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
I Love Red
RED balloon floating through frames of Thirties celluloid
Looking Glass Reflections
When I was a child the glass on the wall was a mirror of me. I put on faces and hats
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 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
Crisp morning Walking the dog The sky blushes with russet light
Let There Be Light
Harsh light Summer sun Baking the earth
A Moisty Under Milkwood Morning
On this moisty Under Milkwood morning I walked buoyantly, briskly through late summer bush.
Last Sunday I held you between my knees - all freshly changed and milky. Your butterfly eyes
The Suspicion Discovery Betrayal
On The Death Of A Child - For Tara
Words cannot change what happened Words cannot heal the hurt and yet there is comfort in your words:
Her Name Was Madge
Rum-balls and marzipan announced her appearance every Christmas in those far-away tinselly days
Spring Is Sprung
spring is a -springing the sun is a-shining and daffodils dance in the dew of the garden