The writers
Ros, Juan, Cath,
Lynn, Pauline, Helene, Di, Elizabeth, Terry
The words of the day
Scrimmage –
scuffle
Punctilious –
strict or exact
Anarchic – lawless
confusion
Periphery –
external boundary
Prevaricate – tell
half the truth
Salubrious –
favourable to health
Pernicious –
harmful effect in a subtle way
Lagoon – salt
water lake often enclosed by a reef or atoll
Blaze – establish
a trail, strong fire, mark on a horses face
Stories from words of the day
The salubrious
writers went into a scrimmage blazing a trail to create a range of punctilious
stories and poems on the topics - On the oval, Lost in time, Seepage from the
mine, Outside my house a great poem from Terry, Seagulls, Jan and Jo, The
pelicans, The reef and The ideal place.
The reading of homework
A few dedicated
writers read out homework as follows - Juan – two stories - A beautiful girl,
and My sore black eye, Helene – Bad habits, Pauline –Brett and Princess Coral
and Meeting Toby by Ros.
Conflict prepared by Lynn and Juan and
presented by Terry
A copy of the
presentation will be emailed to members
Discussion of a Henry Lawson poem
Terry read out the
poem “Do they think that I do not know” by Henry Lawson and the writers discussed
the conflict and content of the poem.
Homework
Be inspired by the
poem below “Do they think that I do not know” by Henry Lawson and write a story or poem based
on a painful experience or lost love.
They say that I never have written of love,
As a writer of songs should do;
They say that I never could touch the strings
With a touch that is firm and true;
They say I know nothing of women and men
In the fields where Love's roses grow,
And they say I must write with a halting pen—
Do you think that I do not know?
As a writer of songs should do;
They say that I never could touch the strings
With a touch that is firm and true;
They say I know nothing of women and men
In the fields where Love's roses grow,
And they say I must write with a halting pen—
Do you think that I do not know?
When the love-burst came, like an English Spring,
In the days when our hair was brown,
And the hem of her skirt was a sacred thing
And her hair was an angel's crown.
The shock when another man touched her arm,
Where the dancers sat round in a row;
The hope and despair, and the false alarm—
Do you think that I do not know?
In the days when our hair was brown,
And the hem of her skirt was a sacred thing
And her hair was an angel's crown.
The shock when another man touched her arm,
Where the dancers sat round in a row;
The hope and despair, and the false alarm—
Do you think that I do not know?
By the arbour lights on the western farms,
You remember the question put,
While you held her warm in your quivering arms
And you trembled from head to foot.
The electric shock from her finger tips,
And the murmuring answer low,
The soft, shy yielding of warm red lips—
Do you think that I do not know?
You remember the question put,
While you held her warm in your quivering arms
And you trembled from head to foot.
The electric shock from her finger tips,
And the murmuring answer low,
The soft, shy yielding of warm red lips—
Do you think that I do not know?
She was buried at Brighton, where Gordon sleeps,
When I was a world away;
And the sad old garden it's secret keeps,
For nobody knows to-day.
She left a message for me to read,
Where the wild wide oceans flow;
Do you know how the heart of a man can bleed—
Do you think that I do not know?
When I was a world away;
And the sad old garden it's secret keeps,
For nobody knows to-day.
She left a message for me to read,
Where the wild wide oceans flow;
Do you know how the heart of a man can bleed—
Do you think that I do not know?
I stood by the grave where the dead girl lies,
When the sunlit scenes were fair,
And the white clouds high in the autumn skies,
And I answered the message there.
But the haunting words of the dead to me
Shall go wherever I go.
She lives in the Marriage that Might Have Been—
Do you think that I do not know?
When the sunlit scenes were fair,
And the white clouds high in the autumn skies,
And I answered the message there.
But the haunting words of the dead to me
Shall go wherever I go.
She lives in the Marriage that Might Have Been—
Do you think that I do not know?
They sneer or scoff, and they pray or groan,
And the false friend plays his part.
Do you think that the blackguard who drinks alone
Knows aught of a pure girl's heart?
Knows aught of the first pure love of a boy
With his warm young blood aglow,
Knows aught of the thrill of the world-old joy—
Do you think that I do not know?
And the false friend plays his part.
Do you think that the blackguard who drinks alone
Knows aught of a pure girl's heart?
Knows aught of the first pure love of a boy
With his warm young blood aglow,
Knows aught of the thrill of the world-old joy—
Do you think that I do not know?
They say that I never have written of love,
They say that my heart is such
That finer feelings are far above;
But a writer may know too much.
There are darkest depths in the brightest nights,
When the clustering stars hang low;
There are things it would break his strong heart to write—
Do you think that I do not know?
They say that my heart is such
That finer feelings are far above;
But a writer may know too much.
There are darkest depths in the brightest nights,
When the clustering stars hang low;
There are things it would break his strong heart to write—
Do you think that I do not know?
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