Front Page News
The article in the newspaper
confirms that the reigns of power
will be handed on a platter
from the baby boomers
to Generation Y
Gen X
now and forever
the Jan Brady
of time
the awkward
middle child
Profiles of six
up and coming
Gen Y about to turn thirty
reveal a yawning mediocrity
I want to travel some more
I’m not ready to settle down
My friends are important to me
The minutiae of these
lives is not mediocre
to those living them
The yawning malaise
lies in the fact
that this is front page news
Are we so numbed
by warming and terror
catastrophe and technology
that we could not
find six up and coming Gen Y
with passion to burn
and desire in their eyes
for what may be possible?
This is no revolution
this is no overturn
this is a global reading of the will
from one generation to their offspring
Designed to anaesthetise
gloss over the damage done
the wrong turns took
Look!
You don’t even have to fight for it
The power’s yours
We’re off to spend our Super
Good luck with this thing called Planet Earth
New Year Comfort
If your thoughts turn to death, as can happen at the start of a new year, I have recently found the words of Walt Whitman to be of enormous comfort:
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.
All goes onward and outward ... and nothing collapses,
And to die is differnt from what anyone supposed, and is luckier.
Those words are from Leaves of Grass (Song of Myself).
Old Walt has that peculiar shining insight that is the gift of true depressives. He struggled a lot with life and so you can believe his fervour when he finds things to celebrate and be hopeful and thankful for.
Happy New Year 2010.
May we all find light and fervour in the most unexpected of places.
On Summer
There used to be orange cicadas
green ones of course
their sci-fi heads
and chirping legs
but orange ones
I don’t know if they make them any more
there were wild plums
spilled and stained
on the footpath
we picked them from the trees
from the moment they were
just beyond too green
and risked stomach ache
by eating 1-2-3
I think there were
even black ones
cicadas that is
not plums
where did we find them?
secreted in the garden
wandering along window sills
they seem such a wild
and exotic thing now
but then they were part
of every day life
in sprinkler soundtrack
itch of cooch grass
wall climbing
bitumen burning
tin roof scrambling
white hot clothes line drying
panting dog
shimmer
and by the end of summer
we had a collection
of brittle brown shells
artifacts
trophies
weapons with which to
scare each other
finding them perched
on shoulders
creeping through hair
waiting in cool bed sheets
upstairs was hot and stifling
we all slept on the floor
in the lounge room
when nights got too hot
there was no air conditioning
just a brick house
with a slate verandah
and steps leading down
to the front path
lined with roses
that were pruned every year
and bloomed
and there were orange cicadas
and black ones too
they were special
enough to score points
but not so rare as to be worth
reporting to anyone
other than ourselves
not so rare
and yet I’ve not seen
a single one since
leaving childhood
do they make them that way
any more?
Empty paddock
The horse has gone
the bathtub too
The grass is long in the paddock
There is no shade there so I do not sit and contemplate the loss
I keep walking, my skin throbbing in the heat
while I grapple with the title of a poem
I have not yet written
about whether this need for fulfillment
can ever be sated
Did the horse die or did they just move it to greener pastures?
Three little words
That ease the trauma of a jaw aching, bloody mouthed clean and polish at the dentist ...
He doesn't have to say them, sometimes they just grunt and ask how often you floss.
But today, he must be able to sense the extra level of stamina it took to stay sitting in that chair.
He shakes my hand and as we part, he smiles and says:
'Well done today'
They may not go gently
What if we take them
the celebrities
all to one place?
Because the problem is not
so much that they exist
- all right, I get it, people like them, it makes them feel safe or that things are in their right place
the problem is
that they pop up everywhere
their whitened teeth and maniacal grins
and ironic humour and
over developed senses of self
frightening those of us who are looking for something else
- some other anchor or balloon in life
They leak into waters where they are not supposed to be
infecting art and literature
seeping into home cooking
clawing their tentacles across
dog walking and tree planting and adventure hiking and asylum seeking
Leaving no place sacred any more for the ordinary
unremarkable unrecognisable quiet ticking
not much happening here thanks and we like it that way
of what used to pass for every day life
So here’s what I think
We take them
- lure them, trick them, drug them, beat them, promise them, herd them, flatter them, feed them – however we get them there I don’t care, there are smart people around who know what to do, how to motivate and move them, satisfy and soothe them, just get them into ONE place and cyclone fence it and guard dog it and electromagnify it and then shut the gigantic gate and lock it
And we will still watch them
that channel will run 24/7
- more if that smart person can work out how to pummel extra hours into each day
So they will be on – they will always be on – so they won’t feel sad or strange or bad and the people who need to see them don’t have to pine or whine or panic or go mad
But for the rest of us
- those who have had to stop turning on the TV and opening the paper and walking out the door and going to the market for fear of the constant bombardment of their insidious smiling presence (“Oh look at me! I once learned some words off by heart and they put me on the telly and now I have an opinion about everything from Al Jazirah to jelly!”)
For us
finally
there may be
some peace
Cause we know that channel’s there
and we can turn it on
those dark lonely nights when we miss their shiny lights
But the rest of the time
we can get back
to the ordinary chaos
of our blissfully uninteresting, monotonous, uncelebrated
lives
Whites so white
Who are the people who know how to
keep their whites white?
Angels come to teach us?
Or demons come to torment us?
I curse them as I toss out
yet another
yellow edged bra
If only they could teach me
my whole life would
be sweeter
And I could get caught
in accidentally
compromising
positions
without evidence
of sweat stains
age
and poor washing techniques
The invisible dog
This week was eaten by an invisible dog.
He is the same canine beast known to chew non-existent shoes and devour imaginary homework.
Should you see this dog - or rather, not see him - do not feed or approach him.
This will only encourage his appetite for intangible things that do not belong to him.
Grand Final 2009
My (belated!) brief account of this year's Melbourne sporting mecca:
A poetry reading on Grand Final afternoon. The television is on, above the door, sound turned down. As the match progresses, poets have to increasingly battle with audience's upturned heads and waning attention spans. The MC curses the audience, encourages the poets. The headline poet barracks for Geelong and so stops his set before the fourth quarter starts so he can concentrate on what is important. Afterwards, everyone goes outside to kick the football. Whoever kicks it the furthest wins dinner at the pub. Meanwhile poets sell books and CDs for $6, $10, drink red wine and beer and speak of gypsies, Adam West, lovers and trips to New Zealand. Australian cultures collide.
Cigarette butts, envelope seals and used serviettes
Cigarette butts, envelope seals and used serviettes
(how they found DNA to track down 39 living relatives of Hitler)
You may have heard
that two scientists
have used
cigarette butts, envelope seals and used serviettes
to prove
the existence of 39 living relatives
of Hitler
It captures the attention doesn’t it
even the imagination
cigarette butts, envelope seals and used serviettes
it could be an episode of NCIS
or the lyrics
of a Leonard Cohen song
I may be naïve
but I’m not sure why they have to find them
these 39
all of whom, I think
have changed their name
most of whom, I imagine
if they know their lineage
are just trying to live their lives
quietly, seriously, with as little pain as possible
and if they don’t
well …
… they are probably doing just the same
Did you know that Hitler
was ashamed of the mental illness
that ran in his family?
It was one of the reasons he never had children
He did not want to leave that legacy behind
He preferred
a different legacy
of a new world order
kind
But little did he know
that from his lips
in his tongue’s lick
from his mouth’s spit
he was leaving behind
a trail
to stretch his sticky history
on
through years
over time
to these guilty? innocent? implicated?
39
How many of us
are leaving traces
of guilt
remnants of shame
littered through the city
disappearing into the streets
of our lives
adding to the pile
of ever growing
refuse and rotting rubbish
that makes up the story
of humanity so far
That also
we hope
and sometimes can see
is the fertilizer
for the tiniest of seeds
a new way of living
new hope for being
that comes
maybe not from a DNA hunting party
following evil
and hoping in some way
this proof will stop it
but hope that comes
from looking at what
we do
and how
and who we do it to
and seeing what is there
on the cigarette butts and envelope seals and used serviettes
we all leave behind