choppers, fangs, tusks
October 8, 2010
Teeth
Baby teeth parade in neat lines
proclaiming perfect evenness.
Easy equation in which numerator
and denominator meet and greet
over pink board of lisping tongue.
Gummy foundations for architecture
of white, well-placed tiny bricks.
But the gothic develops quickly.
Dark gaps gape like blind eyes
between crooked slates of ambition.
Tooth grows over tooth, bony excess,
lurking doppelgängers of tusk.
Then mouth exorcises milky ghosts
and settles down to grown-up sense,
grinding out a modest lifetime;
our well-worn, skullful suburb of jaw.
Science and Poetry
September 1, 2010
Three poetry books were recently launched containing poems on scientific themes. They are called Law and Impulse (maths and chemistry) Earthly Matters (biology and geology) and Holding Patterns (physics and engineering). The project was called Science Made Marvellous, and organised by the Poets Union Inc as part of National Science Week. All three books were edited by Brook Emery and Victoria Haritos, and the whole project was organised by Carol Jenkins.
I have a poem about Galileo in Holding Patterns and two about the Darwins (Emma and Charles) in Earthly Matters. As an innumerate, I found the fact that I have a poem in the physics and engineering book more than funny.
For a limited time the books can be also downloaded as free PDFs from the Poets Union website at http://www.poetsunion.com/node/806 . (Sorry, you’ll have to copy and paste.)
Here’s my Galileo poem to whet (or blunt) your appetite.
Galileo’s dance
Liquid turned hard, glass turned to heaven
and you saw that we must be mutable;
changed the rock sure eye of earth
into a speck, one amongst the masses,
all moving. They locked you down,
house-bound, a threat to galactic security;
to a solidity that had already mutated,
as they might have melted you on fire,
a terrorist of unrepentant reason.
So silly to say you were a still centre
from which ideas flowed. No, no,
you went far further; questioning the
questioner’s position, pulling security
blankets away from under fatty,
fixated minds of certainty.
Focusing,
describing detail,
you precisely put an end
to the lie that we are the answer to all.
Others would follow in the ark of wonder;
Charles waltzing hand in hand with Albert;
broad ramp providing access to genius
on wheels. Moving, always moving,
accelerating now in race-track science,
or rockets sifting star-flour for other, further Earths.
But you, with your glass, your eyes,
your paints, you showed the way.
Your gravity can still be detected,
for four hundred years is barely a blink,
a twitch in this dance without choreography.
Swinging on, we too shift, stare, move and parry
and recall long leaps first performed in Tuscany.
P.S. Cottier
Modern Jesus
August 5, 2010
Ten moments in the life of modern Jesus
1. At the bowls club, selling raffle tickets;
2. Not voting for blustery Christians;
3. Trying to eat vegetarian (locusts were never much chop);
4. Sipping light beer and saying it’s just as good;
5. Riding his bike (unless delivering meals);
6. Going Anglican to hear the chicks (vocational guidance systems lock on all sorts);
7. Walking the dogs on Canberra winter mornings (but not always picking up poo);
8. Buying The Big Issue and reading it;
9. Studying obituary column poetry and not even thinking of laughing;
10. Making sure that widows and widowers win the chook raffle (see 1 above) and sharing the meal (despite 3 above).
P.S. Cottier
Flying dogs
July 21, 2010
Do dogs dream of flying?
The paws scrabbling during dreams,
the muffled barks, wrapped in cloud;
could it be they chase sparrows
up beyond tight leash of earth?
How far do their brains stretch,
those companions of smooth aliens,
those interpreters of foreign voice?
They know to find meaty meaning
in nonsensical noise we make,
the complicated sound droppings
we float into blank noseless air.
Why then could dog not look beyond
and dream of wings, of slipped collar
soaring? Little Pegasus of wag,
small brown scented eagle;
scratching blue in basket bliss.
Rainbow of smells is beckoning.
P.S. Cottier
For those who seek perfection
July 18, 2010
Princess of Blogs
Each night she updated; edited pending comments,
entered scripture of text with exclamatory glee.
In her room she lived quiet, but energetically,
lap-top dancing, fingers quick clicking castanets.
Her pictures were immaculate, draped over chairs,
or hanging with her coterie, smiles like lesser stars.
Reshaping her target, tags and links in side-bars,
she monitored daily hits, archer of loaded air.
And when the virus came, a little worm of strife,
that annoying addition that is always so hungry,
(for it must eat each Apple core or sturdy square PC)
she froze as well; still as Lot’s eye-assaulted wife.
She stared at the locked screen, immobile and blank-eyed,
then wept for the eve that her perfect blog just died.
P.S. Cottier
PS Cottier 