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.

The Cloud Parade

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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

Leaking

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As the sky leaks

so will you

a minute apocalypse

of fluid

once seemed to be yours then falls

and you find yourself outside yourself

exacting callous flow

from time to time.

He cannot change this

small wonder

that leached your bones’ own filaments

the fine lines of marrow

borrowed

from the sun or some explosion

in the sky

where all this seems to start

and end.

You see yourself

as structured from surroundings

like birds

who weather

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

immense sadness

that speaks up and is surrendered to

blood cord taught

that ends all ends

and will conclude…

Nefelibata – Cloudwalker

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She is there on the cumulous

white light crisp like promises of rain

further from the sky where she wanders

at the break between shadow and its other.

There are wisps around her,

the credible tremble, the hunt onwards

for the next possible, the lightning strike

the storm in the space she breathes, there.

She moves in on wind gust, balancing on cloud-thread

like that, a dervish or a spindle, a whirring

the woolly pillow of cloud into the long drops

the watery light falls through her fingers.

The ribbed pattern of the wind is the brush of her fingers.

The long stroke of the sky

meditation of dropping, the luxurious water.

A day like today

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On a day with the wind and the sun

fidgeting with the clouds

we will leave the town for the long hot stretches of the road

where the distance fidgets with our eyesight

and we will say the names of places

a mantra as the wheels turn on the bitumen.

 

The children shout for Melbourne, Adelaide and Bight,

but you will say ‘Ceduna’ with the sunset wharf

across your brow for a moment the revving engines in the dark

and I’ll say ‘Esperence’ over west

with all those oversized flowers and blooming surf

and the lift of clouds that have only known sea

and find that raining on land

makes fascinating punctures in the earth

to get all that fidgeting back again.

Like Air

Poetry

From here you can feel the cold breast of the sky

if nursing here the runnels of rain

have been sucked dry and any warm frames of light

succulent like honey barred beams

dried into powder themselves;

a day bees hate, with grey dissatisfaction

they fluff their buzzing bodies and frown down the wind.

 

But you, having nursed and found the fire’s warmth

in your bones you have no word for afraid

or refrain no other state than barefoot

even in the mud that licks you as you would lick the rain

and stick wet coldness

will fall off you

like air.