Creatrix 19 Poetry

December 2012

Poetry Editors: Peter Jeffery and Sue Clennell
Working Publications Manager: Gary De Piazzi

Contributors:

Carolyn Abbs

Liverpool Street Station

Natasha Adams

Flame Bird
I am she-wolf

Anil

]Conformity

Sally Clarke

Pyromaniac

Josephine Clark

In the Kitchen
Some days

aye Clavi

Frolicking Dolphins

Sue Clennell

Mumtaz Mahal

Judy Corcoran

She Told Me

Gary Colombo De Piazzi

In the Café
Tai Chi in the Park

Derek Fenton

One Man’s Meat.

Fran Graham

Living Next Door to the Robinsons

Mike Greenacre

Looking Glass
‘Voicebox’ Fremantle

Danny Gunzburg

Song To Her/Song To Him

Ann Harrison

Willy Wagtail

Kenneth Hudson

Breath
Thistles

Jackson

The window

Ross Jackson

An Osborne Park Kind of Love.

Veronica Lake

Aftermath

Laurel Lamperd

Waiting Women

Alexis Lateef

Lungs,
Steinbeck in the South.

Max Merckenschlager

Sorry, Sorry Day

Dean Meredith

The Very Last

Jan Napier

Microphone
Midnight Champagne

Colleen O’Grady

Save The Wheat

Ron Okely

Reclaim the night

Chris Palazzolo

Avoiding A Pack
The Big Wind

N J (BRiLO) Pattinson

Daytime Starlight

Flora Smith

Singing Lesson

Rose van Son

Somewhere Past Kalgoorlie

Sandie Walker

Died Rear of 15 Bronte Street Aged 50
The Drowning Bed

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Liverpool Street Station

the trains smell navy
fluorescent lights clatter metallic
Xmas trees red-smile upwards
the domed-glass ceiling roars silver
& clutches leftover helium balloons

far below    suitcases rumble brown
pigeons in camouflage-grey get in the way
________ travellers zig zag
roll like dice along platform 9
& step into carriages

the train creaks    jolts green
remembers smoke    sets off with a purr
blunders blind through a tunnel
________ out in cloud light
walls grime    graffiti black-whites

high-rise flats with sad disease
wilt in the drizzle
slate roofs reek of poverty
reek     of poverty

Carolyn Abbs

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Flame Bird

Wedge tail eagle
fire red feathers
fringed with the gold
of an ancient sun.

Phoenix
you built your nest
of she-oak twigs

lined with
lemon scented gum
and peppy tree leaves.

Your last breath
filigree
red-yellow
blue-orange
fire swirls paisley

to create your egg
on a bed
of citrine sparkles
incubating in our
sanctuary of the sun.

Herodotus
you did not believe
but I know the heart
of Margaret River.

Born of fire and sun
she will rise from
sepulchre and cradle
stronger
than before.

Fly home Phoenix.
Won’t hear
your fire-song
for five hundred years
or more.

Natasha Adams

From 23rd November 2011, the Margaret River fires destroyed or damaged over 53 homes.

I am she-wolf

I sleep with one eye watching
over you. One ear trained

in your direction. I will grow you fat
strong with my milk in your bones.

When you are sick, I hold you
and howl at the street light moon

I stay loyal to your father
so he sticks around. When

we play you learn the lessons
my mother taught me.

We practise urban foraging
roaming fluorescent aisles

in search of food. We devour
an open carcass of Wiggles

biscuits. In the park, the sun
is out and we shed our winter coats.

I am safe nursing in a wilderness
of swings and slides.

At your birthday party you pee on
the lemon tree just like Daddy does.

Some bitch declares the runt
of the litter has grown up

and I snarl in her direction.
It’s a feast or famine existence.

Natasha Adams

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Conformity

Fit coy norm
On city form.
In for “my cot!”
In comfy rot.

Anil

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Pyromaniac

The flame tree smouldered
throughout August,
wet winter wood smoke extinguishing
all hope of brilliance—

until
denying thoughts of damping down
the conflagration caught
licking along branches

leaping high against clear blue skies.
Mesmerised,
for days I watched it burn,
and did not call the fire brigade.

Sally Clarke

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In the Kitchen

in the kitchen of our growing up
saffron seeped into white rosary beads
sauterne blistered sweetness to steam
we chopped fresh parsley with sage
sprigs of herbs I’d picked for her,
useful at last, springing their
pungent blessings about her hands
milking the mezzaluna
in the kitchen of our growing up
we grated carrots and nerves
sliced dried sausage and self-esteem
never allowed the knives to cross
we sang our favourite hymns
to the flash of dishcloths and blue tea towels
leaned against the Everhot
to hear the world through the ABC news
in the kitchen of our growing up
fresh milk came in the dented billy
we pitched ourselves against each other
one scooped froth, the other the skin
all of us sneaking the buttery top
sometimes love like sponges rose
vanilla scented thick cream spread
with her soft skin spatula arms

Josephine Clarke

 

 

Some days

Some days I want to be lead
I lean into the shadow of street signs
and wait happily numb
until the green man walks me across
Some days I want to control
look defiantly at the red man
then the blank road
and make my own way at my own speed
Wish there was a way of you knowing
the sort of day it is
without my having to flash
red or green

Josephine Clarke

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Frolicking Dolphins

In the calm of the ocean
visions of dolphins
Frolic and leap
swim, circle, play gracefully

Their touches arouse
Caresses tender as bodies intertwine
Adrenalin splashes
They delight in one’s ambience
With each response magic unfolds
Poise enriched always consenting

Eminent, gentle touches
Each maneuver controlled
Affectionate ripples emerge
Their love vibrates
Frolics sensuous with conspicuous play
Fears and emotions
Handled with paramount control

Relaxed in each others’ devotion
Trust grows deeper, with passionate embraces
With precision, encounters superiative
They circle, caress, with tentative ease
in the calm of the ocean
on the wave of a gentle breeze

Faye Clavi

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Mumtaz Mahal

Mumtaz, 10,000 craftsmen and 10,000 more,
from afar as Turkey and Persia, shed tears
with their pores, for you, rani, princess, queen.
You soar above me, Mute Swan, while my
peacock parading now serves no purpose.
Ah, arthangi, that we were still one!
Cardamom, cayenne, cumin,
ginger and chilli together,
cannot burn more than the sorrow
that my hands no longer cup your breasts.
Mumtaz, 3000 elephants carry
the heavy burden of my love for you.
The jasper and jade, you kept
so close to your skin,
will now guard that final sleep
which I, too, will share,
when my work is done.

Sue Clennell

* arthangi means other half.

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she told me

with bandaged loin
shuffling step
before his twenty-fifth birthday
and long before I was born
he returned from
The Great War
she told me
‘doctors made cuts in the webs of his toes’
and, while he screamed his torment
she would pull them apart
until water turned to blood
she told me
at each and every beginning of day
for three long years
he wailed in a flood of
agony and despair
as she slowly drained
the toxins from his body
because his kidneys no longer did
she told me
‘I don’t like sunrises’

Judy Corcoran

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In the Cafe

She drifts into the café and my eyes
draw to her with moth tendencies.
I note her light.
Scan her regular features, nothing exceptional.

Hair plainly set, the same darkish shade
as too many others, stature short
and the years and children have rounded her out.
But still my eyes stare with vampire longing
and I  sniff for the scent of her.

She stands centre stage,
her and her poem about abandonment
freedom from shackles
and a smile
barely discernable, shapes her lips.

She has stepped beyond (is this her attraction?)
continues to read spilling her passion,
her desires, her courage – liberty and life
as people politely listen.

Her voice rolls, creates layers.
Dreamy people with manacled thoughts
shift to another place
where nothing matters
but words.

Finishes to polite applause
and I clap with the rest.
Watch her take her seat
her back to me.
She who is no different
from so many
but my moth wings flutter.

Gary Colombo De Piazzi

 

 

Tai Chi in the Park

A swallow’s capacity for gravity
diminishes with each flap
flicked away to ascend
the blue into cotton clouds.

The world whirls in swallow eyes

in the loop and cavort of flight.
The rollercoaster sky
becomes land
becomes cloud
without sensibility
in the intricate acrobatics.
A ballet weaving threads
in the slipstream as ribbons.

The exhilaration of expansive grace
as the light feathered form
embraced in movement
trims the wind to slice
a path through buttressed air
in the swirl and eddy.

Collapsed and carried
against the thoughts of man
who stares and wonders
encapsulated in concepts.
Shapes sleek movement to mimic
the free flow caress in easy curves
and subtle turn. Find the essence
of every movement
until breath and motion flow
into one.

There is no separation.
Form and air meld
in the deliberate transition
from pose to pose
held for the shortest eternity

as sleek motion swallow
and soft grace flow of man
fuse in the park.

Gary Colombo De Piazzi

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One Man’s Meat

I attended my first bullfight
just about forty years ago
along with a friend and our wives.
Backed by Hemingway and Tynan
I wasn’t about to take sides.

My friend, of Spanish heritage,
was prepared to be objective
and excited by the prospect,
while his wife had her mind made up.

Embarrassed, he had to escort
her crying, pleading and screaming
for him to bring it to an end.

It meant he missed the matador
lightly caressing the bull’s horns
and placing a kiss on its head…
a gentle goodbye and salute
to a brave adversary.

Afterwards, when I described it,
she saw it as mere mockery
while he saw it for what it was,
‘oles’ echoing in his head.

Late that night we ate at Botins.
She chose a sizzling Spanish steak
while he and I chose the rosada.

Derek Fenton

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Living Next Door to the Robinsons

gave me eight happy years of simple life
when the only drama was a bee sting
or a splinter. Mr. Robinson’s wife
was a nurse, able to fix anything,
like when Frances got nipped by the stock whip
on her bare leg. It was summer. On hot
nights we’d play outside, raid the stable, clip
Bluebell just to hear her whinny and trot
off in panic. Their silky, Titchiboo,
shimmered. He’d dart off to leap and reel
his way round the garden, lithe canine elf.
We loved him. Later, I heard it was true
they’d left him tied to the car steering wheel,
he jumped, and accidentally hanged himself.

Fran Graham.

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Looking Glass
_____ for Tina

Unfinished
bits of me   jut out
like a table corner,
just far enough
to dislodge thinking

send me hurtling
down pathways
that twist and dive
through time
with reflected ease

magnifying words,
those stark desert
nights on Norseman’s
inland shore

with you   as the
tide    turning
inside me.

Mike Greenacre

 

 

‘Voicebox’ Fremantle

I couldn’t read tonight
just something
inside me
wouldn’t let this
urgency out.

I’d signed the list
and had my number in the queue
as if at the Dole Office –
feeling the nerves rise
as I fumble for my excuse.

The place hasn’t changed –
Clancy’s overflowing with
local voices, some tables
curled around the stage
as arms of belonging

and the bar
looming over us with
expectation   from the side
whispering: “Dutch courage
is better than none!”

Like a determined toddler
the poem could stand on its own
but it’s me, the nervous father
who couldn’t face
the chance of a fall.

Luck quickly swung
back towards me
as Jo lingered past with
the list – I grabbed it like the
Artful Dodger

and swiftly
returned it ‘less full’ …
saying there’s
something inside
that just won’t let me in.

Mike Greenacre

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Song To Her/Song To Him

I’m lying where the creatures feed,

the shallow hope, the urgent need,
and in this pool of crippled dreams,
I carve a night of stifled screams.

She’s gone, she’s gone,
the song’s so bare,
her graceful eyes
are everywhere,
the moon, the snow,
the mountains creep,
the gods of silence
watch her sleep.

And somewhere on her moonlit brow,
she brings her past into the now,
she talks of loving songs and death,
you rent a bedroom on her breath.

She takes you where the vision sings
of caterpillars, birds and kings,
and if she sees you one more time,
you’ll write a poem made of wine.

You’ll call until her locks of hair
are spilling moon-dust everywhere,
you’ll call until her eyes grow dark,
and ghostly shadows raid the park.

But in your bedroom soft and plain,
she’ll mispronounce your tattooed name,
…collect the speeches in your head,
and write a song to him instead.

Danny Gunzburg

*Published in The Maccabean, June 2012.

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Willy Wagtail

black, white
chit, chit
jump
hop
peck
move, soar, dive
stop
insect,insect,insect inside
watch
wait
listen
where
there
insect,insect,insect inside
watch
wait, swoop, swallow
fly
stop
gone
insect,insect….
not this time.

Ann Harrison

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Breath

Birth is a life sentence with hard labour.
Survival is tough dirty work.
But we slave away for years
just for moments of dancing
____________________ in warm Spring rain.
Flashes of joy equals ages of pain.
This lopsided equation
_______________ seems our essential nature.
We’re made for awe and beauty
but live by getting dirty and filthy.
Living by breathing every day
we live for what takes our breath away.

Kenneth Hudson

 

 

 

Thistles
_____
for Andy

You say they’re thistles.
Bare feet tell me they’re prickles,
Could’ve been woven
for Christ’s crucified crown.
Your childhood years I suppose.

Still living close to water
for your morning walk with the dog.
Poems like thistles in your mind.
Long ago you might have walked
the edges of the Galilee Sea.
Fishing for poems instead of men.
Pretending to worry about the washing
but watching trees and falling leaves.
Trees around me disappear each day.
Prickles pierce the soles of my feet.
Nano-novas of pinpoint pain.

Time to bring the washing in
before it rains.

Kenneth Hudson

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The window

I would make a mirror
from whatever I
have, so that you can see
that you are not
broken,
that there is nothing
to fix,
that you are not a machine,
to be utilised
or left to rust —
that, as I have told you before,
you are a living tree.

Today it seems to me
that you are a bonsai,
trunk trammelled by wires into tight
stunted twists,
roots trimmed, contained, compressed
in a box,
over-reaching branches
docked.

What is the secret
of the bonsai?

Perhaps it longs
to be a giant tree in a public park,
sheltering all kinds of creatures
from the flensing wind and blast-furnace sun,
spreading a generous mulch of leaves,
throwing up seedlings,
having initials carved in its skin
by random lovers and idlers.

Perhaps it likes
its current situation
on a sunny sill
in a small house,
the nibbles and nips
of its particular custodian,
the measured irrigation,
the admiring apprehension
of visiting connoisseurs.

Or perhaps it yearns
for nothing more

than a way
to open the window,
so it may have
the peppermint mist,
the chilli sun,
and the jasmine midnight moonlight
on its leaves.

Jackson

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An Osborne Park Kind of Love    

The guys from Auto Spares
stand waiting
and read the signs:
EATS
__ LUNCHES
____ COCA COLA
(Her they cannot read.)

She tugs off a jigger
of malted milk;
clapping a grudge on laminex-
a grudge for Nick
the hot dip galvaniser
and all those boys
with checked flannel forearms
and tarry grasps.

She sure can fry!
They leave with full foam cups
of chips
paper bags full of steam.

But their visits
do not release
the artist in her.

My wheelchair sits
quietly
by the slowly turning
magazine racks

Windblown-
the pages of a jumbo crossword
and the plastic strips
in the doorway
are tapping a blues number.

In tune
she sweeps away crumbs.

Ross Jackson

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Aftermath

Lips that should kiss
Spit venom,
hot and liquid,
searing my heart.
Your voice resounding,
rends the air to sulphur.
We are burnt beyond redemption.
Smoking ash cakes the charred remains.
A loud silence prevails.

Veronica Lake

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Waiting Women

She saw the young woman
Seated next to a lamp.
A painting by Harunobu.
And knew it was her
waiting for her lover.

In her case
He was her boss.
He didn’t say
he would divorce his wife
but she hoped he would.

Sometimes she saw a news item
About him and his wife
at the ballet or opera
and once at a political dinner.

She smoked non-stop
With a bottle of Chardonnay
at her elbow
listening for his steps
waiting for him
looking like the young woman
waiting next to the lamp.

Laurel Lamperd

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Lungs

Your lungs were always
too small for your life.

You wanted to breathe in
more air than you could,
made yourself red faced sick
trying to hold it in,
to store it, like childhood optimism,
stubborn and defiant against
scientific fact.

Sometimes you coughed for days,
and when you were bent double,
those strange keh keh sounds
erupting from your chest,
it sounded like there was
an animal inside you,
trying to claw its way out.

You said
that there was.
You said
it was you.

Alexis Lateef

 

 

Steinbeck in the South

You’re in God’s country now:
where the land is a crusted red
underneath a washed out sky,
like thin gauze held over a wound,
like the dried blood under
your fingernails.

Mountains rise up around you
and you have heard there is a river,
but the canoe has long been abandoned
for the hope of it.

Where the road cuts a straight line
through the asperous land,
and  a single rusted sign points north –
this is the way you need to go.

There are no shortcuts around here,
in this land where trees are alive
that have been dying for years,
where the birds peck at rocks and think
themselves full.

Alexis Lateef

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 Sorry, Sorry Day

Sweets are waiting in the car
come and ride – we won’t go far
mum and dad know where you are – a sorry, sorry day.
No, you can’t go home tonight
stop it, or I’ll take the light
in the morning you’ll be right – another sorry day.

Other children live here, see?
You can share their dormitory,
safe at night by lock and key -a sorry, sorry day.
Up you get – can’t laze in bed!
Lots of chores before you’re fed,
morning prayers will change your head – another sorry day.

Let me shed a tear with you,
walk across a bridge or two
build a better future by acknowledging the past.

No, your mother doesn’t care,
getting on without you there.
Here’s the tunic you must wear – a sorry, sorry day.
Smarten up and fix your dress,
there’s a family to impress.
If you go, that’s one kid less – another sorry day.

Let me shed a tear with you,
walk across a bridge or two
build a better future by acknowledging the past.

Here are letters home you wrote,
“DO NOT SEND”, Department’s note.
Family was too remote – a sorry, sorry day.
Mother died four years ago,
thought they might have let you know.
Dad’s in jail, the records show – another sorry day.

Max Merckenschlager

2008 statuette winner for all genres/classes of poetry, Grenfell NSW Henry Lawson Festival of Arts. 2012 WA Poets Inc lyrics competition winner

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The Very Last

I’ll give you all
But my very last
I’ll keep that
Just for me
And them

All those ones
Parts of twos
And threes
Of love
The multiplier

You deserve all
Except that
My very last
Too much burden
For anyone

Dean Meredith

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Microphone

Why do you wish me
to use this microphone?
Am I then
such a poor poet
that you only hear me
with your ears?

Jan Napier

Midnight Champagne

In a Zen garden there are no trucks entering.
White herons fish     shadows rake gravel.
Wind moves the moon two degrees North.
A roshi seated by bonsai pines gifts me a smile.
I mirror.

Midnight champagne.

Jan Napier

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Save The Wheat

Winds blew a norther, the day was a scorcher.
My job was to skyline during hot weather fine.

Windows I prowled for smoke searching,
while the wind howled and trees were lurching.

Then with fear I spied, the swirling brown
and fire I yelled to husband renown.

With a thump of feet he flew out the door
And yelling in alarm, ‘Phone some help more!’

The boss was rung, the fire truck started,
this kind of work not for faint-hearted.

Food for the fighters was my chore
while boss’ wife did the drinks more.

Skylining and watching the swirling smoke.
its nearness frightening, my breath did choke!

A knock on the door blackened farmer there,
‘Near the wheat’ he cried snatching the fare.

Prayers did go skyward thick with dark smoke,
fire trucks everywhere for fire beyond a joke.

Unseen by the fighters weary and worn
who couldn’t tell that the sky was torn.

A sudden flash of lightning and crash of thunder
And rain teemed down tearing the fire asunder.

It had just neared the wheat which the rain did miss,
but it poured on the fire with a veritable hiss.

Thankful were the hearts as weary men rested,
this was a fire that God had bested.

Colleen O’Grady

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Reclaim the night

Her voice on my phone
There’s a rally at Fremantle Friday
Reclaim the Night
I’m to be the first speaker
Do you want to come
Yes , I’ll come
Six thirty Pioneer Park
Right

The chanting begins
_ Women unite
_  Reclaim the night

First of three
Her presentation is infectious
Candles are lit
The procession takes off
Through the streets of Fremantle
_Wherever we go
_  However we dress
_ No   means  No  and
_ Yes means Yes

Her mother clings to my arm
I’m so proud of her
_ Say it loud
_ Say it clear
_ Our walks should all be
_ free of fear

Down the main street
Past the markets
People dining stand and stare
_ Claim our bodies
_ Claim our right
_ Take a stand
_ Take back the night

Hey   old man
That’s pretty stirry
Who wrote that stuff
My Granddaughter
_ Break the silence
_ No more violence
  

_ Women unite
_ Reclaim the night                  

Ron Okely

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Avoiding A Pack

This is the worst place for an encounter:
on a long street at the dark corner
of the block; the bang
of a kicked fence up ahead, and two, three,
no, four male silhouettes on the footpath;
too late to halt, turn and walk back,
no side-street to veer into,
and ducking behind a letterbox
or hedge one of those panic actions
guaranteed to transmogrify
group and individual into pack and prey.

So just walk. Don’t speed up. Don’t
slow down. If one sneers “How’s it goin’?”
say “Good,” and ignore them
parroting your weird voice; you’ll see shortly
the uprooted plants and overturned bin,
and know what they have in store
for the fool who signals “Hit me.”

Chris Palazzolo

 

 

The Big Wind

The Big Wind blows
the football results away,
and airs the houses of winter smells.
He throws the trees into wild swoons,
makes the power-lines skip
and the washing-lines whip and snap.
You can hear his laughter
as he rolls across the groaning rooves;
his beard is a cumulus of billowing air,
his breath the ghost of burnt eucalyptus,
and his eyes twinkling desert stars.
With a sweep of his arm he hurls
summer’s invisible breakers
on the shores of the city.

Chris Palazzolo

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Daytime Starlight

Funny Weather we’re hav’in, the awkward retort
with Dazzling Stereotypical Beam of smile
yet another Work Space Devoid of Token Male
further reflection of decline of yes-Man domain

Leads still to Bleak

Osprey, Swoops Estuarial, Perth Waters
Tern, darting, Wing Span’s Narrows
Cormorant, Determined intent, B-line’s toward
plate glass escarpment

Grey under Spheres of Forecast
unknown daytime starlight
sky’s curvature slammed
Great Whites Lurk tween Sand Banks, ‘n’ troughs

Hunters all

N J (BRiLO) Pattinson

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Singing Lesson, Sanur Beach, Bali

Always they come,
soft as shadows; the smallest ones,

the ones who do not come
with hands out-stretched,
the ones who do not come to sell.

They are wary, with the huge eyes
I’ve seen sometimes on inquisitve deer.

Tahu bernanyi? Can you sing?
They droop with shame,
unable to please. Nah, begini.

Satu, satu, saya sayang ibu, *
and I clap my hands to the beat.

Dua, dua, saya sayang ayah.
Tiga, tiga, sayang adik-kakak.

 They are leaning forwards now:
this lady has come to sing for them.

Satu, dua, tiga, sayang semuanya.
They are smiling, clapping with me

and we sing on the sand
as they wait for their mothers
who will plait and bead my students’ hair.

Then come their rituals: bathing and eating
in the warmth of family and compound.

Perhaps they’ll remember
the song of the lady on the sand
before the lighting of oil lamps and bedtime,

before tropic darkness
transmutes the perfumed evening, begins
to play with serious commerce under neon light.

Flora Smith

* The English translation of the nursery rhyme is as follows:

One, one, I love my Mum.
Two, two, I love my Dad.
Three, three, I love my brothers and sisters.
One, two, three, I love all of them.

 

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Somewhere Past Kalgoorlie

i.

on train time    miles of dirt
rocks swing sideways

wend scrub      emu tracks
horizon                       melts into earth
_______ sky      over-rated red
…something relaxing about sameness
_____________________  hour after hour

ii.

at breakfast guests are excited
to see an eagle

iii.

this land unleashed in summer months
but now           shades of spring
shrub and spindle        trunks
_____________________     black against silver

kangaroos        silhouette dark
_______ avert eyes        to approaching light

iv.

somewhere west of Adelaide
Ziggy at Barton           lives
a respectable life
bellows            when Indian Pacific
_______ crosses            his boarded fence

tracks in red sand
_______ speak tongues
______________ clouds mimic dust

v.

tractor              patterns           paddocks
old carriage     broken

vi.

two hours from Broken Hill
_______ she leaves the coast
writes platitudes in sky           waits

vii.

whistle-stop    train rolls
_____________________ makes inroads beside her

 Rose van Son

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Died Rear of 15 Bronte Street Aged 50       

Blinded behind the glassy hide-bound
bottle of his eyes
my father drank metho.
Gave me green eyes as a hollow heirloom
handed like a sleight,     a trick,    a treasure.
I see his blacked-out shape in the dregs
of strange men,     grime packed in the cracked
paving of face,     skin
sallow       soaked    in the long bath    of street
sweat,   neglect.
Bacchantic,  mad for intoxification
fortification
my father drank metho.

I hunt him among   frayed    sotted
matted      men
in harrowed rheumy eyes,   in the pained twist
of nicotine fingers,    in that passed-over
swipe   obsessed   derro
lost.        Unhinged
crushed
in his crippled mind
my father drank metho.

Sandie Walker

 

 

The Drowning Bed 

He came to me rank with visions
of her, and her, and her       dripping
loose,      blind
eyes,    fingers,   mouth.
the roots of these eyes
torn,    balls
left to flounder.

His kisses spoke in foreign tongues drunk
from their secret sites.
left wet unctuous messages
trapped in the hollow
of my tongue,     choked
behind teeth.

His pounding strokes brimmed this bed with the slap
and slop of sweat,     semen,
saliva.

He may drown me yet
in some other.
I cannot spit them out.

Sandie Walker

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