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
Melbourne downpour
Melbourne downpour
means it takes everyone
hours to get home
I am safe and dry in my car
end of irritating work day
Restless and bored
Flicking through radio stations
I select the most popular
commercial drive team
There must be
a reason why
millions tune in every day
Within twenty minutes
I hear the drive team duo
a recap from breakfast
and a promo for the next show
Their voices are
hoppy beer on a hot day
creamy chocolate
a bubble bath for my ears
their words are big
fat bright shiny
glowing lies
about themselves
about the world
about the intimate
and down to earth relationship
they have with me, the listener
about how similar they are to me
and how far removed they are
from that mendacious
world of celebrity
Their lies
are so crunchy and
delectable
that I want to eat them all up
told with such brazen joy
that I long for them
to be true
Each lie is worth
more than my day’s entire work
ballooning their already
brimming bank accounts
inflating their already
elephantine egos
I drive on
the rain
steaming up
my car
I want to believe them
as much as I wanted to believe
that boy murmuring
sweet lies
in the rain
steaming up
his car
so many years ago
We want to believe the lies
but once you arrive
and open the car door
and step outside
you are alone
with only your voice
resounding
Empty paddock
The horse has gone
the bathtub too
The grass is long in the paddock
There is no shade there so I do not sit and contemplate the loss
I keep walking, my skin throbbing in the heat
while I grapple with the title of a poem
I have not yet written
about whether this need for fulfillment
can ever be sated
Did the horse die or did they just move it to greener pastures?
They may not go gently
What if we take them
the celebrities
all to one place?
Because the problem is not
so much that they exist
- all right, I get it, people like them, it makes them feel safe or that things are in their right place
the problem is
that they pop up everywhere
their whitened teeth and maniacal grins
and ironic humour and
over developed senses of self
frightening those of us who are looking for something else
- some other anchor or balloon in life
They leak into waters where they are not supposed to be
infecting art and literature
seeping into home cooking
clawing their tentacles across
dog walking and tree planting and adventure hiking and asylum seeking
Leaving no place sacred any more for the ordinary
unremarkable unrecognisable quiet ticking
not much happening here thanks and we like it that way
of what used to pass for every day life
So here’s what I think
We take them
- lure them, trick them, drug them, beat them, promise them, herd them, flatter them, feed them – however we get them there I don’t care, there are smart people around who know what to do, how to motivate and move them, satisfy and soothe them, just get them into ONE place and cyclone fence it and guard dog it and electromagnify it and then shut the gigantic gate and lock it
And we will still watch them
that channel will run 24/7
- more if that smart person can work out how to pummel extra hours into each day
So they will be on – they will always be on – so they won’t feel sad or strange or bad and the people who need to see them don’t have to pine or whine or panic or go mad
But for the rest of us
- those who have had to stop turning on the TV and opening the paper and walking out the door and going to the market for fear of the constant bombardment of their insidious smiling presence (“Oh look at me! I once learned some words off by heart and they put me on the telly and now I have an opinion about everything from Al Jazirah to jelly!”)
For us
finally
there may be
some peace
Cause we know that channel’s there
and we can turn it on
those dark lonely nights when we miss their shiny lights
But the rest of the time
we can get back
to the ordinary chaos
of our blissfully uninteresting, monotonous, uncelebrated
lives
Whites so white
Who are the people who know how to
keep their whites white?
Angels come to teach us?
Or demons come to torment us?
I curse them as I toss out
yet another
yellow edged bra
If only they could teach me
my whole life would
be sweeter
And I could get caught
in accidentally
compromising
positions
without evidence
of sweat stains
age
and poor washing techniques
Cigarette butts, envelope seals and used serviettes
Cigarette butts, envelope seals and used serviettes
(how they found DNA to track down 39 living relatives of Hitler)
You may have heard
that two scientists
have used
cigarette butts, envelope seals and used serviettes
to prove
the existence of 39 living relatives
of Hitler
It captures the attention doesn’t it
even the imagination
cigarette butts, envelope seals and used serviettes
it could be an episode of NCIS
or the lyrics
of a Leonard Cohen song
I may be naïve
but I’m not sure why they have to find them
these 39
all of whom, I think
have changed their name
most of whom, I imagine
if they know their lineage
are just trying to live their lives
quietly, seriously, with as little pain as possible
and if they don’t
well …
… they are probably doing just the same
Did you know that Hitler
was ashamed of the mental illness
that ran in his family?
It was one of the reasons he never had children
He did not want to leave that legacy behind
He preferred
a different legacy
of a new world order
kind
But little did he know
that from his lips
in his tongue’s lick
from his mouth’s spit
he was leaving behind
a trail
to stretch his sticky history
on
through years
over time
to these guilty? innocent? implicated?
39
How many of us
are leaving traces
of guilt
remnants of shame
littered through the city
disappearing into the streets
of our lives
adding to the pile
of ever growing
refuse and rotting rubbish
that makes up the story
of humanity so far
That also
we hope
and sometimes can see
is the fertilizer
for the tiniest of seeds
a new way of living
new hope for being
that comes
maybe not from a DNA hunting party
following evil
and hoping in some way
this proof will stop it
but hope that comes
from looking at what
we do
and how
and who we do it to
and seeing what is there
on the cigarette butts and envelope seals and used serviettes
we all leave behind