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Ivan Carswell Poems


Information about Ivan Carswell

Born in 1945 in the rural town of Gisborne, New Zealand, Ivan was educated initially at Ngatapa School. He was immediately smitten by the power of the written word, embracing it to write poetry almost as soon as he could pen words competently. From such beginnings he become a prolific reader and enthusiastic, if somewhat erratic, writer. He completed secondary education at Gisborne Boys High School where he won awards for creative writing and attended Ardmore Teachers Training College gaining a teaching qualification in 1964. Against the developing backdrop of the Vietnam war he taught for a brief period before resigning to join the Army in 1967. During early military service Ivan juggled marriage with frequent postings, training and duties as a junior regimental officer plus the commencement of an extra-mural Arts degree. Granted a Military study award he completed the final year at Victoria University of Wellington in 1975. He served for 21 years, taking his release as Director of Army Personnel in 1988. Ivan and family relocated to Sydney, Australia in 1989 where he worked variously as a personnel manager, consultant and contractor until 1996. He subsequently moved to Queensland to establish a business as an avocado grower on the Sunshine Coast hinterland. He currenly lives and writes in Peachester. Although Ivan never published he has had one act plays performed in amateur theatre. With time on his hands these days he has been able to re-indulge in his enduring passion of poetry. His current 'poem a day' regime will continue while the passion burns and the arthritis allows...



Found 181 poems by Ivan Carswell .
[ Page 1 of 9 ]
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Jessie of Gibraltar
"Our lives were founded on this rock, this Jessie of Gibraltar
Whose unfailing love endured beyond her ample nursing,
And we grew out of a rich and favoured childhood aware
Her powers were real (we tested them enough to know their soundness) into
Individual and relentlessly expanding worlds assured because she made it so.
And so into our grown lives in spite of distance and diversity
Composed by milieu unreconciled with age she climbed the crooked mile
To share with us (for better or worse) our triumphs and tragedies in life.
Memories of her wry perceptions and idiomatic circumlocution
Charmed the senses rather than presumed, she had
An uncanny gift to pin evasive teens and wrest the truth without
Conceding adolescent confidence and her continuous
And humble capacity for love and forgiveness allayed our doubt.
We heard it said she was the same into her final hours,
The impish humour that sprang forth brusque and clear
And a fierce resolve for liberty despite well-meant restraints,
A charitable reach for those she thought less fortunate
And practised feints she meant to let her will allow.
And thus she will be in our separate and unknowable futures
For which she fitted us before we knew. And now we know
So evident and strong an abiding lesson in humility sung
In the voices of children gathered to celebrate her life,
A song of radiant pride (though its sadness undeniable)
For a mother and wife who loved and taught her children to love.
And is gone.
In bidding her goodbye we raise her up again and bear her on
In the lives bequeathed our children,
To rest in everlasting peace.
© I.D. Carswell
February 2002
In memory of our mother, Jessie Maria Carswell (nee Gillgren)"
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Bretton Wood
"It happened by Bretton Wood (although that
wasn't it's real name) and I recall a clear, grey dawn
and the tall sky fallow with torpid clouds;
we went on before to watch how they sundered out
of wretched sleep and patrolled into the gathering,
garrulous sun. In the frail light we sensed but
did not see flickering images of unwarlike forms,
soft-edged shapes slithering between trees
without panic, figures without definition fleeing
on precisely placed hooves the misshapen
soldiers who merged silently with the soft clay dawn.
At the tree-line we knew them and were in awe
of their focused but trouble-free leaving,
aware they moved in a way which we
could not have noticed but for our own anxious delusion.
Then as we turned to watch our troops materialize
like insubstantial wraiths from the confusion of trees
the two rifle shots which shredded this surreality
rang out; whip-sharp cracks shouted out
a second apart, followed by resolute thumps
echoed and distant-sure but still true in the pure, clean air.
Oh, we knew what it was, we'd been fired at before,
were veterans of peace and lovers of war who
knew and were angered at a disingenuous breach
of our ordered reality. He's shooting the deer,
my sergeant said, shaking his long-suffering head
incredulously, shaking his head and seeing
the pointlessly dead soldiers swarming in my mind;
God forbid, a lousy shot, but I'll give him thanks -
he's made them disperse better than we
could have done with a couple of blanks.
Whomever he was he saw who he'd fired at,
knew his foul error and fired no more.
As I cursed our cadets through their unruly
drills and my sergeants searched
for the shooter in tussock-clad hollows
and rock-crested hills the Colonel despaired,
Why do you still swear?
I was hard-pressed to answer, and mutely declared
it was to do with the deer. I should have expected it
I finally said, I knew they were there.
It didn't explain and I guessed he required
my clamouring mouth stilled; there was no hope
of that now - I barely survived the moment at dawn
where my virtue was killed.
© I.D. Carswell"
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