No apology for Liz

Here lies Liz
she’s tired

Here lies Liz
she’s lazy

Here lies Liz
this is fiction

Here lies Liz
truth untenable

Here lies Liz
overworked

Here lies Liz
earning her keep

Here lies Liz
unable to get up

Here lies Liz
like roadkill

Here lies Liz
told to keep still

Here lies Liz
too scared to move

Here lies Liz
accommodating a man

Here lies Liz
in silence


Here lies Liz
a snack for wild dogs

Here lies Liz
cold and hog-tied

Here lies Liz
grisly find for joggers

Here lies Liz
aka jane doe


Here lies Liz
on an autopsy slab

Here lies Liz
not donor material

Here lies liz
In bits in bags
weighed, examined,
& here lies Liz
cut and sliced,
& here lies Liz
labelled, numbered


Here lies Liz
dead (assuming she once lived)

Here lies Liz
safer in a long box

Here lies Liz
burning again


Here lies Liz
in the
crematorium
niche

another
hole
in a
wall.


Kathryn Yuen (New South Wales)

the hush

it's just that, yeah, the hush, the trigonometry
of because, but, no, not always logic but yeah,
art hankers for its hit of white and, yeah,
course, just sluice away, do your forgetting
in private 'cos no, this is a wide road for
thin thinks and, yeah(!), should've done the leaving
of blues to greens to reds, the yoga breathing,

but no, there is no polite retreat here — the
traffic of fraud is in flow and yeah,
absolutely, s'all done with ramps and cuisinere
rods and rote learning and you, yes you with
your good ears and air traffic controlled angst,
no, you can't buy the hiss of liquid nitrogen on
skin, can't buy it, nah, can’t buy the hush


Kevin Gillam (Western Australia)

Last of her Lashes

I
The last of her lashes falls out,
curved in her palm —
a closed bracket.
When her daughter asks
Where have your eyelashes gone?
She replies They've flown south
for the winter.

II
Which wig to wear today?
The Angelina Jolie? The Marilyn Monroe?
She picks one with long, flowing tresses,
feels like Lady Godiva.
And as with that famous horsewoman
the crowd look away
the moment she passes by.

III
She's read the Navajo Indians
never cut their hair
believing their thoughts
preserved in the strands.
She touches her scalp;
like a freshly sown lawn —
a crop of new memories sprouts.


Marianne Musgrove (South Australia)

my legato heart

the cello soars
as we glide upwards
along the road
cut deep into
sandstone cliffs

afternoon sun
warms my hand
resting
on your knee —
the rubato section

violins
float in —
we descend
the curving ridge
of mount white

the cadenza —
vibrating strings surge
we turn the last bend
your smile caresses
my legato heart


Julie Thorndyke (New South Wales)
First published in USYD student anthology

apoggiatura

on a grey day
she walks from the station
and folds her dry raincoat
onto my stool —
I will sit taller at the piano

birdlike, this examiner
doesn't sit to listen
but hovers —
turning pages and pointing out
features of the music

next time
she conducts my exam
I must play her own sonatina —
she hurries me on
to the Chopin

a song written
on the train near Ashfield
says her note
… I hope someone else
still knows the tune

metal trunks full of paper —
so many melodies
hidden away

For Miriam Hyde 1913 – 2005


Julie Thorndyke (New South Wales)
First published in Yellow Moon
Also published in Women's Work

Twenty-eight squares

Never been
much of a knitter,
but this winter, driven
by sorrow and hopelessness
I resolve to knit squares,
twenty-eight garter stitch boxes
to calm my head and occupy my hands
with yarn and needles, repetition
like a prayer wheel as I worry
about the ones I love, and at the same time
create a little bit of warmth
to offer a stranger, and hope
that my awkward stitches
will not be spurned.


Julie Thorndyke (New South Wales)

Adam's Rib

under his thumb
let him think
he has won
knit two, purl two

another day
she plays for time
he gets his way
purl two, knit two

children share
but he wants all
can she dare
knit two, purl two

ticket bought
her day has come
time to run
purl two, knit two

on the stair
the game is up
she’s missed a stitch
he’s waiting there

no time left
for casting off
she is
           unpicked


Julie Thorndyke (New South Wales)

That Undiscovered Country

Inside the pages
of every novel I ever saw you
sink into; every book whose tortured paths
I travelled, whose country lanes I meandered,
whose highways I traversed in dubious company

inside each book we read, separately,
sequentially, sometimes by recommendation
sometimes serendipity, we entered
undiscovered countries

of time, place, plot and character,
meeting old friends and new, finding
soul mates, escaping villains, hoping
for a final verdict that would dispense
justice with a masterly hand.

We met ourselves there.

I do not fear for you, my friend,
gone ahead into that last undiscovered country,
the book cover closed forever
behind you.


Julie Thorndyke (New South Wales)