Why watch this high definition technicolour misery
of unclaimed sandals, bullet-pocked walls
where oil, blood and water glisten in rainbow slicks?
And fire hoses weep a useless trickle
while women wail, and men tear their hair.
See another battered Toyota circle, its cargo of militia
bristling with moral duty and lethal metal
spruiking megaphonic orders that rip the air.
The clamour drowning out the call to prayer.
I am reminded of the Roman poet Martial
watching carnage at the Coliseum with disgust.
Challenged as to why a man of his demeanour
should be seen at such a place
he replied, he must come,
for ‘these are my times and I must know them’.
Laurie Smith (Western Australia)
An independent poetry journal. Watch your step.
2015/04/22
the moon's reminder
prefer boat to ship – sounds rounder, safer –
ten of them, a scattering, at all angles,
paper boats, only paper is for stories
people in one boat, sea unfolding,
wind scuffing cheeks –
prefer boat to ship – sounds fatter, safer
caught betwixt and neaped and between,
at the whim of moon’s tug,
a paper boat, only paper is for stories
letters and boats make journeys, while
the tide is the moon’s reminder –
prefer boat to ship – sounds rounder, fatter
but flotsam needs to be found,
lifted, held in cupped palms,
a paper boat, only paper is for stories
so I’m building a jetty of words, line by
plank by line, out to these
paper boats, only paper is for stories –
prefer boat to ship, sounds rounder, safer
Kevin Gillam (Western Australia)
First published on the Sawtooth Review website
Winner of the 2014 Sawtooth Writing Prize, Poetry
ten of them, a scattering, at all angles,
paper boats, only paper is for stories
people in one boat, sea unfolding,
wind scuffing cheeks –
prefer boat to ship – sounds fatter, safer
caught betwixt and neaped and between,
at the whim of moon’s tug,
a paper boat, only paper is for stories
letters and boats make journeys, while
the tide is the moon’s reminder –
prefer boat to ship – sounds rounder, fatter
but flotsam needs to be found,
lifted, held in cupped palms,
a paper boat, only paper is for stories
so I’m building a jetty of words, line by
plank by line, out to these
paper boats, only paper is for stories –
prefer boat to ship, sounds rounder, safer
Kevin Gillam (Western Australia)
First published on the Sawtooth Review website
Winner of the 2014 Sawtooth Writing Prize, Poetry
Navigation
Early navigation.
Whole days spent charting shorelines,
shining sands of skin.
Mornings, I ran my hands over the hollows and dunes in my sheets,
the body’s language for this landscape of the other
warm on my fingers.
We spoke of crossing an interior;
our speech, sure as the sun at its zenith,
threw no shadows.
Easy to navigate on autopilot.
A constant reckoning of school and car keys.
The pole star of ourselves
always there in the somehow of early and late.
Sailing alone again
we startled at reefs and shallows
our language listing in tropic television seas.
Co-ordinates misplaced,
you turned to tripods and binoculars,
watched from your fixed point above the riverbank.
You did not see diamonds flying from a kayak’s oar,
dogs smiling in their timeless present and skies of naked pink
disrobing in the mauve of evening.
Navigation gone,
we lived amongst gaps, my compass skewed
by ferrous fears and the lustrous pieces of your astrolabe
stolen by slate-grey days; love absent, inarticulate and spent.
Mornings, I run my hands
over the hollows and dunes of you left in our sheets,
but I am a map-maker,
I can chart this arctic dialect of loss.
Flora Smith (Western Australia)
First published in Westerly
Whole days spent charting shorelines,
shining sands of skin.
Mornings, I ran my hands over the hollows and dunes in my sheets,
the body’s language for this landscape of the other
warm on my fingers.
We spoke of crossing an interior;
our speech, sure as the sun at its zenith,
threw no shadows.
Easy to navigate on autopilot.
A constant reckoning of school and car keys.
The pole star of ourselves
always there in the somehow of early and late.
Sailing alone again
we startled at reefs and shallows
our language listing in tropic television seas.
Co-ordinates misplaced,
you turned to tripods and binoculars,
watched from your fixed point above the riverbank.
You did not see diamonds flying from a kayak’s oar,
dogs smiling in their timeless present and skies of naked pink
disrobing in the mauve of evening.
Navigation gone,
we lived amongst gaps, my compass skewed
by ferrous fears and the lustrous pieces of your astrolabe
stolen by slate-grey days; love absent, inarticulate and spent.
Mornings, I run my hands
over the hollows and dunes of you left in our sheets,
but I am a map-maker,
I can chart this arctic dialect of loss.
Flora Smith (Western Australia)
First published in Westerly
2015/03/19
Monochrome
Dementia's tweezers pluck her apricot memories,
pop Wordsworth's daffodils like spilt beads.
X-rays expose the bullet holes
while medicos check for the calibre,
sift through the embers of a dying skull.
There is a little Halloween here,
white ants in the art deco,
you get the picture.
The dice falls like a guillotine.
Sue Clennell (Western Australia)
First published in SpeedPoets
pop Wordsworth's daffodils like spilt beads.
X-rays expose the bullet holes
while medicos check for the calibre,
sift through the embers of a dying skull.
There is a little Halloween here,
white ants in the art deco,
you get the picture.
The dice falls like a guillotine.
Sue Clennell (Western Australia)
First published in SpeedPoets
I'm thinking French kisses...
I'm thinking French kisses bruised tongues
stepping on diamonds in an ouch come hither frenzy
I'm thinking clink and chew the ice cubes
taste the green of onions
squeeze sunflower juice
watch trapezes on the edge of symmetry
Dare I say it?
This is love.
Sue Clennell (Western Australia)
First published by Speedpoets
stepping on diamonds in an ouch come hither frenzy
I'm thinking clink and chew the ice cubes
taste the green of onions
squeeze sunflower juice
watch trapezes on the edge of symmetry
Dare I say it?
This is love.
Sue Clennell (Western Australia)
First published by Speedpoets
Domestic
Scrubbing off your angel spit,
I untangle the snarl of lavender promises.
Although you have flown away home
with other dappled ladybirds
I preserve this apricot taste in my mouth,
grip and glimmer to false hopes,
stretch cat-like
and lick my memories.
Sue Clennell (Western Australia)
First published by Speedpoets
I untangle the snarl of lavender promises.
Although you have flown away home
with other dappled ladybirds
I preserve this apricot taste in my mouth,
grip and glimmer to false hopes,
stretch cat-like
and lick my memories.
Sue Clennell (Western Australia)
First published by Speedpoets
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)