Poems listed in various prizes
The handyman talks of time won first prize in the 2008 Shoalhaven Literary Award. The big stumps at Cambarville was Highly Commended in the 2005 Woorilla Poetry Prize. See photo below. Just from memory I think there are around 20 old stumps in the 'field'. Werewolf was Highly Commended in the 2015 Shire of Nillumbik Ekphrasis Poetry Award (written in response to the painting Werewolf by Tess Edwards - see photo below). this mute and tidy skull and cross bones was Highly Commended in the 2016 Shire of Nillumbik Ekphrasis Poetry Award (written in response to Untitled #4 (fox bones - pattern) by Jessie Imam - see photo below).
The handyman talks of time
four million years old
and still bouncing
he often started that way
something plucked from the air
the old eastern grey kangaroo
the familiar pause
can't argue with the
fossil evidence
then he took two short strips
of 75mm pine
and laid them on the ground
parallel and a boot length apart
imagine how many kangaroos
have stood right here
pointing down with his leg
in all those
four million years
on this very spot
he paused
I didn't know how to answer
and where this spot has been
and what it's been
a swamp a creek
had a tree in it
he took a deep breath
and sighed it out
silence for a while
and on this spot
the way the continent drifts
he picked up a thick flat off-cut
slid it around the air
like a glass on a ouija board
(almost from instinct
rubbed the rasp
along the edges
of his continent)
and tilts and lifts
stretches contracts and spins
you can't triangulate it
from higher ground
'cause that changes too
so where we are here
pointing with his leg
wasn't here
four millions years ago
looked at me intently
maybe further up the hill
further down the creek
who knows
the earth's not solid
it's fluid like
a slower form of water
thicker and slower
he sat on the plank
between the sawhorses
that he used as a bench
and paused a while
then he started again
with a tone suggessting
he was tired of thinking
and would get back
to the pergola
I was paying him for
my grand-daughter
wants to be a vet
loves kangaroos
told me the other day
they hop around
like music in a fur coat
and still bouncing
he often started that way
something plucked from the air
the old eastern grey kangaroo
the familiar pause
can't argue with the
fossil evidence
then he took two short strips
of 75mm pine
and laid them on the ground
parallel and a boot length apart
imagine how many kangaroos
have stood right here
pointing down with his leg
in all those
four million years
on this very spot
he paused
I didn't know how to answer
and where this spot has been
and what it's been
a swamp a creek
had a tree in it
he took a deep breath
and sighed it out
silence for a while
and on this spot
the way the continent drifts
he picked up a thick flat off-cut
slid it around the air
like a glass on a ouija board
(almost from instinct
rubbed the rasp
along the edges
of his continent)
and tilts and lifts
stretches contracts and spins
you can't triangulate it
from higher ground
'cause that changes too
so where we are here
pointing with his leg
wasn't here
four millions years ago
looked at me intently
maybe further up the hill
further down the creek
who knows
the earth's not solid
it's fluid like
a slower form of water
thicker and slower
he sat on the plank
between the sawhorses
that he used as a bench
and paused a while
then he started again
with a tone suggessting
he was tired of thinking
and would get back
to the pergola
I was paying him for
my grand-daughter
wants to be a vet
loves kangaroos
told me the other day
they hop around
like music in a fur coat
The big stumps at Cambarville
the sign calls it
an historic village
but it's just a clear space
of long grass
with about a dozen
big rot-grey stumps
that look like
termite mounds
it's the size of a small town's
cricket field
perhaps the village green
but more likely a tent city
for the timber cutters
and you can still see
the notches where those men
jammed their planks in
swung their axes
and killed the king trees
like attracts like sadly
maybe if they'd spread
themselves around more
but then . . . maybe not
the notches seem like
stylised eyes and mouths
on god statues
one of the big stumps
is nearly two metres across
most are around two metres high
the ankle bones of tall trees
they could be ruins from the Incas
or the Fertile Crescent
but this is
Australian archaeology
and the big stumps
are all that's left
of an old green city
its wind creak and bird-whistle
its high leafy suburbs
possum cough and snake trade
the cockatoo wars of 1623
an historic village
but it's just a clear space
of long grass
with about a dozen
big rot-grey stumps
that look like
termite mounds
it's the size of a small town's
cricket field
perhaps the village green
but more likely a tent city
for the timber cutters
and you can still see
the notches where those men
jammed their planks in
swung their axes
and killed the king trees
like attracts like sadly
maybe if they'd spread
themselves around more
but then . . . maybe not
the notches seem like
stylised eyes and mouths
on god statues
one of the big stumps
is nearly two metres across
most are around two metres high
the ankle bones of tall trees
they could be ruins from the Incas
or the Fertile Crescent
but this is
Australian archaeology
and the big stumps
are all that's left
of an old green city
its wind creak and bird-whistle
its high leafy suburbs
possum cough and snake trade
the cockatoo wars of 1623
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Werewolf
I scour the night and my tribe's archive.
The town I savour
will be bandage soaked in blood.
In the pages of my fore-hunters -
my sire, my dam, my grandfather -
I read the history of howl (which I've become)
and of our big trick - we are not leopards.
Spots. Stripes. Bristles. Spear-ears. Four
legs. Two. Ecstasy of change and undead.
I savour the night and my tribe's archive.
The town I've scoured
is bandage soaked in blood.
The town I savour
will be bandage soaked in blood.
In the pages of my fore-hunters -
my sire, my dam, my grandfather -
I read the history of howl (which I've become)
and of our big trick - we are not leopards.
Spots. Stripes. Bristles. Spear-ears. Four
legs. Two. Ecstasy of change and undead.
I savour the night and my tribe's archive.
The town I've scoured
is bandage soaked in blood.
this mute and tidy
skull and cross bones
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this mute and tidy skull and cross bones
from which the spirit and growl has fled this slab-board symmetry of pretty opalescent leftovers this immaculate diaspora of the harder parts insults my goddish complexity my blood pump and air pump and the fang clamp of juicy death and Christ how fast I was evasion was my second art the russet Houdini of drygrass farms |
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