Biography of Maggie Munro
I’m a country girl, who now lives and works in the city. I was a shy kid, particularly as a teenager, until I figured out how to pretend that I wasn’t. Since then, the world has decided that I’m a party animal. Maybe I went a bit far.
I enjoy walks in the bush, and I write a regular newsletter for my walking club. I’m an unashamed foodie, and don’t mind the odd bottle of red wine. On the even days, I’m happy to make do with a white.
As a child I was encouraged by my family to regard written language as a sacred and powerful instrument. My mother was an avid reader and historian. One of my earliest memories is of sitting on my grandfather’s knee (having gleefully retrieved the chocolate bar from his top pocket) and having a book read to me. I think it may have been the now highly malapropos “Little Black Sambo”, but in later years I was to be indulged with many books, including the bush ballads of Henry Lawson and Banjo Paterson.
It is my joy to be given, recently, a rare gift from a new friend; the confidence and encouragement to write my own verse, and to share it with this largely supportive community of writers.
Maggie Munro Poems
Do I miss you more? Your words absent Hollow space on white page Where our love
She wakes, with hot emotion streaming warm and wet, across one rosy cheek. Slowly reason rises, tears subside, for many times does bitter obligation
Right Here Right Now
Today There is no need for you to visit me I can change light bulbs, tap washers and flat tyres. Take out the garbage, mow the lawn and trim the edges
Lowered eyes, every footfall soundless, bony shoulders rise and fall as pistons And strike! Death is delivered, the quarry stilled in an instant.
The first day sings sublimely in his mind, standing on the honed blade of her smile. She permeates each niche of his desire, brazen joys which better sense denies.
I picture you, opening the door, walking up the orchard rows, in the caramel of evening light.
Philosophers assure us that it’s all a state of mind, from every thought that’s in our head to the boil on our behind.
No sculpted stone or shade on deckle page, no canvas daub or etch in verdigris, no crystal flash or scrap of celluloid can portray the simple candour of our age.
She wakes, with hot emotion streaming
warm and wet, across one rosy cheek.
Slowly reason rises, tears subside,
for many times does bitter obligation
steal joy away to pour its stream of sand
carelessly through those indifferent hands.
Her sunrise aches to draw one curtain closed,
to veil the room in softened honey light,