Creative Blogs

Write a letter to your state parliamentarian telling him how your suburban environment is being effectively destroyed by eroding the natural landscape and putting high-rise apartments in the place of shrubs and trees.

To whom it doesn’t concern,

I’m writing this letter to voice my opinion over the devastating housing developments that are plaguing the Hawkesbury. Now I know what you’re thinking, “how could I, the state parliamentarian be concerned? I don’t even live there!” Which is a fair point. You don’t have to sit in hour-long traffic just to go home to your family after a long day of work because your roads are adept to the rising population. But ours are not! You have to fix the problem before adding to it. And don’t even think about claiming that replacing our historical two-lane bridge with another two-lane bridge will solve anything. We all know that’s a project destined for failure.

But the most important thing your delusional mind must be forgetting is the beautiful landscape! Where will we take our children to experience and explore what nature has to offer? It sure as hell won’t be to the neighbour’s house that’s walls are one meters distance from our own! The Hawkesbury needs a rising population to add to the community, but not at this rate and certainly not at this time.

Blog Three

Write your own poem beginning with any of the following lines from Emily Bronte’s poems:

I’m happiest when most away….

No coward soul is mine….

Yesterday

“No coward soul is mine”,
You lied to all even those of the divine,
To stand one day a life of courage,
Is wishful thinking as you’d never flourish

But huzzah today is a new day,
You look around and see no grey,
Only slight but growing shade afar,
You squint and sense something is ajar

Oh how could you forget that sour past,
Only for a moment that ceased to last,
You should never allow your hopes to gain fat,
I could stand here forever and tell you that

Goal after goal you set to fail,
How can you possibly be more frail,
You avoid responsibilities to a tee,
Why won’t you god damn listen to me!

Ignore me now I’ll be coming back,
The longer you wait the harder I hack,
For until you learn to grow a spine,
You will never truly claim “No coward soul is mine!”


“The Blessed Guillaume De Toulouse Tormented By Demon’s” 1657 oil painting by French painter and sculptor Ambroise Fredeau

First Blog!

You have just heard and discussed Coleridge’s “silent icicles, / Quietly shining to the quiet Moon….” Write your own description in prose or poetry of some moments of intense silence where you feel your experience has opened up to a new world of understanding.

Morning

I yelped only for the sound to be drowned by the constant static of machinery. Still however, loud enough for the tenant to have found humour in the farm dog having brushed my leg. There she sat, chain-smoking at half past four in the morning, all too wired to rest. I only managed to sigh as diesel added to my already coffee stained singlet, a scene that seemed too common to curse.  With earmuffs on I held up traffic as per usual whilst hitting each pothole towards town, once again taking notice of my cemented cologne of manure.

Each meter gained as I drifted away from the road increased in warmth upon my skin. Without a single crunch, I shifted lower in gears as I headed towards the calm flow of the river. I eventually rolled to a halt. With eyes still focused on the water, I pulled the choke and floated down with the aid of the step. Lush palmetto beneath me, I sat and surrounded myself in the beauty of this particular dawn. I’ve been here before only slightly upstream.

I closed my eyes as my mind vividly returned to a square of heads upon ankles. Each comforting voice posed questions of the universe only to eliminate into none. With all asleep but myself, this unbroken silence could hopefully last forever. Sun rays rising up my face and body cool from the morning dew, the delightful tickling of ants couldn’t even disturb this moment of teenage bliss. As my breath soon slowly synced to the pace of my friends, our connecting gait walked into only that of a memory to never be relived.