The Best Australian Poems 2013

Home > Other > The Best Australian Poems 2013 > Page 14
The Best Australian Poems 2013 Page 14

by Lisa Gorton


  but it must have been much like this

  ever since you swaggered out of your wicker cradle

  and set about ruling the world; you had the measure

  of left and right, art, money, sexual deviation

  and all the main current of thought –

  yes, I’ll have another splash of the red, why not.

  Your garden flourishes outside in fruitful technicolour,

  skilfully maintained, of course, by those expert hands

  while you see through the cloudy glass of each political party

  as well as the seamiest anti-semites and mining thugs,

  because you smell the due stink in everything,

  the dirt that rots every pocket. Yes, you are bloody well like

  those puritans you affect to hate so much, thin churchy rats.

  Every phony, you force us to understand, has been fattened up

  on taxpayers’ money. No scholar is not a fake,

  bar those few honest sods you happen to endorse

  or at least agree with, today: those commonly known

  as your disciples, docile ephebes and victims,

  who wouldn’t answer back in a month of Sundays.

  We admire your dense green gardening, drink on,

  nary a soul half-daring to answer back or argue – after all

  who wants his or her noggin blasted off with a phrase

  like fart-warmed thunder? Certainly not yours truly.

  We’ll go on laughing then into the deep lull of evening.

  After all, tomorrow we’re driving back to the city.

  Valleys

  Toby Fitch

  (After Rimbaud)

  Warning

  Ainslee Meredith

  You slip the latch

  and come to me across the ice.

  A mouth is a circle lit

  up, tapped out, departed.

  Electrical haloes, we are

  clairvoyant as soft gods,

  sliding in boots, red stars on our soles.

  We beckon dampness

  into our woollens, swoop

  an inner corona to the sheet-iron.

  The memorial clock has no carillon.

  There’s a thread of you

  on my collar when the nightwatchman

  appears on the edge of the ice

  to shout: off, off,

  it won’t hold you.

  Watching How A Rain Front Stops

  Martin Harrison

  1

  as it starts to do background

  having been vertical drop down shutter-noise

  leaf-quivering up to your neck in it soaking green

  rainy earth-smoke and scarves upon boughs melting into air

  melding into background of lost ridges beyond the paddocks

  the air-wall of something not seen because you can’t see it

  last month’s mirroring creek buried under mist with its blind flow between ponds,

  re-growth bush on the far side and old, fenced land this side –

  an overarching, moist clearness starting to saturate with blue-grey

  2

  within pale immensity which has permeated

  the way the last ten minutes’ change has occurred –

  even the way each molecule of time was like a

  snappy, wet branch swept across shoulder, through hair,

  as I stepped back onto the verandah –

  transformation happening as if marble turns to flesh

  new breath on wet skin

  while the threatening cloud-weight, bulging

  across the range, starts to give way

  3

  to glinting bicycle spokes of once again look-alike daybreak light

  through flecks of leaves, a

  sudden spaciousness in the seeming quietness

  (brooding quietness) (unstifled breathing calm)

  the house two fruiting quince trees the shining spaniel

  the loam’s glint, drenched brilliant grass

  and hardly to be noticed, the insects’ rasp and saw

  re-charging across edges and slopes

  in the corners, low down, yet everywhere in

  4

  inertia and stillness, stilledness, everything happening

  it blues the blueness growing,

  so cleanly back of the mind we see things we don’t see,

  yet they’re seen – a huge, untraceable lightness

  remembered as an opening upwards away over there

  burnt paper climbing in a chimney’s updraught

  granulated sky with the suddenly sun-drenched grey heron picked out in the dam

  – poster-paint grey wings, his neck “morning-after-a-snowstorm-

  in-Kosciuszko” whiteness –

  flapping up in three, four, five alarmed strokes

  Western landscapes with retreating horizons

  Paul Mitchell

  The flurry of fingers on keyboards

  spell silence, poets write

  too late what time is and professors

  dribble down murderous bibs:

  There’s no time to wonder

  where time’s gone

  But the crowd shouts,

  Wait a minute!

  turns sixty perfect circles

  *

  Shop bell rings, a knock on the door

  Please shut down your power supply

  we now own the sun. We bend over backwards

  to comply, then bend over some more.

  Cash registers ring Hey, listen to this!

  police on radios, many countries mentioned

  in one breath; one long breath drawn in

  but never let out. We want to scream

  what we know and release all the mice

  from their treadmills. Ordinary indexes

  swing through the trees and we hear the creaking

  forest floor. Speeches die down to a low hum,

  steal flight from everything feathered

  and we pick wax stains from our wings.

  *

  The distant waves

  do what they do

  and we set alight

  photographed catastrophes

  When we rebuild, we won’t govern

  nor allow others the honour.

  We’ll live regretfully, we’ll hoo ha

  and dance a pirouette. No one

  will notice. We’ll explode in capital

  letters all over the footpath,

  croon old tunes to young audiences,

  then forget how to bow. Once the jeering

  dies down, we’ll smile and show

  each other scars. The crowd will cry

  for more, then search us for knives.

  *

  Trumpets announce a recurring dream

  of snow-capped mountains towering

  over a wilderness of ideas.

  You’re from the past! a voice

  down there cries, but we can’t tell

  if it’s for us or the mountains.

  This is the kind of confusion

  sky must endure all the time.

  The weight of the impossible

  draped around a bird’s neck

  its clouded face dissolving

  Once all the leaves are gathered

  the mist will clear. We’ll know

  our real names and the sun

  will be the busiest it’s been

  is the myth of circumstantial evidence

&nb
sp; given the gift of happenstance:

  There are no further hiding places

  now the earth beneath our feet

  is ploughed, and the planet’s

  axis is the balance beam on which

  we take our final bow.

  Whale Heart

  Josephine Rowe

  An album of photocopies of photographs of

  the ancestors. A woman whose face is always

  scratched out. The interior of the once-beautiful

  church. Young men on the deck of a whaling boat

  cutting the tail and fins from a captive humpback;

  a crude blade attached to a long wooden pole. The

  whale still alive while this happens, though weak

  enough to be lashed to the side of the boat. The

  boys pose shirtless, triumphant around the immense

  carcass, their lean arms around each other’s shoulders.

  We try to make out which organ lies at their feet.

  How big is the heart of a whale? But not one of us knows.

  What Frances Farmer Ate

  Ivy Alvarez

  Nobody knows I’m here. Abscond of old,

  this gold hair celluloid loves to capture

  silenced by a dowdy scarf.

  Into the brown-skinned night-market crowd

  I go, buy an egg from someone crying balut!

  Crack it open. Inside, the embryo

  duckling feathered in soupy broth,

  unseeing eye a full stop.

  Have you ever had a broken heart?

  I drink its liquid with a pinch of salt

  and remembered when I wrote ‘God Dies’ one broken night.

  Those ballerinas in Russia can’t dance me out of this

  idea: I blame nobody for my fall.

  I open my mouth,

  swallow the contents whole.

  When God Dies

  Liam Ferney

  So let’s get this straight:

  We don’t do state funerals –

  but what we do do,

  is tabloid extravaganzas starring Valmae Beck?

  – & hasn’t prison aged the old duck terribly!

  Isn’t it enough that we have already

  diminished ourselves?

  We are fallen with no path to redemption,

  why bother with the hairshirt?

  The film I will never sees stars George Eastman

  hair grown long & saltwater thick

  after a summer lazy in the Balearics.

  Lensed by Polanski, an Alan Smithee stand in

  for Joe D’Amato

  & Anna Karina fresh from Godard

  goes under the axe blade in this

  sub B-Grade faux-Bergman B&W shocker.

  & I stick to my guns

  because the newspapers in this town

  only report reliably

  on gossip, slander & opinion.

  When You Showed Me the Stars

  Gemma White

  The moon hung from the sky like a dead thing

  You tried to show me the stars again

  But this time I was not listening

  Your face already turned towards somewhere else

  The horizon surrendering one bare tree

  Scared white in the moonlight

  So we sat in the silent blue

  “It’s okay, I half-expected this”

  And I wasn’t lying but it still came as a shock

  The next morning when you were gone

  The tired wire-screen door closed so violently behind me

  Red dirt blew in and suddenly it hurt.

  Who Took the Bee’s Greed For a Sign

  Eugene Dubnov (translated from the Russian by Peter Porter with the author)

  Who took the bee’s greed for a sign,

  who through a point drew a straight line,

  who opened the eyes to malicious things,

  who taught rapier to the strings?

  Who flattens childhood’s eager grass,

  who hopes the dream will quickly pass,

  who recollects the border train,

  who warns of death and life again?

  Window onto the Bay (after Kafka)

  Christopher Konrad

  Whoever could sit in solitude by a window looking out over the sullen bay and yet people it with sea weary sailors, gulls screeching overhead, terns darting swiftly, deftly; solemnly protecting their cliff-side nests and where swallows dot a dreary skyline like coursing black stars in the daytime; the solitary watcher will never be lonely nor will she ever fail to craft a poem that will hook the reader of fine words with a relentless tackle to be reeled in breathless on a pebbly shore nor will she fail to pierce the mirror of that reader’s illusions with sharp intonations, striated synaesthesia perhaps on a drunken boat, perhaps the corpse of a cross bowed albatross and the dart of her desire (whatever it is; fame, strength, to walk straight on a crooked dune path) will arch over that sheltered rocky cliff: it may drop sharp into the dark green-kelped depth or it may land softly on a ledge swept by the kestrel so vigilant over its crag nest. I am thinking of Kafka in Prague: of his window onto the street.

  Women in Classical Chinese Love Poems

  Debbie Lim

  are always waiting

  under moonlight

  with cloud-damp hair.

  Moth eyebrows signify

  their great beauty.

  Nothing occupies them more

  than crickets and longing –

  time passed in cicada-hours,

  cups of undrunk tea.

  Come evening, their beds grow

  full of one-way love.

  With no shoulder to cry upon,

  instead the candles weep

  until cold hours of dawn.

  Dew is their abundance.

  Sitting, standing, reclining:

  these are the classic positions.

  From girlhood they have known

  grief must be sung, all hope

  arrives on a west wind.

  Persimmon-lipped, they live

  by windows: flowering, fruiting,

  composing slowly to stone.

  Publication Details

  Robert Adamson’s ‘Francis Webb at Ball’s Head’ appeared in the Australian Poetry Journal, vol. 2 (2), 2012.

  Adam Aitken’s ‘Old Europe (2)’ appeared in Overland, vol. 208, Spring 2012.

  Ali Alizadeh’s ‘Spiritual’ appeared in the Age, 8 September 2012.

  Ivy Alvarez’s ‘What Frances Farmer Ate’ appeared in Three Chords and the Truth: Etchings 11, Ilura Press, 2012.

  Chris Andrews’ ‘Mateship’ appeared in Contrappasso Magazine,

  vol. 2, 2013.

  Cassandra Atherton’s ‘P.R.B’ appeared in Australian Book Review, May 2013.

  Peter Bakowski’s ‘City workers during morning rush hour, Collins Street, Melbourne, 2013’ appeared (in an earlier version) on the Eureka Street website, September 2012.

  Judith Beveridge’s ‘A Dire Season’ appeared in The Warwick Review, vol. 6 (2), 2012.

  Kim Cheng Boey’s ‘Chinatowns’, from which this excerpt was taken, appeared in his collection Clear Brightness (Puncher & Wattman, 2012; Epigram Books [Singapore], 2012).

  Ken Bolton’s ‘“Hindley Street”: How to Be Perfect There’ appeared in Cordite Poetry Review, Issue 43.0: Masque, 2013.

  Michael Brennan’s ‘Autoethnographic’ appeared in his collection Autoethnographic (Giramondo, 2012).

  Lachlan Brown’s ‘Outstretched Arms’ appeared in his collection Limited Cities (Giramondo, 2
012).

  Pam Brown’s ‘Closed on Mondays’ appeared in Otoliths, vol. 29, 2013. Acknowledgement: thanks to Iain Sinclair and Art Monthly magazine.

  Melinda Bufton’s ‘Did you mean iteration?’ appeared in the Age,

  12 January 2013.

  Michelle Cahill’s ‘Renovations’ appeared in the Age, 2 February 2013.

  Justin Clemens’ ‘Blind Spot’ appeared in Southerly, vol. 72 (2), 2012.

  Jennifer Compton’s ‘Sorrowful’ appeared in Australian Book Review, March 2013.

  Nathan Curnow’s ‘Prophecy’ appeared in Australian Book Review, March 2013.

  Sarah Day’s ‘Dawn’ appeared in the Age, 27 April 2013, and in her collection Tempo (Puncher & Wattman, 2013).

  Brett Dionysius’s ‘Black Throated Finch’ appeared in The Disappearing, an app published by The Red Room Company, 2012.

  Dan Disney’s ‘A Quick Drink at the Bar’ appeared in the Australian Poetry Journal, vol. 2 (2), 2012. The poem responds to an interview with Robert Creeley, which appeared in Paris Review, no. 44, Fall 1968.

  Laurie Duggan’s ‘An Ordinary Evening in Newtown’ appeared in Australian Book Review, April 2013.

  Daniel East’s ‘The God of Bone and Antler’ appeared in Contrappasso Magazine, vol. 2, 2013.

  Will Eaves’ ‘Dandelion’ appeared in the Age, 2 August 2013.

  Ali Cobby Eckermann’s ‘Ochre’ appeared in her collection Ruby Moonlight (Magabala Books, 2012).

  Anne Elvey’s ‘To Drag the Saints back from Heaven’ appeared in Meanjin, vol. 72 (2), 2013.

  Russell Erwin’s ‘As Flames Were My Only Witness’ appeared in Meanjin, vol. 72 (1), 2013.

  Diane Fahey’s ‘On Dreams’ appeared in the Age, 16 March 2013.

  Michael Farrell’s ‘Not in Vain’ appeared in the Age, 13 April 2013.

  Susan Fealy’s ‘Bringing You Home’ appeared in Rabbit, vol. 6, 2012.

  Anna Fern’s ‘Strange, unremarkably so’ appeared in the Queensland Poetry Festival’s Spoken in One Strange Word: Anthology 2013.

  Liam Ferney’s ‘When God Dies’ appeared in Rabbit, vol. 5, 2012.

  Lionel G. Fogarty’s ‘Induct True Legendary Thrills Bravery’ appeared in Island, vol. 132, Autumn 2013.

 

‹ Prev