The late summer
storm brings welcome relief to the inevitable exhaustion of searing
heat waves. The humidity rising gradually over days becoming
intolerable but carrying with it an electricity that enlivens the
mind and senses while it weakens the body. Then the skies turn black
and thunder precedes only the first few drops of rain before the
deluge blinds the horizon and with a sudden explosion of energy the
world become possible again. The rusted cracked soil drinks a
mouthful, then fills its throat, then overflows with the wine of
Zeus.
The gathering
took place in a disused metal frame barn, with a roof that had been
replaced once, but a long time ago, and walls half built, or half
torn out. The roof leaked, dripping tricklets into buckets of
various shapes amidst the chairs and cushions and the crowd of busy
talking pretty young things of all ages. A lucky old dog conversed
with everyone, and as I watch the always amusing tech issues
unfolding and solving, I sip my beer and nibble grapes. What more
could I expect from a book launch from Peach, but to be amidst the
fruits of the world, and to savour every moment. To listen to the
eager conversations and delight in the youthful enthusiasm of an
evening devoted to poetry.
The stage, warmed
by old carpets and made homely by the broken grandfather clock,
clustered itself around an old book case raised on milk crates, a
guitar leaning against a stool, and the exquisite and somehow
timeless pools of yellow light from old lamps. A lounge room built
within the walls of a half-ruined, peak roofed work shed. A shed
which had aged so beautifully that even now, surrounded by the
suburban homes that had grown and aged around it, it remains a
beautiful and useful space.
The evening
begins with a story perhaps with roots as old as story-telling.
Liam, the teller of tales, recounts the myth of Orpheus and Euridice.
It is a tragedy so dire that he tells it at first as a sort of
comedy, luring us into his gentle tone and remarkably erudite
language. We laugh just long enough to be pulled still bubbling into
the heart of the myth. Like Orpheus himself, Liam lures us into the
hypnotic truths of the story. The heart of which continues beating
long after the tale is told, like the song being sung by Orpheus'
decapitated head as it floated downstream...
Don't look
back.
I
cannot separate the sound of rain from the sound of clapping. It is
as if the whole evening is being applauded by the heavens. A
blessing. A blessing. We are blessed to hear such stories told, and
we offer up our warm cheers and storm of applause in thanks to the
storyteller, and in like manner we welcome the singer.
The
singer - A woman named Nico who lifts the guitar and dedicates her
set to her dead friend. Dead last week. She asks us to hug our
friends, to work on the small stuff, to treasure every moment,
because, you never know. She sings us songs of falling in love while
the world is on fire, she strums us a melody so sweet, so sad, and
her voice is like the faint white line above the horizon, separating
above from below. It is neither delicate, nor blunt, it is, rather,
essential. It is her own voice. A true voice.
Our
appetite grows and Peach does not hesitate. With the fading cheers
for the singer, he takes the mic and expresses his thanks to us in a
hundred different ways. With Ciceronian perfection, he delivers his
poems from memory, making each word important, each sentence a
valuable statement to be considered and savoured, and, bakes this
whole poetic dish of words and sounds and phrases into a philosophy
of love that is deeply considered and compelling. He plays games
with us, we stand and hug each other at his request, declaring that
love is real, we look into each other's eyes and we shout to the sky,
lifting our voices in an exaltation that surprises me, rushing up
with a liberty of spirit and filling the whole crowd with an
immediacy of experience.
We
are all here to hear Peach speak, to let his ideas dissolve in us.
Where is
God?
I don't know.
But at times,
there's a certain stillness
and silence,
within which
such a
question appears the wrong one to be asking,
and what the
right one might be
seems best
left
to god.
Peach
has religion without being religious. He had God without being a
preacher. He is a raise-the-roof kinda guy on stage, unaffected by
pretensions or nervousness. He stands and delivers and good lord if
it ain't magnificent to see a poet shoot from the hip, all the words
there on the tip of his tongue, shooting arrows into our minds and
hearts and bodies. Over and over I hear people sigh, or moan at a
moment's pause when Peach lets us sink into his message. But it is
not hand delivered, it hand held, heart held. He seems as complete a
man as I have ever seen, he is in the fullness of self awareness,
self love, self drive and passion and happiness and sadness and
deeply ponderous consideration of the world. His poetry is an
expression of that knowledge, which is not assuming, not arrogant,
but simply, and beautifully, true.
It came
like a song in thunder.
It came like
cadence in storm.
It came for
it's always been coming
from when it
was brought into form.
It came like a
bolt of lightning
upon the peaks
of the heart.
I'd not
witnessed they reached so high
till I
witnessed the wilderness part.
It came like a
shot of presence
through the
vicious roars of the age.
Love rained
down its immortal blaze
to lighten up
centre stage.
*
Peach's
new book, Forever Again, can be purchased from him directly.
His
writing can also be found at www.poemsontherun.com
love ya Morgan!
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