For Simmone Howell
My character is ‘driving woman’
I’m not sure of my motivation
there may be a dead man in the trunk
I glance at my child in the rear vision mirror
possibly I have repressed memories
of being a trained assassin
the houses I’m passing are painted houses
nothing has depth
nothing is its own true colour
I glance in the mirror again
the back seat is empty
at this exact moment
the car slides past
an exact duplicate of myself
waiting to cross the road
It’s like a movie
but the reality
I’m driving
I’m not sure of my motivation
the car is doing the thinking for me
it really is real life
cars stretched to the horizon
honking to each other like wild geese
we all get out
stand on our cars
and sing
Tuesday, January 31, 2017
Monday, January 30, 2017
In the deep dark of the night, how do I let go of my fear?
For Lefa, with love
There is so much to fear how will the work of it ever be
thoroughly done in the half-felt, incomplete hours?
She gets up in
the night, pulls on her dressing gown,
scuffs her
feet across the floor (past the
picnickers in the hall)
to the kitchen to make some
kind of soup. Salt, salt, pepper, salt.
She lays a
cloth napkin across her knees and sips from a spoon.
Salt, salt,
pepper salt: It tastes of childhood,
the
combination flavours of safety and harm.
It is natural
to be afraid, says the shadow, who has followed her
from the
bedroom (past the picnickers in the hall)
and sits
across the table from her, watching the spoon break
the surface of
the soup. She folds the napkin and pats
at the corners
of her mouth. Salt, salt, pepper, salt.
In the morning
the soup pan, the bowl, the spoon, the napkin,
have all been
cleared away. She tastes dread in her throat,
salt, salt, pepper, salt, the flavour of the waking dream.
How Can I Be In Two Places At Once?
Unless you are
a bird
history
entering
the panelled eye
time is colour
light is
memory
migrating by heart
led by the wing
but there is
only one bird
of all places
who cares nothing
for what is a bird
place
sticks and feathers
made and unmade
you sleep
standing up
on the wind
---
This poem is a temporal anomaly because it is yesterday's poem published today.
It is for my friend Kate Clifford, long time Internet companion and all round excellent human, who asked 'How can I be in two places at once?'
The bird comes from Boyle Roche, an Irish politician in the late 1700s infamously said, "Mr. Speaker, it is impossible I could have been in two places at once, unless I were a bird." While Roche was famous for mixed metaphors and malapropisms, in this case he was quoting lines from a play.
Saturday, January 28, 2017
Guess Who
For Penny Tangey*
A girl walks into a pet shop,
and says to the guy behind the counter,
‘Just the usual thanks.’
He stares at her, slightly panicked.
He can’t tell if she’s serious.
she gazes at him for a long time.
‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘It’s a
joke.’
He can't help feeling he has let her down in some way.
She lingers for a long time at the 'oodle
cage,
and the dogs act like they know her,
some sit,
some walk on two legs,
they whine,
fetch,
play dead.
She says, ‘I have another joke.’
He says, ‘I don’t like jokes’
but not loud
enough for her to hear.
She says, ‘What’s the difference between a
duck?’
He waits.
When she doesn’t say anything,
he’s forced to say, ‘What?’
The puppies tumble over each other,
rubbing against the cage, purring like
kittens.
She stands up, walks over to the counter.
The puppies whine.
‘One leg is both the same,’ she says.
He frowns, thinking about it,
he’s about to ask her to explain it,
but she is already gone.
The puppies are bereft,
they sleep all afternoon,
and at the end of the day,
though it’s against the rules,
he takes one of them home,
a Groodle he temporarily names Ernest.
He tells his housemates about the girl,
holding the puppy on his lap,
and they have lots of questions, like
‘Was she wearing glasses?’
‘Did she have
red hair?’
‘Did she have a big nose?’
and he says, ‘well I guess
that’s a matter of
opinion.’
And then they start asking different questions, like
‘Would she take a long time to choose a
video in a rental store?’
And ‘If she was a celebrity, would she
release a perfume?
And would she name it after herself?’
And he says ‘listen,
she was the kind of girl who’d walk into a
pet shop
and say, just the usual thanks.'
He lets Ernest sleep on his bed
and the next day, takes him back to the store.
...
The Internet of Women
Jo asked 'How can I help?' so this poem is dedicated to her, and to all the women from Ninemonths, the parenting forums I joined in 2002 when I got pregnant with Fred and especially the mums in the private group we created to share photographs called Our Baby Photos, which became our safe place on the Internet for a really long time.
The Internet of Women
Well, the years went
fast, but the time between
three and four in
the afternoon lasts forever
dust suspended in a
shaft of light.
Every day is a
miracle, and you’ve never been so bored,
you are literally
never alone, and you’ve never been so lonely,
You sit down and
type ‘how can anyone live like this?’
That’s how you
find the internet of women.
The medium is the
message, breastmilk, blood, cervical fluid,
we leak into each
other’s lives.
First you make the
character of yourself,
and then slowly
you become that person,
until you’re ready
to take her out into the world.
Once we met in a
private forum called ‘Our Baby Photos’.
Now we’ve spread
out across platforms,
and into ‘real
life’. I’ve met women in every state of Australia,
my children have played
with their children,
some of them are
still friends. Of course the kids
think
they invented the internet.
The years went
fast, but days go slow.
How can anyone
live like this?
Every day is a
miracle and you are literally never alone.
Friday, January 27, 2017
Why does this hurt so much?
For Raelene, who asked, and for Shelley, who hurts.
Hurts
so much, bright agony of light
piercing
the slatted blinds and I’m awake.
This
is the pain I won’t give up.
Contradiction.
I wanted to go somewhere,
so
I buttered toast, blasted milk,
drank
coffee by the window, looked down to the street,
and
all that time, I was a body with corners.
Contradiction.
I was soft and I was brittle,
pressing
my fingerprints into the burn.
When
the wound speaks out, I am grateful
for
the company. I’m waiting to see
how
okay I’m going to be.
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Collective Sleep Dysfunction
Nights fail you
and mornings are hard.
Are you on the
side of sleep or no sleep?
Scared/not scared
of the dark that
waits behind your eyes,
the masked parade
of thoughts,
front row tickets to
the carnival of dread.
You lie down in
bed and it’s just not working,
or maybe you drift
off okay until
you half dream yourself
falling down stairs
and stagger
awake,
and then you can’t
sleep all over again.
"We slept in the night,
in the morning we got up
and made something of ourselves."
Here we all are on
Facebook, on Twitter,
the midnight choir
of the narrowly awake:
Why can't I sleep when I'm
so darn exhausted?
Why do I stay up too late even
though I know
I will be tired tomorrow?
Why are we still awake?
If you don't sleep all night, is it really the next day?
If you don't sleep all night, is it really the next day?
Why don't I want to get
out of bed?
"We slept through the afternoon,
as night fell, we dreamed ourselves awake."
-----------------------------
Questions in the poem dream-harvested from the fabulous likes of:
1. Melanie Sanders
2. Sabdha Pink Charlton
3. Nicole Hayes
4. Jo Case
5. Penelope Davie
Tuesday, January 24, 2017
At any given time what is the weight of the human head?
for Meg Mundell
How long must we carry the precious
burden of skull?
The total body mass index of being human
weighs more than you thought it would
the ache of hair pulling on your head
but you mustn’t speak of the pain to anyone.
What is the weight of care? It weighs
nothing.
Children are heavier asleep, they care for
nothing,
not even sleep. Their heads roll away from
you,
though they would be no good to use as
bowling balls.
Brains are sort of bouncy, like tofu, weigh
a smidge over a kilo.
The brains are hardly the issue here, and doubt
is more of a stomach thing. Necks are the real heroes,
though we’ll be crushed by gravity in the
end.
Anyway, it's a beautiful design flaw.
Our heads are so heavy but when someone enters the room,
we look
up.
-->
Monday, January 23, 2017
Guided Tour
Do you remember Lake Mungo well enough for
a poem?
Question asked by my mother
there are fossils in the memory
that can be
uncovered
by the faintest swirl of wind
roads get rewritten
we leave ourselves in the places we visit
i am half and you are half
here i am
a small fist of bleached bone,
here you are
the ribcage that sheltered me
dry surface
shallow hills
seems lifeless
everything important
occurs somewhere
hidden
wooden structures crumble
undoing of shallow history
bone things become ash
stories run deep glacial
radical rising
Sunday, January 22, 2017
How do you ask the right question?
In the hot afternoon, we turn on the
sprinklers,
for Avery, aged 6, and Frieda from next
door.
Bees hum to the clover, but at the light
touch
of the first drops they lift, six bees
together,
and glide in a single mission to the
vegetable garden.
Avery and Frieda dance at the edge of the
lawn
Wait, says Frieda, what powers do
we have?
Summer, childhood, where every day is long,
blue sky, green grass, frozen bananas on an
icypole stick.
Nothing is perfect in this world, not even
slow time on warm days,
but the children make something of it,
more lasting than memory.
Saturday, January 21, 2017
Big Wet Thing
It’s a lot of work really
Sandwiches made and not eaten,
you bring home a beach worth of sand
and disperse it in the bed sheets
an ecosystem forms in the base of the shower
and you’re washing shell grit down the drain
long after the beach weather
has clouded over.
The older kids run in, swim too far out,
while the little one hangs back,
fearful of the waves.
So your husband edges slowly into the water,
‘watch the kids, hun’
and you hang back on the beach
to take care of the littly.
All you really want to do is swim
out to the horizon,
out past the edge of the world.
You get out the camera.
You look down the lens and see
light chooses you
Sandwiches made and not eaten,
you bring home a beach worth of sand
and disperse it in the bed sheets
an ecosystem forms in the base of the shower
and you’re washing shell grit down the drain
long after the beach weather
has clouded over.
The older kids run in, swim too far out,
while the little one hangs back,
fearful of the waves.
So your husband edges slowly into the water,
‘watch the kids, hun’
and you hang back on the beach
to take care of the littly.
All you really want to do is swim
out to the horizon,
out past the edge of the world.
You get out the camera.
You look down the lens and see
light chooses you
or it doesn’t choose you.
Today's poem responds to a photo prompt from Nadine Cranenburgh. Photo is by Leon Brooks
Today's poem responds to a photo prompt from Nadine Cranenburgh. Photo is by Leon Brooks
Friday, January 20, 2017
Should I think about it first?
Dedicated to @ernmalleyscat
Some things don’t bear thinking about.
Some of those things happened today.
I’m in this safe place
where poems slide
down my face.
Some things don’t bear thinking about.
Some of those things happened today.
I’m in this safe place
where poems slide
down my face.
Thursday, January 19, 2017
Weather Warning
Today's question – Is it going to rain today? – courtesy of Zoe (@SaidHanrahan) so:
for Zoe
How do you make a river?
You feel one on the tip of your tongue,
taste it as it runs past,
trickling down the page.
We hang out our washing,
gather it in, fold it up, put it away, take it out,
put it on. It only stops being laundry
when we wear it.
And in the meantime
fine days turn to dust.
There is the rain you want,
and the rain you don’t want.
Right now, outside,
the air is so still,
it is holding its breath.
for Zoe
How do you make a river?
You feel one on the tip of your tongue,
taste it as it runs past,
trickling down the page.
We hang out our washing,
gather it in, fold it up, put it away, take it out,
put it on. It only stops being laundry
when we wear it.
And in the meantime
fine days turn to dust.
There is the rain you want,
and the rain you don’t want.
Right now, outside,
the air is so still,
it is holding its breath.
Wednesday, January 18, 2017
Do you like pomegranates?
For Mark Lawrence, who asked the question
My girl’s asleep
Absence of earth
What is hidden
Remains alive
Things within things
Mother and daughter
The seeds of war
Hell’s garden tended
By Hell’s gardener
Seeds bit into
Sour and sweet
Because she was hungry
Because she was curious
And sharp
Because, in a way, he suited her
Because she already lived
Between two worlds
Because she liked the taste
She sucked the tingling juice
She lingered
My grief is winter
Tuesday, January 17, 2017
More Than I Love You
What’s the most beautiful thing a child has
ever said to you?
I
love you more than I love you.
He speaks in tongues, honey & milk.
I breathe his breath, summer sweet,
as I lie down to sing him to sleep.
Monday, January 16, 2017
Is that music?
For Thirzah
It’s late, the guy next door practices bass,
Silence staggers between sounds,
Two, one two, one two.
Hurts so much, human.
And it’s not easy, but you think you’re
alone, only
Thirzah and I are listening.
Meat, muscle, memory. Not music, but
Undermusic, the subaquatic strum.
Ssh. I hate it but I love it,
In the dark you are the song of the dark, impure,
Counting out loud, in your head.
Counting out loud, in your head.
Sunday, January 15, 2017
How do I defend myself from a territorial cassowary?
How do I defend myself against anything?
I can protect the body but not the soul,
not the soil
of the soul, not its rich cake. Nothing
will ever become of us,
so you have time to think it over, but
still
cassowaries love cassowaries. Something has
occurred
in this space, like a cassowary word: too
low for the human ear,
the only recorded human death.
A boy who threw a horse's bridle
at it,
and took a claw in the neck. He died of negative blood.
If you should see a territorial cassowary,
drive your car slowly, back away, keep your dog
close,
place something between you and the bird
like your backpack or a hundred a years of
history.
Live as you would like to be remembered
by
the cassowary, father of sons.
Saturday, January 14, 2017
Friday, January 13, 2017
On the chances of running into my 21yo self in Brunswick Street: Sevenling
For Jessica Louisa
Then: time was the consistency and colour
of pumpkin soup, nicotine stains, last night's beer bottles.
A night would last a week and summer went forever.
Now: a deck of days – can't be held in one hand –
shuffled, dealt, played, swept up. Ever played 52 pick-up?
52 cards, 52 weeks, pick 'em up.
Science of subjective time travel totally checks out.
Then: time was the consistency and colour
of pumpkin soup, nicotine stains, last night's beer bottles.
A night would last a week and summer went forever.
Now: a deck of days – can't be held in one hand –
shuffled, dealt, played, swept up. Ever played 52 pick-up?
52 cards, 52 weeks, pick 'em up.
Science of subjective time travel totally checks out.
Thursday, January 12, 2017
Domesticated
will slow with time, how age will
diminish
his ambition, no longer will he wander
up the wild scent paths.
We say he will learn to stand at
thresholds,
bearing those mingled odours:
the perfumes of chaos, rivalry and escape.
He’ll grow out of digging up the neighbours’
gardens,
eating their garbage,
busting their screen doors and breaking
into their houses,
bowling over their toddlers,
running with the other dogs in the street.
Time passes for all of us and one day
fox stink is just fox stink,
same as it always was,
but the appetite for it is gone.
We talk of the dog, sit on the deck,
eating crackers with cream cheese, and chips and dip.
The kids get rowdy in the pool. The trees
are mirrored in the window glass.
The birds sing the evening up out of the river.
Clay, matter, time, stories:
the smell of the river wafts up.
-->
Wednesday, January 11, 2017
But the mornings ring clear
When you give it up, give up swimming
In the dry water, the hush goes quiet,
Night comes and the light stays on,
Everyone is having more fun than you
Everyone is having more fun than you
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
Advice to a poet
Try reading
the words on the page as though they were
the life you
have forgotten. Clouds move past the sun
and it’s not
because I’m still angry, or because I haven’t had a drink.
You probably don’t
remember learning how to talk
to a listener
who is both you and not you.
Try reading
these words as though they were meant to be spoken aloud
room window garden street
baby
city morning sun
books
coffee toast eggs
Enough of that
talk. Imagine a reader you can trust.
Now imagine a
writer you can’t trust.
She’d give you
something to eat and a cup of tea
listen to
everything you had to say,
how awful it
is at home, rolling out
her pastries,
nodding, murmuring, not writing anything down,
not one word. Who knows what she thinks of you.
Monday, January 09, 2017
Reach: Swimming lesson 2017
It’s your turn to learn how the body loves air,
how gravity is a shared human
accomplishment.
Kick
kick kick, long legs, long arms. Reach
for the light on the water, the ducks on
the pond,
birds, leaves, the hurricane fence, the dogs
in the field,
the ball in the sky, for the boys playing
ball,
for the house on the hill and the long way
home,
scoop up the suburb looking down on the
pool,
carve out your history with your small hands,
reach for your sisters, who’ve left you
behind,
touch the wall, touch the sun, reach.
touch the wall, touch the sun, reach.
Sunday, January 08, 2017
The woman who lives in IKEA
I only come out when you’ve gone,
smoothing down the bed spreads,
wiping fingerprints off the glass table
tops.
At noon, I saw your child (you didn’t see
me)
lying on the bed with his shoes on,
while a man neither of us know
sat forward in the easy chair
his eyes fixed straight ahead of him.
Yes, tell your daughter, the phone is glued
to the table,
I always know where it is that way and it
doesn’t work,
like most things in this world, it’s just
for show.
A few years ago, I lived in the studio
apartment
with the loft bed and the desk, the balcony
laid out with outdoor decking and a table for one.
Lately, I’ve been feeling pretty serious,
I’ve upgraded to a three-seat couch,
the kitchen even has its own room
and the bathroom is behind the sliding
door.
Nothing works, except the layout.
You know I’m thinking of moving on again pretty soon.
The next apartment has a nursery.
There’s a time in everybody’s life
when you have to think what’s next?
Where am I going with my life?
Where am I going with my life?
Saturday, January 07, 2017
Ways of seeing
If you'd never seen a map
you wouldn't know
how a road can look like a vein.
Today I saw a woman in the carpark
wearing my t-shirt,
not literally mine
but an identical shirt to one I own
and I thought how nicely it hangs at the back.
No matter how I twist my head,
how I distort myself
in front of the mirror,
I could never see myself like that,
as something whole and fluid,
moving inside a piece of cloth.
you wouldn't know
how a road can look like a vein.
Today I saw a woman in the carpark
wearing my t-shirt,
not literally mine
but an identical shirt to one I own
and I thought how nicely it hangs at the back.
No matter how I twist my head,
how I distort myself
in front of the mirror,
I could never see myself like that,
as something whole and fluid,
moving inside a piece of cloth.
Friday, January 06, 2017
solid burn
she wonders how many people
in this suburb
have killed someone
she has this theory about carports
and serial killers
she says I like cheese
I say I like cheese too
wow
she says
we're connecting
on such a deep emotional level.
in this suburb
have killed someone
she has this theory about carports
and serial killers
she says I like cheese
I say I like cheese too
wow
she says
we're connecting
on such a deep emotional level.
Thursday, January 05, 2017
Urban Forest
She has a pocket in the front of her dress
a map a photograph a silver key.
The wolf beside her has forgotten it’s a
wolf.
It thinks it is the shadow of a wolf.
Here stories are the fingerbones of
stories,
a mother sets her child on the forest floor
and disappears,
the father and the grandfather
attend to the antics of a small white dog
the child scoops dried leaves into his lap.
The shadow of the wolf is disguised as a
dog.
He pads along the path, looking left to
right.
Everything is exactly as it seems.
Wednesday, January 04, 2017
The Dog
The dog’s got the jitters.
He tells me he’s worried about the
fireworks
Someone’s letting off in a distant suburb.
He paces in and out of rooms,
Smiling, frowning, wagging his tail.
The creek is overgrown with weeds.
We walked there today in the midday sun.
An old woman was feeding the ducks,
The shops are closed till the end of
January,
No one round here seems to be young,
Old men in their gardens frown when I walk
by,
And a Ute drives down Darling Road,
honking its horn the length of the block,
though mostly there’s not much traffic at
all.
Summer is something that happens to other
people,
Somewhere away from here, the dog tells me.
It's the fireworks, getting on his last nerve.
I tell him, make the most of it kiddo,
It’s the only summer we got.
Tuesday, January 03, 2017
Things we said in the car on the way home
We look out the window, saying nothing for
a while
This is more than everything, this drive,
Through the wide and tree-lined streets, we
smile,
Shadows shifting and alive.
This is more than everything, this drive,
The words unsaid between us grow
Shadows shifting and alive,
So much for memory, I know.
The words unsaid between us grow,
Like summers when we were young
So much for memory, I know,
I can’t make the shape of language on my
tongue
Like summers when we were young
And there was nothing much to say,
I can’t make the shape of language on my
tongue
It doesn’t matter anyway.
And there was nothing much to say.
Through the wide and tree-lined streets, we
smile.
It doesn’t matter anyway.
We look out the window, saying nothing for
a while.
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