Sunday, June 23, 2013
Monday, June 17, 2013
Tuesday Poem - Air Variations in C & D by Jennifer Harrison
Air Variations in C & D
This is the cart my father did not
drag behind his life
This is the cartel: the headless
girl in Mexico
This is the carton of cigarettes
sodden from Toowoomba flood
This is the cartridge in the
chamber of my father's rabbit gun
This is a caravel, a poem
What is its lost oar? An empty
marriage?
This is cash, a delicacy
And this is the delegate smoking a
cheroot
This is the delay between loss and
déjà vu
A delectation of swans,
deliberating
This is drama and deceit
The same sink with different dishes
This is a backpack of dynamite,
trees at night
This is Dominique Strauss-Kahn's
defense
Cardamom for rice, rose-water in
the desert
This is the moon on my dead dog's
collar
What is definite? A claw? A door?
This poem is taken from the extremely
interesting book called Notes for the
Translators collected and edited by Christopher (Kit) Kelen at Cerberus Press
– Flying Island Books. I have rarely found a book so fascinating.
142 Antipodean poets take time to explicate, elucidate (sometimes obfuscate)
the meaning and intent of the poem for a possible translator.
Jennifer's explication begins – This poem is inspired by the alphabet.
Translators collected and edited by Christopher (Kit) Kelen at Cerberus Press
– Flying Island Books. I have rarely found a book so fascinating.
142 Antipodean poets take time to explicate, elucidate (sometimes obfuscate)
the meaning and intent of the poem for a possible translator.
Jennifer's explication begins – This poem is inspired by the alphabet.
Jennifer Harrison is a notable
Australian poet who lives in Melbourne. Her most
recent book is Colombine, New And Selected Poems put out recently by Black
Pepper Press.
recent book is Colombine, New And Selected Poems put out recently by Black
Pepper Press.
http://blackpepperpublishing.com/harrisoncnas.html
Monday, June 10, 2013
Tuesday Poem - red heart my country by Eric Beach
red heart my country
can't help but examine all th faces
at th station
and I have to admit I was
eaves-dropping too
my how you've grown haven't seen
you since creation
horse over in th stockyard's
clopping through
nan with her grand-kid no-one's
quite apart
we're all watching him keep behind
th yellow line
we don't care there's no train yet
– there's country heart
we've all had that feeling – that
kid could have been mine
and I remember th first time I left
on my own
suitcase tied with string and as
heavy as patience
general consensus I was bringing
down th tone
right on cue there's a siren in th
distance
football team on th oval lifting
telephone poles
late afternoon crickets pulsing in
unison
I have to stop and scuff up some
red dirt with my sole
new coat of paint on th pub it's
shining
elm trees and a bronze horseman to
our heroic dead
bronze akubra forever askew on his
head
town clock says forget lunch we'll
have dinner instead
and I'm walking th back lanes
behind th old sheds
where my son used to hide and
surprise me every time he did
where my son used to hide and
surprise me every time he did
If you want to read more Tuesday Poems click on the quill icon at the top.
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Tuesday Poem - Metamorphosis by Paul South
Metamorphosis
I am the rat these days, inspecting
this, having a nibble of that.
Disguised as a human, I go to work.
“How are you?” says my boss.
“Fine,” I say.
I have learned the turns of speech,
digested talk of news, sport and
weather. Rats have strong stomachs
and are very adaptable. But a rat
never forgets his place in the
food-chain. The hand that feeds can also kill.
Sometimes I step into a trap. My
boss's huge face looms around
the corner, says “What are you
doing?” and I'm caught there in the
spotlight, a crumb still hanging
from my mouth. I try to speak, but all
that comes out is a muffled squeak!
My body goes limp, as if dead -
I think I am dead – then after a
while she goes off again.
Then I go home, to the dark little
corner of my world. It's nothing special,
but it's my dark corner, and I am
quite happy with it thank you! But even
then my mind plays tricks on me; I
hear things, a footstep, a word. I am
never really alone: I'm always
being chased by things that I cannot see or
name. And there is no hiding from
the fact that, sooner or later, I will have
to go out there again, into the
open. I have to if I am going to survive.
My poor heart! I scurry about right
under their noses, filling shelves,
collecting trolleys. This check out
chick keeps checking me out. I squeak
a few words. I don't know what to
do. I keep thinking, they'll see me -
they'll see the light reflect off
my eyes and know me for what I am.
But they never do.
Time moves on. I get so caught up
in what I am doing that I forget what
I am, and then I find myself being
patted by somebody. I look up and
wonder how it is that I am here,
that I am not afraid, here in the palm of
a human's hand.
Paul South lives in Melbourne and I
have heard him read from his 'wise
and brutal' book (as Andy Jackson puts it in his blurb) – Rats Live On
No Evil Star. Lovely stuff, juicy.
and brutal' book (as Andy Jackson puts it in his blurb) – Rats Live On
No Evil Star. Lovely stuff, juicy.
You can pick up the book (a wise
but not brutal investment) at a few shops
in Melbourne,like Collected Works – and there is an email address in the
front of the book so I suppose that would work too.
in Melbourne,like Collected Works – and there is an email address in the
front of the book so I suppose that would work too.
bigbillsblues@hotmail.com
If you want to read more Tuesday
Poems click on the quill icon at the top of the page.
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