Tuesday poem: For the mornings after, yet to come
October 23, 2012
For the mornings after, yet to come
The comedic and the tragic, the curve sailing up into smile
or diving into frown; how clearly Greeks marked their rites,
their brief glimpse of the sacred. Human weakness and wiles
jammed behind leather grins, masks held by thongs tied tight
behind the ears. But when bodies can be jigged and changed
like shoes, like coloured hair, when man’s quick shifting
puts chameleons to shame, what of this new deranged
play of holy tricks and mundane lies, souls drifting
in opalescent truths, foxing smells and opaque looks?
I met a rogue, and thought him a little rough, a little hard,
and took him home, and let him take. So much he took
from what I then called me. Pink lotus girl with palest hands
awoke in his stead, and I became that all too famous swan,
draped with skin of goat. I kissed the now transfigured man.
P.S. Cottier
Here’s a feather from the swan that kissed you:
Press for added poetry.
Tuesday poem: Bulb
October 9, 2012
Bulb
Dirt-dunked like a tulip, the head erupts,
lava lines of black, darker than any ink,
lead from that buried hub, sprawling out,
seeking prey. Such dark questing feelers,
chameleon tongues probing, blind fingers
fondling scent braille of scattered crumbs.
Ants scurry back to their deep earth home.
P.S. Cottier
For further poems, not all as anty, press this feather:
Über-cool journal makes inexplicable mistake
October 4, 2012
Verity La, a rather stylish and influential on-line journal, has just published an interview with me, conducted by Duncan Felton. I deal with wonders such as buried cars and elephants’ testicles, inter alia. Why not go and have a read?
Also, in my Napoleonic campaign to take over the blogosphere, I have just had four poems published in Eureka Street. Marvel at tales of Albanian bowels, Julia Gillard’s shoe, discarded rubbish and strong language. Comments are always welcome there, too.
First Verity La, tomorrow the world…
Tuesday poem: Rapunzel’s lesson, and trans-Tasman co-operation
October 1, 2012
Rapunzel’s lesson
And after they have stopped swarming up
massing like armoured lice, itching, pulling…
What then?
Nothing in this world in free, she said, dear
mother, before she died, like all mothers
in this castellated world.
And she was right. After the long climb
they ask for my hand. Hair, rope-pulled,
then hand, for life.
I’ve learnt. I flick my golden ladder
and watch them free-fall, moat-wards,
screaming, motes of shiny dandruff.
And then I comb my hair.
P.S. Cottier
‘Rapunzel’s lesson’ was highly commended in The Bridge Foundation poetry competition, October 2009.
In an exciting development (well exciting for me, anyway) Tim Jones and I will soon begin editing a book of Australian speculative poetry. As you all know, that’s science fiction, fantasy, horror and magic realism. It will be published by Interactive Publications of Queensland. The book will contain new poems as well as previously published works, so watch out for the call for submissions and further details, dear fellow Australians of a poetic bent.
I am looking forward to working with Tim, who I have only met electronically. Amazing what a little Tuesday Poem can bring about. As he has previously edited Voyagers with Mark Pirie, he has the runs on the board, speculatively speaking.
So the little fantasy poem above is a tribute to Books Yet to Come.
Tim Jones
I spent most of the weekend at the Conflux science fiction convention in Canberra, where I met some poets who I will spank with Rapunzel’s hairbrush if they do not submit to the anthology.
They have been warned…
For further poetry, press this raven’s feather. Never say nevermore, chickies.
Tuesday poem: Sea
September 24, 2012
Sea
It pulls harder than any roping octopus,
Kali’s deep green army of sinuous terror,
bites deeper than haunting white shark,
bloody ghost that gutted brothers before birth.
It throws off surfers, tinnies, yachts and tankers
like a gnarly horse at rodeo, then clowns with us,
pulling down rescuers, spewing out the sodden child.
At stony beaches it applauds itself with each sigh,
the percussive pebbles played by ten thousand hands.
Sometimes, floating, I feel it stroke my back, teasing,
fingering, like a well-schooled lover. It whispers
not yet, I’m not ready, when I’m ready, you’ll go down.
P.S. Cottier
This poem appeared in my first book, The Glass Violin, which can still be ordered from Ginninderra Press. (Go to the ‘About’ page of this blog.)
I am gradually getting back into my routine of coffee and writing, after too many exciting things happening recently. I am on a panel and reading at the Conflux science fiction convention here in Canberra this weekend, speculative poetry being one of my loves. But as this is at the weekend, I don’t see it as breaking my routine.
At heart I am truly a bore. But sometimes a productive one.
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PS Cottier 