POEM #7

LAST SUMMER

Four cocky climbers

in naval frigate grey

jumpsuits, wave to me

from the wind-smacked summit

of Sydney Harbour Bridge,

as I sit below them on the burnt deck

of a Parramatta-bound ferry,

thinking of how so many of us

prefer strained friendships.

LJ, November 23 2011.

POEM #6

SWAMP POEM

This clamorous

froglet nocturne

sounding, through

the heavy sweat

of northern nights,

like a room full of

giddy kindy boys

popping bubble wrap,

scrunching cellophane

and imitating cicadas

that night they were born.

LJ, November 23 2011.

POEM #5

SUGAR 'N SPICE AND ALL THINGS VICE

The coroner's report

revealed a liquorice bullet

ended the gingerbread man.

LJ, November 16 2011.

POEM #4

STRANGER

She

passes,

full-rigged,

freighted

with salt-spice:

he happily

drowns in her

perfumed

wake.

LJ, November 16 2011

NEW & EMERGING WORK

So, the Judith Wright Prize for 'new and emerging' poets (that would be moi) is open again. Peter Minter is judging it. I got nowhere in it last year.

I'm weaving the final stitches into the work, which revolves around the significance of nature in the face of possible terror on September 11 of this year. The piece I'm editing has more of a scatty layout than usual. The lines have been battered my stampeding bison, constricted by boas. I'm proud with the fact that I've loosened up and structured something differently. And that after months of soft focus on this work, everything's become pointed.

And that in the face of knock backs courtesy of Perilous Adventures, Southerly, the Blake Prize, the Dorothy Porter Prize, Australian Poetry Journal, the Dear Dad collection, Cordite & a couple of competitions, I've leapt back on the okapi*.

The poem's due on Nov 15.

LJ, November 4 2011.

* Okapi: weird red-brown and white horse-like beastie from the heart of Africa that can licks its own eyes (always handy).

GURRUMUL

A couple of weeks back, I listened to Geoffrey Gurrumul Yunupingu's albums Gurrumul and Rrakala, back-to-back, over three days, courtesy of my father-in-law.

The music press has salivated over Gurrumul's work, declaring him the greatest voice Australia's ever produced. Sting's been stung, telling all who still treat him seriously that Gurrumul is a higher being. Punters twist 'n shout. I, though, have been underwhelmed. I almost feel guilty for feeling this way. UnAustralian. Unsupportive of indigenous Australia. Racist.

It's just that so many of his tunes are repetitive and flat and uninteresting. I never wept. I never fell unconscious. I didn't want to fly to Yolgnu country and become one with a brolga.

Can listeners split their reaction to Gurrumul's voice from the fact he has been blind since birth (his eyes are like opals) and comes from a remote corner of the country? Maybe not. With Gurrumul, you get this romantic package, a gateway and invitation into a world you've turned your back on, intentionally or unintentionally. Buying an album, you feel you're supporting something bigger than yourself, maybe easing indigenous pain. His long fingernails add to the mystique. And all the lyrics go over our white heads and that is so cool.

Saying all that, 2 or 3 of his tracks are gorgeous, their lullaby-like power haunting. And Rrakala's stunning gold cover and the inside sleeve shot depicting Gurrumul having his forehead painted white by an elder in a white dress, whilst a cousin/brother/friend looks on, is richly evocative.

Still, I don't need another Gurrumul album. I'm not interested in seeing him live. I don't want to read another hyperbolic review. Personally, I want Garrett to wake up, step out politics' back door and reform the Oils.

LJ,

POEM #3

MALLEE TOWN

Abandoned main drag shops

like diver & chest-stripped aquariums;

a weedy, graffiti-eaten playground longs

for children's theatrics/tricks/antics;

an obese man in prison green

mows a tangled yard holding up

a ripped Eureka Stockade flag.

Some dusty figure in Rolf specs

straight out of a Drysdale canvas

stares at me as if I'm a drifter/saviour;

either a larrikin or a simpleton

has painted a grinning white elephant

on the side of a rusted silver silo

crowned with sleepy feral pigeons.

A small girl in a red polka-dot dress

twirls in the gutter outside the main pub

(a veritable fortress in Barbie racing car pink),

where blokes with Blundstones & kidney stones

compare faded notes on stoicism/survival,

whilst clenching XXXX & Bundy cans

with fingers stained gold by canola.

LJ, October 9 2011.