Biography of Alison Cassidy
The urge to create is universal. As a yoga teacher, I have been tapping into this universal source for more than twenty years and as an actor, since the tender age of five.
In May 2006 I wrote my first poem, inspired, I suppose, by the same spirit that has driven my yoga and creative dance classes for so many years. Experience is slowly teaching me about the technique of writing poetry and giving me the confidence to experiment with different forms, but the initial creative springboard has never changed and continues to fill me with awe.
I feel humbled when I read comments on my work and excited when I am able to offer the occasional insightful one on other people's. I am far less judgmental than when I first joined the site.
My favourite poet is still William Shakespeare and I continue to visit my beloved Jerry Hughes' words when I need a refreshing clarity of vision and absence of bullshit.
My website is kumbada.com.au
Alison Cassidy Poems
Wild Geese By Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body
My First Orgasm
it wasn't for want of regular experimenting, but somehow
A Pocketful Of Sympathy
A pocketful of sympathy Is really rather wonderful To stop a scratch from stinging Or a bruise from black and bluing
A Moisty Under Milkwood Morning
On this moisty Under Milkwood morning I walked buoyantly, briskly through late summer bush.
A Son Is Born
I place the peonies on the windowsill - a perfect present for the new mum, flushed and furry-eyed on the unmade bed.
I Love Red
RED balloon floating through frames of Thirties celluloid
! ! Mother's Last Mothers Day
And on that last Mothers Day, when the birch leaves fluttered pale gold, and the magpies chortled
Crisp morning Walking the dog The sky blushes with russet light
! ! A Practical Kind Of Loving
Your perfume lingers on my clothes, like the image of your small determined face. You watched me hug him – your husband of sixty odd years;
Peacock Story 8 - A Sad Poem
yesterday five freckled eggs nestled under warm feathers
! ! Dancing With Dylan
He is propped on all fours when I arrive - almond eyes grave, face strangely serious.
Sad Is Stupid
I'm sorry you're sad 'I'm not sad. Don't use that word.
A Nonsense Poem - A Villanelle
A little mouse sings in a bowl A little fish runs on a wheel A little worm hops in a hole
Her Name Was Madge
Rum-balls and marzipan announced her appearance every Christmas in those far-away tinselly days