Saturday, April 30, 2016

burke: SKIN #121

I start each day
putting skin on
this skeleton

then I walk out
into sunshine
or rain, watching
carefully for
nails and rose
thorns, loose
stones on old
steps, low slung
branches and
those metal balls
at the back of cars.

I only have
one skin which
I take off each
night as I drift
into dreams
where skin is
optional ...

30.4.16 (#119) an open gate by Myron Lysenko

an open gate leaves on the breeze

Lizz Murphy — Poem 121: Meditations for a gardener

Lies Van Gasse #122

(dag 1-121)

(afbeelding 29)

(afbeelding 30)

(afbeelding 31)

(afbeelding 32)

(afbeelding 33)

(afbeelding 34)




(image 29)
(image 30)
(image 31)
(image 32)
(image 33)
(image 34)
(image 35)

Sarah St Vincent Welch #119 Galliard

flutter feet
point pose

papa osmubal's translation of andrew burke's 'redgum'

papa osmubal's haiku in 3 languages (after andrew burke's 'redgum')

Red Cone (LF)-#122- old haunts

old haunts

the first time I returned
I retched

it seems like a lifetime ago
it is
over the years
the bottom floor has had
many incarnations
blue beat shop
red cocktail bar
health juices

long ago
the kitchen table was
brought out
placed on the footpath
covered in multi coloured striped candles
poured during the week
the profits bought some food
now there are food stalls
under the overpass nearby
and most tourists carry mobile phones
to take the place of seeing

the place of many memories

Red Cone (LF)- #121- Daffodils


drawing back the curtains
I am excited
they are there
the daffodils
bare leafed skeletal trees
the beginings of green
it is spring

a sheet of paper
from a tabloid
moves lazily with the breeze

winter farewelled
with ease

Red Cone (LF)-#120-travelling with them

travelling with them

clutching her orthodox bible
her total luggage
she is diminutive
black clad
returning to Greece
to visit family
she kissed her prayer book
on landing
I did not see her again

the next leg
to very large people
brother and sister or
husband and wife
he undid the armrest
between us so he had more room
it was a strange feeling
his thigh against mine
I did not mind
I did not see them again

Mikaela Castledine #121 Cooking

The house smells of moroccan spices
couscous idling in the pot
the lamb is tender and the almonds slick

Robert Verdon, #128, 2016

the sheets on the bunk have rippled like a microwaved pappadum
there is a whine, a close mosquito or a distant dentist’s drill

the ship seems to be tilting backwards as if sinking stern-first
the squall through the porthole bristles with echidna spines of sun

the passenger-mind is focussed by a word and the smell of burning
the engines have stopped                        the day is soon calm again

Efi Hatzimanolis #86 Weeds I: Dandelions

Dandelion seeds
floating past 
ghosts of sea urchins 

Michele Morgan #113 Spás folamh

a day spent idling
quiet space
green and overgrown

Susan Hawthorne #121 nonsense

I am a nonsense I do not exist or if I do I am illegal and should be punished killed if need be in China I live and die in the realm of flies in my own land silence is preferred self-suffocation of words my history is full of horizontal lines none are vertical my position in the family is at the far end of a fragile twig ready to break from the main stem in the desert lands my bones are broken whipped into the centre of a sand storm vanished as if I have never existed under dictatorships I am among the first to be crushed my independence my nonsense a threat to social stability I fly from the trapdoors of planes no parachute to break my fall only the sea to catch me in its hardened arms in the cold lands they call me an artist sell my soul to that grumpy old Mephistopheles who’s never satisfied no matter how far I go I remain exotic a work of theatre at the centre of the empire the words are decorated with ribbons of acceptance dissertations are mined to snuffle out meaning there’s betrayal in those awards in so many places records are changed the archaeologies rebuilt and reshaped to other realities today I was murdered by someone sent by the government

Melinda Smith #30 A Valediction

So long, and thanks for all the things

A Valediction

Now to my story.

It is about a girl who was to be married.
She said to her father,
"I shall be so nervous
I will faint as you walk me down the aisle".

Her father said: "That is a stupid way
to look at it. You will be quite all right
if you just fix your mind

on three things - the aisle,
the altar
which you are approaching
and the hymn
that the people in the church will be singing".

His daughter replied, "That is a great idea:


She went down the aisle
quite bravely
with that thought in her mind.
I think we all come into the Parliament
thinking to ourselves,

"I'll alter
this and I'll alter
that". But things do not

work out
quite like that.

Some one suggested once
I ought to appear in films.
I think now that perhaps I shall
when you are watching television
you may see me
some of the things
that are done here

(From the valedictory speech of Senator Agnes Robertson of the Country Party, on her retirement from politics in mid-1962 after 12 years of service. At this time there were five female Senators and no female members of the House of Representatives. In fact there were no women in the Reps for a period of 15 years extending from 1951 to 1966.)

(c) Melinda Smith 2016

Anna Couani #119 from Seconds 1988-9 by Yannis Ritsos trans Antigone Kefala

a small white sailing boat
leaves traces on the moving water
the black comes wrapped
in white bandages
white is the emptiness
writing words on white paper
jasmine flowers on the table

on the harbour
the boats start to dock for the evening
a white feather from a cockatoo
tinged with yellow
lies on the grass

in the dusk
white butterflies
visit the roses
growing darker along the fence

the houses opposite are white
behind that the city lights

start coming on

Kit Kelen - #120 - for a series of dark ones - 1 - death, be not proud

for a series of dark ones
death, be not proud

we don't boil em up these days
not in cauldrons anymore
no boiling oil
the copper's gone
so's the wringer

no drawing or quartering
no garotte in the piazza

but we have our entertainments still

there's still quite a bit
of decapitation going on

flea gets the squeeze
tick drowns in hardest liquor
leech to smithereens, first salted and then with a stone
(and see the bastard squirm its last)

lantana must be uprooted
hung in the branches
as example to its kind
likewise the privet

farmers' friends are to the flames
that's irony in these parts

don't say such deaths lack savour

we call this civilization here

Anna Couani #118 harvest

the perfect morning at the market
we tend to forget
it’s harvest time
the huge ripe persimmons
that taste like honey
some large NZ oysters
then a great find  
fresh mullet roe
almost no broken membrane
always around at Easter
but hardly ever sold outside the fish
quickly salted up at home
ready for drying
some punnets of small ripe figs
into the fridge with the tofu

waiting to become agedashi