creation? Look at where that has got us. This is one set of important stories that is seriously flawed. Because if you have some sort of hierarchy in your world view, with you on top (naturally), then racism and other atrocities are justifiable. And It blinds us to other possibilities. It would be better if we realised (as do most fist people cultures) that all things have equal importance, including us. Then perhaps there would be respect for the natural world, and maybe even each other.

Have a look at more of Ervin Janek's work here and here.


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