~~~
Suitcases, backpacks, travel bags and trussed boxes parade along the catwalk. Take me, they beg, take me home if you still care about me. Take me.
Thursday 11 April 2013
Sonnet Of Love
Jessica Soul
Avondale Heights, VIC
Around and around
The flight of its flaps goes
Above our lonely heads
Floating like a single wave
Cool air, the breeze
It whispers upon its breath
Hush sonnets of the heart
It’s what determines our fate or will
Before the dawn awakens
True spirit is uplifted
Behind each inspirational thought
It’s first seduced by the words and then the music
It carries you away.
Thursday 11 April 2013 2 pm
The White Goddess And The Fisher King
David Jenkins
O’Connor, ACT
Falling exhausted to a knee at the end of another mortal life,
Dazed and confused; finally and again knowing her.
My last breath out is the whisper of her name,
And my last breath in; a silent hymn to love.
And between these incarnations she waits for me there,
And I forever searching; find her again and again.
Thursday 11 April 2013 6 pm
A Journey Of Maturity
Vita Monica
Southbank, VIC
A ship, seas, waves, storms
Crushing, splashing, squashing, smashing
In a cloudy, clueless, endless journey
Where does the ship carry me through?
Unseen sailor, feels like I’m alone
But he is doing well he is doing well
A thread, spindle, needle
Single, brittle
I’m waiting for someone to come
Unchain this loneliness
Unseen sailor, I am not alone
He is still here, still here holding my life
Are we stopping at the land of tranquillity?
Land, trees, green, grass, ground
Life, love, light
Unseen sailor, he is carrying me through
On this ship
I believe, I will see
‘There’s a time the sea will calm
There’s a time the sun will shine
But there will be no ending in this voyage
The land of comfort leads to destruction
But the ship will cross to the world of maturity,’
Says the captain.
I say, ‘Keep holding the wheel.’
Friday 12 April 2013
Backwards
Emma Hall
Canterbury, VIC
From the beginning things had been wrong, backwards. He had fallen head over heels in love not long after meeting her; she had resisted, reluctantly agreed to a single date, and slowly, very slowly, allowed him in. Now, married six years, she did love him, undeniably – but there would always be that difference, the small, seemingly insignificant fact that became so large in her mind: he had loved her first.
He had told her he loved her, and with such tenderness, that she – out of fright, out of obligation – blindly repeated the words to him. She had not loved him then, had even had doubts during their engagement. There were many things she would never tell him, and one of them was this: the day before the wedding, when the order of desserts had arrived (exquisite little meringues, dusted in icing sugar) she had taken the two large boxes, walked to the kitchen, and one by one dropped them on to the marble floor. Then with equal calm she’d taken the ruined boxes out to the rubbish bin, swept up the remaining white sugary shards, and acted appropriately outraged when Nick complained that the meringues had never been delivered.
She loved him because he loved her, took care of her, tolerated her. She had learnt to say the words gently, sincerely – those three words that she had scoffed at and been terrified by in her youth now fell from her mouth with habitual ease.
Until Callum. She hated even thinking his name. She had never said it out loud – not to him, not to Nick, not whispered quietly when she was alone. Names had meant nothing to her in those few weeks – moments, really, in the scheme of things, but how they dominated her memory of the last few years, how time distorted in her mind when she thought about her affair.
It was brief, heated, impersonal – the way such things should be. He was her lover, never her love. Once, with Callum in her bed, she had suddenly thought of Nick and, looking up at the man above her, been startled to find they were not dissimilar. When she first agreed to go home with Callum she had felt guilty, but the surge of guilt that shot through her in that moment made her cry out. Callum mistook her anguish for pleasure, as of course he would – he rolled off her and lay next to her in the bed, his body slick with sweat, a slight smile playing over his lips.
‘How was that baby?’ he asked her. His breathing was heavy. ‘You like that?’
She was suddenly disgusted and with a slight nod, turned away from him. She couldn’t keep looking at him, terrified to see again the likeness between this man and her husband. If ever she had justified her actions, she knew any justification had disappeared.
It was not long after that night that she had told him. She had seriously considered organising it so that she would be caught. In bed was too cruel, but leave a dirty text open on her phone, or call Callum when Nick was in earshot. She wanted to give Nick time to gather himself, build up his anger. She wanted a confrontation, a proper fight such as they never had because he always agreed with her on the things that mattered.
But in the end her guilt was too much. She was brushing her teeth before leaving for work when Nick walked into the bathroom, stripped to the waist, his mouth stretching open in an exaggerated yawn.
‘Mornin’ wife.’ When they’d first married they had taken pleasure – he had taken pleasure – in calling each other by their new titles. The game continued even after six years.
He leaned down and kissed her neck, so softly, so tenderly. She went on brushing, more vigorously than before, eager to finish and get away. Nick laughed as white froth foamed from her lips.
‘Got enough toothpaste there?’ he joked. With one finger he wiped the side of her mouth, getting a generous amount of froth on his finger, and slid it over his own upper lip. Nick was always clean shaven, but the froth made him look like he had a white, bubbly moustache. He pulled a face for her amusement.
Maybe it was the joke, the loving kiss, and casual reference to her as ‘wife’. Maybe it was just Nick. But she told him then, she couldn’t stop herself.
At first he hadn’t reacted. The smile stayed fixed on his face while she confessed. She had rehearsed the words in her head, but when she said them they seemed so flat, so lifeless.
‘I had an affair.’
She kept the details from him – Callum’s name, age, where they met, what they did. All she said was that it had gone on for two months, and it was finished now. She couldn’t look him in the eye. Instead she focused on the smear of toothpaste on his face, watched it slide down the side of his mouth, the bubbles fizzing out, and slowly harden to a pasty white mark. Nick was perfectly quiet while she spoke, his face passive.
She stopped. She hadn’t said she was sorry, or asked him to forgive her. She was sorry, she hated herself for doing anything to hurt this man. She didn’t expect his forgiveness. She knew she didn’t deserve it.
Nick raised his hand, and for a single, crazy, exhilarating moment she thought he would hit her. But with disappointment she saw him run a hand through his hair. He looked up at the bathroom ceiling.
‘It’s over?’ He wouldn’t look at her either.
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
He sighed deeply.
‘I’m sorry!’ she blurted out. The words felt wrong, so inadequate for the terrible thing she had d
one.
To her amazement, he looked down at her, and smiled.
‘It’s over with. We don’t have to worry about it.’
Then he touched her cheek, smiling warmly, and brushed past her towards the shower. She stood, frozen, while he stripped, turned on the water and climbed in.
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t how things were meant to be. She did not deserve his forgiveness. Husbands did not forgive their cheating wives. He should punish her – he should want to punish her. Leave her. Shout at her. Ignore her. Remind her of her crimes every day so the guilt never disappeared. That’s what she deserved, what she wanted.
She had gone to work, come home, thinking that perhaps now Nick had thought about it and would be ready for an argument. But he came home at seven, helped her with dinner, asked how her day was, told her about his. All was as it had always been between them. And she kept up the charade. For her, that was exactly what it was; this playing happy families, ignoring the giant rift between them. She had thought he too was pretending, a defence mechanism she supposed, a way of dealing with things. Later, when he was ready, he would act. But as weeks went by she began to realise he had no intention of punishing her for what she had done. After that morning in the bathroom, neither of them ever mentioned it again. She was suspicious, convinced he must have some ulterior motive, some reason for silence. He was relaxed, content, happy to continue their lives as they always had.
It was backwards, it was so backwards.
Saturday 13 April 2013 4 pm
Ballad Of The Twilight Man
Mark Govier
Warradale, SA
I met a man, ’twas in dream
In this land, or in that
He came upon me as I dreamt,
And told me of his cat
His hair was white, most fallen out,
His face decayed and rotten
His teeth were stubs, but when he spoke,
His uttered words, they swallowed me,
I could do ought but follow …
Like a lost disciple, he led me down the roads
And through a tear, within our realm
He pointed to his place,
Grey streets of mansions, endless rooms,
Which where the twilight stay,
Spectres talking to themselves,
Through days which never end,
A lamp half dead, to light their dark
Cold stove and broken fridge,
No place to wash their excrement
’Cept down the open hole
The cat, the cat, he said to me
Opening his door,
The cat, the cat, and he did point
Onto a faded wall
And there it hung, in wooden frame
As silent as a mute
A magic being of black, and gold
All captured in dead paint …
And who, asked I, strung out with awe
Did create this wonder
Its eyes, those eyes, do quite beseem
Yellow bright and shining
To bore into my distant soul
As if, as if, it’s feeding.
’Twas me, said he, in strangened laugh
’Twas me, another life,
I sinned the sin, of worshipping
The phantoms in my mind
Then found myself, one long gone day
Cast down, by those above me,
Condemned as wrong, to fester here
For here and here, for always.
The man then knelt upon that floor,
Like slave afore his goddess
And brought from cupboard, lard bread dust
Old pipe, and cup of matter
Proceeded there, to fill his mix,
With which, with which to merge with:
Those medicines that kill all thought
Such gifts from those who’d damned him;
Butts obtained, from any street
But stripped of all their filter;
Snips of feathers, all cut up, said he,
To make his spirit fly;
And just to make the spell complete,
Rat dung, ’twas hash, he said he’d watched
Descend float from his ceiling.
And when he smoked, this twilight man,
This one who lives amongst us,
His eyes once blank, they did recoil,
As if he’d chased, the purest pure
Upon a silvered foil,
And now so high, he did prostrate
Before that cat of wonder
And did expound the truth, his truth
That he had found his answer
Whispering, it was to me,
The me that he was dreaming,
Go tell, go tell, go tell someone
That I have found life’s meaning …
Sunday 14 April 2013
Ten Seconds Of Light
Bob Edgar
Wentworth Falls, NSW
‘How many more fights Luther? How many more nights do you come home to your son and me with your nose busted and your eyes stitched?
Ruby McCarty had married Luther in the winter of 1907 in Hitchcock Nebraska, following a blistering courtship. She had succumbed to his chiselled features and granite-like physique; and bore him a son in the summer of 1908. Luther laboured for twelve months as a floor sweeper in a grain factory, before embarking on a career as a professional boxer. His earnings in the ring outweighed his factory wages by a large margin, but he was paying a price.
Looking up at Ruby through slits, that hid his eyes beneath pulped flesh, he slurred, ‘I gotta keep fight’n Rube, I’m a contenda ... I win the tidle and we’re set fer life, I gotta keep fight’n Rube, yer know that. Fer you and lil’l Jimmy. I gotta ... I gotta jus roll withthe punshes, thas what yer gotta do Rube ... roll withthe punshes.’
Ruby cradled Luther’s head in her lap and combed her fingers through his hair. Four year old Jimmy kissed his father’s cheek, then sang ‘Twinkle, twinkle little star’, as he did on every fight night.
Luther sparred more than 400 three minute rounds during the following April, often against heavier opponents. One sparring partner would step out of the ring and another would step in.
Twenty fourth of May 1913, Luther kissed Ruby then placed his hand gently over her lips. He picked Jimmy up and blew a raspberry on his cheek, evoking a giggle from him.
‘Wha’are yerso ’appy about, yer ol’man’s goin’ out ter get ’is’ead beat in agen.’
Jimmy hugged Luther’s legs and exalted, ‘This is your happiest night Daddy, I love you.’
‘Ge’yerself terbed, and mind yer Mother.’
Luther sat on the dressing room table, legs dangling and gloved hands covering his face. The nagging pain at the side of his head only subsided when he closed his eyes and submerged his head into his gloves.
Dressing room door opens, referee declares, ‘Ready to go, two minutes to introductions.’
Trainer’s voice, ‘Let’s go Luther, this is the big one ... we need this one, let’s go.’
Luther’s hooded head hung low as he was guided along the aisle, trainer’s hands gripping his shoulders. Searchlights swivelled around the stadium, cutting a swathe of light through the cigarette and cigar smoke. Luther attempted a dance on his toes, but his feet merely shuffled to the apron of the ring. He flicked his head back to remove his hood, as he stepped between the second and third ropes into the ring.
He felt a strange hurt, as if a steel band was being tightened around his forehead. Six thousand muffled voices blanketed Luther’s thoughts, as he mumbled to himself, ‘I nee’thiswon, Rube’n jjimmy nee’thiswon ... thisis the larsswon.’
The bell rang four times. The referee ordered, ‘Touch gloves and come out fighting!’
Luther McCarty suffered no facial damage that night, no blood letting, nor the pain of 6oz glo
ves tearing his face apart.
The first punch killed him.
Bob extends respect to Luther McCarty, and every boxer ever to have stepped through the ropes.
As the referee began the count, a beam of light encircled Luther. The referee declared ‘Ten ... you’re out!’ The shaft of light vanished and Luther was dead.
An image of Luther McCarty in the beam of light at the end of the match can be seen at https://www.cyberboxingzone.com/images/w1102mccarty-tensecondsofsunlight.jpg
Monday 15 April 2013
I Left It At Home
James Craib
Wentworth Falls, NSW
I’ve got a hot tale if time permits me; just listen close so that it’s clear.
Dancing at the tip of my tongue for everyone: a totem flea I hit in your ear.
It hovers about my hypothalamus, a leitmotif, the recurring theme grating.
The hypo manages the ‘Four Fs’: feeding, fighting, fleeing, and ... mating!
Were you waiting for the other word? Don’t be absurd: I left it at home.
It sounds like duck and there’s many a drake ’round the lake that roam ...
Like my random thoughts. I’m a hot elf; imitate me at your peril,
That would be terrible, ’cause I’m in like Flynn but don’t call me Errol!
A monarch butterfly is a fit elite moth cut from the very same stuff,
Later at home I felt it brush against my face like a gossamer puff.
So ... had enough of my poetic whimsy? ‘Pathetic Jimsy!’ I hear you groan,
At the start, mate I felt hot, I now do not; inspiration? I left it at home.
Sometimes it becomes a hot item if late at night you’re burning midnight oil.
A dark circle under eyes – no surprise, is time a thief? Lot of stressful toil.
I feel about as wise as my concrete Buddha; take me toilet faith instead.
I have written my quota to meet filth iota, a little smut to muss up your head.
Consequently, might I gently suggest, it’s best, to become a garden gnome,
When my poetry item hit foetal position, my intuition is to leave it at home!
Tuesday 16 April 2013
Downpour
Virginia Gow
Blackheath, NSW
Bright
Slim
Lilies
Lighten up
A garden pathway
Where salacious snails munch basil
For early breakfast a hearty healthy herbal treat
Sombre charcoal clouds dancing high upon mountaintop bring sweet promise of steady rain
Brittle little black ants skittle amongst leaf litter
Inviting evacuation
Clashing timpani
Embracing
Earth’s
Vein
Virginia based this poem on Fibonacci numbers.
Tuesday 16 April 2013 4 pm
Curlews Call
Jean Bundesen
Woodford, NSW
A baby girl sleeping
Under a huge coral tree
Gnarled branches spread
Shielding the home from tropical sun.
Swathed with vermilion blossoms
Fallen flowers carpet the ground.
A brilliant flash of lorikeets
Shades of green, orange and blue
Across the azure sky
Swoop onto the tree
Screeching and squawking
Search for its rich nectar.
Down on the swamp flats
Brolgas dance
A number
Of elegant movements
Corroborees
Not just a courtship ritual.
Startled by
Rustling in the reeds
A water rat or a snake?
They trumpet,
Gracefully soar
High above the flats.
The baby wakes, watches them.
She could be thinking
‘What a terrible din’
In the distance curlews
Call ‘Koo-loo, koo-loo’
Like a woman sobbing.
Wednesday 17 April 2013
Who Are You Sir?
Stephanie Adamopoulos
Burwood East, VIC
I always sat with him, the little man whose eyes twinkled like those of Santa Claus belying the fact his unkempt beard did not resemble the snowy, clean version of such a character, because it was a dullish red and brown and rather scraggly. Outside the corner milk bar every single day at exactly four o’clock for one hour we sat. Well not really. I sat and he strutted, crawled, leapt and danced on that corner, sometimes so close to the road that cars honked at him, thinking he was ready to become road kill. See, despite the fact I wore a clean uniform, whilst he refused to let me give him new clothes, or to even wash is ragged, holey and filthy ones, he was the one who was lucky. All day he sat there on the corner. Well, that is what I believe as he was never inclined to tell me what he did when I wasn’t there, who he saw, where he went at night. Perhaps he didn’t want me to worry. In any case, he was lucky because he could see into your soul. Three seconds and he knew enough about you to act out a part of your life’s story. With few props, perhaps a borrowed hat or walking stick, sometimes the person’s pet dog, he would show who they were, whether they liked it or not. But he never showed me who I was.
A lonely seventeen-year-old boy and a lonely man can get along like a house on fire if they want to. So we did. Our daily ritual began with me sitting beside him on the kerb, feet hanging into the car park ahead of us and our backs to the milk bar. Every day I asked him the same questions: ‘Who are you sir?’ and ‘Who will you be sir?’ His smile, genuine and filled with blackened teeth always greeted me thus: ‘Who can I play today?’ Then he would do his amazing performance. He would wait for a person to pause by us, whether they were re-tying a shoelace, tying up their dog whilst they browsed the milk bar for its hidden treasures, or even just someone curious about our general welfares, his eyes scrutinising them meticulously, before he would leap to his feet and begin his first performance of the day. Sometimes he spoke to them, the few words they replied enough for him to imitate their voices in a way that any actor in the blockbuster films could reckon with. He slipped into their shoes with ease. Right before my eyes he was no longer a dishevelled man to feel pity for – no, he was a man to be revered for his control of these people’s lives in this manner and although he did not control their motions past the corner of the milk bar, it was mesmerising in every detail.
As he took on these roles he told me their stories. Stories that made me laugh so hard I cried at the pain of not being able to breathe whilst in my moment of happiness, while others made me cry so much I clenched my fists in anger, wishing the world was a different, better place that would suddenly re-invent itself just for that one person. His stories included a war veteran, who survived the constant raining of bombs and tanks but could not overcome the distress of losing his animal companion, a German Shepherd who fought by his side until shrapnel killed it, while another story told of a teacher who had had enough of wrestling with students to learn, so began to use video games as a tool to both teach and engage the students. I loved that one because I was left with the hope my school teacher might hear this story and be converted to this particular way of thinking. One time he became a cleaner, and through his words, I took a tour of five different houses, exploring the lives of others through their furniture, precious objects and photos hanging on the walls, whilst still sitting on the kerb outside the milk bar.
I don’t know if this acting was reserved for me only. It certainly became another lesson like at school, one about morality and understanding. If everyone could have watched him perform, perhaps there wouldn’t be so many wars, human rights issues or prejudices. But then he would probably stop the performances. These lessons were t
he keys he gave me to unlocking the doors to the secrets of the world, to those secrets that he said would support me, and not lower me. I asked him one day about his experiences. He sat chewing his lip and staring at the sky.
‘The world is a strange place. There are places that few can go but many who would give their smallest finger to get a glimpse of. There are seemingly kind people whose masks only slip away once you are in their power grasp, while there are a great many who are genuine. If you can gather these people together, you can make a difference to the world. Never let your spirit be broken, even if the world’s whims bend you so. Imagine its thoughts are like the tides of a river that sweep beneath you. You must not let yourself be carried away without a support, no, find a raft to cling to and you will always be able to navigate the world’s perils. I did not succeed at staying afloat and that is why I am here today, entertaining you every day.’
I scrambled to my feet, nearly tripping over as my feet caught the gutter.
‘I did not mean to burden you,’ I said quickly, before reaching for my school bag and preparing to flee. He grasped my arm, but did not rise.
‘Life is thus: a rebellion against that which we have been given, a chance to strive for something else. A taste of danger and fear to be had from a poor man strutting around like a gentleman, or a common youth sneaking around like a spy. The tang of orange juice straight from the flesh and yet bitter like black pepper crushed between your teeth. What I have experienced is only one of these paths. You will soon tread one also, with decisions to treasure and others to regret. Burden me you have not, you have given me the opportunity to explore my purpose further.’
I sat beside him once again, waiting for the next person to have their past told in the form of a one-man play.
Sometimes he’d perform for the locals, borrowing a top hat, scarf or cane and showing off his acting abilities. People would laugh, throw a few coins and beg for an encore. This wasn’t his real acting. He held back a little when the people pressed too close, their musky smell of sweat and perfume threatening to overcome him. He kept most of it for me. I think I was like a son for him, though he only described me as his best friend. He never spoke to anyone else that I knew of, didn’t accept donations of charity from anyone except for my small offerings of pork pie, sandwiches of bread, butter and cheese and even something sweet occasionally like a cherry or two. He also spoke little of himself, instead inquiring into what I had been doing since I last saw him. I told him about school – being given detention and wishing I was as free as him. He reprimanded me a lot then, telling me education brought the greatest freedoms for young people like me. He’d smile at that, his crooked teeth showing he’d never learnt to brush them. I tried to teach him the alphabet, drawing in chalk on the pavement. He learnt a few words, grateful for that but said he was simply past his time. He’d given up I suppose of ever achieving what he believed I could if I stayed at school. Instead of moping like any other man in the gutter would, he’d delight me with the stories of the people he became, drawing them on the pavement each day and letting the rain wash them away each night. It was only a few years later regretfully that I realised how much they meant to me and with my newfound knowledge, put pen to paper and wrote them down. He never saw them like that. Never would have wanted to.
What I did know of him wasn’t too pleasant. He’d grown up as an orphan, without an education like I had or anyone who cared about him. He always warned me to be grateful for having those I loved and I never forgot that. He’d met his sweetheart, almost married her before she left for a richer husband. From there, he’d begun acting, sneaking backstage to watch plays and see what the world could really be like besides his miserable hole. Then he’d told the stories he entertained me with to himself, making the corner shop his home, living like the rest of the filth that everyone treated him as. He said when I came that I’d looked like innocence captured and bottled ready for him to drink, a little star fallen from the sky. He’d implored me to stay, tempting me with a story. I was caught in his net, and he never let go of me. I didn’t mind. He regularly told me we were best friends in his special way, holding my hand and telling me stories to make me feel better when the world grew too big or the doors too small to crawl through.
How long can a lonely man and a lonely boy live as friends? I used to think forever. I still think so. I still return to the place we last met, that little corner shop now with a new owner, a lick of paint and a new sign hanging over the door with a new shiny bell that clangs whenever someone enters. His last story is still there, faded after eleven years of weathering from the wind, rain, sun and snow. People walk all over it, unaware that their lives may just be written in the beautiful pictures staring back at them. All the stories he told me are woven into one, running side by side until they meet at the end. There sits a lonely man and a lonely boy, holding hands outside the corner shop, the boy inquisitively asking, ‘Who are you Sir?’
Thursday 18 April 2013
Kitchen Meditation
Linda Yates
Katoomba, NSW
It was old, the kitchen where I spent much of my childhood, long and narrow and looking over the side garden into the neighbours’ yard, which always seemed, alien somehow – other. Not us. I had plenty of time to think over this and other matters, as there was no hot running water and doing the washing up required multiple boilings of the kettle and this task itself difficult because of my fear of lighting the gas stove with its boom. It was us kids’ job to wash up after the Sunday roast and well I can remember the feeling of congealed fat on the steel wool against my fingers as the water cooled down.
This convinced me, until I was thirty years old or so, that washing up was an impossibly hard task, best left to others, as countless flatmates will attest to. After I left home, I ate out, or on the run, or at other people’s houses. I was known to throw out piled up dirty dishes. Kitchens were to be avoided except when having great conversations and other people’s food.
I had my second existential crisis in this first kitchen at around twelve years of age while making toast one evening. A devout and well behaved Catholic girl, I had been giving a great deal of thought to the concept of God, when, just like St Paul on the road to Damascus, but in reverse, I realised that god (that’s when he lost the capital) was a myth, like Santa (who has oddly kept his), we told ourselves to make us feel safe. And boom, with this epiphany, the bottom dropped out of my world, and as I contemplated the life of emptiness that stretched out like eternity before me, time stood still and the toast turned to carbon.
The first occurred some years earlier when my mother came upon me in the kitchen, trying to sneak my wet pyjamas out to the laundry. She waged such a relentless campaign of terror against my bed wetting that I always tried to hide it, while the mattress rotted away unnoticed, for a time. A short lived, over too soon, reprieve, like school, where I could try to make up for the absence of motherly love by trying to impress the teachers.
‘Filthy whore!’ were the words that accompanied the cup of tea thrown in my face. ‘You think the nuns at school and neighbours think you are such a good girl, well I have told them all, and everyone knows what a dirty thing you are!’ And in the time that it took for the first drips to hit the floor, I felt a hole opening up in me, and a vast nothingness come to claim me. I was unhinged and anchorless. I now knew myself to be unwhole, unwholesome, unholy, worthless, less.
Later, I would come to understand what the word whore meant, just as I would come to understand my mother’s rage as her own feelings of shame and failure reflected back to her through me. I would come to understand that being godless does not rob life of meaning and that washing up in my kitchen, looking over my garden, is a deeply spiritual experience.
But the journey from that kitchen to this one is a different story.
Back then, that kitchen, it would seem, was a place that would foreshadow much of the rest of my life, which was often spent in free fall, the ground giving wa
y beneath me.
Friday 19 April 2013
The Unspoken
Naomi Fogarty
Perth, WA
Hands can tell you more about a person than you think
Their silent language reflects what we don’t speak
My hand happily knocked on the large wooden door
Then jumped with delight at the person it saw
Her hands were warm and inviting
And as one hand gestured for me to sit
The other poured me an icy cold drink
Resting tentatively on the glass as it paused to think
Their long tanned fingers smoothed the tablecloth neatly
And aggressively slammed the glass down in front of me
The fingers fidgeted nervously with a large diamond ring
Then held her watch intently as if waiting for something
A cherry red nail tapped the table impatiently
And with one hand outstretched urged me to drink
Tensing in anticipation as I took a small sip
While the cherry red nail curiously touched her bottom lip
Those long fingers clenched tightly into a frustrated fist
While delicate fingertips pushed the glass towards me suggestively
Drinking every drop they relaxed with relief and clasped together they waited
Suddenly my mind could read the signs, her words had been translated
As the room started spinning those hands rubbed together with glee
Looking down my small hands clung trembling to the table with fear
With heavy eyes I watched those hands as they waved goodbye mockingly
Finally the fingers counted down until up stood the middle one, triumphantly
Friday 19 April 2013 4 pm
Slow Burn
Judith Bruton
Lennox Head, NSW
The fire nibbled at the edges of their property
slowly, quietly
consuming the place they had made home
for over thirty years
At night flames crept closer to the house
devouring the cacti, the pool
the sky of indigo blue, the summer stars
the deck where they often sat to watch the sea
This morning she sensed the fire’s fury
smelt its acrid breath
Was this phantosmia
or the inevitable?
Forked tongues quivered
and curled around the frames of her life
laughing cherry orange
a tormented demon surrounding her by stealth
The flames began months ago
fed on her neglect, took advantage of her inattention
waited till night while she dreamt
to weave their way around her world
As the house slowly burnt
she collected memorabilia
the photos, the poems and paintings of time past
Archived what she could
For weeks the fire feasted on their lives
their loves, doubts, hopes and fears
She bundled clothing into plastic bags,
gave vinyl biographies to strangers
offered silver objects, bone china,
vintage anything to anyone
The heat of summer fuelled the slow burn
days passed as she rescued what she could
steadily the smoke invaded her waking thoughts
nothing could now stop the inevitable focus of fire
As in a terrifying dream she could not move
lying transfixed until hair and bone
would singe, melt, incinerate
she waited to vanish piece by piece
Waking abruptly, she knew what mattered
bundled her dog and albums into the car
longed for morning when the inferno might abate
perhaps exhausted from its own menace
She weighed the worth of three decades
Fire disregards the value of love, life and chattels
Change comes at a cost
Saturday 20 April 2013
Small Town Boys
Judith La Porte
Monash, ACT
‘Junie, it says five-thirty for six for this drinky-poos and light supper thing. So is it bloody five-thirty or six?’ Gary stood at the mantelpiece holding the thick white card. He frowned as he studied the invitation from Mrs Felicity Fortescue-Lamb.
‘I never really understood that either,’ his wife called from the kitchen. ‘I thought we could get there at say quarter to six and see if anyone else has arrived.’
June was ironing Gary’s beige chinos. There was a small lime-green stain on one of the pockets. She rubbed at it briskly with a damp cloth. ‘Gaz, have you been buying green frogs on the sly again? You know they’re bad for your teeth.’
She walked into the living room and smiled fondly at Gary’s sheepish face. She held out the trousers to him. ‘Here, you dag, put these on, and wear that nice black shirt I gave you for your birthday. And no thongs!’
Gary would look handsome in whatever he wore, thought June. At forty-two he was still youthful-looking and gorgeous. A real country boy still. He was cheated out of movie star good looks only by his slightly sticking out ears.
Already dressed for Felicity’s party, June began to feel a little anxious. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror on the wall by the buffet. She noted with some satisfaction that her butter-coloured rayon dress looked good against her lightly tanned skin.
Lifting her slender foot, she examined the grey polished toenails peeking out of black high-heeled sandals. She had read that Michelle Obama wore grey nail polish during the last Presidential election. However, on herself it looked a little too much like the mould that appears on lemons when they are left too long in the fruit bowl.
Shrugging her shoulders and patting her cropped auburn hair, June sighed. She tried to feel enthusiastic about the afternoon’s social event. She hoped Gary would not feel out of his depth. She had a sudden bizarre and disturbing mental image of a bull with Gary’s face bumbling about in a china shop. She let out a little yelp of laughter.
Felicity, or Fliss as she liked to be called, was the convener of the Book Club to which June belonged. The group met monthly at the library.
At these meetings June tried hard to make astute observations about the books they read. However sometimes she squirmed in the car on the way home, recalling some of the inane things that had issued from her mouth.
Like the time she had mistakenly read Middlesex instead of Middlemarch. Her comments about hermaphrodites had caused much confusion. Mrs Biddle though had nodded knowingly. A few of the astonished younger members had flicked avidly through their copies of Middlemarch.
She did not think Fliss liked her much after that faux pas. She would narrow her eyes behind her pale apricot glasses frames if June ever dared to utter a contradictory opinion.
So the invitation to Sunday afternoon drinks and supper at her opulent residence in leafy Waratah Drive came as a complete surprise to June.
Fliss was what June’s mother, Beryl, called uppity or Gary would call up herself. As well as being rich, she was tall, blonde and boney. She did not work.
‘Too busy chairing my lovely charity committees.’
Nevertheless she and her husband, ‘Darling Stuart’, travelled overseas frequently. They entertained a lot, numbering among their circle of friends a High Court judge and an emerging HIV-positive portrait artist named Chip.
Stuart, a successful businessman, owned the mandatory Range Rover. Fliss drove a ruby red Subaru.
Glancing out at their dented old ute parked in the driveway, June said to Gary, ‘We should try and park well away from the Fortescue-Lamb’s front door, so it’ll be easier to get away after.’