Our working TV taken to the tip

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Old TV

A Mother and her Unlost Son

It took ten years – now, you’re all back inside me
I’ve absorbed you like vitamins
nothing has been left out, overlooked or forgotten
that I know anything of.

You are mainly in my chest, a second pericardium
but everywhere
spleen and pancreas. You are the unexpected spring
I sometimes get in my step.

We still talk, of course, but not as much as once
no need, we know.
And so you live in your mother’s body once again
not as foetus, but phlegm and black bile.

They’ve Sold The Snowtown Bank

On the land of the Kaurna people, go through The Gap
in the Barunga Range to get to Snowtown.

It started as a station on the Brinkworth–Walarroo line.
There’s no snow, it was the name of the Governor’s mate.

They grow wheat and mine salt at Lake Bumbunga, but
times change and now they’ve got a wind farm.

The Snowtown Area School on Glen Davidson Drive
has a good bit of ground for ‘Agricultural Studies’.

The bank closed years ago. They’ve sold it to out–of–towners
who want to start a new business.

A Trip to the Tip

We had a television for the tip
Old, heavy as a mountain, though still going.
But too bulky and it didn’t fit
The space left by the new skirting.
With betrayal in my heart we trolleyed
It to the car, hearsed it off and
Paid ten dollars to the man employed
To take a good TV off your hands.

It was put down beside an orange witch’s hat
Which was the only spot of gaiety that day.
The crows were undaunted by the tip cat
And sulky standing gulls had naught to say.
We live in fear of being replaced
By a slimmer one with a better face.

Taking Stock

I started at the edges of my mind sweeping my original thoughts
into an ankle high pile in the middle.

Mostly they were dry dusty particles that billowed
When pushed too fast by the broom, with some special white ones
Like salt crystals and some even more promising bigger ones
Sparkling like grains of sugar.

A dust pan in one hand and a kitchen strainer in the other
I dug the pan under and fork lifted my ideas
Into the strainer, making sure to get every last one.
They rushed though as spray, desperate to be away.

One white theory lump, ideas that held together stopped.
Cautiously I picked it up between finger and thumb
But the connections were weak, and it shattered
into single grains which rouletted around and out through holes.

I’d love to have an original thought the size
and durability of an al dente piece of macaroni.

Saxby Pridmore

Saxby Pridmore is an academic psychiatrist at the University of Tasmania who has been writing and publishing poetry for more than three decades.

Old TV image by Shutterstock.

Topic tags: Saxby Pridmore, modern Australian poetry



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Existing comments

Sheer joy. Thanks.
Peter Goers | 20 May 2015


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