Poem: Bogongville
October 1, 2026
That flag-pole must be magnetic,
pulling them in like soft iron filings,
throwing them down to fluttering lawn,
now carpeted in giant rug of quiver.
Magpies fatten on sudden protein,
flightless sumos, warbles muted
by wads of cotton wool moth.
Is it the twisted light, the hot rumble
that lemmings them here in Canberra,
those soft knock-knock jokes told
on Parliamentary windows?
The conga line of lunatics
dies, baited by abundance;
mistaking glare for moonlight’s
whisper, its fitting glove of glow.
PS Cottier
The numbers of bogong moths are finally increasing, after their numbers crashed in 2017. Drought and increasing temperatures were to blame. It’s great to see them coming back again; hopefully not just an upwards blip on a downward trending graph. Parliament House in Canberra used to sport very fat magpies who feasted on the moths. The flagpole referred to is the enormous one that flies the Australian flag over that building.
This poem was written back in those days where they formed huge swarms, and hid in discarded shoes. (They are flying to cool caves to multiply and die.) The photo, which does not really catch the numbers around, was taken on the south coast of NSW.
Poem: Passing beauty
July 7, 2026
It's moving, just ahead
of the players' most clever feet.
Every four years, we fill a cup,
then pour it out, a month of dreams.
Was it just last week that Bergkamp
flicked with orange elegance,
side-footing space and time?
No, he is long gone now,
off fielding sixty years.
Others follow. Messy time
melts beauty, remoulds it,
casts it always anew.
It never ages, constantly fired,
as we fade, we watchers,
yesterday's players, passing.
Twenty sips at the cup
will fill a lifetime;
held safe in keeper's hands.
PS Cottier
Photograph: Herbert Nott, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons
I tend to trot this poem out when the World Cup is on, whether women's or men's. I've had to update Bergkamp's age a few times, but the pun on Messy still stands! The photograph is of Dutch soldiers playing football in Ontario, Canada (the date given is circa 1940-1949).
Poem: There are five poets in my garden
June 11, 2026
There are five poets in my garden
— and they think that they are bulbs.
But the first one smells carcinogenic,
and he is clothed in ancient brown,
as if he stole the mud-flecked jumper
from the very body of a bog-man.
The second is talking about
the fervid dangers of Pokémon,
and how in her day, they looked
for birds, and birds were quite enough.
She has a collection of empty eggs,
pilfered in her day, which lie
in an ancient purloined nest —
a weird eunuch’s severed balls,
placed in a stolen cup of misery.
Number three is being thoughtful.
He never utters a sentence without
a French philosopher’s name —
like a pigeon (of stolen eggs) he says
Bourdieu, Bourdieu, and oui, he bores me.
Number four is addicted to rhyme.
He knows he is somewhat out of time,
but like a tune you know too well,
he is married to the villanelle.
And the fifth? She plants sarcasm
in a weedy succulent garden,
where such thin green tongues
poke like wee prickly dragons.
She’s fully awesome, and awfully sweet.
PS Cottier
I have posted this one before, but I had a sudden urge for poet gardening, before the World Cup takes over.
Belated non-Valentine’s Day haiku
February 20, 2026
Unwashed boxer shorts
unfurled flags on the table
once there were roses
***
They both loved the dog
long treat filled conversations
silence when he died
***
Nineteen-fifties films
lipstick stains on his collar
Rorschach of regrets
***
PS Cottier
These weird little ones came about after a saw details of a competition being run by a well known poetry journal for haiku about not being in love, or non-Valentines Day poems. They wanted haiku written in the slightly rigid 5/7/5 form. After writing three, I saw that the contest was for those who hadn’t had more than one book published, which ruled me out.
I’m glad I didn’t see that before writing this nasty triptych, which was a lot of fun. But, as they say in the classics, read the rules!
Poem: A further squalid thing
January 16, 2026
The spaces between dog’s toes
are gardens of smell
erupting fungus tickles the nose
with a soupçon of shit.
She stores a safe of comfort there
and sniffs the spaces
to remind her of the day, the week,
perhaps the fragrant year.
Her brain is a sommelier’s,
sensing the slightest hint of dead bird,
the one at the street corner,
and comparing it with the cockatoo
whose carcass she pranced through the park.
The mixture of these avian scents
must be a kind of heaven, a menu
of brown and must, tucked between
those neat non-books of toe.
The title refers to Sei Shōnagon The Pillow Book, the section called Squalid Things. Poem first published Womens Ink!, November 2024
