Mirka's view (at Heide)
I wrote this poem years ago and it never found a home. Posting it here today in memory of the wonder-full Mirka Mora who made a new home in this city so many years ago and gave us new worlds.
Mirka’s view (at Heide)
On top of this hill we are close to the sky
a heart is carved into the garden
arms of the pomegranate tree
hold swollen pink fruit
dust settles on our hands and faces
nothing has an outline no buildings
anchor me to cobblestone streets
on a windy day we could float away
grass shimmers yellow and whispers dry secrets
I do not understand our interpreters here
the Reeds - tall bodies lean smiles
look they grew on the hill
their home contains us warm eggs fresh bread
wine stains on the wooden table
by day I blink through the back window
golden pear and generous oak soften the sky with shadows
at night all I see is my reflection
round face bobbing a ghostly balloon
beginning a new life here
we are like children
drawings spill from my hands
two headed creatures, many with wings
their eyes fat with terror and magic
gazing back at me
serpents flicking black tongues slip out
populate my room seeking gaps under doors
to leak out leave this haven where we’ve stayed a while
see if they can find a place down the hill
a new home in this city
to call their own
A Euphemism Too Far
This poem was recently rejected by a journal on a number of grounds, one of them being that it was 'gratuitous'. A comment I've never had before about my poetry. Kind of proud, 'cause I worked hard on that list of euphemisms ...
On the question of breasts
Pressing at lumps, I let Google tell me that because
I’ve never breast fed, my chances of cancer could increase.
The woman at the front desk eyes me with suspicion:
How old are you? I agree – not mature enough.
A mammogram is for breasts: not tits or norgs,
puppies or boobs, cans, racks, fun bags, honkers or jugs.
It’s unfair that breasts have anything except
biological connotations, because it makes squishing them
between two plates of glass much weirder, like it might
be a fetish and how do mine compare?
After, I lie down in a room and a young guy
with efficient cold hands examines my recalcitrant bosoms.
I want to ask what he thinks:
Is it just our species? I mean, do bulls find udders a turn on?
But I never find the right moment.
Taster
In your St Kilda flat
we eat Rogan Josh, drink gin with lime,
licking our lips for every taste.
Sunday morning bagels, fill the bed
with crumbs, eat mangoes, sucking juice from
the skin. Nothing this good lasts forever
but while it does I learn that
green chillies are addictive and garlic lingers
on finger tips for days.
This poem was published on the wonderful online journal site: PASH capsule
Super moon
Watching Fame
the original movie, 1980
outside the super moon
is bright in the sky
like god left the light on
if you believe in god
on the Novia Scotia coast
tides are expected to rise
by more than 50%
I keep forgetting to buy
face products and my skin
is showing its flaws
dry and fragile
the moisture has been sucked away
something in me is raging
I weep or is it a sob –
time has beaten me
meanwhile the small stories
of ambition on the TV are the
same then as now
all that vicious hope
for what the future will bring
Ada Cambridge Poetry Award
This poem was highly commended in the recent Ada Cambridge Poetry Award as part of the Williamstown Literary Festival. It's in the anthology, along with the shortlisted and awarded biographical short stories, which you can buy at Hobsons Bay Libraries for $10 each.
Lay you down
For the funeral they calmed your yellow skin with make up
neat hair navy blazer silver buttons shining
I touched your hand thick and heavy like a slab of fish
couldn’t think of any words to say was that the day I picked you up?
seems I’ve carried you a long time now
curved shoulders those vertebrae protruding at the top of my spine
Freud says I look for you in other men
dragging you around like this head bowed it’s hard to see anything
night time is for resting but this bedroom is cluttered
too many shoes lonely earrings tax receipts swirling in pockets of dust
you slip into my dreams a puppet staring wide-eyed from a single bed
unable to move without my help effort to lift you drenches me in night sweat
once I see you happy sitting at an outdoor café
wearing the red mohair jumper she knitted smoking a cigarette
I want to leave you in this place but don’t know how we got here
silent movie on a far away screen grey dawn stirs the image flickers disappears
What we want
The film is French and so the light
is blue and gold.
He chases after her and we want
him to catch her.
She is on the train and we want
her to forgive him.
He walks the streets at night
and we want him to chase her again.
The wife is up late reading
and we want her to suspect.
He arrives home and we want
him not to be discovered.
What we want is so simple.
We want love.
We want it to fail.
We want it to triumph.
We want to see pain that is not our own
that is our own.
We want them to make us cry so that
when we stop we will feel better.
The light is not as beautiful here
as it is in the French film
but it is enough to see by.
A poem from my friend Jason
My friend Jason came to the launch of Your Looking Eyes and sent me this poem in response. I love it because the whole impetus behind the book was art responding to art in different forms. Long may it continue. Thanks Jason!
Sometimes, as she was reading to us all,
it looked like her eyes were closed.
But they weren't.
The ground was there,
under her nice looking boots,
it was worn away in a shape like a stone puddle.
Out the window was a man,
maybe her brother, but he looked like a man,
looking after the two kids.
Behind me I could feel the other art works,
kind of jealous,
wanting our attention.
There is something else to say,
about how I felt after I left,
Like a person with another person.
that one is another story.
The reader
My chapbook Your Looking Eyes launches today. Here is the opening poem:
The reader
In this piece the writer is stuck for words
She wants you to remember the thing that makes you squint
Sucking a lemon wedge
Fingernails on a blackboard
Draw a picture of your eyes
A place where you felt safe
Grandmother’s kitchen, flour on the table
That self- made cubby at the park, tucked between
the trees with sticky dark leaves
Smell the residue on your fingers
The time you ran – was it away or towards?
Whisper the sound of the shoes you wore
And that song, was it early Madonna
or a chorus from The Clash
maybe that opera duet (with the two men) or
the bit of piano concerto that they used for the ad
The one that’s in your head when you wake up
Close your eyes hum it softly
Art that asks me to do something. Am I doing it right?
Is someone watching? Will they laugh at me?
touch
his nose looks like an after thought
a beautiful one
mast head or Mercedes car bonnet decoration
something square in its elegance
that – ridiculously – she wants to hold
it is not sexual
can’t imagine it growing in her palm
like Pinocchio
if the skin on
your fingers gives age away
she is very old today
this noble shape
cups lightly
into her hand
brings the same peace as
smooth flat stones
she used to skip across ponds
knowing now – as then
she will have to let go soon
leave her hand hovering empty mid air
but not yet
not while he is sleeping
unaware of her touch
and just how much
she needs to hang on
This poem published in Issue 8 of Page Seventeen, launched on Saturday 13th November, packed full of stories and poetry, that you can buy here.
Seeing things
My eyes limit me
I am looking for a new way
to see
in this calm place
I am inside
different heads
can rub up
against new skin
probe strange wounds
dip into a
pool of memories
not mine
the ceiling is low
but I don’t bang
my head
it smells
of work
in here
things made
by hand
I like this
can I follow
their lead?
sculpt thoughts
carve words
into a new shape
I wrote this poem as part of my ongoing Cafe Poet in Residency at c3 Contemporary Art Space, at the Abbotsford Convent. It's currently part of an exhibition titled: Ecosystem, an exploration of the Abbotsford Convent Community.
Can we still believe in Lauren Bacall?
There are rules in this world
that make me feel safe
seamed stockings
slide into stilettos
crisp white shirts curve
and hips sway in pencil skirts
full mouths glisten red
snap wisecracks
caught by sidelong glances
and men in hats
clocks tick heavy
in honey wooded waiting rooms
black telephones ring
heavy with portent
cigarettes tap ash
a steady rhythm through each day
tough women with taut eyes
love cruel mouthed men
brill cream keeps lust in place
coffee is black
martinis sit on serviettes
phone numbers are scrawled
on backs of matchbooks
and when insomnia strikes
shots of Scotch
plot a course through the night
there are answers in the morning
they may not be the ones you want
but a well fitting coat
will see you safely onto the next train
I know things are well
when Lauren Bacall is in the frame
reluctant to leave the certainty of celluloid
and return to the chaos of life in real time
my eyes linger as the screen flickers
and slowly fades to noir
This poem was recently part of the 2010 Poetry in Film Festival, as a joint initiative between Palace Cinemas and the Australian Poetry Centre.