Australian
Poetry Collaboration
#35
A SELECTION OF WORK ARISING FROM
PROJECTS WITH SEVERAL CENTRES IN 2022
BINALONG,
BROKEN HILL, CANBERRA,
LEETON,
MELBOURNE, SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS
& WAGGA WAGGA
Largely volunteer groups bring invaluable energy & insight to the communities they serve.
A huge thanks to:
U3A Wagga Writing for Pleasure
This issue was produced with NO government funding.
FEATURING: Nanette Betts, Barbara Biddle, Elizabeth Blackmore, Maureen Clark, Maurice Corlett, Chris Dawe, Barbara De Franceschi, Lois Eaton, Sally Farmer, Annette Herd, Julia Kaylock, Laurelle Lewis, Harry Melkonian, Peter Olson,
Jan Pittard, Roya Pouya, Uta Purcell, Alan Reid, David Riddell,
Leticia RP, Steve Smart, Susan Starr, Robyn Sykes, CJ Talbot,
Jen Thompson, Sarah Tiffen, Tim Train, Jack Walton & Sanaa Younis
Archived in Pandora
from Meuse Press –
https://meusepress.tripod.com/Meuse.htm
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Nanette Betts
--Nature’s iconic secret-Derringullen-revealed—
Beneath a craggy deep ravine, a waterway below-
In secrecy long revered, only black man known
From dreamtime long, long ago, Derringullen Falls.
A place of belonging, a first peoples hide-away,
Secret trails in step with wildlife, his place, his water hole,
A place where Derringullen creek’s water falls, flows on
To join Yass River long before white man found his way.
Now all those who hope to protect this iconic place-
With urgency, who says it is to be left as Nature created
A sacred place where the land enfolds into a deep ravine
Nature formed in ancient time, ever-flowing water worn
Nature’s wonderland, revered by all land carers over time.
Old Derringullen’s sparkling water, drops to a deep pond
Where waters kissed by midday sun and night moon beams.
Dreamtime evolves in timeless evolution, Nature governs-
Mother Callitris pine seeds fall to propagate atop the falls
Grasses and shrubs bed down with old Eucalyptus bridgesiana
Rough barked deep rooted to rock, holding tight the soil,
Ragged branches, out-stretched droop shading creek banks,
Provide multi-hollows for possums and numerous birds
Multiple vibrant coloured parrots vie for place to nest
Elegant Heron finds camouflage nesting on the highest bow,
Wild-life belonging over time immemorial sharing homeland-
Great Wedge-tailed Eagle, king of the skies, claim the tall Eucalypt.
Little Eagle finds space and Peregrine nests safely on a cliff face.
Squabbling ducks dabbling in ponds share nest space in Eucalypts.
In pecking order in time with a frog chorus, all the while many
Lizards and snakes hidden in a world unto themselves.
Old wombat and kangaroo hold proud status as overseers on tracks,
Come and go early mornings and evenings along to water and back,
Lithe water-rats scurry about, old turtles laze around keep an eye out,
While platypus keep underwater tight secret service control-
The echidna shuffles, focused, scratching his native bush surrounds,
Cream furry chest wallaby’s ears turn ever alert, with an eye observe
Old Owls wisdom unchanged from the time of his creation.
First People’s to Modern man’s observation of Nature is a privilege,
He knows respect – for on this iconic place he has no ownership,
His role is to protect the ecological status, hold the privilege to observe,
To absorb and account for each man’s observation, and interpretation
Of nature’s Creation, be that of the, scientist, naturalist, ornithologists,
The ecologist, the photographer, writer, poet, artist or the bush walker.
Protecting nature’s making, of Derringullen, such an iconic place
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Barbara Biddle
I visited Auschwitz
He said
I don't feel the horror
(over 6 million lives)
I don't feel the fear
(women and children first)
I don't feel the intensity
(herded like cattle)
We walked where their footsteps had echoed
And, in my mind continued to do so
We saw the crematorium, the gas chamber and the execution wall
Can you feel that?
This man
Who requires a movie drama to be moved
Where is his empathy?
Where is his understanding?
Where is his connection?
I don't like him less
I do understand him more
and I understand how
these things happen.
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Elizabeth Blackmore
The Flood
Retreating sullenly from the flooded paddocks,
the rain is followed by an uneasy silence.
Against the midday dusk the kelpie is a flash of red
weaving and darting behind the nervous ewes,
heavy with lamb, sodden and slow,
pushing them towards the safety of a sheltered rise.
In a corner of the paddock, the horses are huddled
with eyes fear flags of white.
The electricity is drowned and the kitchen
is bathed in the soft glow of kerosene lamps,
while around the fire, the two city dogs curl and snore.
High on the branch of a gum tree,
the day - blind eyes of the owl idly watch.
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Maureen Clark
Menindee
The water… at first just a rumour but could it be true?
The Darling-Baaka was dead. Well, this much we all knew when
we saw it… the fish, millions dead, packed in muddy puddles no space between, silversides
showing their best sides
to the flashing cameras.
What a waste.
City TV screens showed the drama, in real time,
the obscenity of death,
soon forgotten in Sydney where
they have the beach, and their own crime.
But the stories were coming thick and fast
about the water,
coming at last. All the way from Queensland
where they were cursing flooded highways.
The water snaked its way
under cover of dark
past cotton farms
to reach Menindee.
It’s true! It’s on the news!
The radio could talk of nothing else. It was huge!
The road to Menindee, packed with cars, the river bank lined
With fishermen’s lines flashing in the sun, arcs of light
watched by curious crows whose guttural cries of doom
are ignored.
Parrots take flight and soon there will be pelicans.
Oh, the excitement!
I push through the crowd: young and old, eager for the show.
Oldtimers compete with stories of the Dry while
young ones wonder why.
What’s all the fuss about?
A small child in pink shorts and thongs
knowing only drought,
oblivious to the moment,
plays with a barking dog of undetermined genes.
And I reach the barrier to see the silver grey deluge burst forth, spewing, roaring thunder through the weir gates -
open to celebration
- pouring, a torrent, no sign of stopping can it be true?
Young and old, we hung over the edge to watch in
silence.
Even the dog stopped barking.
The atmosphere, like in church. Reverential.
Holy.
The water flows, uninhibited. A blessing.
We lunch at Maiden’s pub - fish and chips, what else? –
Make the dusty drive back to Broken Hill still fizzing with hope.
No waterbirds here. There will always be crows.
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Maurice Corlett
My Sweet Lord
Reminds me of a bar off Main Street
in Gibraltar - that last bastion of
British empire in the Med - Cyprus
gone,
Malta gone, Alexandria gone -
only echoes now of all those outposts
that Dad knew when he was with
Mountbatten fighting the
Germans' need for oil.
Smith started me off. We were working
on the site down by the harbour. He told
me about Gibraltar and how he had gone
there when that cruel fascist Franco shut
the gates of La Linea to the Spanish
workers and UK casuals were filling the void.
Soon after he left for another stint in the south.
Like Rat intrigued by the travel
tales of a seafaring rodent -
I followed him down.
Finding Smithy at one of the worker’s cottages
of Saccone and Speed - the ancient distributors
of booze around the Rock. He took me upstairs
to the glassed box office that oversaw the comings
and goings amongst the pallets of bottled beer and
kegs. Signed up for work on lorries I began
a job that lasted me until I left for the
Canaries just before Xmas.
One day walking back to work after lunch I saw Clive
coming down the road towards us. He had thrown
in his job at menswear in Brighton and flown
out to join our crew. No sooner had he arrived than
he got on the books at Saccone’s and began to deliver
Courage with us to the thirsty hotels and bars.
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Chris Dawe
Drawing From Few Resources
Drawing from few resources
A decision was made
In the interests of most
Which affected a few
Those concerned were informed
Their concerns duly listed
As the decision continued
And affected a few
In due course
The former referred to the latter
And the latter did too
As the minds concerned
Did what they must do
And in time it was seen
That between me and you
A decision was made
Confounding the few
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Barbara De Franceschi
Do Not Pity Me
I have never seen snow.
Never heard its muffled hymn sing to my bones.
Existence is hummed with an arid drone.
Sandy plains are my birth franchise where loose winds
puff or wheeze depending on mood.
I breathe.
Days are stewed, nights sniffle on a heated haze,
rampant claypans do not suffer the slop of slush.
A grateful psyche stirs the dust.
Rusty colours zing at full swing to a far horizon
shaped like a fingernail buffed round and smooth.
I spin tranquillity on the earth’s curved loom.
Rain is a miserable stooge. Drought tolerance is preached
by crows from an altar of bare-boned trees.
How sweet the dream to sleep in Eden’s shade.
Love and infidelities mingle with grubs and ant hills,
flies swarm in a slow buzz to sting with lazy opinions.
So are the habits of heart and local things.
Sunsets are crimson hounds that hunt at dusk
for clouds untouched by hoary frost.
Rapture is woven from glowing embers.
This desert has no jealousies.
It does not need the favour a white Christmas brings.
Knees bend to revere a tinselled wasteland galaxy.
Should snow decide to make a shock visit, I will have to oil
this land’s creaky gate – and let the bleach in.
Rose coloured glasses will tint my tears.
¯
Lois Eaton
But I Didn’t!
My earliest memory is being in a humidy crib designed for toddlers. I was 2 years old.
They put me in a coffin-shaped wooden box and expected me to get better.
A little brown box full of steam was my world
‘Set me free – set me free.’
Long weeks I lie there, afraid, alone
While I struggle to breathe; I cry, I groan
Nobody sets me free.
They put me in a wooden box and expected me to get better.
Two small glass panels run down the sides
‘Let me see – let me see’
But the steam blurs the scene – it’s just shadows for me
I struggle to breath and I long just to see
I’m in the box. My eyes are not free.
They put me in a box and expected me to get better.
Away from my family the box was my world
Take me home I plead - take me home.
Long weeks I lie there, afraid, alone
While I struggle to breathe; I cry, I groan
At last, they took me home
They sent me home to die.
But…
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Sally Farmer
Land of Unexpected Enchantment
The driver parked the 4WD beside a tiny village cafe.
seven pilgrims alighted, a comfort stop and refreshments a priority.
Connected souls were peaceful;
combined hearts mindful;
thoughts of Stupas, Monks and spiritual blessings;
sacred songs, remembered
“Om mane padme hum”.
Snow-capped Himalayas, a stunning backdrop.
In the distance, Mt Everest, the necklace of Nepal.
A mug of hot ginger honey lemon tea in hand,
I wandered outside to smell the mountain air;
to immerse myself in this spiritual, ancient land.
Prayer flags fluttered in the breeze.
Shanties adorned with vibrant red flowers.
Washing strung between poles;
Colourful freshly laundered clothes;
trousers, jackets, aprons and blankets.
Near the fluttering laundry,
a man and woman each at small desks -
old treadle “Singer” sewing machines upon them:
right there, in the open, beside the road!
She, sensing me watching her,
and looked up from her sewing,
her young face serene, bright ribbons in shiny black hair.
She smiled, flashing perfect white teeth.
The man, beside her, concentrating on fabric and machine.
Simultaneously the seamstress and I were drawn to gaze
at a slender old woman
carefully walking across the open ground.
A conical cane basket covered her back,
attached by fabric around her forehead.
Buckets of water in each hand, assisted her balance.
Suddenly, her thongs failed to negotiate the rocky path.
She slipped - Splosh!
One bucket fell to the ground;
clucking chickens scattered.
The water bearer regained her composure,
picked up the empty vessel then continued her journey.
One less bucket of water for the family.
The seamstress and I, voyeurs.
In that moment, feelings of shared compassion.
We smiled as our eyes met.
I bowed, hands in prayer.
Namaste seamstress;
Namaste water carrier;
Namaste Nepal, land of unexpected enchantment.
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Annette Herd
An Eyelash
After you had gone
I found an eyelash of yours.
Long and curved.
Dark against the white of the basin.
You stood here
Combing your hair
Washing your face
Looking at yourself in the mirror.
I sat on the edge of the seat
And gave way to mourning.
¯
Julia Kaylock
Seventeen
As you laid your pain before me,
I felt it, wriggling its way into my being
touching places I had not known existed
I lack a lived experience
of torture, anguish, of the fear of tyranny;
and felt ashamed, then,
of my need, at seventeen
(the year I knew everything, and nothing about life)
to escape my papered, painted prison,
it suddenly seemed so trivial
my stomach did not scream it's emptiness
I did not share a tent
with twelve strangers
wondering if the rest of my family
had made it to a safe haven
I did not ride frothing seas
in a sinking boat
bailing water and what was left of my pride
only to find myself
in an alien country
that had no desire of me,
to a system that devalued my humanity,
with no plan to see me free
I put my white-washed pain aside
where it could simmer in its pot
while you gently took me on a journey
that I did not take, at seventeen,
when I knew everything, and nothing.
¯
Laurelle Lewis
Open Palm
Hold me in the palm of your hand,
like a butterfly,
let me flutter gently,
but do not crush me,
let me linger, upon your soft skin,
that tastes sweet to my lips.
As the breeze caresses me,
as the gusts push me,
I may fly further than you’d like.
I may be carried away,
upon Summer currents
and lost in rainy hazes.
But my love,
as your palm lays open,
waiting for me,
a space for me to return,
do not close your grip,
but leave it open in anticipation,
that I will always return to the one,
that holds me lightly,
but with steadfast love and strength.
¯
Harry Melkonian
Could I?
It’s tragic that I’m not sad
not lonely, and rarely depressed
I’m a little down right now because
just not forlorn or anxious
Great poets seem to be tormented
challenged by depression, loneliness, and abuse
Hating themselves and everyone else
I just don’t fit in
I don’t think I was ever abused
Hope I never abused anyone
While having known some setbacks
Nothing to lose sleep over
As I sat with poets and artists
one became exasperated
She cried out that I never even contemplated suicide
I was an outcast in that group
When I go to a poets’ workshop
as they explore their personal hauntings
I am quietly, quickly isolated
My only angst is washing the car or painting the garage
Once I knew a poet who would hold his face in his hands
As he mournfully sat on the curb
And decried over and over – just the single word – Art
Everyone agreed, he was a genius
My existence is so without real hurt or pain
That I was almost grateful for climate change
At last, a reason for anxiety and despair
Now I too can be a poet and sit on the curb.
¯
Peter Olson
Black
There is no colour, it is very dark,
Deep and Shiny, soulless and stark.
It is just like charcoal, colour it lacks,
But no not plain, magnificent black!
Just yards away and visiting often,
The harsh “GER, GER” sound suddenly softens.
To observe some loving togetherness,
A well-constructed, high-up “Crows-Nest”!
Australian Ravens they actually are,
A mated pair, who “KAR, KAR, KAR”.
They have set up home in our backyard,
And now a decision becomes hard.
Do we let Mother Nature take its course?
And rob the Wattlebird of his re-course.
Or intervene from it all going wrong,
As Magpies out front begin their song!
It’s safety of chooks, budgies and cavalier,
But really believe we should play it by ear.
It will surely be an entertaining Spring,
We look forward for the Bird Show to begin.
¯
Jan Pittard
Trauma Cycle
Chaos erupts – unheralded
sepsis in a wound
family dog’s sudden attack
train hurtles from the track
a barrage assails us
seeping into all our senses
shock jocks’ brazen porn
politician’s weasel words
commentators’ feigned indignation
threats, known or imagined,
prime us for action
fright, fight or flight…
adrenaline and fatigue
undo us
we cannot hold the line.
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Roya Pouya
This poem is based a historical myth called hermaphrodite. Hermaphrodite as a metaphor is an objectified figure of a perspective pointing out transcending the androgenic as a solution for resolving the imposed patriarchy. Hermaphrodite in this poem is like a witness to the conversation between two opposite-gender. This ideal has presented an androgynous superhuman aiming to reflect femininity and masculinity simultaneously. In other words, it can be considered as a warning to discover both anima and animus in humans. I strongly believe this outlook can have a latent impact on reducing the violence against women.
The Conversation Table
The chips I have shaved off my body,
have been half of the first tree of the peak.
The poisonous tick-tock in your mouth,
has poisoned the nectar.
Our conversation table always lacks a seat for Hermaphrodite,
who coughs before even taking a sip.
The table seems bare,
from the sun shone on Olympus,
and from birds sitting down on woods, moving up-and-down, up-and-down!
Hermaphrodite’s voice is echoed through the absence,
and the tick-tocks in your mouth,
pound on the edge of the table.
I try to hang a worn-out shirt with my masculine hands,
which never been likened to a soldier.
You were a seventeen-years-old girl who is isolated in the Mountain,
I mean Olympus,
which never lies between you and me,
unless we add an extra seat to this conversation.
When the moon is full,
you will shine brighter,
and the rotation of your shadows,
will awake the planets in the laundry room.
Zeus,
the new arrival,
puts collars around birds’ neck.
I turn the woods into a man,
and will be halved behind the conversation table.
My other half,
is a woman who has dropped an anchor from the Moon,
and explores behind the dried clouds.
The chips you have shaved off the body,
have turned the woods into the legs of the table,
and this tree had always been frozen before the advent of Olympus.
Bring me a dress, I beg you.
¯
Uta Purcell
Of Clay and Mud
Hard baked by sun and lack of rain
Thirsty cracks opening, looking for relief
Plants searching with parched roots
Their lives cut short
Bareness!
It attaches to shoes with every step
It invades floors and carpets with abstract smears
It captures unsuspecting cars parked on grassy verges
It is the colour of 80% cocoa chocolate
Fruitfulness!
Extremes are more common now
Drought, floods, fire, storms
Inconvenient but also manageable
Man is clever but also foolish
Nature always wins!
¯
Kangaroo
The kangaroo is labelled macropod
But in reality it’s a tripod
Because when looking around it never fails
The ‘roo leans back and stands on his tail.
So whether he fights or begs
He invariably relies on three legs.
The kangaroo is a real bounder
Who’s seldom known to flounder
And when he fights
There’s no sign of flight
He never ever cowers
But with both legs disembowels.
The poor old ‘roo can’t turn his head
Because no sooner than he bred
He was left without a neck,
So he said, what the heck.
If I can’t twist from the top
I’ll just learn to hop
And now a ‘roo can jump
High as a camel’s hump.
So when your temper it do goad
By stopping in the road
Just recall from your hospital bed
The poor old ‘roo can’t turn his head
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David Riddell
only time
in the beginning..........
all danced the beguine
mannequins in
robotic stance
time
laughed............
regrets
forgotten
passing chance
future change
present sceptic
fallacy acceptable
let the revisionist return.
blue on blue
tangerine trees
the lion and the lamb
virgin earth
lusts for
the seeds of life
only time
smirks
the lost stumble.
breath of breath
gift of life
ends in the last exhale
the god of science
flounders
discovers nothing
but the finite
only time
forgets
hidden memories
blasphemy within
blasphemy without
suppressed demons
never forgive
never heal
"visions of Johanna
they make it all seem so cruel"
only time
reveals us naked
secrets taken to the grave
then the
end.
¯
Leticia RP
Unit 3, 1 bedroom, built with wardrobes, electric stove and
carport parking
His room is a pool of silence
where the past has left a tiny hole on the roof
when it rains
a leak starts crying yellow liquid
nobody cares
that the carpet is wet
that dishes are in the sink and
spider webs along the edge of the window
green and brown tones are a vortex painting
on the white bowl of the toilet
spreading sewerage odour
and
nobody cares
a new day will come
with different people and stories
maybe more gentle and quieter
maybe he will laugh more often
and be happier
and
nobody cares…
¯
Steve Smart
Finding a title for a poem I might never write
This poem was almost called
The year 2022 of Our Lord can fuck its own parched blowhole
honest in the moment, still
more aggressive than I can allow myself
the way the world is right now (foul)
so I changed it to
#eeeeaaaggghhsgskaesk@%*&#$
wanting something more personal, somehow heartfelt
I attempted to make it a sort of lullaby called
One pandemic - two years - four seasons of ‘Virgin River’
if you don’t get the reference, you might not bother with the poem
and you probably think Virgin River is too much like American cheese
which you’ve repeated many times “isn’t even real cheese”
when it was called
Panic ATtack at the PancaKe Sssshack
it had some vigour, I like a twisty rhyme —
too cutesy — but give me any excuse to use an ‘em dash’ or two
I thought about making it more of a concrete poem and calling it
BLOCK CHAIN END GAME
before realising I don’t really understand crypto or coding
it would have been all title, no poem
for a moment I considered
Brief asides from a sliding mind
that exposed more than I was inclined to, emotionally
I took a picture of one of our cats with my phone and looked for a while
seeking inspiration, invention, intervention or… distraction
which offered little practical solution to the problem and why the hell don’t I just
look at the cat sitting right in front of me demanding attention
as I stare at her digital representation?
so in the end I just called it
Finding a title for a poem I might never write
¯
Susan Starr
My lover’s eyes
My lover’s eyes are nothing like the sun.
He silent stays with brooding unsure lips.
If snow is white, his hair is as the raven,
Untidy, like his scarred and scolded soul.
But come some darkling, angry storm
Which falls like shards upon my sorrowed head.
He folds me in his true and deep embrace
And listens as my tortured angst outpours.
And if he walks in human form by day
His very essence is from angels born.
¯
Robyn Sykes
Pumpkin patch
Coal rises, ripped and stolen, from earth’s womb,
oceans sweat as gasses grip the heat,
pygmy possums starve but microbes bloom
and politicians practise their deceit.
While islanders exchange their homes for boats,
corals oust their algae, bleach to white.
Bell frogs choke and flee their withered moats
as smoke and ash and flames attack the light.
Can climate action turn the soil of hope?
Will green laws boost like compost, prove their worth?
Could oxygen lead carbon to elope
and honeymoon where worms enrich the earth?
Solutions sprout like pumpkins on the vine.
The hands on which the harvest hangs are mine.
¯
CJ Talbot
Lookout
Horse-tail clouds flicking newish housing hope
in attache-town, shiny grey metallic sheened rooftops like
a bale of turtles perched on lowland hill; a semi-city guy in a magenta shirt
loans us a jack, and we get out faster than the
turtles, first holiday after lockdown; unrecommended, dishevelled
in spring village fever breakout, to re-examine
layers of sandstone limestone bluestone at Evan’s Leap, the face of cliff
across gullies – rock parchment - why is the toddler not
scared of the drop? - semi-divine parchment, rock and bones;
untouched by backyard sprawl, summer flames, tourist hordes tracking
to rhododendron fans; people from all polities and degrees,
companioned firm, here in corona-year, to saunter,
partake, breathe and puff eucalypted air, blue gum, blue-bounding,
mountain lands where lookouts are cloud-bathed, omniferous,
and steep legs are burnt; it’s like Covid and bushfires were never here,
the lockdown rimmed by craggy ocean-cut steely drops
for locals to blink in their yearly fill of soaring views, what’s it like,
living on a precipice? And semi-social distant trekkers on this
ancient ash and gum eco valley-drops distant to eye;
on the way she holds the sun in her hand and looks down to me,
light immersion blinding, and is there meant to be a realisation,
I think I missed it or is that the lookout realisation,
or it’s another lamentation, year of swish, in the face.
¯
Jen Thompson
The Scrap of Ninety Two
Times were tough on the Barrier Range in the big strike of ’92,
we were boilin’ the tongues of our miner’s boots to thicken the bunny stew,
when this toff called Lord Darcy blows into town,
on his wagon is painted: ‘World Wrestling Crown’
and a gaggle of gawkers gather around,
because light entertainments are few.
Lord Darcy sees Larry, a gammy-legged lout,
calls him into the circle, then says ‘Get me out!’
Larry’s all gangly and wild but green:
Darcy’s all flabby and pasty, but mean.
Lord Darcy bends Larry like softenin’ a shoe,
ties Larry in knots only rubber can do.
The Ladies cry “Mercy!” and there’s a to-do,
so Larry breaks free and decides to shoot through.
Well, we are disgusted, we all turn to go,
but he follows us down to the pub for our dough.
He skites about beating the Broken Hill lout.
He drinks all our beer but wont buy a shout.
Now Larry’s mate Boney still sits at the trough.
He hates mining managers, swindlers and toffs.
He’s weedy and poisoned and hardly worth tuppence,
but he dreams up a scheme for Darcy’s come-uppance.
He sidles along to where Darcy scoffs,
and grabs him with hands like fluttering moths.
“Your lordship, I’m done for, me last days are few,
if I only had strength and courage like you,
I’d wrestle and capture Old King Kangaroo.
He would make a man’s fortune in a show like you do.”
Boney takes us out back with his kangaroo dogs –
leads Darcy from peaks to unsanitary bogs.
They bail up their quarry beside Stephens Creek,
but the old ‘roo is cunning and brazen, not meek.
Darcy eyes off the ‘roo as he splashes around,
but it never occurs to him he could get drowned.
As sure and as sharp as the crack of a whip,
Lord Darcy darts in shouting, “King! Take thy grip!”
The kangaroo’s forearms are skillful and fine,
they wrap round Lord Darcy like lengths of steel twine.
The kangaroo washes the Lord like a cloth,
‘til he’s faded and frayed and his limbs have gone soft.
We knew he’d remember the gammy-legged kid –
the value of mercy – the cost of a quid.
‘Though times were tough, and our lessons grim in those days of ’92,
when we grappled with politicians in the arms of a ding-dong blue,
and wrestled with bosses, who’d strangle a mate,
‘til they shipped in their scabs from the city like freight,
there’s one thing we recall when we congregate,
that’s how Darcy wrestled the ‘roo.
¯
Sarah Tiffen
Dark Side of the Moon
I found myself on the dark side of the moon.
I didn’t see it coming.
I was blindsided as the world fell away.
I was in a daze
I could move neither forward nor backward
I was paralysed by grief
I found myself on my knees
I had the axeman standing over me.
My neck on the block.
My skin was like it had abraded.
Everything was painful. I was in shock. I was lost.
I was on the dark side of the moon.
Every night, I sat by the fire and watched the stars.
They moved across the sky each night a little farther out
As days turned into weeks.
Each night I watched the moon and kept the fire burning.
I tried to move.
I was paralysed by fear.
Grief was a yawning chasm.
I looked down into it as from an Eyrie,
The captive woman in the Red Keep, keening for touch.
Undo the trapdoor of my mind,
And I could easily fall through to my death whilst looking down for signs.
Like Alice, tempted by the darkest Looking Glass.
I had no hooks to hang myself on, to tether me,
To catch me up.
A marionette, dangling
And the absence of any master puppeteer.
I felt unworthy
I disgorged my insides, my heart
A bloody pulsing muscle on the platter of unspeakably silent days.
I was nothing.
I became nothing.
I knew it was untenable.
I tried to think my way beyond the eclipse.
My mind stalled, remained eclipsed.
I tried to take counsel from new angles.
I died and rose.
I cried and cried and cried.
I hoped for things that could never be.
I lost my faith.
The world was a wilderness
I was only as good as my next steps.
I took them falteringly, from the bed to the door,
From the door to the street,
From the street, past the showground and round to the church
Like a furtive, desperate pilgrim, I sat and prayed.
I agonized
I cried.
I felt the wrench of pain.
I accepted my Fate.
I knew – that no one is required to love me.
I learned humility.
I emerged broken.
I remain broken.
But I found the new moon like
A sickle in the sky
And sought new solace.
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Tim Train
Coffee and Ice Cream
I went and bought a coffee
Bought a cough cough coffee
Bought a cough cough coffee
From the coughy coffee man.
Got a coffee, man, cough
Cough cough cough coffee
Coughy man coffee man
Coffee coffee cough.
So I stand here with the coffee
With the cough cough coffee
And it's not that I am coughy
From the coffee man. It's snot.
Snot snot coughy coughy
Coughy coughy cough cough
No it's not that I am snotty -
Excuse me while ice cream.
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Jack Walton
Grandfather
Alone, tall and firm, whether I sit or stand,
A friendly face and a steady hand.
It’s easy for me to get up in arms,
But what can I say, it’s part of my charm.
I constantly strike, though I deal no pain,
Barring that of a seldom migraine.
I’m usually silent, only sounding by the hour,
When my voice comes, forthwith, and beckons my power.
Perking up to my call, my presence now clear,
Your mind made aware that I’m always near.
It seems to me that whenever I chime,
You always seem to think of the time.
When I try to speak, you can’t seem to stay,
Oh, I do hope you’d fight off these urges someday.
That’s all there is to it, my tale goes no further,
Just make sure you remember, your dear grandfather.
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Sanaa Younis
I am
My time has come. I sit
Inside my skin, content.
I am the cat on the window sill
On a Sunday afternoon;
I am Vivaldi’s Spring
On a Venetian night;
I am a cedar in the snow;
I am a lemon myrtle
After the rain.
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MEUSE PRESS publishes this collection.
All work © the authors.
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