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  1. 1. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 1 of 22back to Creatrix Issue 11 Main Page Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Selectors/Editors: Sally Clarke, Anne Dyson, Peter Jeffery, Veronica Lake, Chris Palazollo and Flora Smith Administration: Sally Clarke Original text: Poets in this issue: Tatjana Debeljacki Tatjana Debeljacki Renee Pettitt-Schipp Derek Fenton Jacqui Merckenschlager Max Merckenschlager Tanya Jaw Kevin Gillam Kelly Pilgrim-Byrne J.R. McRae Cuttlewoman Coral Carter Christopher Konrad Geoff Stevens Ron Okely Cynthia Rowe Jan Napier Paula Jones Laurel Lamperd Flora Smith Meryl Manoy Mardi May Elio Novello Gary De Piazzi Tineke Van der Eecken Dean Meredith Patricia Sully Liana Joy Christensen Shey Marque Sue Clennell Janet Jackson Rose van Son Allan Padgett Jonothon Twist Graeme Butler Sally Clarke The Time of Birth I will conquer the fear of flying I will jump with the parachute of kiss While walking Ill dance to the drum rhythm Dream in the clothes of the penguin Thumb through the book Goodbye my sixteen years with premises in the mind that I will carry them in my fifties real and modest and at least once a day I will laugh out loud Really enjoy In intimately woven world When the moon passes its seventh round And Jupiter falls on Mars Our world will be the leader And love will be the path for the stars That would be the time when Aquarius is born To my grandchildren, grand-grandchildren I will tell stories about times When people were people. Tatjana Debeljacki 12/11/2010
  2. 2. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 2 of 22 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Advance Australia For a moment our money seemed to fail us, zooming in on the Wall Street banker despair distilled the American flag grew quiet, hung the nation shut its mouth a nation almost questioned its God Given Right a nation almost questioned. On Golden Soil with Wealth for Toil we paused watching the nightly news closing our purses tightly staying in. We almost asked - a different way? We almost asked then Stimulus Package, Chinas strength a mining boom or sheer good luck, we recovered. Relieved, we grabbed our credit cards and the moment was gone. Renee Pettitt-Schipp Butterfly Thin winged your flight suggests a world where fairies hide in tangled roots and dragons guard bright secrets. But you share yours, splaying sudden colour at the edge of a flower, then closing modestly into yourself. At the headland I sat under the shade of a Banyan tree to watch the finches bath and play. In the distance slow coconuts crawled up the beach. And there you were white winged in layers of shadow, your life measured by the beat of fragile wings, yet for reasons unseen, intentionally setting a path against the breeze, you dance in the dark never meaning to make the sea. Renee Pettit-Schipp ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ A Passport To Poetry Now that I am finally retired can I describe myself as a poet on my arrival and departure forms, 12/11/2010
  3. 3. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 3 of 22 or will my demeanour just show it? Will a pensive look and a beret do it or a pen always tucked behind my ear? What about a notebook inscribed "Poesy" or an eye with a hint of a tear? Now that Ive had some poems published does it finally give me the right to proudly proclaim my profession by putting it into black and white? Perhaps I could get some business cards describing me as a purveyor of verse or even an artistic tattoo, just a great poets name, tasteful and terse. Better still I can go onto Facebook: so everyone in cloud cuckoo land can see, like all of the others who live there, I can be whatever I want to be! Derek Fenton The Retiring Kind What will you do in retirement, is what so many people say. Will your eyes still retain their glint during the next thirty year stint? How will you survive without pay? What will you do in retirement? But for whom is this question meant? Is it for me, or for them, they pray? Will your eyes still retain their glint? Perhaps its disillusionment which they suspect is on the way. What will you do in retirement? Without work wheres your fulfilment, how will you occupy your day? Will your eyes still retain their glint? For me, poetry is enchantment, a bright beacon to light up my way. So Ill be fine in retirement, and my eyes will retain their glint! Accepted by Quadrant. Derek Fenton ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Remembering the Eiderdown Duck down beneath its feathery folds, warm and wonderfully light, a cloud cave of dark comfort, a haven from harsh adult laughter, a place to lose ourselves in giggle and tickle until, emerging exhausted, we sink deep into duck down pillows. Included in ‘Captured Moments 2010 Jacqui Merckenschlager ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Before Batman And Sparrow Rollers and breakers, the restless ebb and flow of city, 12/11/2010
  4. 4. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 4 of 22 drifted through dreams in a Melbourne hostel. Have others camped along the Coorong used similar psychology, heard thunder of hidden shores as distant, drugging midnight traffic? Before Batman and sparrow, did robin and reed-warbler grace Yarras untamed edge? Did platypus slip down her tributaries and flounder over her waterfall toward a pristine bay? Before crystal condominiums grew along her bank of bridges, that ferries limbo and passing fingers lightly brush, which limbs draped their shading strands? Which heads ducked beneath them in barks, before barques, before liners? Were there river box and blue cranes before docks and steel containers? Before Batman and sparrow, Indian taxi-drivers with GPS navigation, grinkaries with Angle tongues and citriodoras planted in median strips, what trees were hollowed for nests by beaks with sulphur crests of lovers who dream that this is normal? Footnotes 1. John Batman is considered by many to be the founder of Melbourne 2. A grinkari (plural grinkaries): pronounced “krink-ree” is a white fella 3. Eucalyptus citriodora is the botanical name for lemon-scented gum Highly Commended in Bundaberg Festival Of Arts Poetry Competition. Included in ‘Captured Moments. 2010. Max Merckenschlager ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Someone is sitting in the shade today because someone planted a tree a long time ago Warren Buffett I give you my face Since I cant see yours Small and finely cut Black and white Unreachable to Your hands As others want To gaze upon the thing they do not love My face - a mosaic Leaving imprints on walls As it moves From bed to bed Capturing gazes mimicking smiles Skipping from Head to head Casting possibilities Until it returns You send word I lost my wife Momentarily Thanks to the Pin-up girl You were instead 12/11/2010
  5. 5. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 5 of 22 Tanya Jaw ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ proper hops the Chinese checker board was crafted from American pine and the balls made a kind of music in their rubber floral bag and Nan let my little sister do a hop when there wasnt one and the balls glistened like jaffas only none were orange and my favourite was getting a four-hole hop into the corner of the star and Nan had come to babysit us and all the balls mixed up in the middle of the game made me feel all tangled and bursting and there was red and white and blue and green and yellow and black and the paint on the star was faded and gone more dusty brown than paint and I was always green and Nan said it didnt matter about proper hops or who won but it did to me Kevin Gillam thin poems thin poems are like shoot- ing stars, arcing across the blackboard of sky, like French knitting, emerging me- thodically from the cotton reel of thought, like hope, forever casting out, unreeling, unreeling Kevin Gillam ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Belly Envy Searching for infertility cures Google returns a bonus search box: The trick of the tiny belly. But I want a belly-full a rounded, heaving, stretch-marked globe of a belly, life teaming underneath a thinning skin. Not a bonus box to store my yearning in whilst my stomach shrinks to a wrinkled empty sac. I want to puke every morning and still grow. And whilst Im at it, I want Google to get rid of Sylvia Plath and her O so Barren Woman. I want her madness to stop stealing my show. 12/11/2010
  6. 6. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 6 of 22 Accepted for Polari Journal, October 2010 Kelly Pilgrim-Byrne ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Tracks] The sand wavers near the water, Pushed to the brink Where tracks wash out. Skin slides down the elements tracking the sun, Cloth waves loose Flirting with bodies beneath. Hes different. Up on the grass He lets the wind cut through his shirt, Long sleeves to hide the tracks Where hes been. Published, illustrated, online J.R.McRae The European Wolf Prowling round my perimeters A great, grey predatory male With scars on his flank, A coarseness to his muzzle And one skewed tooth. I see him in the woods. He stops - Holding my eyes captive Whilst he devours. I have no defence against those eyes, Hunted to the brink of extinction Their flame dark and intense - The forest fire consuming lesser fires Cradled in man made girdles of rock. I saw him mount his mate. Her with the soft back pelt, Feed her cubs to keep his blood alive, Haunches quivering with his impact. She milked his strength, Snapped at him over her shoulder, Fire flashing from the razor teeth Bared from beneath her curled lip. When I saw her, months later, with cubs, He was gone, Melded into the forest, A grey grieving hung Like perpetual winter in the air. I still see him, His seed frozen in time - star sown, Scattered across an expanding universe Seeking a wombs continuance, Finding the dead thighs of stars Whose light, still travelling, Glittered in the eyes of his mate. I am now in a foreign, sweltering city, Dreaming - to the distant whine Of traffic and mosquitoes - His cubs hunt their prey, Savour fresh blood on their muzzles, range In their forest, marking their territory and mine, Keeping me bound by their ancestral laws, A stranger prowling The perimeters of their being. I still see him Clear nights when the sky is fierce with stars I still feel the light of his eyes Searching after death for the womb house of his kind. 12/11/2010
  7. 7. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 7 of 22 I still see him ... J.R.McRae ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Nineteen years How the heart knows its own business. How it guides its feet through food, shelter, Boredom, fear, bliss, tears, madness. Just how crazed that pilot to come so far From any place to land, or even safely crash. Yet I know I do not need a diamond or pearls When raindrops sparkle from the tips of every twig. I know I do not need a dress when flowers ride The darkest day in white and yellow and pink. I do not need a veil when night will come To shroud the day, even the day that was never found. I know I do not need love When I have not lain with you These nineteen years. cuttlewoman The Burn The burn must be timely, At a sensible interval Since the previous burn, Taking into account the weather, Especially the prevailing winds. And pray for a little finishing rain When things go belly-up. The burn must be hot, But not too hot, and fast. Fire must be wielded selectively, Or else some species Will not recover from the burn. Fires raged out of control And too fierce, Up and down the wild tracks I had made of my life, And cauterizing everything. Stumping my love for Everything, killing feeling For years. Ash drenched With too late tears made wasteland Of years. What little grew, Grew painful, twisting in darkness, Waxing in the twilight of Getting on with it, over it. Fire can no longer reach The estranged and tender canopy of My love for you. The defences are Too thick for kerosene, for acid, For flames. Too harshly nurtured, Too ancient for reason. Too toughened by tears and guilt. Too shamed for shame. I cannot burn again? On the altar of my kindling, Pyromania be Thy name. cuttlewoman ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the summer sky blues strikes me eye blue arch over me blue smother me blue stun me blue 12/11/2010
  8. 8. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 8 of 22 always blue painstaikingly blue perpetual blue unrelenting blue blue blue blue blue blue blue blue blue blue yes mate its blue blue again blue without doubt blue fuck me blue dont tell me its blue i love a sunburnt country blue head for the beach blue run around after balls blue sunbake until you are red blue no cloud blue air con hum blue beer oclock blue swimming pool splash blue all compass points blue morning smoko blue lunch barbie blue knock off blue long afternoon with blowflies blue only crows in the sky at midday blue snakes out and about blue when will it end blue this blue never ending blue wake me when its over blue Coral Carter I see an older woman I see an older woman on the other side of Graeme Street older like me but hobbles hold me stop me running stop me grasping her stop me hugging her stop me inviting her home for a cup of tea a chat where steam rises spoons tink sugar glints instead I tell the dog at number 27 dont bark just dont bark Coral Carter ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Upon Peasant Poets Thinking about Hesiod seasonal calendars, planting crops good gods, bad men and muses: its not such a bad thing is it to be a peasant poet? keeps the establishment on their toes brings out the country in the urb crooked thinking along narrow roads. Chopping wood (another worthy occupation) in these days of PC may cost you your intellectual life I still drink wine from Margaret River vineyards and my cheese too springs from the rhetoric rural: O how idyllic the drive along Caves Road Im thinking about Hesiod and the cycles of the gods golden days and iron age and the fall of iniquitous man. 12/11/2010
  9. 9. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 9 of 22 Christopher Konrad Death in Tiananmen Square If all I had was the sand beneath the wind around this Esperance sea view that would be enough to live out my entire karma Of course that would be seen as ignorance and hubris by those caught up in revolt and the suffering of man: they would have to recall me, refit me and educate me into the right way of the world Of course this would not do as our brothers and sisters are strafed with misery and loss I would have to read great tomes and I would have to atone to learn anew all about the sins of omission If only I could teach the way of salt misted through the air of gulls swept by southern winds if only, somehow, I could tell them that hunger is my lot too then perhaps they would not feel so disastrously towards me Maybe then their ire would not scorch my skin Christopher Konrad ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Buried Alive Trapped in the living world so claustrophobic the lift out of order not going up for years. We wrote our messages on scraps of prayer alternating hope and desperation. Then one day we found the escalator worked but had two buttons only on its facia. G. and B. Ground, which we must leave and Basement where we were meant for all along. Geoff Stevens Golden Top Lost to the real world you walk the night corn moonlit heads nodding with prediction light from the window drawing you towards the dark farmhouse with its scintillating charm so you may prostrate yourself on its raven-poached doorstep of destruction where suicide notes proliferate and all delivery visits have been cancelled by prior arrangement Geoff Stevens ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 12/11/2010
  10. 10. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 10 of 22 Mary Ann on Walking I say to Mary Ann ‘My father never owned a motor car He walked nearly everywhere he went They awarded him an AOM for walking every Sunday for fifty years from Shenton Park Station to Hollywood Hospital to visit sick veterans from the bush With failing eyesight at ninety four every lamp post was an adversary Today we sat in a seminar on Alzheimers Keeping Alzheimers at bay Healthy diet Fruit and veg rich in poly phenols Omega 3 essential fatty acids from oily fish Exercise Thirty minutes walk a day Cycling or swimming A good nights sleep Youll be fine ‘But I cant walk, says Mary Ann ‘Im lucky to make it to the letter box and back ‘Ah ha For you there are Crosswords Board Games and Freecell She sends me an e-mail. ‘You know what I picked up on the net on walking? There was this guy who said: When he turned sixty-five my grandfather started walking five miles a day He is now ninety-five and we dont know where he is Ron Okely ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ romantic notes i pump the passion let him leave a toothbrush at my place, i wear his t-shirt makes him feel connected i send him sweets for Valentines he nibbles treats off my tummy i channel energy into tennis promise après-ski action slip romantic notes into his pocket, get sudsy in the shower and, when summer cold hits, show my devotion i turn my pad into luxury retreat but – but despite all my effort he refuses to pick up the phone Cynthia Rowe It Must Be Nice... It must be nice to have a son, she says, a boy in your family But I have a brother, I say 12/11/2010
  11. 11. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 11 of 22 No, you come from a family of girls But youve met my brother Hes not a real brother But he is a real brother, I say Not exactly ... hes adopted But hes always been there, I say was there before I appeared Still, it must be nice to have a son, she says, a boy born into your family Cynthia Rowe ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Nostalgia Bombs Hand him a cup of Jamaican Blue flavoured by cinnamon and sleight of hand. Offer the old man a slice of sponge calypsoed with sunshine and Kingston cream. Now see forgotten yesterdays explode upon Pops face. Jan Napier ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Jasmine Tea Flowers lull ripe as snow berries on the patterned fence. In a blue kitchen the white teapot plumps dry blossoms. The small china cup warms my hand becomes heavy. Spring cleans the palate at the window jasmine blooms. Paula Jones The Big Bang It fossilises me the loud nature of it raw and gaping truth as told by white coats and bubbling glass tubes. We all began in fury in the heat and anger of a million nuclear bombs which explains a lot about this world, dont you think. Id like to imagine it more like the blowing of a balloon the rhythm of giving air and growing the earth and sea in long, measured breaths. And the longer we exist the bigger we become in space suspended and glowing blue amongst the spilled stars, lighter than air itself. 12/11/2010
  12. 12. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 12 of 22 It is inevitable in time like rubber stretched to ultimate capacity that when the curve is full it will take the fast escape. Paula Jones ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Child Rearing The baby awoke all snuffy and puffy-eyed rattling the bars of the cot pleading to get into bed with me. Finally we slept. At five-thirty the toddler awoke ready to begin the day. Creeping out of bed afraid of waking the baby grabbing a dressing gown and fur-lined boots I tiptoe into the toddlers room holding my finger to my lips for silence. The toddler laughed and called my name. Mummy. A putting on of jumpers and socks and slippers on plump little feet I carry her against my breast her little body like a warm sausage We stood on the verandah and watched the sun a glow in the east signalling it was about to rise over the edge of our world. Laurel Lamperd ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Remembering Piaf She stood on the table my friend said. This tiny woman stood on the table and started singing, just like that. Just like that with no musicians. It was magic my friend said magic. A whole café suddenly silent. Even the noise from the kitchen the kitchen noises of pots and pans subsided and stopped. The chef stopped shouting at the kitchen hands. Waiters stood silently by the door. Hairs rose on the back of my neck she said. Her hand went to her neck and she rubbed it rubbed it abstractedly remembering Piaf how she stood on the table and started singing. Flora Smith 12/11/2010
  13. 13. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 13 of 22 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Printing Paranoia My printer has a mind of its own it chooses its own format. I type a page of my new poem – expect a copy like that. But no! the length of line is changed the header is bizarre the horizontal rearranged to perpendicular! Perhaps this could be rectified by changing margin settings or “align left “ to “ justify”- its really most upsetting. Lets have another go at this I click on print icon – but no! the bugger still insists- I see weve got a fight on. Maybe the manual can help maybe the trouble-shooter but no! this idiosyncrasy is unique to my computer. Enjambments worked out very well the typed page looks just fine. Press “print” again – bloody hell - its mangled up the lines! To add insult to injury it makes my name convertible I ‘m fed up and frustrated to find Im printed vertical. M M e a r n y o l y ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Speech In the silence of mind thought, a tongue-less bell, vibrates with memory; a tremor of intention, the shaking hand whose pen taps like a dancer across an empty stage; the stuttering tongue that trips over conversation, limbering up for the synaptic leap from thought to voice; this one-way trip a hazardous crossing with no return. Mardi May In Shanghai the cityscape is a tangram puzzle tangram of a bird in full flight 12/11/2010
  14. 14. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 14 of 22 tangram of a snake rippling across the land a planed and angled jigsaw of living its skyline soaring into distant futures these tottering towers building blocks of a child who knows no limitation. Mardi May ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Different Times Imagine Wall Streets disdain, if St Francis of Assisi lead his simple life in our time and domain. The ‘Lilies of the Field was once OK, but the Stock Markets todays main ‘Field of Play. “Forget about living in a community, my son. You now live in an economy, ad nauseam.” Elio Novello ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Parody The moon is not an eye you cannot see nor an oval to scream while children play tomorrow chasing balls that ne- -ver return elusive as dreams. Gary De Piazzi The Worm Within Rainbows at noon, pyjamas reeking from last nights turmoil and the world settles as if cleansed. With dimmed eyes he refuses to see caught by demons in the mind rainbows dont visit his world. Manacled to yesterdays blurted to surprise those around him. Everybody stops to stare, smile the knowing smile and go on as he settles back into himself. Age birthed the worm devouring today, feeding on instances until all that remains is yesterdays. But this too the worm will claim as it feeds back on itself stealing who he is, who he w Gary De Piazzi 12/11/2010
  15. 15. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 15 of 22 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Like a person You made me feel like a person again. With hands to read legs to stroke breasts to hold, and eyes to be seen. Someone with feelings, and words to give meaning. A brain to understand, and to be understood. You made me feel like a person again. Not the one who brings the children to school pays part of the mortgage cooks, and keeps the dishes clean. Unimportant, you say? Understand, you say? Love, you say? You dont realize you leave me more needy more wanting more dependent more alone. So I take it back: all of whats mine; the eyes, the legs, the hands, the breasts. Ill think with my brain before I give again. Tineke Van der Eecken Come right He sits clenched his muscle hard brain frozen to one thought. Itll blow over: shell come right. She wrestles and stirs sick of him sick of the two of them sliding down. Sick of not finding resolve of staring at their open wound. Of nothing changed since then. That one time: his eyes were alive his feelings expressed emotions shared. For someone. For someone else. Itll blow over, she had thought. Hell come right. Now years have passed And here they are: Eyes with no light All of that unspoken, Unshared. Tineke Van der Eecken 12/11/2010
  16. 16. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 16 of 22 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Wild-Wild West Every days a gold rush And you cant trust no-one Coz theyre all double-negatives And hangings a spectator sport And writings for tombstones And real men down whiskey And everyones your friend And its drinks all round The gunslingers in the belltower And women hike up their skirts And wear boots over fishnets But its not like the movies Where the sheriffs arent crooked And the villains all don black And everyones your friend And its drinks all round Its a dry argument in a dustbowl And you cant take a bath Coz the towns got no water So you wash once a month With a jug and a basin And the bedbugs dont mind And everyones your friend And its drinks all round The preachers daughters no virgin Lucky your horse knows the way Coz youre a wreck in a desert And the flowers are all cactus And your hats full of holes From all those near misses And everyones your friend And its drinks all round Yeah everyones your friend And its drinks all round Dean Meredith So Write Just write And it will be Just right Not for critics Afraid to live Not for publishers Afraid to print Write for you and Hearts that think And pure pages Thirsty for ink Forget about faults And be free Share with us Help us feel Help us see Just write And let it be Just right Dean Meredith ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ All of life I cannot live your tidy half-life; the saccharine deceit of cleanliness and godliness and goodliness that smothers authenticity and causes those who dont, or cant, pretend to feel inadequate 12/11/2010
  17. 17. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 17 of 22 Ive never been able to erect the polite palisade of veneers and facades that keeps you safely in the tepid shallows of life and love and neighbourliness and gives you credence in one anothers eyes so I have always gone too far beyond the pale; waded in beyond my depth sinking ever lower beneath the heavy weight of censure until at last in the deepest depth of my despair I found a desperate deliverance from mediocrity: a voice with which I can proclaim Im proud to be a misfit; a fringe-dweller, a citizen of the periphery; an imposter in the demi-death you call life lost among the niceties; voiceless, improper, exposed I dont belong on your self-constructed pedestals of smug conceit; amidst the smooth concealment of the petty jealousies, fickle affiliations and profound betrayals that undermine the foundations of your precarious platforms I have been half-dead so long I hunger for all of life; ugly, bitter, unpredictable; lyrical, luminous, laced with fears, caressed by joys too hot, too cold; exposed to all the elements I shall howl, lupine, to the full moon and whisper to her slender, sickle sister Ill scream, Ill weep, Ill roar and gnash my teeth and wring my hands and forfeit sleep and laugh aloud till tears do fall and sing, and sing my caterwaul Ill plumb the depths and scale the heights of woe and joy and secular delights Vive la difference! Vive la liberté! I have found my voice I am free to be me. Patricia Sully ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Red Caterpillar Learns to Fly The Buddhists say ‘As it is So why wait for metamorphosis? The red caterpillar minus a leg or two simply took to the yellow sky and flew Liana Joy Christensen Plaque Dentures are no fun nonetheless I dont give a toss about dental floss Brain plaques the thing that scares me If some medical giant invents neuro-floss in the service of humanitys mental hygiene I will be the first to erect a post-mortem plaque in brass Liana Joy Christensen ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ the other Other games echoes of inappropriate laughter 12/11/2010
  18. 18. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 18 of 22 from a gourmet dinner party hosted in downtown Ethiopia bounce around the streets of Delhi turned high caste playground where the urchins dwell not quite untouchable amid the garden spring clean verge pick-up in remembrance of the royal marriage arranged to appease the wicked step-mother game-face on bearing her ample dowry an allegiance of ants collecting crumbs and having outgrown the old begin a postmodern colony now that there is no Other and in our new found unity close our eyes for the blind tasting finger tips almost touching misread the flavours etched in Commonwealth Braille chips still on the block pining for gold worshipping the gun Shey Marque ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Poppy Day Drafted into killing yards herded through mud, boots slosh, squelch, and stick, rooted to the land. France, with her name precariously safety pinned to her pocket, watches their progress. Only the young trees fall. Published previously by Speedpoets Sue Clennell ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Art for fucks sake I get a beer and lean on the bar I can smell the pheromones Hes been sweating into that t-shirt all afternoon I want to touch but he doesnt even smile I think hed be intense in bed A really good hard fuck But hes so serious He doesnt flirt And I dont know where to start Were too scared to say what we want to say to the person we want to say it to because what if they dont like it They might laugh at us or never speak to us again and wed feel foolish and that would (it seems) be worse than our unrequited desire So we write it instead Publish it Perform it Trying timidly to deliver our message in the ridiculous hope that our target who we suspect likes us too although maybe thats just a mirage will be emboldened to touch us 12/11/2010
  19. 19. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 19 of 22 somewhere more intimate than the shoulder Somewhere like the waist Thats always nice Or ask us to dance or buy us a drink or invite us to a movie or just you know back to their place to uh look at their books Janet Jackson poems at 64 so men find a lover men who write poems of joy have found a lover men who at 64 write poems of exaltation at the wonder of the universe have found a lover whereas women who at 64 write poems of quiet splendour have found themselves have rejected male company in favour of books have rejected the soft-skinned, hard-cored cock in favour of their own familiar fingers Janet Jackson ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Ganymede carried off by the Eagle (1634-1693) in his red red dress thongs on his feet laced to the knee plumes tie his hair purple ripe plums fill his head Ganymede embraces the eagle neck-to-neck flies wings on horseback reins in the moon the sea a distant purple below them Rose van Son ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The Pineapple of Love I carve off the rough and prickled edges of your tortured soul. The surface, emerging wet and glistening, leaks pungent sweet juices and hints of desire, of love. I reach out desperate for words of comfort and for arms of desire and 12/11/2010
  20. 20. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 20 of 22 for wet lips of need. The golden jubilee, new swollen fruit, sweet, and gushing nectar, singing a poets call for vigour and rigour, sap erupting - upon my lips sugars of sunshine lit by life, hope and sticky farewells stain my biting teeth, jaws and mind, savouring sparkling flesh as I gaze upon each passing day - and wonder as I wander, if life and love could ever bleed so sweet. Allan Padgett O Happy Night The house youre living in ............ doesnt make you happy. The dog next door barks at the rat eating your swollen seedy pomegranates and tears your fretful dialogue with the vapid night to pieces and that ............ doesnt make you happy. A raft of IEDs rips a few more hundred bodies to pieces. Another suburb of settlers brings another round of strife and diplomatic solutions that smell of bandaids and dettol and that ........... doesnt make you happy. The night eats your sleep as the dog licks your neck and his eyes sob into yours so you smile and hug your sorrow. And that ............ makes you happy. Allan Padgett ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Poem 2: when the Tessa went down, her buoys went missing so subtley, that it looked like suicide, and nobody mourned; any delusion of love in that crackling glance to her deck, was a house of cards, shattered as she crashed through a sea of comparison- sky blue, and clouds cut of the chill steep wind slightly chopping into crests, like curt statements salt-eyed with a moons wisdom, mountains below and rivers above, to serenade torn facades finally facing the rumbling silence of words from the sun- addressing a greedy whim, as the people made quick disgust their form, they jumped, recalled: the Tessa was warned more than once, and a fleet of such we flaunted 12/11/2010
  21. 21. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 21 of 22 Jonothon Twist ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Jake (1) Brown dog rolling in surf to the horizon went and barking madly on the beach of our lives brought glimpses of it back with him announced in his happy surf splashing antics running and swimming memory deep. (2) Brown dog in the driveway came to meet us wagging barking his welcome song opening our pathway echoing homely dreams and happiness as round and round dancing in canine contentedness he sang to us the chorus of our lives. Graeme Butler ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Another Stolen First Line from Dancing in Odessa by Ilya Kaminsky We lived North of the future... were born there into summer twilight evenings; cold winter nights, frost and snow underlay our present, hard-to-ignore cuckoo call, hazy bluebell woods, deciduous trees, gold autumn Cotswold stone, that way of thinking... yet we have lived here more years than there, accept another language, red earth, drought-ridden summers, bask in sea/beach clarity, hard-to-ignore antipodean flora/fauna, gum trees you can see the sky through, red callistemon, parakeet, kookaburra... we will not go back. Sally Clarke web poetry I am the text gatherer, poets entrust me with deepest thought heartfelt emotion life observation. Netted, I haul them in provide temporary shelter untangle formatted lines— demanding capitals bold, large long, short, 12/11/2010
  22. 22. Poetry Creatrix - Issue 11, December 2010 Page 22 of 22 modest, minute, calling colourful attention, some already exposed seeking more sunlight. I tidy, realign, apply uniformity accommodate centred, right-justified tabulation, try to understand where they are coming from laugh, cry, sigh fall in and out of love. Come the deadline, they must be weighed, measured up. I kiss and release into the wider world. Sally Clarke ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 12/11/2010