The other me

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Still nouns

this is a poem
that will choose its words slowly
    because too much haste
will have it galloping off
with foam-flecked flanks across an
infinite desert
of despair searching for verbs
and adjectives to
fill the pitiless blankness
that might open beneath its
stalled and lonely feet

instead it might breathe
trembling and still    all the nouns
    that hold themselves here

it could observe each sand grain
   it would feel each wind ripple
and smell every beat
of the sun    and in further
stillness a single
raindrop    just one slow raindrop
whose silver heaviness will

promise everything

–Debi Hamilton


The talks fail

Words should not be loved so much.
We ought to see through them
to some other place, but instead
we are mad for them, booming at us
from speakers, spitting as we pass.
See me! Buy me! Love me!

Lives revolve around such baubles.
Monkeys know how to throw the stuff
so it sticks. That's what you want
— congealed essences, stories
you can taste as well as read.

Just like carbon
poetry makes the world hotter.
What's wanted is meaning; we get
emissions, radiating from scalps
too thin to hold the gasses in.
Every last line
escapes into the too-heavy sky,
like a problem we do not believe in enough.

Will we make it to higher ground?
Or will our nightmares drown us,
our throats awash with useless sound,
gurgling into oblivion?

–Jeff Klooger


Distracted muse

Isn't it amazing, poets,
what comes between us and
poetry?
That privet root I didn't notice
till I was hanging out the washing.
And the car registration —
Gods! they'll never give me another pink slip.
No, I am not going to do another load of washing
or pick up that piece of old spaghetti
(Even the lizards are trying to hypnotise me)
or think about the dog's fleas
or the two mice
that went walking in the kitchen last night.
Only a strong coffee can get me started now.
If I could just track down that green folder
or is it the blue one?
No, lizards, you will not have your way
for I must needs reflect on
my poet's epitaph.

–Brendan Doyle


The other me

The other me
Finally free
No longer on useless shopping sprees
No longer overeating
Knowing the difference between right and wrong
Singing a happy song
Bright and cheery
No longer dull and dreary
A brand new woman
Now packing to go on great holidays
Wanting to live life to the full
No longer tied to ones obsessions and possessions
Like a lonely boat tied up at sea

–Isabella Fels


Debi HamiltonDebi Hamilton is a Geelong psychologist who has recently taken to writing poems and short stories, some of which have been published over the past 12 months. 

Jeff KloogerJeff Klooger's poetry has been published in his native Australia (including in Eureka Street) and internationally. His other interests are music and philosophy. His book on the ideas of the Greek-French philosopher Cornelius Castoriadis was published in 2009. 

Brendan DoyleBrendan Doyle grew up in a house without books, and now wants to build a house of poetry. He has published poems most recently in Islet, Five Bells, Get Reading Postcards, Famous Reporter and Four W. 

Isabella FelsIsabella Fels is a Melbourne poet and writer. Her topics include her own particular illness schizophrenia. She has been published in various publications including Positive Words, Mental Illness Voice, The Big Issue and The Record. 

Topic tags: new australian poems, Debi Hamilton, Jeff Klooger, Brendan Doyle, Isabella Fels

 

 

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Existing comments

Some lovely images there - thank you.

Kath | 13 May 2011


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