Quotes, Stories & Art
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This page records our favourite quotes that have meaning in connection with Wordwood. It also includes our own stories and art inspired by Wordwood.Other quotes, stories and art are sprinkled throughout this blog. |
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The Peace of Wild ThingsWendell BerryWhen despair grows in me |
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(Watercolour: Margie)
How Myths BeginMargieFrom the porch on The Nook you can see in the distance an old, dead gum tree. It looks like a giant stick insect. This is the story of his love. Long ago, that dead gum was a fine young man and truly loved a fair young woman. She returned his love in full measure, but her father would not accept the young man as her suitor. No man was fine enough for his girl. The father made a mistake that could only be made by one with no memory of true love – he believed that it would ease his girl’s pain at being denied her love if her love was lost. He was mighty in magic and turned the young man into a gum tree. Unknown to her father, the young woman had power herself. She had spent too much time assisting her father not to learn many secrets. She planted herself as a gum tree next to the young man gum tree so they could sway together. In angry grief, the father blasted the young man gum tree. His body died and became the old, dead gum tree that looks like a stick insect. The blast could not kill his soul, protected as it was by love. His soul split into thousands of pieces and became the first stick insects. The young woman gum tree called the stick insects to her and they took shelter in her branches. Just as today, stick insects shelter in the gums. The burden of care for the stick insects made the young woman gum tree scraggly. Just as today, gum trees grow scraggly. The love of that young man and young woman is recalled in the gentle buzz, tangy scent and hazy beauty of gum forests. |
Photo: Pete |
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Sunlit StarsMargieGum leaves quivering Sunlit stars A universe in the morning
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Our Neighbour is a Witch
Margie
Our neighbour is a witch. I can tell because she matches the description from stories. She is a rounded-down woman, with dishevelled grey hair and poor clothes in night shades, even a wide-brimmed purple hat. Mostly I can tell by her eyes. Pale and watery blue, they look like there is more behind them.
I saw no cat, but she has a dog. More akin to a wolf. He is a big Alsatian in all white, thick fur. He has the hesitancy of wildness. His crossed-eyed intensity communicates the warning – ‘she is my witch’. She refers to him as wolf-like and calls him Wolfgang.
She wears her old age and Germanic heritage with tradition. I recognise tradition as another story book sign to be respected.
Witches too must earn a living in modern times. How appropriate that she is a naturopath. Though I have only just met her, she leads the conversation to the plants she uses to manufacture her medicines. She says ‘manufactures’ and means ‘brews’. She trusts no other sources. After we speak of her garden work and pressing need for horse chestnuts she has little conversation. I don’t feel that she wants me gone, just that she wishes me more interesting.
Our other neighbour arrives to collect I find out not what. She brings the witch a token – a pewter bowl engraved with dragons that the witch has admired.
Anayim
Margie
It’s a fairy tale ending.
My character (the pallid office worker) and my partner’s character (the woodsman) make their dream of living in the bush come true. They shoulder swags (they’ve bought in readiness) and move to their Land for Wildlife property near Crow’s Nest. They build a little house, sitting lightly on the earth. On the nights the stars are out and the moon is bright, they sleep out.
My character finally gets her herd of goats. There is a loft in the barn, so when the goats need her she sleeps with them. The woodsman looks after the wild plants and animals.
When the grandchildren come, they climb trees and play in creeks. They smell horse, tumble with dogs, and learn about nature’s curiosities. For afternoon tea, they eat baked goodies cooked from recipes of four generations.
There’s travel. That means boots and backpacks and wonder. But, for when backs get too bad, there’s still time.
Magnetic Poetry
Margie
| not hand of god heavenly arrow angel kiss but nature make paradise |
wait time will name your passion your essence call come through crazy strong passionate |
mad cupid dance on for we lovers play music while forever stops blissful heart song |
| delicious night air beautiful moonlight wonderful day over consume evening ignite a star |
faithful fire good wine sleep entwined |
him tell of she monster fight then magic woman plot fang through eye people live good |
| he was a difficult hero dog eared heart crackly of strange imaginings and short |
soul’s dream voiced by story always given over too soon an epic whisper |
curl up on a chair beneath the cover with a book and be happy |
| library here wander there a world in a day |
my favourite volume is life | I think therefore I sigh |
Alison
(Linocut: Margie)
accumulating nothing but age
Margie
| trying to atone for choices unmade whilst surviving on the collective approval and hush money hiding precarious mental health inevitably dependent on his goodwill – it is not what he signed on for a leper to his one true love at the end I am the smiling CWA-er
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The waterfall I wish
Margie
