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Lord A of Yarralumla

P.S. Cottier |  09 February 2015

Burnt sausages

The smell of heaven
To a truck driver
it may be McDonald's

The dog combines
bone with noseshadow
of absent master

The writer mixes
new printed book wisp
and any wine

Christ died scented
with sweat and piss
and others' spit

Only a dead-brave poet
would mention roses
but yes, heaven

will be those too,
and we will turn thrice
and smell that which

we smelt in the womb —
warm blood and love.
As that dog, replete

with his master's tang,
knows meat and bliss
were always one.
Lord A of Yarralumla
Subtle as a ventriloquist
he clacks and grins, both
garish doll and the handy one.
Catholic, he lags far behind
the Pope, and he loves Royals
like Lamingtons. He scrapes
hairy knees to old money;
polishes intellectual silver
with thick brassy tongue.
He tries to be as blokey
as a barbeque, but something
is missing; something tilts —
a drunk bike has shed its chain.
He thumps along, but does he know
that he is becoming transparent?
The hammerhead is a jellyfish,
and shirtfronts like a dying quail.
Gottle of geer, he mouths,
eager for approval, for mateship.
But the beer is flat and the snags,
the snags are burning to memory.
Someone should give him a lap.
Someone please give him a gong.
Bike ride at night
From above, all the bikes are moths, caught
in the gentle web of paths, the illumination
of street lamps a thrumming message —
Is It wrong to write love into this night
as I ride, drunk as a fly feasting on fruit
sunned into alcohol by a brighter star?
My small light shines through my basket,
etching shadows thrown ahead, magnified,
until I am caught in a net woven by reflection
A tiny world of one, pushing on, energetic
as any sun, legs churning me into the future
spun butter-gold, just round the comer.
And who could say that heroic journeys
for fleece or conquest or glory, mean more
than this trundle, plump short-legged jaunt
This brief wobbling push, between
one open door and another unseen?
Please though, catch me when I fall,
Let me fly through, soft, into your light;
a trembling moth of perhaps
feeling the pure-spun net's caress.
A good end
Yes, grief came, in all the usual forms,
swelling in tears and surfing on sighs,
the night she turned to the wall,
the night her story ceased.
Yet relief came too, surprise visitor,
knocking on the doors of thought.
Naked reprieve saluted all when
she shrugged off that costume of pain.
Too long to live, or too long dying,
amounts to the same equation.
The sum's balance could only slip
through erasure of self's working.
Her life closed like an eyelid
covering the end of the day.
She rolled over and left us.
Sentence of 'I' melted away.

P.S. Cotter

P.S. Cottier blogs at pscottier.com, lives in Canberra, and hopes to be reincarnated as Lord Byron.


P.S. Cottier

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Submitted comments

Burnt snags - my signature dish. My kitchen rules.

Pam 09 February 2015

Thankyou for Lord A of Yarralumla - brightened my morning.

Kate Maclurcan 10 February 2015

Where has respect gone? Or do we only respect those with whom we agree or think as we do? Perhaps this lack of respect for our fellow human beings, all of us created in the image and likeness of God, is part of the reason for the wars and bitterness that plague our world today. Anna C.

Anne Chang 10 February 2015

Beautiful work; I especially loved the insights displayed in Lord A of Yarralumla. Thank you!

Barry G 10 February 2015

Sauce kills no pollie, Anne (Anna).

Penelope (P.S. Cottier) 10 February 2015

If this is respectful I would hate to see a disrespectful comment.How people expect to be respected themselves when they show so little respect to others mystifies me.

Vince 11 February 2015

For those complaining of lack of respect - considering the poet prefaced the verses about "Lord A" with the first verses describing the humiliation and degrading reality of of Christ's crucifixion, I think Collier's talk of "burnt snags" etc is a pretty tame contrast for anyone who truly claims to be Catholic/Christian AND a leader!

AURELIUS 11 February 2015

Lord A: Mmm, you wouldn't have a set against our PM would you? I did really enjoy the work for more than this--who would have thought the word 'gong' could resound so wondrously against a wooden head?

Maryanne 13 February 2015

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