Internal Weather

Poetry

 

 

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Cumulonimbus

These are the words we use when we

talk about how we are more than our bodies:

the terrestrial storms moving

beyond the immediate sky

 

heaping up and overthrowing the forecast

darkening with thick shadows,

bulking out wetness melt

in a song of vertical altitude.

 

Magpies umbrella fledglings with their feathers

as drops the size of rain

pelt the scape of the city’s ranges

a fine tantrum rendition.

 

How small are the beginnings?

Trigger neck bristle, the empty heart pump

forks to break the massive sky into segments

eggshell crazed and painful,

 

showing us we are chick small – from blue egged

nesting – needing the time for feathers

to alter ourselves into bird bomb razor;

to become weather itself.

Rain

Poetry

Of course it’s raining and how, the world is full of water talk there is nothing else on the radio. Even the moon’s out this evening, looking casual in grey among the clouds and how the light changes in her eyes. On the ground, rain sifts itself, joins itself and parts again. It is so long in the making holding hands for a few  moments of fall. Then, good bye and into other arms.

The gurgle as it regroups, finds itself reunited all over the rooftops and then into the tanks. We have caught the rain, but only for a while. It will find its way away from our pipes and drains and channels, it will regrow the river, move the mountain, reach out its long tidal arms to try and embrace the moon. It is the hiss of static. The buzz that means nothing but rain on the wires.

The rain loves gravity, all these chemical force fields that we happily drink down and bring alive as we know it. One long branching. One long making water into us and then dispersing it again. Of course it’s raining. The soil drinks it down, the planet of clouds and radio waves with the moon hovering there like a luminous  shadow loving gravity more and more every moment as it bends light through the sea to make the colour blue, then throws that last raindrop into your eye.

Brittle

Poetry

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You ask me what is it

this brittle I’m speaking of:

what is this short temper?

And I am cracking the colours

having broken the blue

I say brittle is like this

and the shortness in my own breath

shows me how long I have been wanting

that exact blue of your eyes.

The red is no better

run like the Rio Dulce into murk

nothing can save us now

the sweet scratch of your nail

through the hardening colour

makes red redder and the

small smile you give me

is as clear as the sky.

Then, yellow will not shatter.

Yellow will not yield

my thumbs are worn, nail bed

lifting from my scratching at the

yellow you say brittle in my ear

and I know myself that I shatter

in the the yellow centre.

We have found the colours,

collected them and grouped them

we made them run and spilt them

we have seen that they each will do

the thing they themselves dictate

being made waxy and soft

until they cool. Then they are

as crisp as the day

and as likely to crack into shapes

spelling brittle across the board.

You sisters take the round ones

and make marks big and small

over huge sheets of paper.

The spangled colours are

as mixed and sweet

as the lines on the maps that show the way.

To Be Unseen

Poetry

fall-boots-and-leaves

 

This morning’s disguise has boots on and a liberal coat of tung nut oil with its rancid tang. No-one will know me now that I smell like a workshop and have these feet that step along the new day’s path fresh plotted stamping on the leaves the wind placed just so and the light angling in now shy to enter the day’s numerals. Shellack in my hair so it will not waver to decision or judgement. I worry my sawdust knots will trail me and give me away, falling in pasta curls so; fusilli, gigli hair on the path thought I no longer need it each one is a sample of me; a map of how I was constructed and they leave me as I am planed by moments, the wind the twist in the air sharp as a saw; a genetics of timescape felled from me.

 

Beetles creep past my ears. Are they looking for the wings I stole to construct my own carapace? Will oil seal out the water that wants my skin or keep the tears ready at the corner of my eye? Why must I be the secret to myself, the blend of carbon and nitrogen I used to build myself from my mother’s own bones that will be blown around by this air I hold dear in my spongey lungs that then will spread back across the blasted place as it reeks of half made darlings and shaggy breath of things that were never polished til they shone? The wind’s tongue tastes of DNA long gone, made of crisp gold grass heads processessed beyond process so they become my daughter’s curls.

 

I wear the age defying oil, bead the rain off and plot my genetic code along the hour line.  So far we cannot say why this exact temperature fractures the quality I know and unmakes me in the winter glare; holds my transfiguration up to its eyeline but seems to fail me on some unknown point. The irascible sunlight. The way it can’t travel through me after all its travelling. It has gleamed off my oil and reflected so those deep curls travel in darkness behind my boot-falls, behind those steps I took to be unseen.

 

 

The Balance

Poetry

I’ve felt the earth tilt

its great side shift against the nothing sleep pulls up from nowhere

as if gravity could gain a dream or pay for itself with yellow coins

the way we must to survive the flat shift of time right now.

 

You know it from the way it waits for that small moment among

the thrill of crowding moments the one that hits so surely

then sways you down the way a lover would take your arm and guide you there, just there

never expected but always present breath in the hallways

 

or passages lined red with pulsing – not dizzy so much as able to see

the waver in the moment how passing seconds rise

moving always moving never at one because there’s always another

as if height and distance made love in my ear

 

so that vertical and horizontal (those twins) were the same one thing

and no sense came from it except the one that

made sure the earth’s round belly was forever home

– look there, how it’s lines are curves how these angles are worn away…

 

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Sandstone: Evening

Poetry

Out there the stone ripples and undulates underfoot

as it did before time froze it midst the heaped sea

so now my sons can shatter it making morsels of the whole

crumble in the yellow afternoon.

 

They clamber over angles – how did stone become this shape?

All sandy from some other eon slipping by

that melted then re-hardened by kiln atmosphere

a cloudless chamber of gravity.

 

We guess and guess and watch the evening

shiver through the brushy Kunzea and daub the scribbly trees

with thickened light, creamy with cold.

The children fight imaginary dangers  –

 

my daughters touch glowing pockets of moss

where spines of miniature growth make

soft wet pillows that cry dew when pressed

to make the rocks tear-stained trickles

 

form tiny pools then follow exact carven runnels.

The skin of time rumples for a moment

so below the sunset, below the crispy wind

men and women press new stories on the stone.

 

 

 

 

 

All That Bluster About the Moon

Poetry

On this, the darkest day, don’t give me all that bluster about the moon how it hangs there, static and always pregnant never birthing when daylight is so brief it takes your breath away its the sliver of the year from now on waxing gibbous til summer comes in and slaps your face with freckled heat the type you can’t think about on this the darkest day of the year

so don’t tell me the moon’s just there behind the cloud with the silver lining i can’t see from here with my waxing gibbous eyes and protrusions all mind made freckles or craters the moon’s all pock-marked anyway with all the colliding she does behind the slivers of cloud

You bang on about the rarity, the scarcity, the moon’s an act of gravity a spinning sufferer a huge silver promise on this the darkest day without the sun though he was here briefly and he looked so spiky as if too busy on the other side of the night, where all the action is, you say

who knows, the dark side of the moon might just be the silver lining moon rock pockmarked freckled stretched forever so full of moon the juicy light a play on gravity because even the sun can’t make her stop throwing light around like crazy and maybe that’s the birthright you’re calling in

to swathe in colour, to trip on the banks of time the silver crack in the night as if the sky will rip open as if the silver clipped just the tip of her belly lit up like dusty fire like smoke and familiar the darkest day with the moon all amped and swollen

The Slow Heart Pacing

Poetry

it’s not so much the double push

one then again straight away

and noticing how it flips and floes

when i feel i am made of nothing

but blood reminds its home is here

 

up and back around renewed

so many tunnels to travel

so much dark time

and noticing you are not me and

i am not more of nothing

 

there is a way a hand or voice can change

that squeeze of sinew filling veins

of time with blood and you

the pacing heart moving across that space

on the way to slow forgetting

 

how to move that red that is not red in the dark interior

its not so much you as the second beat

the heap and heap of you

that presses my whole still life and moves it

 

sinew flicking through time

up and back, renewed.

Emily by Michele Seminara

Poetry

When I was a little girl
They shut me up in prose
Because I dealt my pretty words
Like treason to my foes.

 

A loaded gun — they called me —
And carried me away
And locked me in the closet —
A false captivity!

 

Demure — and you’re dangerous —
Assent — and you are sane —
I breathed enough to simulate
Their narrow parlor game.

 

But a wounded heart dives deeper —
Tis the profundity of pain
That drives one to explore
The glittering continent of the brain.

 

And though they could not see my mind
Behind its Vesuvian face,
Or sense its darkest madness
Or know its divine grace

As easy as the gushing spring
That wends its way to sea,
My inland Soul exhaled —
Into Infinity —
 

 

 

 

* ‘Emily’ is a found poem sourced from the poems of Emily Dickinson

 

We Lived Near Beasley Street

Poetry

It’s a street in a suburb of a misunderstood town

The place where childhood’s journey begins

The wind that blows around about

Speaks of loneliness and sin

The planned city hinged by round-abouts

Tame and neat, a housewife’s treat

It’s Lumbertown, it’s Twin Peaks

The façade of Ainsworth Street

 

In the grim dark hours of evening

Voices rise up over the din

The crash of wedding crockery

Will fill our weekly bin

As a toddler dreams of astronauts

His trance is broken as she entreats

A forest of legs to cling and to fell

In the shooting gallery of Ainsworth Street

 

There were days when it was all spring blossoms

When skateboard scrapes match the claret ash

The dusk of laughter lingered

As brussel sprouts were boiled into mash

There were days when the world was too close

When the news screamed of blood on the street

When chopper blades sent us diving for cover

On the fringes of Ainsworth Street

 

Politicians ponder hard decisions

As we figure how to make ends meet

We hear the echoes of, “Kerr’s cur”

In the burgeoning bourgeois heat

All our aspirations evaporate

As the voices crowd out and repeat

“Look at those worthless bunch of bastards”

Struggling down on Ainsworth Street

 

In spite of all the palaver

The house was more than a roof over our heads

There was love in the time of psychosis

And someone to change the sheets on our beds

In the shadows of the pyramid

Where survival was some kind of feat

Improvise, adapt and overcome

Was the life on Ainsworth Street

 

 

My second guest for December, thank you Lajos Hamers!

It’s poem about growing up in Canberra … Inspired by John Cooper Clarke.

Lajos is an actor, musician, singer, writer and all round buff gentleman.
I’m a Phd Student in Creative Arts at Wollongong Uni.