Monthly Archives: June 2016

Poetry is not a partner who’ll dump you after just one dance.

Poetry is not a partner
who’ll dump you after just one dance.

29.6.16 (#179) the now by Myron Lysenko

the now
of then suddenly

The Advantages of Poetry

Be faithful to your calling.
It will not desert you.
(You will doubt this at times,
when it seems to take leave of absence,
but trust. It WILL come back.)

Poetry won’t keep you warm
on cold nights,
but will help you celebrate
those who do
(every coupling
a secret threesome)
and console you
after they depart.

It might not make you rich
but you’ll think
your poverty’s worth it.

You’ll always
have someone to talk to.

Poetry is not a partner
who’ll dump you after just one dance.
Poetry wants to go home with you.
And if you can’t dance,
poetry will teach you.

Poetry will happily
get wasted with you –
and in the morning
you’ll both look worse for wear.
Later, though,
poetry will help you straighten out.

If the power goes off,
you only need a candle
and some kind of notebook
with keyboard or pen.
You can do without TV
or someone else’s novel.

It won’t feed you
but it can make you forget about meals,
and any other hunger or thirst
except the ache for perfection
of word or line.

No matter what goes wrong,
no matter how helpless you feel,
there is always this to do.

And when everything’s right
and beautiful
and buoyant,
poetry enables you
to hold the moment a whole lot longer,
then to return for more.
(With poetry, there is no such thing
as being too greedy.)

Poetry doesn’t care
about fame and status.
You do –
and it may or may not happen –
but to poetry it’s simply irrelevant.

You want someone to read your poetry,
someone to hear your words.
You’re allowed to want that; it’s natural.
And there will be those who do.
Cherish them, even if they are not many.

But know, as well,
that if you stand outside and speak your poetry,
be it in a shout or a whisper,
the trees will hear, and the air.
When you read your words over to yourself, silently,
angels and spirits will stand at your shoulder
reading too, noticing the pictures and the music.
And when the words are nowhere but in your mind,
God perceives them, who put them there.

footloose and fancy free

footloose and fancy free


Like a mature tree, suddenly
dug up, pulled out of place
of anchor and home,
the roots shaken free of dirt
and loam, aquiver in the air,
unfamiliar element, the wind
too much for those delicate
tubers that want to suck
the dense dark and wet,
want to feel the pressure
of being held in the earth.

When I am about to travel
I feel my feet shiver in the air,
the weight of the house, paddocks,
family, animals fall away.
Like that mature tree,
whose nakedness is hurriedly
wrapped in black plastic,
I am loaded into the car
and I drive myself away.

* I am a little bit behind due to preparations for travel (see above!!) But now I am actually on the road and footloose and fancy free I will catch up.

Death Traps

Up the Cross,
back in the day
we had good timing for long drops and narrow spots
no views of anything
but yourself in the mirror,
depending on how fast you got the cabinet open and
what bottles were inside

bathrooms looked into light-wells where
on hot nights
we would smoke
heels stopped against the open door
faces as far into the gap as our shoulders would allow
it was magic, maybe luck
that we survived

life was rife with sudden rocks
regret and death fell into piggy banks
as steadily as the cash

beauty is self-fulfilling
is what I know for sure and shame,
well, it never fell on me.

Glastonbury, 1994

When they invent time travel,
whether DeLorean or phone box
I won’t go forward, but back.
There’ll probably be strict laws
about interference
and the paradox
as explored in science fiction
forever, and yet, a visit
to Glastonbury in ’94
surely wouldn’t be a threat,
or trigger Bradbury’s
butterfly effect?
(Unless someone already did,
and that explains the Trump.)
I’d blend into the heaving crowd,
a very happy, sunburnt piggy.

I want to see Johnny Cash live.
I want to watch the Man in Black
and hear him walk the line.
’69 at San Quentin
is out of the question,
but ’94 will do fine.

A simple time machine and off she went,
pausing momentarily to buy a tent.

P.S. Cottier

The ‘butterfly effect’ mentioned here refers to the short story ‘A Sound of Thunder’ by Ray Bradbury, in which the accidental killing of a butterfly in the distant past results in a very different future world, not least in political terms.

Apparently it was hot at Glastonbury in 1994, with no mud.

I messed up the numbering of my posts, having two marked as #24. Today is #29.

Claine Keily # 28 Saints and grassless yards

She sits there beside
a little heater
outside the window
some victory
her animal
impossibly warm
like something stolen

It is a strange kind of revenge
for her to stay late in bed
to eat even
when not hungry

Despite the ways
she burdened libraries
the way she can
match him and beyond
without saints in female form
disguised as whores or in tuxedos even
she would be a pony wintered
in grassless yards

The purity of the road, I can almost smell the old lead-based gasoline.

The purity of
the road, I can almost smell
the old lead-based

burke: 1949 Happy New Year!

Salt Peanuts blasting on
the player as party whistles
join in, balloons bouncing.
I’m watching On The Road
again . The purity of
the road, I can almost smell
the old lead-based
gasoline. Pawning time
at a pit-stop – ‘We’ve
gotta Go! Move!’ I sit,
shivering with a cold,
fire burning late
in the grate and in me.
‘Poor tragic Dean!’

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