Selected poems
Bird
darts
every day
sometimes twice
to the high bath
perches, hops
around the rim
snaps its gaze
side to side, up
down, behind
calls out, sharp
insistent, listens
tumble dives
into shining water
frolics a moment
leaps back to the rim
fans wings, shrugs
glances around again
pecks under one wing
somersaults in, flings
itself out, shakes
droplets from itself,
darts back to the trees
returns, dives, floats
a moment, mounts
the rim, preens, leaps
straight up, swoops
banks, disappears
beyond the trees
water dripping
from the bath
another call
Responsibility
What if
against all dice rolls,
all equations,
we’re it,
no fellow pioneers
of land, sea, sky
to relish and unravel
all breathless insights
of cradle, tower, tomb,
of splashy sunrise,
of moonrise sheen
above any horizon
in a Goldilocks zone
that nurtures life
beyond the microbe,
beyond the greedy gene
and its many lures,
beyond the rationale
of kill or be killed,
no fellow pioneers
to survey and ponder
ghost rust and dust,
our utter plunder
of this world,
of others we warp
with the footprints
of universe masters
hustling the future,
no fellow pioneers
to grieve the lack
of wonder in our vision,
the echoing of our absence?
Make, believe
Always the sure talent for abandon
the child pours sand into a bucket,
pats it down with hand, with spade,
heaves it slowly to waist level,
waits at the edge of a moat
scooped out just moments ago
for the diversion of the sea,
surveys the packed and patted walls,
keeps, turrets and other fancy shapes
only the child can know are places
for sleeping, for eating, for talking,
and all those halls of silence.
The child upturns the bucket,
taps it once, twice, with hand, with spade,
lifts it to sprinkle a filigree of grains,
pokes a window here, a doorway there,
scoops a deeper channel for the moat,
and continues to smile,
another tower built,
the bucket empty again,
the sea, the sand, and wet feet.
Suburban park creek
Years ago, joggers jumping
over the tiger snake
sun-baking on new concrete
near the lookout bridge.
Years before that, the lure
of jangling water,
of platypus stillness
beyond bramble-tied bush,
of bird flicker, of possum nestings,
and sometimes sharp jitters
of snake or lizard
through deep native grass.
Now, swaths of old carpets
wired down over banks
to encourage the clean lines
of tall gums, but not sprawling
scrubby spinifex and banksia,
plus wire fences and concrete
to lead us to recycled seats
overlooking glittering waters,
but not close enough
to drink its mountain chill,
watch dragonflies shimmer and dart,
feel the breeze feather the cheek,
such separation an insistence
that we and nature are not kin,
not a barter and bounty of vistas,
our own proud delving nature
splitting all into stone.
First Fable
First Wind cleared its throat,
laughed at First Mountain
buckling itself towards sky.
First Mountain cleared its throat,
laughed at First Wind
choking on fire and dust.
First Sky cleared its throat,
laughed as it winked out First Sun,
scattering children’s fears into stars.
Correspondence
No figure can be deemed trustworthy unless it expresses
through its acts, as far as possible, the passion of its soul.
Leonardo da Vinci
‘Tell me if anything was ever done.'
Tell me if it was all in vain — the trial
of blood through nerve and sinew, the brash sweep
of light and tinker wings, the grand designs.
‘Where is my Leda and the Swan?’ Still lost.
‘The model for my giant horse?’ Destroyed.
‘The Last Supper?’ Plaster-tempera fading.
‘Such is the blight of time and simple men.’
Not so. Men craft the air and undersea
praising those paper dreams left-handed on.
‘So, fame of grand failure is my prize now.’
And no one puzzles her missing eyebrows,
that surreal background — smile now, hers defies.
‘Always the dream, always our fragile wings.’
Earl Livings has published poetry and fiction in Australia and overseas. He has a PhD in creative writing and his writing focuses on science, history, nature, mythology and the sacred. In December 2018, Ginninderra Press published his second poetry collection, Libation. Earl is currently finalising an historical fantasy novel set in 6th century Britain and working on his next poetry collection. More information is available on his website.
Main image: Robin perched on branch (Chris/Unsplash)