A Romantic Woman
Has sewn a bauble on
her dress tonight
She thinks about the
relation between
natural and
artificial light as
she drives through
the evening in a taxi
Doubt becomes her.
If she were Catholic she
assumes she would've
toyed with bishops …
agnostic it's
jackaroos that keep her
reading colonial
fiction. Danielle
loves being
twenty-nine (the pathos of
it) and dreams of an
earlier name like
Muriel or Jean. She
smooths the violet
sash her mother
would say meant 'die single
The country can be
harsh like that. Next year
she might become a
novelist, but for
now she's happy with
the magazine world
the hair and makeup
boys, donuts on Fridays
She met someone
online recently who
carves his own chess
pieces and has a sandy
fringe, and she'll
meet Liam in the flesh tonight
Warm and soft, she
says to herself warm …
soft. The night is
floating with stuff: maybe
organic, but she
thinks wearing a veil's
underrated. I can't
wear a taxi
everywhere, she
jokes to the driver who
doesn't understand
why not. Danielle thinks …
her friends, their
brutal ways with men and how
successful such ways
are. Men are afraid
she isn't strong:
yet she's been known to eat
tuna from a can (to
the right music
They don't know what
it takes to be her! She
wouldn't be an
editor for long …
Magazines were
arcades for Danielle, not
stylish training
manuals. Cigarettes
or insanity she
would quip (before
she quit). Her
therapist said she had …
Cinderella complex
but Danielle – in
a rare fiery moment
– retorted …
you have
complexomania! Whereas
she was a deer of
the forest …
Harriet Shelley
without the river
bit, or the kids.
Really, her mind was drifting
into inanity. The
Melbourne traffic
wasn't like a
forest; she could surely
find better role
models if she needed
them. She would
never make anything happen
Danielle imagined
Liam was probably
one of those soft,
toilet-paper roll kinds …
guys with razor
blades attached to the last
sheet. They love you
until then. I have …
date with a bottle
of gin, she thought …
a man on the side: a
moment to cherish
cherish, cherish.
She noticed the clasp
on her handbag
resembled a creature
with an unusual
nose. She began
to conceive of a
feature …
underrated beauty.
She sat in the taxi
outside the foam
party, the metre running
scribbling in her
notebook while the humming
driver played a
samba on the steering-wheel.
Michael Farrell
Cocky's Joy
(Giramondo 2015) is my pick of
the books I have read this year. Laurie Duggan opines on the back
cover – 'You feel there's a language being created here and yet
it's your own language.'
It
came to my mind that Michael Farrell was a Currency Lad.* One of the
first generation of poets to be born in the colony. That isn't
strictly true (it can't be true) but it came into my mind.
*(The
term 'currency
lads and lasses'
was used to refer to the first generation of children born in the
colony to distinguish them from the free settlers who were born in
the British Isles. These people were known as 'sterlings'. )
While
I am musing on the old time way of saying things, I just want to
iterate how much I like the title. It signals so much doubleness. But
I found in a quick vox pop that quite a few people are not aware of
what cocky's joy* used to be in all its singleness.
*
(Treacle or golden syrup. A cocky
is a farmer, originally a small tenant farmer. The word is derived
from the earlier term cockatoo farmer,
whose origin is the subject of several rival theories.)
Honestly, this book,
it is a tour de force. It's a book that has a circus in its pants.
It's astounding.
And I am astounded
that none of the judges for book awards have, thus far, given it a
nod. I can only assume the publisher neglected to submit it. There is
no other explanation.
http://www.giramondopublishing.com/poetry/cockys-joy/
