wrapping sunlight

mother folds the sheet
wraps sunlight
in cloth
she shakes it out
over the bed
smooths it with her ….
The rest here...

Sorry about the recurring plugs for my blog, it ain’t likely to get better any time soon!

Ant haiga

I’ve posted a new haiga and other posts over at my new blog. I’d post it here too but apparently Google can’t tell if I’m plagiarizing or not.

If you want to comment over there you have to sign in to Disqus which my blog is using for spam control and other stuff that I don’t understand yet.

Story Stones

Perhaps it’s time to share a little of the exhibition I have been having. It’s only got a few more days to run, so if you’re in Adelaide or surrounds, you’d better run! The title of the Show is Story Stones and I’m sharing it with my husband Ervin Janek. He’s showing stone sculptures and the most amazing photographs. He does wonderful composite photos with lots of layers, literally and metaphorically.

Ervin Janek:

I have some prints but the thing I’m most excited about is that I found a wall for my Etcetera installation. You can see more images of it here, from when it was in my studio.

Belinda Broughton: Etcetera (detail)

I also did some rather fun prints like Noodle Ned here. For those of you not familiar with Australian history Ned Kelly was our most famous bushranger (highwayman) from the gold rushes. He is wore home-made armour that looked not dissimilar to this. Every Australian gets this and it’s so silly that it’s funny.

Belinda Broughton: Noodle Ned

Here’s more gallery shots

Ervin Janek: Self Portrait with Webs and other photos, Gallery shot
Ervin Janek: Small Death, and other photographs, gallery shot.
Ervin Janek: Creature Looking Backwards, Small Guardian Figure, and Small Bust
Belinda Broughton: Night Creature, Free Bird, Vacant dog, gallery view

It’s a strange gallery, with lots of nooks and angles and stairs and ramps, but a lively space to work with. Thank goodness for the Manager Niki and her assistant Rebecca, who really knew how to work with it.

Open today, tomorrow and Saturday afternoons. That’s it folks. (Maybe I should have posted this earlier, but I don’t think any of you who are close enough to go are not on FB where I did most promoting of it)

Address: Gallery 1855, 2 Haines Rd, Tea Tree Gully, South Australia.

Oh for ordinary news

Oh for ordinary news:
who-killed-who-in-the-suburbs news
bank robberies and latest-cure news.

Not madmen making glib decisions
that kill the numberless just to support
their own pockets, their own egos.

We love our sons with ferocity
bandage their knees, nurture them
praise their prowess.

Perhaps we should praise them
when they don’t squash bugs.

Perhaps we should teach them to care
about bugs.


Anzac day. It should be about care and respect for returned service men and women. But lately it’s about rampant nationalism and war glorification. I could cope with this while there was peace but we have two world leaders shaking their nuclear fists at each other. Surely we need to think about our common humanity, not what divides us. And, imagine this, those two men were little boys once.

This photo was done recently, there had been a die-off of fish and at the two metre mark along the Murray’s banks were hundreds of dried fish. I don’t know why it is in this post, except it is about populations and violence, and time and peace.

More than one grief


I collect my griefs like medals,
wear them bravely and with madness,
bear their regular unclasping,
bear the blood they draw.

Autumn has finally come.
It tears at the plum tree,
strews leaves across the ground.
Soon rain will come and beat them into compost.

Small birds ruffle their feathers
and pull their heads down into their coats.
Me too. My shoulders are rounded
from all these autumns.

There is an old man in what is left of a country town
making a wreath for Anzac Day.
Alone, he will carry it to the memorial
wearing the medals of his grief.

What the Dreamed Man Gave

The dreamed man opens your hand;
into it he sprinkles something,
closes your fist and says, “This is Mundi.”
Here, in your hand is Mundi
and Mundi is the earth, the cosmos, everything.
You have a little pinch of everything in your hand.
Separate yourself if you can.

Now I ask you
where is your tiny self with all its fears and irritations?
Where is your desire for the next pair of shoes,
the next piece of art, the next love, the next lust?
Where are your concerns
of war and peace, of living and dying,
joy, your friend’s joy,
pain, your friend’s pain,
politicians and their hollow words?
I ask you, what are these things,
what are all these separate things,
when here
in your hand
is Mundi?

Here in your hand are your ancestors, your neighbour,
your daughter, your daughter’s daughter,
all the ages of man, Venus of Willendorf, crones and bones.
You hold in your hand the nervous magpie bearing worm.
You hold in your hand the rain and next year’s rain,
the dust blowing over the deserts,
the very earth spewing rock and that rock
flowing like blood down mountainsides of its own creation.
You hold the spark of life,
the myriad beings, the seed, the tree,
the fragile microcosm of the cell,
photosynthesis, the sun, the sun, the great sun.

For Mundi is the heavens also,
is the earth rolling through blankness carrying you and your handful.
It is silent space out to the edges of nowhere,
contained in all time from the beginning-without-end
and the end birthing beginnings – forever, forever.
God-dust it is, right here, in your hand.
Come now, would you baulk?
Would you baulk when
this little bit of Mundi in your hand is
is all you have ever loved?
You have to take the large with the small;
just because you are afraid is no reason to deny it.

What will you name it?
The first spark of light,
the first-ever nudge of movement.
It is the almost-silent reverberating first word.
It is the beginning. It is the end.
It is that there is no beginning and no end.
And I ask you, how do you put it down?
For it is Mundi
and there is a sprinkle of it
in your hand.