Creatrix 1 Poetry

 

June 2008

 

Contributors:

Kevin Gillam

cupped palms

Jenny de Garis

Lift
Stark

Janet Jackson

That radio moment
Input

Paula Jones

Bury Me Deep
The Cat Who Stole a Tongue

Joyce Parkes

In the Andes
Panama

Peter Bibby

You are About to Receive a Phonecall from a Prisoner

David Barnes

Reminiscence
no release – no connection

Scott-Patrick Mitchell

166 Foundations Of Anatomy & Physiology:
Aspirations

Andrew Burke

Form as extension of Nature

Maureen Sexton

There is no Connection

Saz Campbell

Enough Rope
Sub Rosa

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cupped palms

the circumference
of delusion is deduced
by multiplying

the radius of
dream with two times the height of
the pie in the sky.

the surface area of
doubt is found by tak-
ing the inverse proportion

of belief and multiply-
ing with three times the
length of the spinal column.

the volume of grief
is measured by displacement,
directing the ov-

er flow of fret and
shock from the tub of mind in-
to rows of cupped palms.

Kevin Gillam

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Lift

 

White rides across intensities of blue
– a flight of ibis
writes its haiku in the sky

For one caught breath
i lift
into the singing air

Jenny de Garis
(previously published in her 2007 book ‘Dance of Light’)

Stark

white stars scream in her stiff veil
veiling the dark    darkened by the tunnel
her love has gone down    lost
to her at the moment of lovetime lifetime
their time torn    her torn    in the white dress she’s
bedecked by    held by    frozen out of time
those white ones    ghost people   ghosts
to her now as he is ghosted by them

she closes her eyes against his    huge
pools of nothing    black holes in a burst
universe    her legs   her toes sentient
bones treading space    echo
his already x-ray flesh    no
worst     there is none

her    we’ve stuffed into our
garments    decorated with our
posies    screened in our
lace    laced in daisies   only her
hands and feet still touched
earth&sky    are ripped from this earthing

him    we’ve buttoned into our
uniform    immobilised in our
colours    set him as a trap
to snap on itself    she
is its sound

Jenny de Garis

translating the painting Mourning bride II, by Arthur Boyd and first published in Southerly, Autumn 1998

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That radio moment

wait sicksigh wait for the doctor
with the broken old
toys broken and lined
faces sicksigh lined. Song
pats my shoulder

Janet Jackson

Input

Why is it that I think of you
when I’m scraping out the sink-strainer,
digging with my first three fingers in the bits of pasta,
cabbage, namelessness,
scooping them into the compost?

We can dream only what we know.
In my dreams you are not always friendly
but you’re never a threat
in my dreams.
In my dreams
never once have you kissed me
or shown affection.
Why is it that I dream of you?

When I thump a cockroach flat
with my bare fist, compost it, wash
the death-place and my hands most carefully
with hot water and ‘Earth Choice’ detergent,
cooling the water in a five-litre bucket
to pour on the earth at the base of a plant,

I think of you: you
not thinking of me
in my green-flowered apron that belonged to someone’s granny
with my fingers in the sink-strainer probing for scraps: input
to feed, foster, facilitate the growth
of something tall, tasty, well-researched,
catalogued, categorised, annotated,

with names and names and names and names.

Janet Jackson

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Bury Me Deep

Bury me in my red shoes
I know it’s such a waste
but I want to look smashing
you know, for the other side.

Make sure my hair is brushed
dead straight, eyebrows plucked
lipstick the colour of spilt blood
I may be a stiff but not a disaster.

Put my i-pod on replay
get some long-life batteries
and play me Leonard Cohen
a million-billion “Hallelujah’s”.

Paula Jones

The Cat Who Stole a Tongue
for Flora

How she entered, I cannot say.
The fly screen door missing a latch?
The bedroom window, ajar?
Perhaps she was already there
in soft silhouette,
observing with quick intent.

Her paws feel a padding,
the slack string of her claws at rest,
her eye, a smooth green stone,
the promise of her black silk.

She is unseen in the room,
weaving the slip of legs beneath.
There is a ripple of difference
only when she purrs.

Bodies shift in seats, a cough
and the room splits like marble.
All that’s left of the cat
is a tickle on your tongue.

Paula Jones

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In the Andes

Each stage a stretch for players,
each fort a pounding heart,
each plateau a step for stayers,

each goal a move embracing the
gain and the grief aficionados
of literature and the arts perceive

and discuss with participators,
moderators and cast — who may
mark the flow; flaws, folds, fortes,

rules, rites, freedom of speech
promises to provide. A right (an
obligation?) so many minds

in the Andes also long for. Where
visitors are welcomed for what
they bring and despised for what

they possess, the means to visit
Peru and assess its culture
in solitude and Inmediasres.

Joyce Parkes

Panama

Seen from a seat across
two arteries, the distance
merged with the horizon –
cloud’s spill – sustained

by oceans’ sealed descend.
Until the mist, behind a
line of navigation, is
cleared to close a void —

a zone, where children hoe
a sacred land —  oil-lamp’s
martlet glow, may only lift
another room.

Joyce Parkes

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You are About to Receive a Phonecall from a Prisoner

 

How dare they announce you so to me?
Foul state in its brutal folly.

I take the call on a hill, the winter sea is still
Silvered in streaks by the animal sun
Coming down to drink the calm
And be swallowed. Do not go there,
Sun, into oblivion, stay on the phone
Imminently suspended in a blaze
That consumes itself like a firetrail,
The shortest ten minutes in Oz.

Night falls and you are there,
I here, a harsh discordance
Like long silence inserted in the beat
Of a hotel band, streets away;
The blipped resignation of light,
The winging and the stinging reply
To the day’s promised accomplishment
Over and done, bereft awaiting the next.

Ships like blocks of city buildings
Smoke and wink on the darkening Sound.

Peter Bibby

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Reminiscence

Another autumn
i drive down Mounts Bay road along the Swan River
trees that only a week ago were summer green
have suddenly become a symphony of rust and yellows
as a child, now a man, autumn is always
my favourite a season, a warm sonata
yet now it seems to me, the saddest of times
a prelude to the inevitable.
i drive through heavy traffic interspersed
Matilda Bay and the boatshed subsist, tied to the elements
reflections stilted and shadowy
a few resilient swimmers are at Cottesloe Beach.
I sit with my back to the limestone wall
watch seagulls soar overhead on wings
that sweep through endless seasons
it’s Saturday tomorrow, then Sunday again
it fills me with a windswept sorrow.

debarnes

no release – no connection

like light in a bottle of stone
like the lotus eater I will lose my dream
lose myself – yet I am the door
knock and be open
love beyond – love beyond
a paradox is dark and light
to live I die.
am I not I, who is anybody?
a luminous being carked in frail flesh- bone
waiting for the light’s release
to be tested
to live utterly without fear
is a fearsome thing.
to live
is a terrible thing
the whole world magnifies.
and you who burn so bright- in the dark
of all nights – when I am tested
Will I burn like a star?

debarnes

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166 Foundations Of Anatomy & Physiology: Venous Return From The Brain
Foundation Thirty Four: Intimate Moment At The Edge Of Birdwood Square

jack a gander me, leafy, shading
, big purple tree. flower high a

canopy. truncate & twig, branch
barked claws to stem blooming

. mad botany seeds a need
, longs for light & lots of

water water water water water
. root out an undergrowth, these

compositions have a musical
bouquet. smell the atonal

. shrub to rope & sway then
flitter twitter swirl curl

unfurl hurl green stuff that
grows for we, you, him, me

.

Scott-Patrick Mitchell

Aspirations

I want to be a word-builder

to slot thought into form
curve ocean, sea, you & me,
write with every piece
of technology
that the quick brown fox
jumps
over the lazy dog.

Scott-Patrick Mitchell

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______________________  Form as extension of Nature

 

________________________________ eucalyptus nuts

______________________  in clusters at the end

________________________________ of dry fingers …

If I could

________ I would sculpt

_________________________ such shapes

______—————-__ gigantic in the heart of the city

________ to show those office-bound

_________________________ nature’s beautiful

______—————-__ chaotic balance …

______—————-__ Centuries of change

________ formed these words

______—————-__ ______________________ twigs

______—————-__ throwing a shadow

here

______—————-__ ______for your mind to field

______—————-__ ______________________ ________   there

Andrew Burke

 

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There is no Connection

“Don’t be so stupid –
there is no connection
between butterflies
and typhoons,”
she exclaimed.
The child went quiet
and hung his head.
A great sadness
fell on the school
after that
and things
were never the same.

Maureen Sexton

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Enough Rope

looking through your journals notes
and scraps of disjointed scribbles
finding despair
all over the place
so much
it’s a wonder you never did it sooner
must not leave a mess
had to get your affairs in order

in case god realised you were ready
so many times
and so many reasons
just reasons
terror anger
sorrow
bleeding inside your chest
no point donating that organ
to anyone

who would want a broken heart?
smashed organ of non life
that no thing
nothing
ripping it out
might have worked for a time
bleeding it dry
hanging it out to dry
hanging it

hanged man
damn you
I loved you

Saz Campbell

Sub Rosa

The use of the ceiling rose, as a symbol of confidentiality of conversations taking place Sub Rosa (under the rose), was bestowed upon humankind by Harpocrates the God of silence.

 

dare not you speak your truths
or you will be banished exiled
expelled from the court of living
into a prison
sub rosa
of impending death

for many decades
shrouded in darkness
and in fear
your spirit condemned
to silence

trudge you silenced voice you
dragging your body behind you
with decaying spirit
gasping for air to breath
a dream to dream

the secret sacred denial
of things not spoken
echoes
pervades invisible
walls of stone

prosperity
would have denied me
that which my adversity
sub rosa
revealed to my spirit

Saz Campbell

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