Monthly Archives: June 2013

 

 

man disappears up his own driveway

 

lovely too to sit among one’s ruins

rain arriving and on its own way

the guava on the stereo

tinnitus for its own heaven

 

under an improvised painter’s smock

the garden resuming its gradual shape

just a few minutes here and there

eyes up for wallaby passing

 

same spider in the letterbox

ancestral as in duty bound

 

then a spate of sunshine

 

 

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The deal

 

It is your body’s familiar need –

To live & breathe in tides of blood

Yet that door is closed

Then you knock.

 

Nobody home?

A sweet taste on the tongue

Of your own sweat as you lick

A swollen globe of salt on your skin –

The sweet amorous stink of decay.

 

You look up to the sky –

Is that a storm cloud roiling from the South?

In the failing light you wish you could

Live for one day more.

 

 

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Kit Kelen and Loene Furler June 2013

 

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Kit Kelen and Loene Furler June 2013

 

 

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Carol Archer and Loene Furler June 2013

 

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Kit Kelen and Loene Furler June 2013

 

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Carol Archer and Loene Furler June 2013

 

 

Honour

 

 

To the virtue of self-immolation add

the honour of the Okies, those lessons

in dollars they afford.

                                  The

spotlight having shifted to the next buffoon please

find your way off stage, preferably

stage left, the right reserved for those prepared

to take up horns, baskets of horns – sheep, cattle, deer,

buffalo, etc. – & distribute them, one each to every member

of this cat-calling audience.

                                                    Hey,

I didn’t get one! Me, a Boston blueblood

& I didn’t get one. Mark my words

or don’t (the choice is yours) to heaven you won’t

without a horn to me given get.

                                                       Ah, life

on Cloud Nine, skin on an inflationary curve

you could toboggan down pressed up against

a high school sweetheart, your hands

in her pockets accidently cupping… a hill

in Mass, 1953, talk about the good old days. I’d

rather not.

                  What

we should do is this: stop for a few seconds, long enough

to distribute the World’s Beauty. Wouldn’t that

be commendable? If you say so. Me, I’d rather just do

Oklahoma. Accept

drought cost. Be the bad son who left mother

in a dry well. Meanwhile (another meanwhile)

back in Oklahoma a Cunard liner, four stacks, the

Aquitania, is sinking in a bowl of dust. O spirit

of Guthrie, W. please intervene. Get these folks

into lifeboats. Not down

with this ship! Live another day

to make another million! Easy money, a lesson affordable

if to suicide you come with petrol, a litre should suffice.

Her name was Barbara, the girl on the toboggan.

 

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Lucy & the Maple Leaf

 

 

She comes in from the deck, my girl, where for an hour she’s been

Skipping, her rope unravelling with the workout. It is late

Autumn, a Saturday, and the maple by the house

Has begun to drop its fiery leaves like hints (hot

Tips) at winter’s feet. She holds one out for me: a paw

Print in a child’s hand, a sightly death that stole a small girl’s heart.

Make it a poem, she says. But I take the leaf and draw instead

A shape for memory to fill, some lines for love to learn:

The leaf is a river catchment on which the sun

Is going down, and a quarter moon is rising

In the east. You couldn’t tear a piece more neatly from

The map of how a life might hope to run. Nor hand it so sweetly

To your father, so that he might always find you when he’s gone;

So that you will not forget the poem that he forgot to write you once. 

 

 

Notes: Metaphorday

Narrative –
Ficto-Criticism –
Description –
‘Poetic’ Prose Poem –
Philosophy & Beliefs –

Reaction to Another –
Memory

“Childhood doesn’t always end on such a clear metaphor, but his half burnt train was a direct one.”
~
“My father called me Half Pint. I thought it was affectionate until a psychiatrist told me it was derisive.”
~
“For days now the calligraphy of their plaited dance frightens me and entrances me.”
~
“Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.”
(Wallace Stevens)
~
All language is metaphor. “This is not a pipe.” (Rene Magritte)

Kenneth Hudson

for the dead Unknown Traveler

 

Sun-dried flowers

drape around a crude wooden cross,

posies shrivel at its base.

So, this was The Place,

already neglected like all things lost.

Roadside litter obliterates it,

distorting into false memories,

somebody’s story that never was.

 

Tears dry up, grief passes.

If it was endless the power surge

would blow neural fuses

fry brain circuits.

Look too long in the rear-vision mirror

and dust gets in your eyes.

You won’t see what lies ahead

and end up needing your own

roadside shrine.

Coral Carter

 

Hot pink feet

tuck into feathered undercarriages.

With a wind-up toy whirr

topknots take off —

fly missile straight

into Father’s scattershot.

 

Freefall

thump of the plump

dangle headed bodies plucked

woodstove roasted.

 

We spat lead pellets

Ping! Ting! onto side plates

wreathed with painted violets.

 

Now

he broadcasts seed.

Calls them in

Whoop! Whoop!

Whoop! Whoop!

I hear them talking —

the hunter and the hunted

together in the garden.

beach poemred clay poem
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