.EAVES -vucwr v PENCIL DRAWINGS aro eroen Why should I sing of dale and hills of birds and trees when thousand songsters have exploited nature's treasure store long, long ago. . . . Oh! let me sing of love and joy of life let me embrace the warming sun and guiding stars let love pulsate within my heart. AUTUMN LEAVES VERSES and LETTERS by L. L. POLITZER PENCIL DRAWINGS by HAROLD B. HERBERT " Pan " Publishing House, Melbourne I SALUTE MY READERS Jusf as the painter or composer in his divine hour of inspiration delivers the product of his imagination, so does the poet only with the difference that the written word is entirely concrete and is encased by boundaries less lofty than those of music and the fine arts. The poet's words are put on the scales of aestheticism; they are weighed carefully and they must conform with certain standards. The poet's intentions are easily misread his utterings scrutinized by critical minds. The poet must be allowed to give wing to his pegasus and let it stride freely and breezily. The poet desires to carry his readers along in his dreamland, through happy avenues of thought stepping over golden autumn leaves, strewn across the path. AUSTRALIA. The shore of unknown lands draws near and puzzled visions open to eager eyes of men, whom destiny has chosen pioneers. Verdant lands they see untouched, unfilled by human hand, a paradise so vast a playground for man and beast. It's natives, black in pigment but white within live carefree lifes and peaceful are it's roaming beasts. A Continent, dormant through untold ages far, far away from all the beaten tracks secluded in a corner of the globe. The Southern Star unfailing guide to ships that pass these lonely shores. The pioneers alight adventure in their blood they roam in dale and hill follow the streams through unknown wilderness and battle, battle staking energy and life and conquer in the end. Experience is life's beloved tutor we do not heed advice that's given free and freely We mount the steps of life by heaving stone to stone and when we stumble on the rocky path flaming scars remain as milestones on our fleeting, earthly way. On, on, the clock runs fast permits cf no respite fulfilled must be our mission and we must carry our burden to the journey's end. V? MORITURI. Have you ever known death, the healer, peacemaker, leveller . He has been with me many a day .... he came and I could not make him take his leave. Nor is he ever present but slips on soundless heels through walls of stone when I'm depressed and down .... He stares just for a second and is gone, for he has many calls to make. I take no fright of him submissively I watch and bide my time when I shall have to wrestle him supreme dictator and shall lose the bout. EVENING ON THE YARRA. Placidly flows the river encloaked in evening garb it's rippling waves caressed by iridescent lights some early, timid stars are welcomed peacefully ebbing rhythm stroking the nightbound stream bidding it's banks to sleep. * * ****** And magically loom gigantic city structures a mighty panoramic backcloth to the stage of life enacted daily in it's labyrinth. The play is now at rest for a brief span the stage be set for 'morrow's drama when hand of destiny directs a million's fate. No other playhouse offers such diversity where comedy and drama alternate and actors and their public mingle dense and close . * . Placidly flows the river night sings it's slumber song. Love came one day from nowhere round the corner and there it was so simple and demure yet quite commanding in it's alluring charm. It's arms stretched hungry and it's heart beat fast parched lips were quiv'ring for a flood of kisses and ev'ry nerve was keyed to fever-heat. The spark of love immersed in slumb'ring passion had found it's mate among the multitude of souls that stumble in the dark without a goal just longing in their hearts. PASSION. When summer nights caress with velvet paws my jaded nerves . , . when clouds of jasmin float through dreamy lanes and heart and senses ought to rest in peaceful meditation I feel no lull in brain nor limb in storms of passion is my blood a'crying Engulfed and trapped by lightning flashes of bacchanalian dreams friend Pan is singing on his most tender flute songs of consuming love and heaven's vistas turn into hells of joy. . . . EVENING. Midsummer stillness flower-scented evening gladness wafting through the air. One last, faintly sounding call of tired birds nesting at sunset * . dusk spreads it's wings covering earth with tender care dreamland unfolds it's gates for all to enter CONCERTO. A seething sea of people bent on getting thrilled by a piano grande hush, hush They sit so still no murmur can be heard suspended breath stifles the eager crowd. The keyboard comes to life figures and ornaments moulded by artists hands dazzle in plastic vitality chains of tune are conjured from the cold ivory and a feast of melody radiates through the highdomed hall with its thousand lights How disturbing my little neighbour seventeen or there-about peach bloom cheeks and eyes of worldly penetration her lithe body clad in intriguing pranks of fashion eternal hide and seek of mystery and promise. Should love be timed to standards set by man . can we command, when our senses speak hear not what's said in sordid market places where gossip thrives like orchid in the jungle. Hark to yourself alone and live your life ... drink joy in long and thirsty draughts yours is creations ever bubbling fountain love .... love each kiss a dew drop of morn' awakening blooms to greet the light of day. OVER A CUP OF COFFEE. A square room of carpeted comfort diffused lights mellowing the smoke-laden air and the burr of voices and laughter . . . turquoise coloured dresses encase winsome maidens mechanised movements smiles glace .... clutter of cups muffled sounds of a ladies' band and the fragrant odor of steaming coffee drowning it all. Shop talk at one table flirtation at another crossfire of questioning eyes dissecting their neighbours searching for heart or body query and answer in swift glances whilst nibbling at a biscuit or fingering a book or paper the stream of newcomers sweeps on new faces in never ebbing tide. r ~ ~ AFTERNOON TEA. The ritual of aft'noon tea women young and women old some demure and others bold chatter floats, a seething sea. Powder puffs we must not scorn shiny noses they adorn lipstick rouge skilful applied such queer antics can be spied. Ceaseless chattering gossip runs brainless tittle tattle just to keep the jaws a'rattle and in between some tea and buns. HOLIDAY. Festivcness in the air swamping people's mind submerging them . . . they rejoice forgotten all cares in the intoxicating thought of a day's freedom and pleasure crowding and herding together like cattle in a paddock exuberance and vulgarity are trumps mass happiness keeps people in chains in the background looms the threatening shadow of toil, never-ending toil beyond the setting sun rises the vision of the mill the treadmill of grind Another day will come march on and turn not round bend down your head there will be another holiday some day . . some day. . . Jitters v fl m in r^ ***- Dandenong Hills. I have been tossed about on life's ocean and have cheerfully weathered storms and high seas. I have toyed with life and love have gladly given and taken what fate decreed. Who could say in life: "I am the giver or the receiver" who knows? How often do we imagine to bestow a favour when we should acknowledge a gift? I have drifted into this peaceful dale and from here, among my beloved gums I am sending you my first epistle. It is a letter which expects no answer . . . it really is more of a confession of emotions, conjured up before me when thinking of you and your image becomes real to my spiritual eye. One often mistakes passing infatuation for love, fleeting passion for deep-rooted and heart-born affection. We all go through those transitory stages in our voyage through life. Yet, on turning the pages of memory, I find the leaves empty, the images which should be im- printed therein, faded and only one guiding light is greeting me . . . you beloved. I am raking the past, reconstructing the ghosts of my affection and I judge in a detached manner. I weigh the evidence who was at fault perhaps no one temperament circumstances a thousand minute occurrences may destroy the tender, delicate meshwork of loving affection. However, my heart was free my mind at peace, when fate directed that we should meet. . . . Dandenong Hills. I have moved on and gone deeper into the bush, where the primeval woods are dense and the lyrebird practises his antics in the undergrowth of fern and bracken. I feel lonely until I take up my pen, holding concourse with you. I had to forsake the noisy, hustling city, the heartless grinding between the millstones of daily routine. I had to flee into the hills where peace may be found among gums and ferns. But even the most ideal surroundings bestow no peace if it does not come from within. Every page addressed to you my dear brings me nearer towards calmness and happiness. Many among us consider letter writing an anachronism, old fashioned and out of date. Yet, I love expression by means of the pen it forms an oasis of rest for the mind, whipped along at top speed in the race through life. It is the only means of concourse without any undercurrent of discord in speech or thought. One spoken word may tear the tender fabric of affection, one wrongly keyed word may destroy the spider-net like delicacy of loving harmony. Dandenong Hills. I am surrounded by primeval bush and fern and bracken . . . the air is bracing and my mode of living is condensed to simpleness ... I am as close to nature as one's mind, affected by city life permits. We all are in the throes of convention, preju- dices and mockery . . . creating complexes and making life difficult and artificial. ... It causes to focus events wrongly and one gets a distorted perspective . . . But when your image enters the frame of contemplation, everything gets a new meaning and all clouds disperse . . . opening happy vistas to the mind. Dandenong Hills. I have wandered about, buried myself among my books and have worked . . . your image has been my constant companion. It forms my inspira- tion and urges me to activity. How a friendship can grow from a tender sprig of mutual sympathy to be nursed into a powerful link between two souls . . . step by step until it spreads it's delicate shoots and entwines two people, merging their thoughts and actions into a unit of harmony. Friendship is a calmly flowing rivulet, whereas love represents the embodiment of the wild unleashed torrent of passion, relentless in it's stormy progress all-consuming and singeing on it's trail. It may purify or destroy . . . it's path is strewn with dangers . . , there is no halt whilst it rages. Friendship is the gondola of peace and happiness . . gliding along silently and serene. Autumn is stretching it's gentle hand over the foliage outside my windows and the leaves are rust- ling in a delicate pianissimo. Autumn breezes temper the fierce rays of the glorious sun whilst it sets in that eternal journey which brings joy to human hearts. * AMftMw { I*/ -V*^, - J Vifck t ^w ^J** " . ^ < Dandenong Hills. When the first brainstorms have spent them- selves, when passion has ebbed down and calmness reigns ... a transitory stage is entered . . . the real danger zone of love, the test, whether that infatuation with all it's complementary character- istics will grow into a lasting understanding and deep- rooting friendship or whether it will leave emptiness in it's devastating trail that means cooling off and eventually mort d'amour. Times change and customs alter. Progress has transformed the world and all the people . . . yet love and friendship are two romantic relics in the hearts of human beings, surviving evolution and transformation. They have remained immovable poles around whom the soul of humanity moves making life worth living. This complicated physical and spiritual func- tion called life embraces love as it's greatest force. Love is the propeller, driving masterfully the best in us and also our worst instincts. Fate directs how it shall manifest itself. When the ship of love can sail on calm and peaceful waters, it carries the blessing of the Gods . . One may ask . . . will not one love letter be twin like to another . . . can one tell of more love and affection than the other without being guilty of boresome repetition? I ask ... is one kiss like the other . . . are there not a thousand surprises in every tender kiss . . in every affectionate embrace? Are lovers ever at a loss as to interpret in words their ecstasy and passion? As these words flow from my pen, the fra- grance of the bush becomes more real than ever, evening breezes sweep through the lightly swaying tree branches and disperse the heaviness of the sun- saturated atmosphere and peace reigns supreme. It is a pleasure to be alive Dandenong Hills. The sun sets, a fiery ball, spreading it's misty blinding rays and dipping the paling landscape in a last splash of liquid gold fleeting clouds turn gradu- ally into a riot of rapidly changing pastel shades, transparent and enchanting deepening shadows cast their giant arms over mother earth as if spreading heavenly quilts for the approaching night. The thousand birds wing with relaxing energy from bower to branch and hold excited converse, gossiping cajoling it seems to be the social hour in high tree tops fanned by the mildly sweeping evening breezes, regenerating sunbaked heights and valleys My favourite period for reflection.living again through past happiness ... I kiss your image in my waking dream . . . you are with me in this glorious dusk . . . it is one of those silent hours of long ago, when none of us spoke and yet our minds entwined in harmony drifted along in peace. We go through the spring of life exuberantly . . . full of expectations and curiosity .... impatient for developments, groping in the dark . . Our every fibre is trembling for the unknown, mys- terious. . . . We are dwarfs trying to stem our frail personality against the massive door the guardian of the fort of life. We grow older, bleed from a thousand wounds which life inflicts on us . . our heart has to stand the ordeal of emotional upheavals and we embrace illusion after illusion, a succession of kaleidoscopic dreams vanishing into the mist from whence they appeared. Life's pageant sweeps on, trampling down one and uplifting another. Humanity's existence is an eternal Those, destined to climb the ladder of years, can record blessing if their upward journey helps to lift one of the many veils of goddess wisdom, so that they may feel her presence, and receive the light . . . become seeing. . . . I greet you my love. The crispness of morn- ing air sweeps over the hillcrest driving away all dullness, and the climbing sun instills that feeling of strength and confidence in oneself dispersing all misgivings ... all heaviness melts under the liquid gold flooding hills and meadows, the endlessly stretching water sheet at the borderline of the distant horizon trembles in silvery haziness. The birth of a new day also means recreation of new hopes and unappeased longing comes within the range of fulfillment. A I f <*lr> ' '- ' Dandenong Hills. Loneliness is a curse. ... I am most lonely in a crowd. . . . Those pleasures are not for me . . . and yet I love to mingle in a festive throng or sit in a packed theatre or concert hall . . . for- getting everything around me and giving way to reflections . . closing my eyes and shutting myself off from the world. Whether music or chatter float- ing towards my ears . . . the sound acts like the ebbing tide, splashing gentle waves in well timed intervals My loneliness has grown with the years, becoming unbearable at times ... is there nothing in this world to appease my longing . . . must I wander on restlessly and distracted with that mask of convention, an eternal carnival of disguise? I often wonder whether my burden is heavier than that of others . . . but let us forget . . . the sun is in the sky and the birds sing of their joy of life. Carpe Diem. Dandenong Hills. Autumn is not the end of things . . . it is a glorious transitory season, mellowing down the riotous summer, dimming the brilliancy of it's sun spectre, balancing the ledger of nature and humanity . . . both are stocktaking * . . it is a period of introspection The sound of rustling autumn leaves bears music if one's inner self can look back on a path which had ambition as guideposts and success as mile- stones . . . then, one may well be satisfied, but even if one has missed worldly success, one's soul may evolve into a store-house of happiness and love and beauty, ideal phantoms will compensate for much in life . . . bestow even wealth, inaccessible to the multitude. Autumn is a twofold herald . . . ushering in winter and raising hopes for that new spring, already sheltering impatiently under winter's warmth spending cloak and ready to burst forth when it has gathered sufficient strength . . . the eternal merry go round of seasons The falling autumn leaves present a colourful carpet to our fleeting foot a soothing sight to our eye thought to the contemplating mind the sadness of falling autumn leaves can be tempered by happy memories. RETROSPECTIVE. Life's tangled cross roads, their mystifying bend to our earthly journey adventurous spirit lend. Who'd be a seer to penetrate the veil will future hold success or shall we fail. The force of fate makes our travel light onward and on we march till we have reached the height. And looking back the longdrawn winding trails we see freed of blinding veils A world of beauty dreambound and serene a treasure house, we'd passed much happiness within. It's walls are mute and all it's shutters closed silence reigns in it's halls the magic key is lost. 1 V^ 1 \ > PAN" PUBLISHING HOUSE Box Q 1761, G.P.O. MELBOURNE Wholly let up and printed by W. B L1THO CO. PTY. LTD. 214-216 Queen St.. Melbourne.