One day more - the sun
rose early as usual
and the dog demanded
her breakfast and a fresh bowl
of water. Nothing unusual
until my wife screamed
from the back study! I ran -
now that's unusual - and found
her dazed and bleeding at the door
with a small mountain
of books behind her.
The shelves had collapsed and all
the heavy weight of the Poetry Canon
had fallen on her hand and arm!
Oh, I did not think that poetry
could undo so many - holding
my wife, I sneaked a peak:
all was okay, no blood
on any pages. Phew.
Monday, February 29, 2016
Béatrice Machet # 47-48 EARLY
Very early
I mean too
early shaken awake
Who was
nudging me?
Soon after
the sky’s
promises over the bannister ended
in a
hissing downpour
causing the
hail to be dotted
here and
there
as if
discreet moments had to be condensed
so as to
fall and pound and drum
for emotion
to bounce
back
inside
to
startling mornings
when the
doorknob turned slowly
what to
expect
was this a
threat of the past
sneaking in
too well
aware my new choices would change the way
I could
look at it
Très tôt
je veux dire trop tôt doucement
secouée
qui me réveillait ?
Très vite
les promesses du ciel par-dessus la rambarde atterrissaient
une sifflante averse
éparpillant la grêle
çà et là
comme si les moments discrets devaient être condensés
afin de tomber marteler et tambouriner
pour que l’émotion rebondisse
en arrière
dedans
vers les matins de sursauts
quand la poignée de la porte tournait doucement
à quoi s’attendre
était-ce la menace du passé
s’insinuant
trop bien averti que mes nouveaux choix changeraient la façon
de le regarder
Sarah St Vincent Welch #59 Ironing
Ironing board cover design by Remo c1985
housework
appalls, cleaning up
sucks into the maw of Dis
the job of the female there’s no Zen
to find, getting dirty over again, but in ironing
is
redemption, sizzle spit on metal bubble
slide steam
linen preen and fold to crease edge glide
the kind
woman who talked to lonely children
as she worked wiry Mrs Fitz who
won the lottery twice she
did the ironing
did the ironing
Efi Hatzimanolis #28 'Inside Outside II: Summer of Spiders'
The old huntsman crept
into our house again, back
here to save itself
Susan Hawthorne #60 two minutes on a country road (inspired by Efi Hatzimanolis)
it takes no time at all
to aim the bicycle at the tree
it's a cedar
my brother and I have
played Tarzan and Jane
at every level of this tree
you get the bicycle
pedal as fast as you can
heading straight for that branch
in the tree we have swung like apes
made loud Tarzan calls
leapt to the gravelly ground
at the branch you let go
raise your arms high and swing
watch the bike crash spraying dust
watch the bike crash spraying dust
Kit Kelen - #59 Miró -- possible ending
59
Miró
possible
ending
it
takes some looking into
really though
the work says
'see what
happened to me –
decide on your
colours
now is the time
(but you can
always choose again)'
there are days
you imagine
the animal come
for it
in cloaks of
some fraternity
tracks across
the canvas map
smock of the
job
and very
occasionally
the body as
soul's labyrinth
though even
that's a seascape
etch with
pencil
cause paper's
to dig
and a smile
might float away
my head is a
clock
how's yours?
have you
noticed the way clouds'll get stuck?
lead pencil
makes the best bet
seraphim,
cherubim, dryads to edge
1936
mist comes in
so many colours
rust
today it is a
flag
on masonite
shake cactus
hands
with
breast-head
you're a member
of the board now
'the lark's
wing and the diamond meadow'
cross the
border and you invoke
'red of
swallows
and the
iridescent pink'
(his words)
a scratch at a
tail
a pigment drift
some marks
could be punctuation
1949
Leunig-head
with beachball
breath
of course these
are all instructions
words seeking
for pure form at last
and lost to the
quest
to make the map
an accident
that's to do
some truth
to scrub your
brush
until it's dry
and let the
canvas have it
invent
paintball
in the end it's
the juggling
decades pass
and still
nothing is dropped
lines go where
they will
they are the
mind of its own
pass through
zones of darkness and colour
darkness and
colour and light
and between
drip, spray
everything but
scratch
attend to
functions as bodily
and when you
spend time with a hero
have heroic
thoughts
#55 Kevin Brophy 'Sleeping crocodiles'
Today the playground crocodile caught
Two children too slow on the flying fox.
A sleepy frog was chased out of the grass
And under the wheel of a moving bin.
And one girl found a sleeping finch
And carried it, limp, to her teacher.
I sat with a child and read of a hungry caterpillar
Who ate himself into his own sleeping death.
It seemed a beautiful thing in the book.
‘Wings’ the child said to me at the end of it.
It’s important the crocodile is asleep when a child
Launches herself out on the flying fox of her life.
It’s important each one gets a turn in hope, in fright
At slipping past the waking crocodile’s clumsy bite.
Mikaela Castledine #60 Word for Word
You are lady
artist yes
I see you
before but too shy to
speak
because of language
I see your work and
think it looks
like Russian
orthodox
oh they are
beautiful
you have business
card?
we keep in touch
my name? they call me Adrian
your name I read it
it is Eastern
European with an H
I not hold you up you are busy
goodbye goodbye
thank you
Anna Couani #59 medusa
a squall comes up
at night
narrative can start like that
but actually
it starts raining about 10 am
a quick shower
enough to humidify the air
some more
the mysterious medusa
propels itself horizontally
in the murky harbour
there are flashes of sunlight
across the oysters
submerged on the rocks
the images are
woven into our conversation
up ahead
photos are taken
Red Cone- Day 59-Leap day
leap day
a leap year day
lost for three
good day for
an endoscopy
clear the decks
have a check
no panic
if something
revealed
it is all ok
the innings
have been good
though more fun
would be good
if I could
reflecting now
will suffice
doesn't matter
if I lose the dice
been good to me
this life
or at least
not dull
many risks taken
not much loss
certainly no dross
twenty more years
I reckon
play the cards
throw the dice
pay the price
I am fine
Robert Verdon, #65, opponents of transhumanism
some,
even
the irreligious, who have spent their
lives
fearing death, now fear
immortality more
29.2 #59 Uplifted by Myron Lysenko
a rose petal drifts off a drooping stem
the
footbridge sinks into muddy waters
a twig falling in between three ghost gums
a magpie dies with a worm in its mouth
a twig falling in between three ghost gums
a magpie dies with a worm in its mouth
a joey sags in his dead mother’s pouch
a
tea bag dumped in the compost heap
my
smile drags down at the gaps in my teeth
a full stomach hanging over my belt
a raven’s feather falling on the road
another piece of cliff adrift in the sea
a full stomach hanging over my belt
a raven’s feather falling on the road
another piece of cliff adrift in the sea
a
chicken’s egg falling down off the nest
a wet piece of grass on the mouse’s fur
a wet piece of grass on the mouse’s fur
a blackberry squashed on the dry footpath
arms in a jumper sagging from shoulders
my long cotton socks around my ankles
the elastic gone from my underpants
a cigarette doused in the empty glass
my brother sinks further into his grave
my dead sister’s bones collapse in cancer
traffic lights dropping red onto the tar
a
sheet with a stain flapping in the breeze
the doctor’s sudden fall in demeanour
an ingrown toenail for summer’s last day
the doctor’s sudden fall in demeanour
an ingrown toenail for summer’s last day
an
air balloon deflating in the pool
tree fern in the garden craving water
a family reunion where no-one comes
the
best friends I’ve had now drifting away
the tired sun lifts darkness off the sky
the tired sun lifts darkness off the sky
Mark Roberts #29 Slide 28 The Last Beer: The New Ivanhoe Hotel, Blackheath, October 1995
the last beer
My father put off his heart surgery for a month
so he could attend Mildred’s funeral. There had
been an issue with his heart value for two decades
but it had recently become worse. The doctor
advised against delay while also saying there was
no great risk. He drove up on the Wednesday.
I couldn’t get off work until Thursday, the day
of the funeral. An afternoon funeral I caught
the train that had once been called the Central
West Express but was now just called the Dubbo
train. It was running almost an hour late by the time
it got to Orange and I had to get a taxi straight to the
church. Dad was already in the front row looking tired.
I sat with him and talked quietly for ten minutes. He hadn’t
slept well - ate something that didn’t agree with him.
The funeral marked the last connection with his parents,
his mother’s sister, the farm that was his second home
growing up. I could sense his grief, silent but consuming.
Through the service he followed the process, familiar
as the drive over the mountains. Afterwards we went
to Carol’s for tea and cake. Dad and a few of the men
had a few scotches. I talked to Carol about how I remember
coming to their old orchard as a kid and watching the apples
being packed in the large old shed. There were always
fresh crisp apples back then - another time.
.......................................**
The next day we leave the motel early, after a big continental
breakfast. Dad drives the first leg down the Mitchell Highway
to Bathurst. We drive past the Lucknow Pub, no need to stop
these days. Out of habit I count the number of times we cross
Rocks Creek - the new road has cut the number by two. We
don’t stop at Bathurst but Dad does turn right and does the obligatory
ap of the race trace. For the first time I remember he keeps
to the speed limit over the top of the mountain. We stop
at Lithgow for fuel and he keeps driving. Up Mount Victoria, the car
struggling, I begin thinking in metaphors - one mountain too many.
I suggest I take over the driving, soon he say, we’ll stop for a drink.
Finally he pulls into the car-park at the The New Ivanhoe Hotel.
Of all the pubs between Sydney and Orange this is probably
the only one I can’t remember stopping at with him. But today
he is out of the car and stretching and waiting for me so he can
lock up. Inside the bar is smoky and he orders a scotch for himself
and a beer for me. He asks for the water, measures a little
into glass and settles back on the stool. I sip my beer slowly,
he finishes his scotch and looks at my still almost full glass
and says he might might join me in a beer. We clink glasses,
to you health I toast and we finish our beer. I won’t be the same
now he says looking around as we turn to leave the pub. I get
in the driver’s seat and drive down the mountains into Sydney.
.......................................**
A month later he goes into hospital for his operation. I walk
next to the trolley as he is wheeled into theatre. The last words
I say to him when I am told I can go no further is that I will
buy the next round of beers. He does not regain consciousness
after the operation and dies two days later.
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