thanks to
for inviting me into this the poetry marathon #PeetMeNotLeave... The challenge is: 8 days, 8 poems, 8 invites. Selected poems will be translated and included in The Russian Almanac anthology. Let me start with my poem 'let everything grow wild today'. And let me invite
into the project. Surely we should have Russian Australian poets as part of this!
Buit Irina was already invited... so I invite Anna Couani
and flirt all the way to the grave
why stop there?
there’s a cute girl in the firing squad
in her heart she’s smiling and waving
though she has to be serious for her job
but I know we can catch up later on
see there on the left
she’ll aim for the heart
but shed a tear
on closer inspection – see, they’re all cute girls
that means their aim was true
I’m on the other side
my flag
is a beach towel, heavy with sand
whole tribes tangled in it
involuntary sky – heart’s refuge
in
the true of dark
mind’s refuge in the heart
the flag
must be all things to all
a mirror aloft, reflection unfurling
that should make everyone happy
in a room with queen you’d see the queen
and she’d see you, her subject
one among the many flags
in the bush would be magpies to fly in and tangle
catch them like that when they get territorial
on the front of the big boss’s car
more of chrome, dark tarmac
in the night you’d choose the stars
bright pinpricks from another sky
in which the true flag must fly
be windblown, limp
from the accustomed pole
a square cut of heaven
and so strings attached
Blokes
Blokes are always coming over, in their droves
or in their ones. Wear thongs in summer, boots
for weather. No one says mind my clean floor love.
Arriving in their utes and vans, they’re always
round here, day and night, courting our Penelope.
They know what’s next, what’s what, when, why.
Blokes know what to do and what you need
and even if you can’t decide. Blokes’ll sort your
trouble out. If it aint broke it’s easy fixed. Take
care but not responsible. They’re always late
and rude and wet. Blokes like to be outside
the best. They dare the ozone at their backs.
Sleep with someone else. They say things you
wouldn’t. Feel less, do more. You’ve got to love
them though. Hide in their frothy beards to weep.
You feel for them, the camera shies. They won’t
be tied, won’t be predicted. But cuddle them
and know they’re bad. Take them all for granted.
Blokes won’t take hints. Needn’t tell them.
They slink away to shed when glum. Grow darker
in the moody scrub and shed their lacks among
the fauna. They won’t be caught, they get away
Get down to pub and dob and dob, until they’re
almost in the clink. They tell their temporary
comrades. Blokes tell the truth and when they
don’t they’ve got the story all worked out.
They know the pecking order. How to fit, not rock
the boat. Blokes make a play for the affections.
Trust the passing moment, loathe permanence
of plans. Blokes are slaves of circumstance. They
can’t help being rough with stuff, have to give it
all a test. See if it’s well made or not. It’s not
their fault the way they are, was done
to them as blokelings.
Blokes are mates or so they say. Won’t let
a bastard down. The blokiest are your best mates.
Your mates are blokes if you’re a bloke. Women
can be mates or ladies. Can’t be blokes. Mate
with them to make new playmates. Blokes or no.
If you’re a bloke you mustn’t mate with other
blokes. It doesn’t work. Dreadful thing.
Unblokemanlike. Besides, how could you tell your mates?
Some things are better left unsaid. And out of
earshot of the nagging blokes won’t need
your looking after. Dinners tabled, washing done.
Blokes go lean in filth and glue their rotting jeans
together. They know it’s bad luck to speak
when gesturing would do the trick.
As insects lead the faster life, they’ve lost a leg
before you’ve finished telling the precautions.
They’re enemies of labour saving, scoff at
ingenuity. Do a thing the hardest way. Clog noses
and their ears fall off, eyes are full of filings.
Drown in beer to build a gut. It shows what
blokey blokes they are. They suffer beef to have
the dripping. Sneak from the ward at last
for fags, and curse their curtailed freedom.
That’s with a final breath.
Bloody this and bloody that is what your bloke
ghost says at last. And when the dirt’s all spread,
well sifted – where are those blokey souls all fled?
They’ve gone to blokeland – hellish spot. The
Shed Celestial. Dim or Bright to their deservings.
Still, there’s more. Never was a drought of blokes.
Not since the war. No – blokelings grow to
blokehood’s full bloom. Bloke’s abound and pull
their weight. Show some leg, offer beer.
Call for blokes – they will appear.
When all else fails no need to fear.
Just stir him up. Your
bloke is here.
considering the uses of evil
the child is drowning in the well
you hear the screams
you know where there’s a rope
the knowledge is like an echo in you
you know it’s a dream
and you wake to dodge the bayonet
come for your heart
you say – 'I didn’t do it
I never did a thing'
still the same dark
inside the soul
the wallpaper peels
rattles the wind
but always the same pattern
eyesight weakened
sense of smell dimmed
each meal has less taste than the last
not so many years left to this world
the emperor finds every day
it’s easier to order
the executions
keep this book
better than sutras
no need to chant
or strike a gong
just hang it on a string
around your neck
it’ll make your day
walk with it
sleep with it
read it out loud
quote it at will
make sure you’ve
memorised
every last line
then when it
falls apart
you’re the glue
and the book
will keep you
together
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