The entrails

Published : Saturday, November 24, 2007 | Label:   Poems  

We woke to white feathers under the orange tree
and the door of the coop aghast.
Our last two hens, those yogis, martyred. Unhappy auguries on polling day.
All morning the weather mumbled its sombre oracles. I’d like to hope
the birds were the last thing we had to lose
to pay for deliverance tonight. But only the saved are certain.

It turns out the fox just got lucky
and the chooks are just dead
and none of this is a metaphor for anything…

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The Other Pieces

Published : Monday, October 29, 2007 | Label:   Poems  

I pick up a rock on the lakeshore,
a riverstone the glacier left,
now cleft perfectly down the middle,
a notch at one end.
This is how one feels,
half a self,
bereft.
We are here, perhaps, to look for the rest of who we are,
and that could be anything—
a lake, a range, a woman,
a pink robin,
one’s children,
one day in particular.
Perhaps one is everywhere one looks.

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Quartet For The End Of Time

Published : Monday, October 29, 2007 | Label:   Poems  

I—Too much summer too close to home

Warm days in mid September.
Each year summer comes early
and each year we forget and
say what happened to the spring?
as though we ever had spring
on the sandstone coast of this
dry-eyed island, inching its
way north to the equator.

And then whatever we’re call-
ing the season goes and it
comes again in October
and then it’s gone till sometime
in late December,…

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Rules for Walking

Published : Tuesday, August 28, 2007 | Label:   Poems  

I—Theory
I have a general theory: keep going.
I have a rider: watch for transitions.
And another: beware false summits.

II—Practice
Prepare for the walk
by taking the walk.
Go a little faster than you should
and a little slower than you’d like.
Notice the pink mountain berry
brilliant as a hooker’s lipstick,
the pink robin on the fallen log above the amber stream,
the waratah, her crimson fingers curled
beseeching
or…

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Lake St Clair Cycle

Published : Tuesday, August 28, 2007 | Label:   Poems  

Casting

Walking the other sunny afternoon
along the Frankland Sands
I heard a fish jump in shallows.
The sound drew me, and then it drew the fish,
small and sleek and insouciant, translucent as the water,
which was so shallow and so tannin-clear
I could make out easing along the lakebed beneath
the shadow of the fish.
That, I thought,
following the shape the sun drew of the fish,
until I lost it,
is where the…

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What’s Writing For

What makes writing worth writing—and reading—is what the story or the poem achieves beyond the tale it tells: its music, its wisdom, its form, the way it makes the ordinary world beautifully strange. A good tale is only good, in other words, if the telling is sound and memorable. It’s the voice and mood, the arc and flow, the poetry of the writing that endure when the storyline fades.

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