Paul Verlaine, tr. C. Mulrooney
Acceptance
Why do you like to play tug-a-war,
pulling these fine strings that push into rage.
You came calmly disguising the cheats,
this was no game I knew.
Why did you nag all the time?
Talking about the buried,
people from the same village.
You would yell but so did he,
there never seemed to be enough rounds.
Why did you build it up high?
I tried , fighting to,
forcing my ears to see, running home with tied ankles
landing on the centre tile.
Why did you always point at him?
Yes it was all wrong but no
were you torn by us or just stuck?
You say it was bad luck
a premature marriage.
Why did you cry I would have to ask,
irreversible black days,
my hands clenched tight, my head down,
you switched me on to boil
wanting me to burn him.
Why does it hurt so much?
Lessons become strength,
choices were made before this life,
for now it is this I am meant to feel.
amanda nassif
Dreams
Like whispers in a deaf ear
Some louder some nights
The forbidden thoughts of day
Are starting to sing aloud
The strongest control of your
Life sanity seems destined
For disappearance
You like it
You feel untouchable yet real
But nothing is quite real
Turning to be slapped by the wind
It seems like
You'll always feel like there is no beginning nor an
end
As if life
Is one big dream
amanda nassif
There Is Never A Silence At Midnight
It only is what it is for the here and the now,
unpredictable like an ache it seems to be.
Pouring out to those in the way,
I see much clearer when I don't erupt.
The lady next door is saying something today.
The man living behind us got married.
Yesterday a dog dropped in for a piss on the lawn.
your sister came over and found what I made to eat
delicious.
The telephone rang just now and noone answered it.
Your father made me mad today.
Did you by chance watch the bold and the beautiful?
I bought the TV week, here have a look.
Come and taste this sauce for me,
Does it need more sugar or salt.
Put the radio on because you are closer to it.
Your cousin is getting divorced in a week.
Leave what you are doing, dinner is ready.
Take the garbage out then wash your hands.
No you don't need medicine!
You got the flu because you won't sit at home.
By the way can you babysit your sisters kids tonight?
Just for me, please?
Switch the television on, I wasn't to watch the news.
God, typing this up gave me a headache.
Is it that frightening to look within?
amanda nassif
Mr Alien
I talked about you
so many times,
thinking about the day
you would really be here.
i never thought you would be like this
Alien, we were sure that was you.
It was Wednesday
after work, cold
but fresh, stars everywhere,
different, unseen before.
We were in a hurry
racing towards the farm at Windsor
arriving two hours after.
Everywhere was black
so we invited him quickly.
he stumbled in the car, excited at the news.
seated with him on my lap
like a tiny camel he started to smile,
he knew he was different.
Like us he loved his food
up to five bottles a day,
sleep he would
but only with us.
We would race in the park,
then rest to watch him tease the crisp grass,
his teeth had just started to sprout.
Sunday night brought many cries
I in bed thought he was missing us,
it was too cold to go outside.
Monday morning came fast,
I ran next door shaking his bottle,
he had already gone home, so quickly
and I cried and I cried.
amanda nassif
,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,
You Are You
To Sally
The smile on your lips
The twinkle in your eye
The shine of your face
All give me joy
The energy you have
The knowledge you absorb
The wit that you display
All bring me happiness
I am proud to know
That I am a part of you
That I have known you
And that I love you
You are my little princess
A proud and bright butterfly
A young but wise bird
Growing into a strong and sensible owl
These things are all you
And they are not
You are Sally
You are you.
R o b C u m m i n s
"Parted"
We live in separate worlds
but still your voice echoes
in unexpected places
within my walls,
your hands are shadows
in the ivory folds
of my quietened bed,
your body sweetly savoured
in every peach, pear and plum.
We live in separate worlds,
our passions drowned,
lost
in oceans of chill air
that swirled between us.
Dawn Bruce
"Portrait"
She rests
in washes of silver light
against a dark background.
Her mystery deepens.
She holds
a rose in part-open hand,
petals full, not yet faded,
thorns sharp, not yet used.
She caresses
a cat's compliant body
hidden in holds of her skirt,
its claws still sheathed.
Who is she,
this silent staring face
I know and yet not know,
forever waiting,,,waiting...
Dawn Bruce
Reunion
We huddle amongst
clutter of teacups,
past merging
into light of the present,
cake crumbling
beneath finger tips
smeared with pink icing.
Heads incline, nod,
eyes widen, indicate interest
deep and comfortable.
The tea pot, buddha-like,
sits fat, warm and still.
Dawn Bruce
The highlight of my night
is driving with the gauge on empty.
Street light orange is a darkroom;
the tram tracks, buildings rolling towards me,
the film.
Sleeping terraces pass.
I feel the glare of their gargoyles.
I wonder what they are shielding.
Hands fumbling in the dark, thrusting buttocks,
male fists thumping faces of disobedient women,
the whimper of an addict without supply.
I wonder why alcoholics breed alcoholics.
I think of my own triggers.
You complain because I fart in the toilet.
I wear my purple jacket because you hate it.
You glare from the footpath. I can't control
the picture. There's no knob.
The past an unfinished equation
the celluloid perspective rolls me on.
The dashboard glows.
Locked in my cockpit
my vehicle is a starship,
its technology promises solutions.
My mother said Jesus ascended through space.
I worry I can't tell the difference between
humans, clones and androids.
Will it matter to whom I talk?
I wonder why my neighbour barks at the crows.
I wonder why my brother paints curtains hanging upwards.
I wonder why my puritan father
talked of his sex life when he turned eighty.
I go to my mother's grave.
She doesn't answer my questions.
Tomorrow
I'll find milk and honey
in my breakfast bowl.
Phil Ilton
More than Victuals
"Excuse me Sir
would you have a dollar for a cup of tea?"
The stubbled face, the jaded eyes
pleaded through strands of hair.
His tattered coat bulged at the pockets.
I smelt the beer slops I cleaned as a barman.
I gave him a coin.
"God bless you, Sir!"
His departure speed astonished.
"You shouldn't give them money"
declared my flatmate.
"They get food at the soup kitchen.
What you gave him would go on booze."
Next day I was accosted by another.
I gave him my change.
Phil Ilton
Whose Trip?
the landscapes hang in their mediocrity
unaided by praise from the couple
I've labelled non-discerning
the attraction of the dark-haired
entry attendant dissolves
on following her gaze
he stands two metres back from the counter
fixated on the books
a cover displays Edvard Munch's "The Scream"
like bulbs on glassblowers' tubes
his eyes fire glaze
his features pale to opacity
his eyes switch to terror
his head transforms to light-bulb shape
the long chin clasped between his hands
fluid walls swirl green and black
his chin extends a mouth gash
his scream pierces
it's gone
no stretch, no echo, no sound
swill engulfs
punctured only by flickers
of hideous monkeys
with fingers across their eyes, their lips
jammed in their ears
children galumphing through the door
trigger my refocus
he stands just as before
consumed without drama
my Id has returned
Phil Ilton
Black in Borroloola
Not long since the wet season
the schools sportsground is half green.
The sun is no bother to
the students gathered for the championships.
Competitors dash towards the finish line
hurrahs ringing from their classmates.
The outnumbered white kids are
as ecstatic as their black peers.
In the town's one supermarket
I feel conspicuous as the only white.
I wince as Aborigines
purchase their bread and milk at prices
twice those in Darwin.
I ask my white landlady
"How on earth do you survive here
with those prices at the store?"
Her scorn rips my ears.
"Only the Abos go there.
We get our supplies
bulk-freight."
Phil Ilton
Stone gods, wooden cats, hungry monkeys, lazy dogs.
Stone temples age stained , grim grey, feet in water.
Cloves tedded on roadsides defy traffic.
Emerald green on moonscape grey and silver water.
The color of life is gold, red, blue but white is for living.
Hide drums, brass bells and bamboo xylophone concerti.
White clothed peddlers weaving to school among cloth pedlars.
Chips fly from barefoot crosslegged artisans in alleys.
Wise monkeys speak no evil, see no evil but grab tourist food.
Heritage village rich with gardens and overhead power lines.
Sticks and stones and potholes will break your bones.
Heads are useful for thinking and portering.
Dainty monkey paws prefer sweet potato to cream chocolates.
Outside of hotels you must learn to squat.
The giving of humans, the taking of monkeys. There is the margin.
Girls and boys sway, stamp, spread palms in dance lesson.
Factories capture tourists; hold them to ransom.
Money changers on every corner; do sleight of hand.
Boats of many colors laze on broad beaches, wait for water.
Coconut trees, banana plants, papaya, pineapple; free fruit stands.
Energies of man make nature bountiful.
On the mountain sides, staircases of rice.
In the tourist stream, debris is cast up on its banks.
No shops ever locked. Or ever closed? Trust is endemic.
Shops selling color. Variety without variation. Chain stores without
chains.
Money says goodbye in all languages.
Silversmiths squint for ten years. Grope for forty years?
Tourist ladies nearly naked in swimming pools. Bare breasts of
prosperity?
Where crime is unknown are the criminals unknown?Those who are too proud
to beg run a taxi (and call it a taksi.)
Where traffic is thickest, so are the drivers.
Bali airport manages to look like an escape route. What a shame.
Jim Cornish
Send in the Clones
Be a clone, be a clone,
all the world loves a clone.
You could find some faded idol
with one foot in the grave,
a famous class performer
whose career you could save:
you'll get the acclamation
and publicity you crave.
Be a clone, be a clone. be a clone.
Be a clone, be a clone,
and you won't be alone.
When you're everybody's favorite
and the star of the show,
you'll be a big sensation
everywhere that you go
though you're just a carbon copy
hoping no-one will know.
Be a clone, be a clone, be a clone.
Be a clone, be a clone.
When you're out on your own
in your greasepaint in the limelight,
entertaining once more,
you hope to wow the audience
like you wowed 'em before;
but if it doesn't work you'd better
dodge the stage door.
Be a clone, be a clone, be a clone.
Be a clone, be a clone
if you want to get known.
You can be a ring-in and
nobody will know.
It's a shame to take the money
but you'll grab it and go.
They can tax your alter ego
after you've got the dough.
Be a clone, be a clone. be a clone.
Jim Cornish
Dragons
and druids
circles of fire
and
the stars
night
cloaking day's brightness
with
a band of oak
encircling lives
darkly split
in private ceremony
all quietly overseen by
a new moon
whose rays
beamed silver
pass with ease through
the shadows of those once present
,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,,, once relating.Will Fraser
Glimpsed
Days
of silver grey
light
thrusting earthwardSlim shafts of polished aluminium
as
phantom pillars
of some spectral templeOffering
support and shelter
briefly
before fadingBack
into
the
ether
eternity.Will Fraser
Perspective
The pines
glow
with orange light
as
the sun
sets westwardAnd I
become aware of
time
the seasons
this autumn day
this natural eventTomorrow
grey blue mist will spiral up from the valleys
at first
to make the pines stand out starkly
and then to shroud them into vague dark shapesLong after my name is no longer spoken
people will still talk
of
the sun
the pines
and the mist.Will Fraser
By Comparison
Moses
was the chosen one
I
I buy lottery tickets
Moses
heard a voice
from the burning bush
I
I stare into a silent gas fire
Moses
parted the waters
I
I part my thinning hair
Moses
led his followers to freedom
I
I walk the mongrel dog around the block
Moses
was given the commandments
on ten stone tablets
I
take 20 vitamins a day
but
wait a moment
Moses
walked in the wilderness
for 40 years
I...
and
Moses
never reached the promised land
I...
and
Moses
was a scribe
I...
and
Moses
was black
while
I
I've never seen things
through a white man's eyes
Jesus
,,,,,,,,,,,,what's going on.
Will Fraser
in neo-karri strips
on goat-cheese roundup
those rapist eye funbags
its all forestfuck stench
micro-bubbled fungal chunks
nice-guy pnemonia road blues
tranced out on 120bpm
phased-up n pitchin hard
yr smokey eyes make me
slutty
allanboyd
evening547supreme-openhere
over allstate ramblin
whitelines n nicotine fingers
out of off-shoot holidays
this supergrass four wheel drive
shouting prophet kit sales receipts
mad about screen freeze terrorists
mutton-chop street faces make great looking lungs.
yr smooth points lack rust here
yr anti post-modem pap-smear look.
not filthy not ripe not clear.
yr maxwell house AK47 intentions &
pent up demographix in idyllic bush.
setting plastic forks on tables in coil-light.
my deep-pocket stretch
yr neat faggots burn.
shifting white zephyrs
chased-up crankin beets.
yr lunchbox in my pants
bleeding elvis word pearls.
yr flame-grilled rhythm stick
caught in goal-driven decile heaven
diesel mist across saline irony.
yr mouth filled to bursting now.
slurry all b-grade pornstar flame-lick love skin
and i say sure.
allanboyd
Good comrades of the Press
As of Poetry also,
Flowers of boorish baseness
By what choice God chosen,
By what God of all baseness?
Colleagues unbrotherly to me,
Who nearly buried me forever
Under all that silence&emdash;why?&emdash;
Ever since '70 dreadful,
Colleagues unbrotherly to me,
Why that silence unbrotherly
For so many long years,
And all at once as though angry
So much clamor, as of fears?
Why that change unbrotherly?
Ah, if I could've been stifled
Under that pile of journals
Where my name is feinted
Found like greenish walnuts
Swelling near to bursted!
This they mean by Glory!
&emdash;With a right to famine,
To great black Misery
And nearly even to vermin&emdash;
This they mean by Glory!
Paul Verlaine, tr. C. Mulrooney
Edith Cowan House
on the brown porch
she waits on the steepest slope
for joeys restless in their pouch
this is better than feng shui
a house where leaves barely fall
-sundown will bring peace
a xerox count
a stack of letters to post
-night will bring avenues
of standard moons
magpies sending messages into tin
trees groaning in their aging
-and in the dim light
windows will open on recumbent kangaroos
sentinels on grass
across the lake
twin fountains will cease like rain
she waits for night to lift its skirts
swishing past in important gowns
she suspects there is a presence here
ball dresses in eye-masks
pinched cheeks, fans feathering chins
gentlemen parched in dusty boots
uproarious laughter
-no matter what comes
she will mingle and clap
at the sight of it all
Helen Hagemann
I Came Knocking
at Tom Collins House
it's a year of houses
this one lives forever
inside walls turn the hourglass
language shifts like sand
words drift between the lines
I wait in quiet trees
listening for slippers shuffling
along passageways and doors
my instrument clicks nervously
your pen is kept at the head of the desk
moves only with a living hand
the inkwell is dry now, save for the odd stain
indelible in the light, searching a window's shoreline
I imagine a figurehead at the desk
stooped, gathering a wind's paper trail
while I wait
the air lifts
valleys are warm inside my glass castle
I find the tunnel to Alice's wonderland
the way a breeze rolls on my knees
imagine life like an ocean liner
seas breaking in and out
making you want the land
I'm here alone
where autumn gathers a permanence
on this leaf-littered ground
Joseph and Tom are long gone-
I turn the door handle, find it opens
gently in my hand
Helen Hagemann
Collecting Antiques
I used to enjoy sex
,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,,,,,once
or at least, I think I did.
Maybe I just got off on the thought
that I was enjoying it.
Perhaps I didn't really
feel anything at all.
But I'm sure I did.
You know how it is,
its not that I dont like
having sex with that person in particular,
its just that I prefer
to keep my eyes closed.
Maybe I'll collect antiques instead.
Maureen Sexton
What If I Should Fall?
What if my legs were to sink,
the Earth become thin
and I were to fall
into the path
of an orbiting planet?
Would the stars light up
my nights
when the moon
was not visible?
Would I fall forever?
What would happen to time
and space
and who
would tend
my roses?
Maureen Sexton
Yours Sincerely
Dear Sir
you won't remember me or my name;
there were so many of us you brushed aside,
insignificant, of no consequence to you.
I have returned to correct you on a few points:
Australia was not terra nullius, as you claimed,
it was inhabited by many groups of people
whose scientific systems of living
and diverse languages
were too complex for you to understand;
In class, when I was gazing out the window
I wasn't dreaming of boys, babies
I was trying to work out who those people were
on the edge of the city, where they had come from;
I was trying to understand
why most of my classmates were poor;
The day you threw chalk at me
and it hit me on the arm
I already had bruises there
from much harder lessons, lessons you would never learn;
I want to tell you that to many people
the Pillars of Hercules really are Gibraltar;
and the words, impossible, superior and white
are not as important as
"I am sorry".
Maureen Sexton
She lost herself in chocolate wandering,
ran naked through gingerbread streets
and thought long.
She lost herself
and chocolate was her guide.
Take and lead her feeble body
she is precious
"Bathe yourself in chocolate
to heal the tiny cracks appearing
on the surface.
You must take a lighter workload
Smear yourself and roll around
and try to pat together"
pit-a-pat-pat out the cracks,
there's too much dryness.
When you die
the pampering will end
Run home
Run
through the wandered streets
mumbling at your door
disguise your madness.
And when she was home they shoved
and squeezed her into the oven
and shut the door as tight as tight can be
and watched the melting.
Donna Mazza
Jamie Ablett
Body Politics (1): Hands
I have another hand
That does not look like a hand.
This one is my least favourite,
The one I use the most.
This one can grip many things
But any weight will make it Gibber
And slobber, until comforted
By of course
My more hand like hand.
The other never notices, but
Allows it to slip away
Miles below
Ass high.
The other hand drones on slavishly but
Even hand like hands have their pecking order
One is favoured to serve.
The other exposed to great danger
Often as the other helps.
One hand like hand shudders at childhood days with the hammer.
Regal, the unhand like hand suggests hand like hands belong
In pockets.
Or at least gloves.
Trouve Objet Nombre Trois (3)
She found 1. Condom
2. dead mice
1.Live mouse, swimming
in a bucket
slowly
drowning. and a gecko
(which escaped)
She said,
"We could stay here for months."
Fruit Harvesting; Method Four (4)
He tells me I should wear a suit
"But they know me." I shriek.
She smiles, "Its time to reinvent myself."
Slides his arm inside of hers
She shows He devours
Cherry lips
State of mine; Mind of state: Strategy (2)
We seethe short of actual violence
A siege occurs.
An outer defence falls to a snide comment
That small victory turns to farce
As a catapulted insult hits your own heart's keep
I crumble
You fall apart.
Ray and His (7) Words
He flicked the leaves of his cyclamen
"Mum."
Stuttering five steps he lays his hand on a showerhead
"Cold."
I shake my head slowly
"No."
Doubling back he slides his hand along his new car
"Go."
Some boys ride by, mouths open
"Hello."
I gesture toward some crackers
"More."
He applauds the empty bag
"More."
My eyebrow raises
"O boy."
Moments in History; Scenario (6)
"Tinned Fruit"
They want blind obedience
As the colonel raises his sword
On a mother[s hungry, bulging eyes
She died from a poisoned potion
Well
It's easy to say sorry to a legend
So it goes on everywhere
The wild fruits have died
The wild fruits have died
Dare to question back then;
"We'll throw you away like money."
And you know they will.
Maybe you're feeling sorry for your future
As dogma sharpens the rusty torments of the past.
Emotion not even recognised
Just a baseless creed of flesh or innocence
A scramble to stake your space in the sky
The wild fruits have died
The wild fruits have died
Example (5) Irony?
The radio says,
Pioneers of space tourism
Debate with shark souled marketists
Beached on the big issues
1.Life Insurance
2.Having to drink your own urine
Another firefly glides above the suburbs
Jim matches its path through tears
Hears his mother echo another fist
The sound of air rushing from her
She argued about the price of toilet rolls
The radio says,
They're sure to send up five a week
Jim wonders what he'll promise next.
Jamie Ablett
pyre, funeral pyre, but who
has the death they dream?
pyre, never seen.,, came close
when the ash floated.,, held,
there, not there.,, funeral
in the palm.,, luminous.
eastern sky luminous.,, loom
for wool.,, not related to nous -
something a teacher thought
you might have.,, luminous
through cloud, fluorescent
on God's ceiling.,, languid.
guid.,, sounds like a currency.
lan - all prefix - lost
without its gauge or
guos.,, the day lost,
languishing without dusk.
crag.,, rag's close.
rag is to cloth as crag
is to rock.,, crag,
vultures descending from
the escarpment,
clawing at bone.
scarlet.,, and let the scar be
worn proud.,, scar.,, blood.
though crimson has
more venom.,, coagulating -
useful that it does.
warm, crusting
on pyre
Kevin Gillam
sex
sex
rests on a continuum
from anonymity
to intimacy
musical texture
blesses a continuum
from homophony
to polyphony
the dexterous chef
whets a continuum
from necessity
to sumptuosity
Kevin Gillam
out of John
I make no art
or facts
here
only hypoth
esize
that
math and moment
become
one
Kevin Gillam
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