My graduation

Early days - my mother and I

It was 1942...

Introduction by Mary-Anne Vale

Introducing:
Marcelle Pollington B.A., Grad.Dip.R.E. Anglican. Dip.Counsel.

As a poet, Marcelle explores the gamut of human experiences and emotions. She grapples with the human condition and the common struggle we all share, to come to terms with weighty concepts such as the realisation of our mortality; the value of friends (animal and human); the importance of family, and the impact of history and memories on our emotions. She is also able to take a particular sight or scene and describe it with such poetic resonance that it almost becomes our own. Her poetry narrates, describes and records a lifetime of memories. A well-defined sense of humour emerges from her poetry and reveals her to be an insightful and intellectual creator of colourful and apposite imagery.

Please enjoy Marcelle’s passion for life and her maker; her appreciation of the value of experience; and her boundless love for the beauty found in nature and the simple things in life …

The Flowers of Spring

One drizzling winter’s day
I went to town and bought
spring-flowering bulbs.
In my mind’s eye I saw
almost a host of daffodils
a-dancing line-on-line,
so delicate and fine,
along my garden path.

Spring showers brought forth spring flowers,
and bulbs were sprouting green
in many garden beds:
jonquils and tulips and daffodils,
everywhere but here.
I dug mine up and found
they had rotted in the ground
beside the concrete path.

Well, better late than not, I thought,
so went to town again, and bought
expensive tulip bulbs, imports
from Holland, guaranteed to bloom.
A very pleasant sight
possessed my mind – a double bed
of tulips, gold and red,
along my garden path.

The early summer’s rain and warmth
brought forth green shoots.
Small bikes and tricycles
were pedaled up and down,
and often off, the garden path.
Children careered along each row,
leaving a few bedraggled blooms to grow
beside the concrete path.

But then I saw spring with my heart today:
A small girl, skipping, came my way.
Her Daddy’s smile was on her face,
her pretty dress dripped fresh-torn lace.
A bunch of yellow-gold I spied
behind her back. Oh! Woe betide!
Fresh daffodils. “For you!” she said.
(plucked from my neighbour’s flower-bed)

A Tribute to Sally

(My Labrador Companion died in 1996, aged fourteen years)

When you died, then went a part of me – of heart and soul.
I do not grieve for that, I owe you so much more
for all those long, long years of single-minded love
you gave to me. I called it ‘cupboard love,’
the times we shared sweet treats, but teasingly.
My words were lightly said, not meant for real.
Now sorrow has o’erlaid those pleasant memories,
and I fear that I may never be that smiling self again.

This gloomy house reflects my empty hours.
The loss of you is felt in every room.
I miss the shared routine of how we were:
experiences shared, that take a lonely life
and make it seem worthwhile and meaningful.
That next-door cat sat on the fence and stared,
unheeding, when I called to shoo him off.
I’m sure he senses you have gone away,
and sees me solitary, so doesn’t care.

Our garden is alive with colour, and bees on flowers
and on the clover in the grass. There I stand
with hose in hand, and miss your watchful presence
by my side, through oh, so many pleasant hours.
All these – these things we loved and times we shared -
are why I grieve, beloved friend. I loved you so.
I know you had to die. ... All life must end, I know.
But knowing cannot ease the hurt in me.

It Seems To Me

Perhaps remarks about others
Should first be composed
in front of one’s mirror.

Detractors paint me black,
while flatterers paint me white.
So view my portrait in black and white.

When I am told something
for my own good, I fear
it seldom is anything
I really want to hear.

View From a Balcony

(Summer in Mackay, North Queensland, 1977, by Marcelle)

One evening from my balcony I watched with glee,
as a charismatic male, living in a unit near me,
was positioning himself strategically,
beneath a lushly grown hibiscus bush. I felt that he
was preparing to pounce upon unwary prey,
or else on females confabulating in the cooling day.

He sat erect - quite still - attired immaculately
in whitely-gleaming tie and blackly-gleaming coat.
His slanted eyes stared straight ahead, deceptively:
aware green eyes, that held a panoramic view.
Decked out in unconscious arrogance, he seemed to be
the epitome of masochistic masculinity.

He moved a trifle in his place, and suddenly,
unknown by him, and by the merest chance,
a red hibiscus blossom fluttered down,
to lie exactly placed between his pointed ears.
And I blessed Nature for the happenstance
that changed a supercilious-looking cat into a clown.

Marcelle's Memories

Imagination at Work

Whenever I am working at my kitchen sink,
I find that it helps pass the time, to think.
And in Danny Kaye’s Walter Mitty style,
I’ll be wafted off to some distant isle.

Once in Hyde Park London in disguise,
I stood on a soapbox, to my surprise.
And as spectators gazed attentively,
words of wisdom poured from me.

Again, in cap and braid so grand,
I’d a fine male crew at my command.
And on a fast, tall-masted, clipper ship,
with a hold full of tea we had a record trip.

On occasions I have held the stage,
for my beauty, dears, was all the rage.
My fine acting was pronounced the best,
and before crowned heads it stood the test.

To those who shake their heads and sigh,
I say there’s more to me than meets the eye.
And to sum things up, perhaps they too ought,
when toiling in the kitchen, take time for thought.

The Old Collectables Shop

Groups of people, in black-and-white or sepia colour, are here portrayed
by the camera, posing for posterity. All are in their best clothes arrayed.
Bearded men, all with tall hats, coats, pipe-stem trousers, white shirts
and Adam’s-apple-pinching celluloid collars, gaze solemnly down.

Although they vary in age, all the women wear their hair up in a bun.
Garbed in waist-hugging gowns, modestly buttoned up to the neck,
leg-o’-mutton sleeves, and lace or flounces on shoe-length skirts,
solemn-faced pioneer women pose for their portrait to be done.

For the early settlers this would have been one of life’s special occasions,
undertaken because expected of them by the conventions of their time,
in commemoration of an important event for their future generations.
But now every tableau of early settlers is speckled by age and grime.

On distempered walls old paintings in oils, now crackled by decay,
are no longer hanging resplendent in once-ornately-gilded frames.
Like the images of pioneers and watercolours from another day,
their origins concealed by time, very few reveal artists’ names.

In glass cases, displayed amidst trinkets on a mildewed velvet tray,
lie gold wedding rings engraved with time-obscured inscriptions.
On one homely cottage table a mishmash of artifacts in disarray
vies with bric-a-brac no longer bright, defying of descriptions.

Here and there, with motley collections arranged along each wall,
is a bust of some once-famous man or an unknown ancient god.
Wormy rows of hide-bound volumes venerate the rise and fall
of some ancient civilizations, for centuries beneath the sod.

Among images and relics of once-valued, vanished glories,
are remnants from times long ago that have special tales to tell.
But few who enter this musty shop care to learn about these stories.
Changing times bring changing customs and other goods to buy or sell.

This picture was made for me by my grandson, Giancarlo