Tuesday poem: Wattle
September 7, 2015
Wattle
Confetti throws handfuls of self
against ecstatic sky
cheering its union with blue.
This is no watercolour plant.
Each bubble blown is distinct
a life born from Winter’s death.
I look at the tree and see God, hear
a choir of yellow lungs, inflated.
But then again, I’m not allergic.
P.S. Cottier
I will avoid any puns using the word spring in this post, however hard that is for me. Tonight (Tuesday) I’m reading at The Gods on the ANU campus (a short distance form the Australian National Botanic Gardens, where I photographed the wattle), with Melinda Smith and Owen Bullock. I am reading mostly new material. I am finding it easy to write at the moment, which has to be a Good Thing. I just hope that it’s not a sudden blaze, fading as quickly as a wattle.
Good to see that I am keeping my glorious pessimism well watered! It’s like a wattle, but beige, and it smells a bit like very well used socks.
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Belated Tuesday Poem: Missing Melbourne
September 2, 2015
Missing Melbourne
Alleys don’t exist here. Canberra has no use
for backways streets, for furtive lanes.
Lies are a different matter, but those
architectural commas, those cobbled
night-cart ways have no place amongst
paradise refined into
quintessence of tedium.
I love my new home’s cockatoos,
their hats of lairy scorn, their satire;
sound-beakers of heavy metal
poured into pure blue air.
But I dip my memory’s lid
to the Brunswick park
with forty tail-flagged dogs,
smaller than some Canberra backyards.
So much oomph, so much poo,
and bocce, like a kiss thrown
against the deeper green,
speaking of a bigger world
of coincidence and trust.
P.S. Cottier
Not Canberra
I have changed. I no longer miss Melbourne in the way I did when I wrote that poem, about 10 years ago. When I visit Melbourne now, it does not feel like a return home, but a trip to ‘somewhere else’. Even the maps in my mind of how to find things are fading.
When I first came to Canberra I searched for a centre in vain. Now I am enamoured of the space and sky here; a change just beginning in the poem, I think. If I had stayed in Melbourne, I don’t think I would be writing so much poetry, as I had more Things to Do; more distractions. Of course, I have now become more involved in Canberra’s cultural life, but I think the move from Melbourne drove me into my own head a little more than staying would have.
Please don’t misunderstand me. Poetry can be written in a truly urban environment as much as in Canberra’s semi-whateverness. I get truly sick of the fervent rural trend in much contemporary poetry, what I call the Misty Cow School. And last week I felt a retrospective sense of pride to see how many Melburnians ralled against the Border Force* stopping random people to ‘check their papers’. (If they were carrying The Australian, presumably they’d be acceptable…)
But Canberra is my home now, and I feel glad to get off the plane or bus or train here. Zireaux was kind enough to feature a series of my Canberra poems here, with his commentary.
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*Who designed the black uniforms? Or did they just visit a museum of WWII and copy the Nazi uniforms?
Tuesday poem: The ones wearing suits
August 17, 2015
The ones wearing suits
are the only ones with polished shoes catching wedged glimpses of the blue eye sky. Their ties are well knotted and the women’s hair constrained like ostrich eggs on their heads. We slouch by, wearing jeans, wearing ironic slogans like brands. We are comfortable enough to slob; comfortable enough to break traffic laws. We sip our coffees and flick through sullen mags; our thumbs fidget only on phones. We complain if we wait too long, and swear at meters mouthing our change like madeleines.
The ones wearing suits wait for the piece of paper from the ones behind that other counter (yes, those other ones sometimes wear suits, but beige and grudgingly). Ah that I could unknot those papers! I say nobly to myself, as I sip my expresso, and watch those queuing, watch those forming a border around the Department of Immigration and Border Protection. Framing my coffee with their neat ties of anxiety, their perfect, uneasily bunched hair.
P.S. Cottier
That prose poem was first published in Awkword Paper Cut (US) last year as part of an essay I wrote about writing, the Australian flag, nationalism and immigration, called ‘Mild flapping’.
I remembered it yesterday, as I was flipping through a Real Paper Paper, and came across an advertisement for a senior position at the Department of Immigration and Border Protection. It is obviously in the HR area, but the title given to the position is ‘Head of People Division’. I read that as the person responsible for drawing a line between those of us lucky enough to be in Australia, and those trying to make it here. People Division with the Border as the vinculum. Call me silly!
The poem above describes Lonsdale Street in Braddon, Canberra, where people on visas of various sorts in Australia go to a branch of the Department, often, it seems, trying to have their stay extended or made permanent. A couple of doors up is one of my favourite cafés, where those of us with citizenship sip our drinks and write poems.
And of course, there are the people we can’t see, locked up elsewhere.
***
I used to do a bit of book reviewing in The Canberra Times. Indeed, I once won $200 of wine in the ACT Writers Centre Awards for a book review, which was damned useful. My reviewing seems to be taking off again. Here is a link to a review of a book about ageing by Rudi Westendorp which was published recently. (Sydney Morning Herald site.)
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Tuesday poems: Via link
August 10, 2015
http://www.eurekastreet.com.au/article.aspx?aeid=45121#.VcgdN2thiK0
No, there is not a poem called ‘Via link’ at that link, but there is one called ‘The laws of cricket rewritten for the fairy world’ and one called ‘All the ships of the world’. I am obviously overwhelmingly worldly. The publication is Eureka Street.
I am very happy with the cricket poem, as it combines a couple of interests, namely, weird imaginary creatures and sport.
It was written a couple of months back, and is therefore not a feeble attempt to escape the true hideousness of the Ashes* by an escape into fantasy. But please, if you wish to read it that way, be my guest. Leave a comment at Eureka Street, if you feel that way inclined.
Magic!
The ships of the world poem is far angrier and political, although it does contain several puns. You have been warned.
Other Tuesday Poets may or may not be celebrating England’s victory in the Ashes. Some may not even follow cricket. Read the works of the other Tuesday Poets around the world by pressing here.
I’m going to watch some netball.
*That means the Ashes series for men in this post.
Tuesday poem: Crying over spilt light
August 3, 2015
Crying over spilt light
About one-fifth of the world’s population can no longer detect the Milky Way with the naked eye due to light pollution. (Reported in Cosmos magazine, August/September 2009.)
Obesity of light blankets black,
clogs the arteries of recognition.
Blindness comes from the stroke
of too easy ignition; the fatty candle
of conjoined cities chokes imagination.
No matter; search the lost skies
by screen’s unblinking gaze,
and rediscover what Neanderthals
once mind-wandered quite for free.
Erasure of night by carrion globe,
pecking out eyes of speculation.
P.S. Cottier
I wrote this one back in 2009, and it was published in The Specusphere. I thought I would republish it as this year is the International Year of Light.
It struck me as ironic that the light we use to free ourselves from darkness in fact blinds us to the stars.
Have other poets have been writing about light?
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PS Cottier 