The poet I dislike is writing
He frowns, and two buttocks
appear on the outside
of the vertical line
creasing from nose to baldness.
He finds the word for the poem,
the exact right nugget,
and squeezes it from his head.
He wipes it on the paper.
A study in brown, he continues.
He strains towards immortality.
P.S. Cottier
Wistful and vicious
Now from Wednesday June 1st, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day at a different site, called Project 365 + 1. Here’s the link. I’ll see how it goes for a month. But poetry will continue to appear here, usually on Tuesdays, even if I may lapse into egregious loveliness from time to time.
Tuesday Poem: Malcolm Turnbull’s tie
May 9, 2016
Malcolm Turnbull’s tie
Oh, when I curl up and die
please just let me be reborn
as Malcolm Turnbull’s tie.
No-one could weep (or even sigh),
at the elegant prospect
of being hung as Malcolm’s tie.
Way way way up on high
a spray-tanned face talks
above such a gorgeous tie.
And below that face lies
the endless, knotted glory
of a must-be imported tie.
We’d get on well, he and I,
as he smoothes and flatters
above the silken tongue of tie.
So, when I curl up and die
please just let me be reborn
as Malcolm Turnbull’s tie.
P.S. Cottier
Image of Robespierre chosen purely for sartorial reasons (and for the smirk).
As we enter an election campaign of approximately five hundred years, spare a thought for all the left-wing voters of Canberra (the place) who will be hearing Canberra referred to as merely the seat of the Government, as we go about our ordinary lives.
Many of us as very nice little bike-riding freaks.
(Image from the Musée Carnavalet, Public Domain)
Tuesday poem: Two thousand years (or so)
March 28, 2016
Two thousand years (or so)
And so, before this, in Europe,
there were eggs, and celebrations
and the lovely call of Spring?
So what, my dear, so what?
Give me the man
with the steel pierced hands
and the rock rolled back.
Give me blood, and the wine and bread,
the kiss on the cheek
the love of the leper,
and the woman loving too much
he dismissed with equal love.
This is the man;
and always the women
listening and learning (and even teaching),
and mourning, until he came to whisper;
I am faithful and I am here;
always alive and always here.
My Easter, so very old.
My Easter, so very new.
P.S. Cottier
I really don’t know how I managed to post two ginger Jesuses, but I suppose I can pretend that’s one for each thousand years or so.
The poem is based on the type of comment one often reads that points out that Christianity ‘stole’ Easter, and that somehow proves that it has nothing genuine to it. That’s how all human institutions work, through influence and parasitism. Look at the English language, for example! Doesn’t prove or disprove anything about the existence of god, really, the fact that people previously celebrated the arrival of Spring.
I started watching the film The Passion of the Christ recently and found it beyond terrible. I have yet to see a good film about Jesus; perhaps because the words and ideas are the important thing. But a poet would think that, I suppose.
I had a nice time at the coast over Easter, swimming and enjoying the last warmth. Soon Canberra will demand gloves and coats. Which is cool, in terms of being able to flaunt accessories, but miserable in that you actually need them to avoid freezing. The moment where cool meets cold is an unwanted slap of reality.
So there you have it; religion and fashion. Next week: what’s with the outbreak of ugly camel coats and will they squeeze through the eye of a needle?
Tuesday poem: This poem is a birdbath
January 18, 2016
This poem is a birdbath
and it fills itself with bird,
the quick splash of silvereye
the suspicious sip of currawong,
unable to believe in non-carnivorous gift —
looking out for bigger beaks behind the bush.
This poem features no sudden cat, lurking,
a sonnet’s volta, waiting to rewrite the tone
from mild celebration to whiskered doom.
The water slops over the rim of
the poem.
The mess feeds the grass below, as do the birds.
Birds draw no firm distinctions between bath
and toilet. They revel, quietly, and the poem
expresses gratitude, for being, for being merely.
P.S. Cottier
Muse with beak
That one doesn’t really need much exegesis! Annoyingly, a wee glitch (as opposed to an enormous GLITCH) is preventing me doing a broken line…’the poem’ is supposed to appear under the rest of the line. But I’ll try and stay positive rather than cursing my computer or the platform which allows for these posts!
See which Tuesday Poets are still posting poems by checking out the sidebar here: http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.com.au
***
In other poetry doings, Michele Seminara has recently had four poems featured at Rochford Street Review, and it was a delight to find that one was dedicated to a certain P.S. Cottier. Michele’s first book, Engraft, in which these poems appear, will soon be launched in Sydney, Wagga Wagga and Melbourne. You can read the poems here, and also find details of the launches there. I am thinking of going to Wagga.
Apart from being a fine poet and editor, Michele is also a blogger.
Tuesday poem (early!): Two containers
January 10, 2016
The two items above are the subject of the following poem, written at the Green Shed in Civic, which is a store selling items mainly found at Canberra’s tips. Late last year, as part of the Design Canberra festival, punters were asked to write a response to objects at the Green Shed. I was the first to have a go, and set myself a ten minute limit. Here’s the poem, with just a couple of typos corrected:
Two containers
Black rectangle of leather,
simple silver clasp. You smell
of clean secrets, of transparent glue,
or a genie addicted to soap.
Gold lettering spells ‘Lodge Elata’
but your elation long fled the bag.
She searches for crumbs, carolling.
Banana jug — cracked as if you were
yourself a punchline — jagged haha
or an inappropriate smirk,
yellowing a funeral with muted glee.
Three bananas. Two are thick lips,
and one a self-tasting tongue,
enjoying the flavour of milky jokes.
P.S. Cottier
The masonic bag did become transparent after the poem was written, in the sense that I hear that someone stole it from the shop! Not a genie, either. Or so I suppose.
Thanks to Kaaron Warren for alerting me to this event.
And happy 2016!
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