A Fractal Being: The poetic (mis)adventures of...

By Gideon Wilde

The title for A Fractal Being comes from a line in my poem 'The Patchwork Man' and is representative of the infinitely complex patterns that we see in life, and in ourselves as human beings.

A Fractal Being is accordingly, a diverse collection of work, spanning a range of themes and life experiences, collected into loosely relevant chapters. It is also reflective of a wide range of poetic styles, from the traditional to the modern.

I use words to share a vision of the way I see the world; to empty the words from my head so they stop harassing me; to battle dragons, and most of all, in an effort to connect with my fellow human beings in a meaningful way.

I hope, in this collection, that I find a way to do that with you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tablo Publishing
• Release date: Oct 14, 2021
• ISBN: 9781685830465

Book preview

1. Scenes

Wynnum North Esplanade

Pelicans drift on blue cellophane. 

Stradbroke Island, a watercolour stain at the far edge of sight. 

Paddle-boarders stand and poke at the water,

while joggers, in 80's flouro, slap the asphalt with their feet.

A parade of dogs strain at loosely held leads,

Tongues out, and sniffing at lamp posts.

A little boy maybe three or four walks by,

he spots my motorbike and stops.

 Look, daddy! A motorbike! Like he'd seen a Unicorn.

Back wheel. Front wheel, he explained expertly.

Miming, he points at the handlebars. 

Arms back and forth, in exaggerated steering.

He toddles off with a backwards glance. 

…Someday.

The sounds of an up-ended water bottle,

Where the ocean flirts with the stone wall. 

The sun, just right, dazzles St Helena Island. 

Laying a trail of sparkling gold upon the water.

A perfect Spring day. Warming and delightful. 

Abuzz with life and activity, As a Spring should be. 

Before Summer slaps it’s hot, wet hands on us. 

And everyone hides inside, with the air-con on. 

As I ride away, I pass that young boy, on his mother's shoulders.

He waves.

Rain at Midnight

Soothed by this downpour

I lie awake, just listening.

It's like I can hear each drop

hit the leaves,

and the old tin roof.

Each drip,

each fat plop,

an ovation for this

stolen hour.

Stars in the Palm Trees

Stars in the palm trees.  The cerulean waters

of the Whitsundays, turned black in the absence

of light (as are all things). I sit on this balcony

and watch as black shades to grey. The hills

a vague silhouette on the edges of the harbour,

as the stars begin to take their leave. This

astronomical twilight begins to wash the scene

a lighter shade of dark. I think I could sit with this view

forever. I could dance to the circadian rhythms,

immerse myself in aquamarine abandon. Caring not

for bills, or COVID or responsibility. An island coalesces

from the dark. A necklace of lights, from yachts and

channel markers, around its neck. The hills take on an orange 

halo, subtle, but prominent in this palette of