Subscribe to my blog. Fresh words in bite sized pieces!

Emilie Collyer, who had an awesome piece in the latest Torpedo, has a creative, thoughtful and immediate kind of blog, between the cracks

- Literary Minded

Between the cracks is an ongoing collection of moments and observations, captured in words. Designed to give pause for thought, maybe a laugh or other kind of cerebral refreshment. I hope you enjoy.

The work on here is a small sample of what I do.

Words from between the cracks.

Where sometimes you unexpectedly find fifty cents and sometimes you find whole new worlds.

 

Entries in poem (6)

Tuesday
Aug282018

Mirka's view (at Heide)

I wrote this poem years ago and it never found a home. Posting it here today in memory of the wonder-full Mirka Mora who made a new home in this city so many years ago and gave us new worlds.

 

Mirka’s view (at Heide)

 

On top of this hill we are close to the sky

a heart is carved into the garden

 

arms of the pomegranate tree

hold swollen pink fruit

 

dust settles on our hands and faces

nothing has an outline   no buildings

 

anchor me to cobblestone streets

on a windy day we could float away

 

grass shimmers yellow and whispers dry secrets

I do not understand   our interpreters here

 

the Reeds - tall bodies lean smiles

look they grew on the hill

 

their home contains us   warm eggs fresh bread

wine stains on the wooden table

 

by day I blink through the back window

golden pear and generous oak soften the sky with shadows

 

at night all I see is my reflection

round face bobbing   a ghostly balloon

 

beginning a new life here

we are like children

 

drawings spill from my hands  

two headed creatures, many with wings

 

their eyes fat with terror and magic

gazing back at me

 

serpents flicking black tongues slip out

populate my room seeking gaps under doors

 

to leak out   leave this haven where we’ve stayed a while

see if they can find a place down the hill

 

a new home in this city

to call their own

 

 

Monday
Mar012010

Melbourne downpour

 

Melbourne downpour

means it takes everyone

hours to get home

 

I am safe and dry in my car

end of irritating work day

Restless and bored

 

Flicking through radio stations

I select the most popular

commercial drive team

 

There must be

a reason why

millions tune in every day

 

Within twenty minutes

I hear the drive team duo

a recap from breakfast

and a promo for the next show

 

Their voices are

hoppy beer on a hot day

creamy chocolate

a bubble bath for my ears

 

their words are big

fat bright shiny

glowing lies

 

about themselves

about the world

about the intimate

and down to earth relationship

they have with me, the listener

about how similar they are to me

and how far removed they are

from that mendacious

world of celebrity

 

Their lies

are so crunchy and

delectable

that I want to eat them all up

told with such brazen joy

that I long for them

to be true

 

Each lie is worth

more than my day’s entire work

ballooning their already

brimming bank accounts

inflating their already

elephantine egos

 

I drive on

the rain

steaming up

my car

I want to believe them

as much as I wanted to believe

that boy murmuring

sweet lies

in the rain

steaming up

his car

so many years ago

 

We want to believe the lies

but once you arrive

and open the car door

and step outside

you are alone

with only your voice

resounding

 



Tuesday
Dec152009

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?

Tuesday
Nov242009

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

 

 
Thursday
Nov122009

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