Horsepower

Horsepower

When the ground beneath his feet stopped shaking, the steam cleared, and quiet returned, the priest at the top of the railway cutting resumed work:   burying Lizzie Grace.   Lizzie’s sister, Nell, comforting Bill Grace and his daughter, felt the vertigo of age when she looked into the grave.    It was 1918 – the fourth year of Death and War; there was Famine; but it was Pestilence that got Lizzie:   Spanish Flu.

a tiny germ killed her?
what did it
do that for?

Nell married Bill and had two daughters; one of them my mother.   Grandad delivered ice.  He was given a truck to replace the horse and cart.  Diesel goods trains interrupted his burial, in the same grave as Lizzie, 40 years on.  The trains were loud and frightening, and I thought that the walls would cave in.

Child at the grave
immortality is such a
brief illusion

In 1969 Nan said to me, ‘they hadn’t flown when I was born’, while we watched men ride a Saturn V rocket to the moon.   Soon after that, 15 years a widow, Nan followed her sister and their husband into that grave.   It was an electric train that day.   It whistled and

the whole world shook.

 swirls his tea-pot so
I saw his great-great-grandma
do that long ago.

 

SUBLIMINAL ON ANZAC DAY

–1–

rosemary
I stop for a while
deep in thought

fallen leaves
by moonlight she
sweeps the Cenotaph

shoe polish 
birds and dogs are stirring
in this small town

waxing moon sets                                            
chills the airmen
before dawn

silent unseen watchers
I motion the airmen
to order

I take a deep breath
of sulphur and brine
no   –   it’s eucalypt and pine.

a liminal breath:
a last thing
that seems a first thing

with this breath I will blow away the night and
summon up
a day to remember.

CATAFALQUE PARTY, BY THE RIGHT, QUICK  —-

–2–

at noon from the open window
breathing rosemary scent
I watch;

watch the woman who
through the ceremony
stood at the back, alone,

her chin on the back of
her hands crossed on
the end of her broom,

never taking her eyes
from the airmen
who rested on arms reversed.

fallen leaves
with the sun full high
she sweeps the Cenotaph

–3–

at sunset, no-one notices
the masterless dog
leave the crowded bar,

patrol the park,
mark all the significant spots,
including the Cenotaph.

on a porch – a bristly brush
just like his master’s touch
to rest against tonight

searching without rest
the dog who lost his master
knows rosemary best

 

Haiku inspired by a Brisbane River Ginko

Graham Nunn (Another Lost Shark) is conducting a series of ginko in Brisbane for enthusiasts of haiku.
Here is a series of haiku which originated in the walk by the river.

ferry wake
the river
speaks up

drenched in mist

the cormorant
preens

rain glistens

the concrete

succulents emerge 

koel returns

from Basho’s tomb

jacaranda blue

how exquisite

a poem

on a leaf

cello lessons

under the paper-bark
days lengthen

 

90 Days in Brisbane – emily xyz twitter poems

1 Jul 10	it’s a show yo ya know ya gotta go for it be ready when curtain opens & the sun rise and rise many hours from home
2 Jul 10	if u r feeling sick & blue, suggestion ingest ghostboy / new farm park / where roses bloom in brisbane’s so-called winter
3 Jul 10	Even the night sky is less crowded here, southern constellations a handful of haphazard glitter blown past the party on brunswick st
4 Jul 10	speedpoets ran late caused a crash of cashew vegetables & worldcup quiz ?s / funny unaustralians shielded from robert bobb’s mc hatchet

see them all here

 

Out you strode – for me.

Out you strode

with the confidence
of a man who knows
his underwear will
always be nicely pressed
and the fresh spring
tomatoes and cucumber
will always be uniformly
sliced, seasoned and
sandwiched in fresh
bread at tea time,
with tea
in big white mugs
too strong
too hot,
too sweet
for me.

Out you strode
bolder
more youthful
better looking
more vigourous
than I would ever feel.
“Good luck, Dad,” I cried.
So everyone would know.
You looked over
and waved your bat
for me.

Out you strode
onto the green
the blue above
to flourish and
swash-buckle your way
to victory. A hero.
and all my life
you’ve been captain
setting the bar
just too high
for me.

 

emily xyz workshop chapbook (bye-bye emily)

stimulus

here is sweet puck in our own generation
the high hob-goblin – you should fear : you must flee
oberon’s robin goodfellow in reincarnation
still making things befall prepost’rously!

here’s a valkyrie come to poetry
band saw poet – you must hear : you should see
a spirit whisperer! punk banshee!
Lady! what fools we mortals be.

you are called upon to deliberate
and to meditate anew
on the mysteries puck can generate
and the good harm poets can do

response

and between my ears such a blow she dealt
such a blow i never knew
sweet puck girdled my addled head about
said, “the answer’s 42”

i’m the hitch-hiker in the  /  verse
all i knew has been destroyed
sweet puck uttered the poets’ dreaded curse
and i’m floundering in the void

i am called upon to beglitterate
and to ruminate anew
on inspirations sweet puck can germinate
and the great harm poets do

 

A man who writes poems about poems is possessed (bye-bye Myers)

Jules (Beveridge) helped me launch my poetry bark in June.
I want to tell you that
there came a monstrous tide, and
I had a wondrous ride on that first voyage.
That tide came to a flood at the end of August;this is the story of a monstrous tide and my wondrous ride.

A man who writes poems about poems is possessed

2 hours and 2 days into the flood of the tide, Judy held her collective breath for the 50^th time, and waited

for the final utterance, SPOKEN IN ONE STRANGE WORD

one lady felt the rhythm <> bit her lip a little <> and bobbed her head
and the band saw started up

if they don’t get it <> if they don’t get it <> if they don’t get it <> if they don’t get it

and i think ‘yeah so what?’ but I hear the other voice <> the angel mother voice <> and the words are otherwise

it’s alright <> it’s alright

and the child in me knows <> that it is indeed all right <> and always it will be
and I look back at the first voice and see the shadow of your smile
and a twinkle in the eye
did she wink?

And I think ‘she did that deliberate ly’
and ‘did I say that out loud?’
and ‘can I listen to them both together??’
and ‘why did I think that was an angel voice?’
that voice is a burnished instrument
and she’s a surgeon.

bewitched bothered and bewildered …

and just when I want to tell them <> I can’t hear them both together
they will get me on their wavelength <> and they prove that they can make me
sister golden hair surprise sings

if they don’t get it <> if they don’t get it <> if they don’t get it <> if they don’t get it

and

it’s alright <> it’s alright

while the band saw has become talcum powder red dust of the far outback grade sandpaper and
is inside my head re-arranging and re-shaping everything with

don’t be scared of what’s inside you

and

don’t be scared to blow your own mind
which sounds like

don’t

be

scared

to

blow

your

own

mind

and there is a third voice – the secret silent synergistic voice is saying
“one day, John woke up (to himself) and set out on a big poetry adventure”
but by the time I heard that

I was lost at sea.

 

When I met Phyllis

WOOLLOOMOOLOO EMBARKATION

Fig leaf Phyllis
sits with Dig
under a fig

Fig leaf Phyllis has nothing but a fig leaf

Phyllis and Dig
have made the leaf
sticky underneath.

Phyllis is livid.

Phyllis’s fig leaf
flits and spins
in swirling winds
flits and spins
spins and flits
flitting,
falling
falling from …

Fig leaf Phyllis’s
fig leaf is falling from …

the fig tree
Into a limpid civic swimming
pool at Woolloomooloo

Phyllis and Dig are livid.

Fig leaf Phyllis and Dig are tiny
Vividly imagine ~

Fig leaf Phyllis and Dig are Fig Psyllids
sticking underneath
underneath a fig leaf
a fig leaf that is falling
falling into a swimming pool
pool at Woolloomooloo

Fig leaf Phyllis and Dig are LIVID

The Fig Psyllid (Mycopsylla fici) is responsible for periodic defoliation of Moreton Bay Fig trees (Ficus macrophylla). These psyllids are small insects which live in colonies and produce a protective sticky ‘lerp’ or cover, under which they live. The lerp is constructed communally from wax and honeydew excreted by the psyllids as they feed and can be up to 35mm wide. The lerp protects the psyllid from changing weather and from attacks by natural enemies. Given the right conditions, psyllid populations can build up in large numbers, and can be quite damaging.

 

All Care No Responsibility

My poem is a
mosaic of mirrors
mosaic of mirrors
mosaic of mirrors
mosaic of mirror
mosaic of words.
A mirror mosaic of words
a mirror mosaic of words
a mirror mosaic
a mirror mosaic
my mirror mosaic of words.

My poem is of words
a mirror mosaic of words
reflective from every perspective
a mirror mosaic of words
words reflective
from every perspective
of meaning emotion
of image impression
and sounds
my mirror mosaic of sounds

my poem is of mirrors
reflective from
every perspective
receiver perceivers
look into my mirrors
and see in themselves
the meaning emotion
the image impression
the words reflect and sound
and sound and sound
my mirror mosaic of sounds

my poem is words mosaic
opposing composing
comprising apprising
the meaning emotion
the image impression and sounds
my poem of words and sounds
your meaning emotion
your image impression
my poem of words and sounds
my mirror mosaic of sounds

 

If you are warm and feeling well and happy as can be

The final fledgling was not strong.  He feared the great commotion and knew the flight was hard and long across the frozen ocean.

His heart was good, his head was hard, as hard as claw and beak.  He knew the way. He’d trust the flock, but Oh! his wings were weak.

He fell behind and lost much air.  He fell into the snow.  How long his good heart fluttered there is not for us to know.

A well fed vixen chancing by with gentle mouth and kind removed him to a fresh warm pile a cow had left behind.

Within the pat he chanced to find some seeds for him to chew.  Humidity and temp combined for a drink of morning dew

and with the dawn, his spirits high, the bird began to sing. But birdsong is, when winter’s nigh, a most unusual thing.

And so it was he met the cat who proved to be his bane, lifting him from the warm brown pat and playing a deadly game.

Now then, my child, remember it as long as you may be.  Not all who drop you in the shit will be your enemy,

and not all those who pull you out will prove to be a friend, and this you’ll always hear me shout until your dying end:

If you are warm and feeling well and happy as can be

SHUT …………………………. UP!

Phyllis was the vixen