The Best Australian Poems 2016
Page 6
way too tired to think of going on with
life as it was. There was no room for projects of small ambition
of mere example. The appropriate would go on being perpetrated but not by
us. In the Slovene city, the tea house drips with rust from
the local trees. The trace of poetry in the air only with
the mention of the dead’s name. It was a year of change here
too. A white sea eagle in a too small tree foretold of knowledge
disappearing; a blue-faced honeyeater would forever be our
bird of mourning. The surety of a line paired
with the thrusting of translation; unlabelled orange juice
I’m drunk. Perhaps we still have grave dirt on our hands The city rumbles
This close to the centre, the lights never go out, lovers and
starers-into-rivers mean the bridges are never clear. As our friends
knew, a lot of loss can inhere in a year. A whole town can
be wiped out. A habitat, a type of mole or fly. We have their
recorded voices of course. We can turn our backs on what
we have and let it disappear like we’re asleep. In our
dreams we’re being hunted in a forest that is itself endangered
We’re passengers in a car, joking at each enjambment we survive
Michael Farrell
Requiem
a sock falls from the line
like the market
responding to rumours of Grexit
& it strikes him surprising
that death makes the imagined real
in the old-fashioned way.
an expected text
still changes the direction of things,
the way every discarded beer bottle
submerged in sediment
readjusts the river’s current.
when we go beyond the clouds
we feel the collapse of dreams more keenly
& even if all there was to lose
was lost some time ago
and it is the scope of that which wasn’t
that clumsily cleaves the heart
like a jihadi’s dull blade through
an aid worker’s pale neck.
Liam Ferney
Janus
DAMMED CHI
SUNNET
VINTAGE
Toby Fitch
Ambition Man
The things us Murri blackfellas have to go over in life’s
Futures is hard.
Love’s gone bad and less money and work.
This easy going one got the flour tea sugar our mothers and fathers worked for.
We were black men before the lot say, Ah ah, what’s colour got to do with it?
Well the light comes from the dark.
May our babies never forget the black men who washed clean and were kind on the began.
The things we men went into were hard but changes were seen.
Now we sit as if space chases around our necks and our hands have no arts.
To sell the spirit of the good dance we get nothing in going on.
To let sin overtake our wind wins we will never bow down.
Most Murri today are national
Yes we do know the borders
But our unity is we knew this before they told us.
Ambition black red and gold men come forward now take us
In songs of love and fighter rights.
Lionel G. Fogarty
XXXI
I’d like to write a poem in which guru
was in the first or second line. Then
I’d quote from an Indian sage, pepper
the poetry with references to love,
add a further reference to a spicy affair,
hope the mix was right to salt a wound.
Cinnamon opens the heart. Avoid cumin
if you’re in a courting mood. Matchbrokers
know this. A bride must serve papadums
fried in sesame oil if she’s to woo a lover.
The bond’s snapped, what’s left to pick over?
I won’t anoint myself with turmeric
or saffron powder. There’ll be no garland.
I’ll fry some sweets then dip them in syrup.
Tina Giannoukos
from Empirical
V
Now I will walk again into this field of wreckage
which is my starting place—On its stone heaps the tussock
is dry stalks the colour of a scratch in glass and rattling fennel
tendrils from the root—A single cloud
now coming in over the motorway on slow dissolves of light—
Along the cutting’s side speargrass with a rain wind in it
moves through the shape of a catching fire—This
stoppedness before rain in which years I have forgotten
invent a landscape still in what I have named landscape—
ruinable, incandescent, piece by piece drawn
into that blank in thought which sets the names
in their array—tussock, speargrass, wild fennel—bright charges
hung upon abyss—Do you remember?
In head-high grass, its pale seedheads, the wind is massing
light, lights moving in place and scattering down—
At the level of my eye the grass untidy, touchable, steeply
its slant stalks narrowing back into their likeness—
A train which even now is sending its long cry back
out of the vanishing point it keeps discovering from the scene—
The rain is first a prickling sound and then hand hair eyes all
touch and does not know me walled in itself, its dazzling blank—
The road will come through here—
Lisa Gorton
The Latter Days
I sit on the porch in darkness
and imagine I have been assigned to watch here on my own.
At 3 o’clock everyone is sleeping,
no distant drone
of a car now, nor bird chirping.
Downhill, there was wiped from the town
the last house-lights, as if they were moisture.
The main street goes on
beyond its lamps, which are pinches of salt, and becomes among the landscape
a javelin thrown.
There is an engorged moon
and the coarse-ground stars, and there’s one sullen light across the valley –
a farmhouse, on its mountain,
beneath the folded plumage of the sky.
The range there
is crumpled, as the blanket is
I have drawn about me. I am reminded by that blood-shot glare
I was tonight in Hades,
or believed so. I went down through a gate in the marshland,
in a reek of sulphur,
and passed below what must have been a lintel,
into thin flavourless metal air.
Then I realized that the souls in Hades
cannot change, since they’ve been judged,
and I understood, too late, there was no point in seeking
my father’s bitter face among the Shades.
Yet I must go on.
It was not for revenge – there is only grief.
Although I have grown old
this is an ageless wound.
The regret is for his chances, all lost in dissipation. That is as difficult
as always, and growing older, it would seem,
has served no purpose at all.
I thought I came there through a forest, where the trees howled like dogs.
Thick as the leaves of an endless autumn
that I had trod
in the wilderness, on the river bank
were the dead,
swept together, wearied,
who waited for a ferry, which would mean their journey was almost ended.
Somehow I stepped across the S
tygian water,
and Pluto sat in the plain, as though a crag upreared.
Proserpine lay along his side,
under a pall of steamy darkness.
They were draped in cerements, from their lustreless crowns to the ground,
and I could not see her beauty,
for which she was snatched away
while gathering flowers in the meadows of Enna.
The tremulous souls on the bare plains behind her
were more numerous than grass might have been.
Then my father appeared
on a single warp in the atmosphere
(while the hands of the dead fell upon me
in a feeble rain). And of course he was as he must always remain –
he had no guilt, not even feigned,
no greeting for me. As in the nursing home,
I felt him demand, of earth and of the zenith, ‘Get me out of here.’
Pitiful spirit,
born of an ill-featured star,
hollowed by thirst, he seemed to say, with all of his old extremity,
‘There is no crime
I would not commit
to be born again, and take my chances on earth.’
Young men blame others, and old men themselves, except for him.
And his clamour was sealed away
in the human quicksand of the crowd.
For a while, they have their little dreams there
that show them they are sleeping.
But no one can live forever, not even the dead. They will fade.
It is suggested
in Virgil that only a few heroes ever reach
the shimmering light-filled uplands of the blest, Elysium.
Then I found I had got up and was leant against the railing,
to feel on my face the tender
incandescence of the dew.
There was a snarl
of lightning, where it threw itself along the horizon.
I brought a drink out
and saw, in passing, the piled-up cold woodash trickle
in the grate, as when a breeze,
memento mori,
stirs among the feathers of a guinea fowl.
The advantage of having sought an education
was Virgil as companion,
although, of course, he did not condescend
to walk with me. I had for a guide-book
what was made of him by Dryden,
in sufficient accuracy.
I knew what one must do: that in Hades you break off
the candelabra of a bough
from out of a misty tree; each flame
on this becomes gold-leaf, and you carry it before you
onto the wide steps
that lead steeply into darkness, welling from below.
The branch is for Proserpine, an offering,
its small light
to be planted in her shadow, although it will not flourish.
One time, we greeted our father as ‘Mr Shellfish’,
playing with a remark our mother had made.
He ignored us
except to point out that Horace found abhorrent
any violation of the ordinance of nature
such as was involved in calling him a crab.
He contended that his pension was meant for him,
who’d been infested with TB, while mired on a side-line
of the War. If our mother reminded him that this was self-inflicted,
and was exacerbated
continuously, he would retaliate by wounding us
with the porcelain claw
of his disdain.
I associate him always with the Latin authors. He seemed to believe
their language was his, to keep alive.
It was in him an exoneration. For such remarks as the one above,
when I came to understand it,
I would have carried him on my back,
out of his ruins.
I have a neighbour, along the hillside,
an old woman who loves to read.
She goes to bed early, and I imagine that when she is tired
she folds her glasses on the bedside stand
and then her arms, in the same way, on her punctured chest,
and is at rest. Now at dawn, this woman shouts
into the paddocks, and her dog shouts back. It tells her
to exult. She has her fulfilment.
What appears to be an armful of wattle is brought to us here
at daybreak and at nightfall,
lightly, without piety or desert – I see it being carried for me
from the rim of the world,
among the bushland’s broken foliage.
And I had wondered, while wandering in the mazed ways of last night,
how I was to reach
the light again. Then I realized
that where I found myself, amid all the emphasis
on stasis,
can be seen through, as a delusion. It vanished from me, like eluding a theme
in the glissando of a violin.
Our imagination is something more dreadful than the truth,
although it is an essential affliction.
Take Deiphobus, who was called ‘bashful’
in Dryden’s rendering
of his story, since he was beautiful, but his nose and ears had been sliced off,
and he knew it was Helen,
his wife, who had betrayed him, beside her first husband Menelaus.
(I suppose she felt that she had beauty enough for them both.)
Such knowledge, it was conjectured,
meant he must live
for the extent of a hundred lifetimes, to be rid of animus.
In life, everything is insecure and arbitrary,
we’ve innumerable opportunities
for taking affront.
The only solution is not to be.
The dead exist for none but the living. If we pursue them
their souls smell in Hades. We turn away.
They are ashes to ashes and dust on the wind.
Robert Gray
Royalty
for millad Gudanji Miller & Raggatt mob
I drove out bush with family
again to Jayipa
a catfish hole lined
with paperbark and river gum
and those gleaming quartzite outcrops
like a silver and zinc plinth encompassing
dark sheet water:
we hopped, stinging, across the baked
earth, a tessellated black
soil with small sand drifts gathering
to the decaying stone-boiled edges:
and while nana fired
a billy, weaving
pandunus frond sieves
we all crashed, energised
in the brown water’s warm wash:
in the late afternoon
cool relief as pop arrived to dig
a bush-turkey ground-oven
we all set to work:
the boys
took a cast net and hand lines
for barra
while the girls hunted
in water, feeling
in the mud
for waterlily bulbs, onions and yams:
later they tap-danced the mud
sweetening our outlook –
a seismic detection service reading
for hibernating turtles –
a shelled familial finery:
at nightfall
our guts tight
with their fill we fired
the billy and traced
stars as pop smoked us
in quandong, picking us up:
and nana sang country, rousing
the scrub
and a rainbow’s payback on this mine’s seepage,
and another’s foreshadowed hole in our burial grounds,
mucking us up
making us sick.
> Millad: is Kriol in the Gulf region of northern Australia for the first person plural pronoun: we, us, our.
Gudanji: one of four surviving Indigenous language groups in the Northern Territory’s Gulf of Carpentaria.
Phillip Hall
Cultural Precinct
Reflecting on Tarnanthi, a Festival of Contemporary Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Art.
All this creating speaking breathing on Kaurna country demands more than just an acknowledgment of a peoples past present and future, for this place, this space, is abundant with stories and strong families who have always had agency, moving through and resisting what this particular cultural-precinct represents: Tarnanthi - rise, come-forth, spring-up, appear – right here, in this potent-place, you will find Festival offerings beyond a feast of art, for this cultural-precinct along Adelaide’s North Terrace is no easy place for everyone to navigate…. these limestone walls whisper a conglomerate fragmented journey that has lead us, toward this day, surrounded by precious gifts like these images, these hanging skirts, these glass bush-yams, these baskets, and now, in this moment, I call on you to reflect on the very walls from which they hang….
these limestone walls frame institutions of power shape the main story this colonial ‘free’ State / these North Terrace statues bronzed famous faces symbols of colonialism Empire-revered / next door the Parade Ground original quarry raw materials morph grand buildings abound / limestone mined from this old Kaurna campsite Red-Kangaroo stories ripped from the ground / these limestone walls these limestone walls / consider this Armory that housed a morgue cells and gallows watch our people hang / see mounted police perform military functions ‘pacified’ our warriors on colonial frontiers / these wretched walls this Armory building hear horses-hooves gallop on cobblestoned blood / this limestone heritage revered cultural-precinct our bodies stolen de-fleshed and preserved / these limestone walls these limestone walls / consider this place the South Australian Museum their proudest collection wins the Empire’s great race / an uncanny replica London’s Natural History Museum but what is ‘natural’ about their history of this place? / they ‘set up camp’ on great expeditions to study and collect us ‘experts’ in teams / their cabinets of curiosity their objects and specimens their racialised hierarchy our human remains / these limestone walls these limestonewalls / the Migration Museum was the old Protector’s Office the Rations Depot the Colonial Store / blankets and flour sugar and tea the removal of children the first Kaurna school / and behind the Art Gallery the Radford Auditorium the ammunitions-store for military-police / then a storage-place for Aboriginal Records where paper-trails trace surveillance and control / consider the paperwork the archiving process to consign and classify this resource maintained / consider this fantasy monolith-archive its stunning all-knowing so easily sustained / these limestone walls these limestone walls / strive to navigate this violent place be still and listen there are waterholes here / these fresh water springs flow a limestone-memory erode and expose our truth will appear.