Diamonds puppies fury lunch
Tripping lipping sipping punch
Siblings eyeing words they munch
Ouching oozing silency yum
Wriggling woozing in my tum
Crunching shoulders turning numb
Move on droove on how bout that
Try it fly it give her a pat
Joking hoking – I think not.
By Penny Foster.
Penny understands the poplar fluff myth having spent a year at ANU and
appreciates Canberra for what it is having lived too many years in Sydney.
She randomly writes poetry at odd hours of the night, enjoys a bit of
pottery and loves listening to loud music.
Penny is the first of my guests in december. Enjoy!
Stop to breathe the scent
that must, sometime have whistled in
to some dark nostril
who’s owner took it in
and came the following spring
to slice it from its mother’s branch
and hip after hip to breed it
just for the scent –
carrying the bamboo bucket of water
from the river all summer
just for the whiff of it
in the garden of the emperor
or perhaps the moon’s own forest
white or red or pale as the bloom
shed and sheds its petals
tears of ancestors who were not as sweet
and held their thorns much higher
the blossom blows its own head off
and falls at the feet of the grass
the wonder of the smell of it
lost among the sniggering crickets
and the human loss
don’t forget, we will all rot like this.
Dear readers – am looking for guest poets for this blog for the month of december. Poems only. Please submit to firstname.lastname@example.org.
they are so buff
the light the shadow
the definition of them
crowding to bulges skin cannot know
tempting the magician in all of us
to say – I know, ididthatonce.
but it would be a lie
because the way they gain weight
and sturdy their tendons
is octopus swivel territory
through a loop in the wind they are
parading until they need to cry
down on the isthmus of your neck
there’s a flecked pattern only i know how to read:
the seams and tracings
are where we will meet
and know another one day
we will be so changed and become so stiff
we can no longer nod
our necks and heads one cracking joint
where thoughts are ants that have lost their way
one thing might join another
scarred up where the surgeon
pressed his scalpel in and down
long ago and with such grace
that the sweep of it is the one same line
it says our bodies protrude like arms of land
out into the sea of air
scoping space from other elements
insisting on salt and iron to make up blood
and then calcifying with so many
tiny crystal infusions that draw their edges
exactly as the sun shade speckle
that fell on your skin
immaculately out of view so
no matter how you crane
you cannot see
the plunge was taken
wet lips to forehead
remember waking by yourself?
when light tongued the wall
lick marked the window
yellow saliva on the foot of your bed?
no matter how many times
you changed the sheets still that smell
of kissing goodbye to sleep
rock a bye dreaming
because it doesn’t matter if it’s yours
mine, the way the earth breathes out
at 3 am and saunters towards morning
the 2 way breath hissing spindrift
all the ways we travel will lead us here in the end
together, apart then together again
dark, light and dark again
the inside outside of my mother’s body
Dog For Caitlin
That summer we loved a small black dog
Whose eyes always seemed to
see beyond the immediate –
moving her neck from our stroking
To examine the future-hazed distance.
She lay by the door, always found the shaded places,
the tunnel through the honeysuckle, the trough
under the verandah where coolness pooled
musty, in the old dairy dark.
She would come when we called,
out into the light, her eyes half-closed
her muzzled dusted
and she would let us stroke
– with our sticky child’s hands –
her earth-cooled fur.
Imagine the traffic skirting your tree
hunter of the underground
your liquid voice – it brings up the sun while you carry shadows on you back – the past’s setting only knows noir
there was only ever right or wrong –
notes so perfect and flute clean
to make the crisp morning tremble
all you worshippers surrender themselves
imagining their own pied skins under the furs
setting candles at your alter and carving your totem into their footprints
hushing the children to listen
listen to the song of the surviving bird.
Planes change course to avoid disturbing your nestlings;
fledglings are guarded by boys who have learnt to cup their hands so gently
that they are known as magpie monks
and are given special privileges
like staying up with the elders to listen
for the September cracking of the blue eggs.
all this for the bare tremulous note.
The true song.
The bird law.
The air is tangled
all around her
filaments in and out
of these breaths I count
the snug of her
against my side
warm that’s mine
but now her’s.
How can I know her
and not – ?
those days she spent
gathering herself from me
in and out with the
up and down of the two hearts
chaffing life up.
As if this face has always
been with me
and is more my own
than the mirror or window’s
bright fleck of person.
But only this short time
the sleep of her
As the sky leaks
so will you
a minute apocalypse
once seemed to be yours then falls
and you find yourself outside yourself
exacting callous flow
from time to time.
He cannot change this
that leached your bones’ own filaments
the fine lines of marrow
from the sun or some explosion
in the sky
where all this seems to start
You see yourself
as structured from surroundings
wear the sky from claw to beak
themselves a drop of yolk
sunset pinched to yellow
the salt blue of that fellow
how the clotted bloodstream
twisted up with iron and elements
whose very names – nitrogen oxygen hydrogen –
are foreign outsiders marching
on time’s own order
not soldiers of the self
that pulled me from you and then on again
file after file
in a library of clouds.
Some days you are the sky’s
that speaks up and is surrendered to
blood cord taught
that ends all ends
and will conclude…