It’s the last day of everything
Summer has crept out the back door
Words taste salty on my tongue
The baby has woken a song
His hands found the words hiding
in their shape like a diamond
In the sky light is fleeting shadows pass
Laundry flaps on the line the end
Of the world and nothing is dry
Now I think about it nothing
Ever dried not completely you
Can’t enter the sleeve for dampness
The time for drying is done
In this peeling wooden house at
The fierce edge of disappointment
Things that will not end well include
The unrisen cake the fridge left open
This mineral poem
Words taste salty on my tongue
It’s the last day of everything
I don’t know what memory is for
Showing posts with label mop12. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mop12. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Monday, January 30, 2012
the silk of sisters
everything fragile
and the mirror is the world
this is the fairytale
I never told you
and it is coming true
the pride, the fall
the sideways sweep
see how it frames you?
your eyes haunt your face
and the mirror is the world
this is the fairytale
I never told you
and it is coming true
the pride, the fall
the sideways sweep
see how it frames you?
your eyes haunt your face
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Dromana Poems
Rickets Point Arthur Streeton, 1890DAY
1.
sea gull
gullup
brackwater
glooming algae
storm carry
spillaway
2.
seasky
flatlines
3.
shimmer light
heat glaze
long shallow deep
ironstitched
ghost ship
making waves
4.
look what
wash up
sea
two daughter
one son
one man
far out
NIGHT
1.
sun set pastiche
80s retro
2.
late night
babywalking
one house
up lit
late night
big shed
kid red
icypole
3.
young man
out with friends
no ID
4.
foreshore fireworks
city sky falling
5.
us out
afterdark
streets store
tomorrow’s heat
---
We had a night in Dromana at my sister-in-law's husband's family's holiday house. The painting above is actually Beaumaris, not Dromana, but looking out at the hazy heat this morning, Streeton's paintings were in my head.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
The BFFs hit their late 30s
For Z
She lives on the island
of our shared childhood
Something is making her sad
She's been brained
By the gods of trouble
An ocean is not impossible
We could go for gold
In the telephone olympics
If days were dealt
Like hands of cards
I used to get
A royal flush of her
Now she draws
A two of kids (and me a three)
There's hearts and spades
(labour, love)
Not many diamonds between us
And now she's clubbed
Oh gods of chemical sadness
Watch out
My voice is in her head too
She lives on the island
of our shared childhood
Something is making her sad
She's been brained
By the gods of trouble
An ocean is not impossible
We could go for gold
In the telephone olympics
If days were dealt
Like hands of cards
I used to get
A royal flush of her
Now she draws
A two of kids (and me a three)
There's hearts and spades
(labour, love)
Not many diamonds between us
And now she's clubbed
Oh gods of chemical sadness
Watch out
My voice is in her head too
Friday, January 27, 2012
Rhubarb
for Kelly Gardiner
1.
A clutch of rhubarb, pale green, rose blush.
Heirloom: divided from her uncle’s crown
And dispersed among the family, now grown
In this garden plot, so green and lush.
The bush, the river. Summer’s fertile hush.
We drank coffee, talked of writing, and now
She cuts me several stalks to carry down
To where the car is parked. There is no rush.
The vegetable bouquet fills my front seat.
I take it home and cook it, soft and sweet,
In the cast iron pot that was my mum’s.
Perhaps the bub will have this as a treat
Or it could be a foil to fatty meat
Look how dark and deep the colour runs.
The evening holds the heat, I sweat and stir,
And think of the mild morning spent with her.
2.
So, in the fourteenth century the seeds
Were worth far more than opium, it’s said,
Indeed a potent drug from what I’ve read
It cured fevers, plagues and serviced other needs.
In the early eighteen hundreds close to Leeds
An apothecary finally got ahead
By learning how to grow it in a shed
Now rhubarb grows as easily as weeds.
They used as you’d expect good horse manure
“Night soil” was also merde du jour.
Let’s move on! And turn to other art
Now sugar was more readily procured
A recipe from sources quite obscure
Says cook it as one would a gooseberry tart.
In my dad’s wartime town a household tried
To stew, like chard, the leaves. They sadly died.
1.
A clutch of rhubarb, pale green, rose blush.
Heirloom: divided from her uncle’s crown
And dispersed among the family, now grown
In this garden plot, so green and lush.
The bush, the river. Summer’s fertile hush.
We drank coffee, talked of writing, and now
She cuts me several stalks to carry down
To where the car is parked. There is no rush.
The vegetable bouquet fills my front seat.
I take it home and cook it, soft and sweet,
In the cast iron pot that was my mum’s.
Perhaps the bub will have this as a treat
Or it could be a foil to fatty meat
Look how dark and deep the colour runs.
The evening holds the heat, I sweat and stir,
And think of the mild morning spent with her.
2.
So, in the fourteenth century the seeds
Were worth far more than opium, it’s said,
Indeed a potent drug from what I’ve read
It cured fevers, plagues and serviced other needs.
In the early eighteen hundreds close to Leeds
An apothecary finally got ahead
By learning how to grow it in a shed
Now rhubarb grows as easily as weeds.
They used as you’d expect good horse manure
“Night soil” was also merde du jour.
Let’s move on! And turn to other art
Now sugar was more readily procured
A recipe from sources quite obscure
Says cook it as one would a gooseberry tart.
In my dad’s wartime town a household tried
To stew, like chard, the leaves. They sadly died.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Let them come: an Aussie "bush" ballad for Australia Day
Inspired by Firstdog
There's a small wooden boat that is barely afloat
On an ocean of sorrow and dreams.
While Australians vote, the PM clears her throat
And hope comes apart at the seams.
They will never arrive, neither dead nor alive,
If our politics bring them undone.
Let their dreaming survive, let their drowned one's revive,
Let them come, oh let them all come!
The borders aren't there, it's just water and air,
And land, water, air should be free.
There's plenty to share in this place "rich and rare",
And after all, we all came here by sea.
So let that boat reach us, let us learn what they'll teach us,
Let them come, oh please let them come.
And when they beseech us, let's not give them speeches,
Let us take them, let's take every one.
Yes we'll pack up the lies, let ourselves recognise
Our own selves in the depths of their faces.
In welcoming skies let a blue flag arise:
Shelter here, in our wide open spaces.
There's a small wooden boat that is barely afloat
On an ocean of sorrow and dreams.
While Australians vote, the PM clears her throat
And hope comes apart at the seams.
They will never arrive, neither dead nor alive,
If our politics bring them undone.
Let their dreaming survive, let their drowned one's revive,
Let them come, oh let them all come!
The borders aren't there, it's just water and air,
And land, water, air should be free.
There's plenty to share in this place "rich and rare",
And after all, we all came here by sea.
So let that boat reach us, let us learn what they'll teach us,
Let them come, oh please let them come.
And when they beseech us, let's not give them speeches,
Let us take them, let's take every one.
Yes we'll pack up the lies, let ourselves recognise
Our own selves in the depths of their faces.
In welcoming skies let a blue flag arise:
Shelter here, in our wide open spaces.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Synopsis
It’s a city, it’s an island, this girl is looking for her cat.
She’s also being haunted, I should probably mention that.
A girl she knew in high school, but didn’t know that well
It’s all a kind of metaphor for some kinda sorta hell
I think she’s got a boyfriend, in fact they share a flat.
But mostly what she’s doing is she’s looking for her cat.
She’s also being haunted, I should probably mention that.
A girl she knew in high school, but didn’t know that well
It’s all a kind of metaphor for some kinda sorta hell
I think she’s got a boyfriend, in fact they share a flat.
But mostly what she’s doing is she’s looking for her cat.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
the long-dead artist's widow
For Daphne
We’re here to take the children that your husband made of light,
Every brave and dancing dazzle a strike against the dark.
Here – a boy emerges from the shadows in the park,
And here a girl leans over, in lemon sun, to write.
These children have been pressed together, hidden out of sight,
We weigh them up and balance them, beauty strange and stark,
Every brave and dancing dazzle a strike against the dark,
We’re here to take the children that your husband made of light.
We’ll hang them in the lounge room, or the hallway where it’s bright,
They’ll live in our whole vision, every glimmer, every spark.
We’ll visit with our infant son your place of mud and bark
We’ll tap on glass, and peer inside: you’re sturdy, but you’re slight.
We’re here to take the children that your husband made of light.
---
Today Martin and I did a wonderful and strangely poignant thing, we went to visit his Great Aunt whose husband was a wonderful artist in the post-war years and came home with six paintings and two sketches after sorting through, oh, hundreds with all the sketches. It was amazing looking through the work, selecting which ones we wanted to keep - a once in a lifetime opportunity. I love that they are all of children of varying ages (the one in "lemon light" is a very young grown up), and they all suggest inner-reflection, a depth of experience that the artist respectfully observes from a distance, without intrusion. She lives in a mudbrick house in Wandin that her husband and his brother (also a painter) built soon after WW2. A magical place. It is some many years since David died, and Daphne recently decided she would rather give the paintings to family who know and care about the subjects in the painting (mostly their five children) than try and sell them.
We’re here to take the children that your husband made of light,
Every brave and dancing dazzle a strike against the dark.
Here – a boy emerges from the shadows in the park,
And here a girl leans over, in lemon sun, to write.
These children have been pressed together, hidden out of sight,
We weigh them up and balance them, beauty strange and stark,
Every brave and dancing dazzle a strike against the dark,
We’re here to take the children that your husband made of light.
We’ll hang them in the lounge room, or the hallway where it’s bright,
They’ll live in our whole vision, every glimmer, every spark.
We’ll visit with our infant son your place of mud and bark
We’ll tap on glass, and peer inside: you’re sturdy, but you’re slight.
We’re here to take the children that your husband made of light.
---
Today Martin and I did a wonderful and strangely poignant thing, we went to visit his Great Aunt whose husband was a wonderful artist in the post-war years and came home with six paintings and two sketches after sorting through, oh, hundreds with all the sketches. It was amazing looking through the work, selecting which ones we wanted to keep - a once in a lifetime opportunity. I love that they are all of children of varying ages (the one in "lemon light" is a very young grown up), and they all suggest inner-reflection, a depth of experience that the artist respectfully observes from a distance, without intrusion. She lives in a mudbrick house in Wandin that her husband and his brother (also a painter) built soon after WW2. A magical place. It is some many years since David died, and Daphne recently decided she would rather give the paintings to family who know and care about the subjects in the painting (mostly their five children) than try and sell them.
Monday, January 23, 2012
We enter the green forests where treeferns
We enter the green forests where treeferns unfurl secret desire – long of tongue. Lichen scales a Mountain Ash like second skin.
Valleys plunge and mountains swell.
Cicadas scream: warn us that we will be lost.
We are lost, we are travelling into the past, a little faster than walking pace.
We are looking for ourselves waving at crossroads. We lean out, we wave, we are looking.
There’s someone at a back fence, their garden grows towards us, three grown ladies: a triptych of daughter, mother, grandmother.
They solemnly wave. Is that us, I wonder, waving frantically, is that us? Which one am I?
I am still waving, though the train’s long gone. I go inside with my mother, with my daughter and pour each of us a cup of amber tea, leaves drift below the surface.
The forest is still growing. I can hear it from my kitchen. The whispering of stringybark, the throaty husk of fernsong. I have forgotten to tell you about the birds.
Valleys plunge and mountains swell.
Cicadas scream: warn us that we will be lost.
We are lost, we are travelling into the past, a little faster than walking pace.
We are looking for ourselves waving at crossroads. We lean out, we wave, we are looking.
There’s someone at a back fence, their garden grows towards us, three grown ladies: a triptych of daughter, mother, grandmother.
They solemnly wave. Is that us, I wonder, waving frantically, is that us? Which one am I?
I am still waving, though the train’s long gone. I go inside with my mother, with my daughter and pour each of us a cup of amber tea, leaves drift below the surface.
The forest is still growing. I can hear it from my kitchen. The whispering of stringybark, the throaty husk of fernsong. I have forgotten to tell you about the birds.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Villanelle for an outer suburb
From outside there drifts the sound of hens,
The tv in the lounge room murmurs on,
And at the edge of things the light descends.
The next-door neighbours entertain their friends
In the late gold of January sun,
From outside there drifts the sound of hens.
And further down the street what’s broken mends
(a cup, an egg, a life, stuff come unspun)
And at the edge of things the light descends.
Across the road a marriage slowly ends,
At number twenty-four the worst is done,
From outside there drifts the sound of hens.
The road, you’ll see it narrows as it bends.
This is where the Wilsons lost a son.
And at the edge of things the light descends.
The shadow of each object looms, extends
The TV murmurs on and on and on
From outside there drifts the sound of hens
And at the edge of things the light descends.
The tv in the lounge room murmurs on,
And at the edge of things the light descends.
The next-door neighbours entertain their friends
In the late gold of January sun,
From outside there drifts the sound of hens.
And further down the street what’s broken mends
(a cup, an egg, a life, stuff come unspun)
And at the edge of things the light descends.
Across the road a marriage slowly ends,
At number twenty-four the worst is done,
From outside there drifts the sound of hens.
The road, you’ll see it narrows as it bends.
This is where the Wilsons lost a son.
And at the edge of things the light descends.
The shadow of each object looms, extends
The TV murmurs on and on and on
From outside there drifts the sound of hens
And at the edge of things the light descends.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
First Steps at Heide
Sunlight, grass, flowers; the world expands.
Stout with purpose he stands
Wobbles, steadies. Then without dramatic
Flair he takes a step. Two, three, four,
Observed not by me (I faced the other way).
He soon repeats the stunt, hands
Grasp air. These legs will bear him
all his life (god willing), through every door
Into the world of men, places
I will never follow [public toilets, his mates’ dark houses, his lovers’ houses of light, the apartment he rents for a month in France, the road flecked with butterflies that he drives down too fast on balmy nights, his honeymoon suite]
Anyway, it is done. Four erratic steps.
Unseen by me, but history made this note.
Stout with purpose he stands
Wobbles, steadies. Then without dramatic
Flair he takes a step. Two, three, four,
Observed not by me (I faced the other way).
He soon repeats the stunt, hands
Grasp air. These legs will bear him
all his life (god willing), through every door
Into the world of men, places
I will never follow [public toilets, his mates’ dark houses, his lovers’ houses of light, the apartment he rents for a month in France, the road flecked with butterflies that he drives down too fast on balmy nights, his honeymoon suite]
Anyway, it is done. Four erratic steps.
Unseen by me, but history made this note.
Friday, January 20, 2012
magnify
on closer inspection
I discover
an insect wing
stuck to your cheek
and I see you
for what you are
a surface
in this house of surfaces
the insect wing
is also a surface
translucent
webbed with dark veins
a mosaic
of tiny flecked surfaces
I pluck it from you
let it flutter
the floor
the final surface
which supports
everything
I discover
an insect wing
stuck to your cheek
and I see you
for what you are
a surface
in this house of surfaces
the insect wing
is also a surface
translucent
webbed with dark veins
a mosaic
of tiny flecked surfaces
I pluck it from you
let it flutter
the floor
the final surface
which supports
everything
Thursday, January 19, 2012
swimming lesson reprise: a sonnet
glitter
dim
swim
shatter
flutter
limb
skim
better
shoulder
breath
reach her
hold her
death
teach her
dim
swim
shatter
flutter
limb
skim
better
shoulder
breath
reach her
hold her
death
teach her
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
swimming lesson
that man
is teaching
my daughter
how to breathe
one two
three
scattering light,
her arms
seem too thin
to matter, but
she’s progressing
he scoops her body
suddenly sideways
against his large body
touches his cheek
to her cheek
I catch my breath
the surface of the pool
dazzles
chlorine smells
like slow time
amniotic
is teaching
my daughter
how to breathe
one two
three
scattering light,
her arms
seem too thin
to matter, but
she’s progressing
he scoops her body
suddenly sideways
against his large body
touches his cheek
to her cheek
I catch my breath
the surface of the pool
dazzles
chlorine smells
like slow time
amniotic
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Lullaby for sad girls
Press your head and listen to the deeps
The burrowing of Beetle as it creeps
Deep inside the tunnel where it sleeps.
Lay your head down on the pillow dear.
Light has gone and everything is drear
Listen with the pressing of an ear
Something down there sings so soft and clear
Sorry for this child as she weeps.
It’s night time darling, everybody sleeps,
In the morning, I will still be here.
The burrowing of Beetle as it creeps
Deep inside the tunnel where it sleeps.
Lay your head down on the pillow dear.
Light has gone and everything is drear
Listen with the pressing of an ear
Something down there sings so soft and clear
Sorry for this child as she weeps.
It’s night time darling, everybody sleeps,
In the morning, I will still be here.
Monday, January 16, 2012
Dave
His working life began with cleaning bricks
He'd lift them one by one and scrape them down
With mostly migrants, old Italians, Greeks,
Their forearms as thick as Christmas hams.
At lunch: spaghetti poured out from a thermos,
The talk, not rough or kind, of adult men,
The feel of brick dust scouring epidermis,
The unrelenting ache of labouring.
He spreads his teacher's hands as he tells this,
Hands for music, hands that help him speak.
Embarrassed, laughs, "I didn't last a week."
His head goes back, I watch him reminisce.
It's that old tale of boys becoming men;
Quite simply put, it didn't happen then.
He'd lift them one by one and scrape them down
With mostly migrants, old Italians, Greeks,
Their forearms as thick as Christmas hams.
At lunch: spaghetti poured out from a thermos,
The talk, not rough or kind, of adult men,
The feel of brick dust scouring epidermis,
The unrelenting ache of labouring.
He spreads his teacher's hands as he tells this,
Hands for music, hands that help him speak.
Embarrassed, laughs, "I didn't last a week."
His head goes back, I watch him reminisce.
It's that old tale of boys becoming men;
Quite simply put, it didn't happen then.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
The Park
I had a daughter once, a pretty thing, I took her to the park.
She built a wild, living house at the base of some trees
and became an angry thing, and refused to leave.
I still drive past that old park sometimes, hoping to catch a glimpse.
Everything’s fallen into disrepair.
The slides enter the deep earth, the swings have swung off their chains.
All the ladders go nowhere.
She built a wild, living house at the base of some trees
and became an angry thing, and refused to leave.
I still drive past that old park sometimes, hoping to catch a glimpse.
Everything’s fallen into disrepair.
The slides enter the deep earth, the swings have swung off their chains.
All the ladders go nowhere.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Toby
That dog never gave us anything but despair
He snarled and bit. Every time the screen door opened,
He bolted. Once he got run over, and worse survived.
Something had gone wrong in the making of him, mum said.
Though frightened of gleaming tooth, I loved him.
He was a terrier, brown and silky with long blonde hairs
He could fit on a lap, he worshipped my mother,
He knew the words walk and cat. Shook hands.
Most of the time he was okay, as long as you kept
The door tight shut, and didn’t let him go a visitor.
He was unpredictable. I’ve loved men like him since,
Lying in front of the gas heater with one eye open.
They sent him to live on a farm. I can picture him, bolting
Across paddocks, no law, nothing, would catch him
Skimming the fences, taking off into the sky.
He could run that dog, though he never gave us anything but despair.
He snarled and bit. Every time the screen door opened,
He bolted. Once he got run over, and worse survived.
Something had gone wrong in the making of him, mum said.
Though frightened of gleaming tooth, I loved him.
He was a terrier, brown and silky with long blonde hairs
He could fit on a lap, he worshipped my mother,
He knew the words walk and cat. Shook hands.
Most of the time he was okay, as long as you kept
The door tight shut, and didn’t let him go a visitor.
He was unpredictable. I’ve loved men like him since,
Lying in front of the gas heater with one eye open.
They sent him to live on a farm. I can picture him, bolting
Across paddocks, no law, nothing, would catch him
Skimming the fences, taking off into the sky.
He could run that dog, though he never gave us anything but despair.
More Month of Poetry
The official blog, created and co-ordinated by Kat Apel can be found here. You have to have a password to read the daily poetry, but there's other stuff to look at there.
Anna Ryan Punch, an accomplished poet and fantastic being, is recording her poems at her blog: four hundred years ago, a baby went to sleep.
Amra Pajalic, a really interesting YA author and all round supergal, is recording hers at her blog
Camer0n is recording his at his blog: not unimportant. I particularly enjoyed his How to roast a chicken in a Sestina:
Enlist a poet to extol the extinguished life of your noble chicken.
Remember how it knew how to chicken and none of your guests know how.
Serve its memory best on the day with gravy and steaming hot.
I have decided that Sestinas are a kind of fabulous delirium. You have to be potty to keep repeating yourself like that.
Anna Ryan Punch, an accomplished poet and fantastic being, is recording her poems at her blog: four hundred years ago, a baby went to sleep.
Amra Pajalic, a really interesting YA author and all round supergal, is recording hers at her blog
Camer0n is recording his at his blog: not unimportant. I particularly enjoyed his How to roast a chicken in a Sestina:
Enlist a poet to extol the extinguished life of your noble chicken.
Remember how it knew how to chicken and none of your guests know how.
Serve its memory best on the day with gravy and steaming hot.
I have decided that Sestinas are a kind of fabulous delirium. You have to be potty to keep repeating yourself like that.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Cuspid
Swollen tissue, bulging gum.
Sleepless you arch against
this old enemy, pain,
angry at the savage saw
as what lies hidden rises.
Child, this thing will come
and change you, sharpen you.
In time there will be more
through shining pulp, one by one,
then each lost, and grown again.
It is eternal, a gleaming truth
hidden in the puzzle of the jaw.
This is what the medicine is for
so drink it, the sleeping hours wane.
Sleepless you arch against
this old enemy, pain,
angry at the savage saw
as what lies hidden rises.
Child, this thing will come
and change you, sharpen you.
In time there will be more
through shining pulp, one by one,
then each lost, and grown again.
It is eternal, a gleaming truth
hidden in the puzzle of the jaw.
This is what the medicine is for
so drink it, the sleeping hours wane.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)