Rae Desmond Jones' Election Poem

VOTE EARLY

 

Vote early Vote often

Although I be in my coffin

I’m still on the books

Of invisible spooks

 

I’m a spectre Elector

But not Hannibal Lector

 

My real name is Jones –

That rhymes me with bones

& I am a nuisance with

Telephones

 

There’s so many of us no one

Can tell us apart

& we are too many to fit in

a cart

 

In alliance mitt Scmidt

Brown Heinkel & Hughes

We joyfully sing the nutcase

Padded cell Blues,

rae jones	17:38 (18 minutes ago)

183

for a minifesto mini-series

a boat and bailing out this sun

friends for it

our shouting's joy

naked, duck, weave for it

bear the rubble

make the ways

the weeds run from the cracks to light

flowers drum their own

I am writing in a darkness

groan

that's the way it's been

once framed

leak through

a chimney is an accusation

time is gone

earth's sucked it down

kind of darkness you moss with

paper screwed, tossed

the fire might be the only truth

and after, wash away

once you find yourself in the pencil drawing

a tracing over or laughter left

follow a continuous line

once the fuse is lit

swivelling back, forth

the floor is moving

the ceiling

the walls

we are the stillness

but the eye

voodoo funeral

and all the lamps of the occasion

an endless petal strewing

the spirit soars

it is a lack of destination

bricked in for a sky

wide eyed

I know there's a midst of things I'm in

the singing – isn't it my home?

aren't there strings for joy?

isn't the body in the picture?

aren't we fleshing forth?

won't we grin, bear it?

grit teeth, spit?

and when I snap, sit up

the pillow for a sinking in

having somewhere you want to go in mind

wake from the dream to where you are

place to which we dreamt

self serious these hands hold

everything mine

and they

descend into prayer

last excuse past attention

how were we hunted

come to this

whose breath belongs

the robot horde of thought, decision

knowing why I'm here

the forms of a flower

are worlding light

the lift of wings

the leaf's brief flight

a firmament

might well be starless

we would never know 

 

Robert Verdon,#192, All was Future Then

thirteen

down from the country capital

in Sydney alone

dizzily peering up at tall buildings

fresh off the bus, hope

an opal between its treads

down by Circular Quay

billboards for Dewars Whisky

and Red Mill Rum

ferry to the Zoo, mind

taut as a canvas sail

no one at all bothered me

the battens were set

at last, I was free

it might have been Dublin

sailing through

ideas for great architecture

architecture as frozen revolution

tall as the bald towers

and the sky jigsawed by rooftops

into silent oratorios

I might have stood unknowingly

not far from where Henry Lawson

(whose book I had from Uncle Jack)

once stood to cadge pennies for drink

and with some inkling

of being a poet

all was future then,

though not just for me.

Chrysogonus' Translation #96 - from Beatrice Machet's "promise"

janji

kata-kata

yang di antara janji tertiup

dan aliran nafas seseorang

sebuah sumpah ketika ‘aku berjanji’ terucap

aku tak akan jauh dari peluk hangatku bagi

kulit telanjangmu

di mana aku akan  menulis kata ‘janji’

terukir pada kejutan semata

karena cinta tak pernah ingin menjadi cinta

Words

and in between a promise blown

with one’s breath flowing

an oath when one says I swear

I’ll be the distance from wrapping you like a blanket to 

your bare skin 

on which I’ll write words a promise 

engraved on mere surprise 

because love never aimed at being love

Michele Elliot #1 : collective anxiety (i)

I am not in tune with my body 

Rob Schackne #1 - "This is serious"

"This is serious"


This is serious. It knocks
At places I don't usually visit
Let it in. The machinery of the brain
I go deeper into my own nature.

The rain asks me to sleep
Dreams then ask me to come
With her. We'll fly. Let it happen
I'm serious. Nature is a machine.

Daytime so different. See it
Missing the components. But
That isn't really where we'll go
Let all the good air through.

Let it happen. We let nature go
Let the rain that's so indifferent
Supersede what is missing
Wet with tears again.

Barbara Temperton #30 - Cruising XI - Penang: Bird Dancer

Bird dancer - Pinang Peranakan Mansion - Penang, Malaysia

Lies Van Gasse #180

(dag 1-169)

en in dit spel verlies ik mijn naam,
verlaat ik mijn bedding,
trek ik aan mijn wortels,
verspil ik mijn gezicht.

Gezichtloos aanroep ik de zwarte pagina’s,
gezichtloos verlies ik mij in een wolk van houtskool,
gezichtloos trek ik onbegrijpelijke lijnen,
gezichtloos doorboort mijn potlood het te zachte karton

(day 1-169)

and in this game I loose my name,
I leave my bed,
I pull my roots,
I squander my face.

Faceless I invoke the black pages,
faceless I loose myself in a cloud of charcoal,
faceless I draw incomprehensible lines,
faceless my pencil drills the too soft piece of cardboard

Béatrice Machet # 164-165 WHAT IFmy dream comes true

What if my dream comes true…

Et si mon rêve devenait vrai

Through the window a lizard meanders towards a shelter, its body wanting to build somewhat a den with twigs

A travers la vitre un lézard méandre vers un abri, son corps cherchant à construire une sorte de terrier avec brindilles

grass and dry leaves

herbes et feuilles sèches

I cannot hear but I can read the movement and I let my fingers run

Je ne peux pas entendre mais je peux lire le movement et je laisse mes doigts courir

playing on the keyboard so as to grasp its rhythm its dance its momentum.

jouer sur le clavier afin de saisir son rythme sa danse son élan.

My computer obeys

Mon ordinateur obéit

humming some warm presence reminding me the time when I felt wrapped with love

il bourdonne une chaude présence me rappelant le temps quand je me sentais enveloppée d’amour

a love I built a home in

un amour dans lequel j’avais bâti ma maison

a celestial kind of haunting love of haunted house

un genre d’amour celeste de maison hantée

 

A last startle and the lizard is safe leaving my living being to get in tune with the pulse of silence its resting patience its burning longing its blinking star-eyed sky

Un dernier sursaut et le lézard est sauf laissant mon être vivant s’accorder avec la pulsation du silence sa patience au repos son attente brûlante son ciel aux yeux d’étoiles clignant

My fingers obey

Mes doigts obéissent

I’m typing I’m writing

Je tape j’écris

to my loneliness a poem

un poème à ma solitude

curling letters and words into language’s arms

je blottis les lettres et les mots dans les bras du langage

cuddling unspoken vowels into language’s heart

je câline les voyelles imprononcées dans le coeur du langage

Susan Hawthorne #182 potentialities

each phrase is filled with potentialities
it depends on what you mean
your interpretation    is your mind on the job?
are you some weird abstract/ion    blue
on green

              there is an opaque universe out
there somewhere    shadow overtaking
light/ning    it could be a gesture of the eyes
a dance such as Indians perform with
intense/ity

Barbara Temperton #29 - Cruising X: Phuket, Thailand (Lucky)

Three times in Phuket I lost things

and they were returned by strangers.

Lens-hood lost at Promthep Gap

during naval commemoration, returned

by Thai man wearing black-gold epaulettes.

Reading glasses lost at Wat Chalong

during noontime prayers, returned

by Thai youth wearing Brooklyn t-shirt.

Hat, lost at Port Phuket

just prior to boarding, returned

by Thai tour guide, her name was Lucky.

I was three times lucky in one day, 

Thank you means khob khun kha, Phuket.

Red Cone(LF)#178-a winter's day

a winter's day

cold and wet
a chill wind blows
days are short
sun soon goes

trees bare branches
fallen leaf dances
skeletal grey structure
wind clings and clutches

wind blown street
a morning walk
fresh and brisk
warm coffee and talk

clouds are racing
downpour sudden
sodden from top to toe
winter will not let go

time to ponder
winter's wonder

Claine Keily # 30 Capital

She is not thin
and her yellow dress
sticks to her

She likes men
who smoke
and so they sleep together
she loves the black fringe
that disguises his eyes

"What is this game
you are playing?" he says
to her one morning
before she can rise
and with make up
erase the dark circles
from under her eyes

She notices her feet
under the blanket
pointed like a ballerina's
and she begins to cry

When he asks her
about her plans
to establish some
capital
she replies
that for her
it is not possible
as she finds it hard to lie

Kerri Shying # R2 Coppertone Ride

Coppertone Ride

Copper as the curve of the under balcony

the tan the fourth form strove for, 

socks rolled down behind the canteen, by the industrial arts room

the presence of the boys

a mere coincidence

the stickyness of memory

biochemical italics

favouring the sheen of fine blonde hairs

over the short fawn nylon socks

alighting at Cronulla I expect the waft of coconut oil to seize me by the face

only riot somewhere in my heart

burnt feet waiting at the Shelley Beach Kiosk

 the Gunnamatta baths

the train, decked in surplus prison livery

remembers the moss and lets the musty waft of soil

ride.

Robert Verdon, #191, Dejecta membra

I see a branch that easily fits between thumb and forefinger

A rock-wallaby facing the troops on a parade ground

An endless lens of perception less substantial than air

A transparent flag

A famous poet sleeping with his mouth open at the end of his life

A politician with a mind like a steel sphincter

An archaeopteryx pictured in Odham’s Children’s Encyclopaedia

A flurry of semi-superimposed literary images, including the biography of Tom Thumb

A Great War tank on a polished floor

A walking stick with a worn handle at Vinnies

Any lost tail of a blue-tongue

A sliced worm becoming two brain-eating amoebae

A pan full of sunrays

A chlamydomonas, predator with biting mouthparts

A quizzical persimmon engaged to a kiwifruit

A dreg and a pair of singularities

And I could go on and on and on

#30 A Single Spur by Emma McKervey

A Single Spur

The air is muggy with platters of cow parsley and elderflower,

the pollen stirred from stamen by the breeze and looking for a bee.

Each breath is laden with the taste of these flowers,

weary after witnessing the sweep of hawthorn to Queen Anne’s lace

which had populated the hedgerows until June and whose petals

drifted down midst the thrusting stalks of the new summer arrivals.

It wont be until Autumn that the bones of that pathway will be seen,

until the stupefied bees can move no more.

The hills will darken then, the spines of blackthorn reduced to silhouette

unified in the dusk, although occasionally a single spur

will raise its splintered prong to the moon.

So this is my last poem of my month's writing for this blog (posting two today due to a slight technical hitch on the 1st June). Thank you all so much for your kind comments and support, I shall continue to read the blog as it travels on through the year. The standard of the work has been incredible and i am amazed how those of you who have undertaken the challenge for the whole year are so unerringly innovative and creative in your writing every single day. Emma