Thursday, January 19, 2006
Draw a Person in the Rain (P-I-R) Test
Who is this person?
How old is he?
At the third stroke, he'll be 42.
What's his favourite thing to do?
To sing in the rain with a broken umbrella.
What's something he does not like?
The sun's electrodes on his head.
Who looks out for him?
Has anyone tried to hurt him?
In the Carpark with the doctor's Rolls Royce
I'm delicately poised
on the hood of a Silver Ghost
My Charleston dress
strokes the sharp line
of the hood
the bird in my beading
my injured wings fold
back into my sides
I'm a spring loaded mascot.
For a Miracle
for a bower-bird
a rough stone
For dancing bees
The eurythmic sun
to give its light
to the seasonal
For a baby lyre-bird
For the Mormons
to take me
to their ballet
For my ill-fitting gown
to tango me
out of here.
- Karen Knight 2006
Karen Knight's poetry continues to be published in Australian anthologies, newspapers and literary journals, including Blue Dog, Island and The Best Australian Poems 2005 edited by Les Murray.
Her collections include Singing in the Grain (Walleah Press, 2001) My Mother Has Become (Picaro Press, 2003) and Under the One Granite Roof- poems for Walt Whitman (Pardalote Press, 2004).
Posted by Justin Lowe at 2:36 pm
Friday, January 13, 2006
some will say they have waited an eternity
get out the good silver polished daily
their hope chests spilling over with...
well...well with hope
the word chosen tempting them like never before
others will say it was the last thing they expected
and rising to the occasion like born agains
be the first to admit they always left room
for an each way bet
others will take it in their stride
adapting like a sixth toe
not noticing anything different at all
until someone calls their name
in a mother tongue they never knew was theirs
and suddenly they are running then flying
all the way home
shedding skin after skin as they go
- Jane Williams 2006
Posted by Justin Lowe at 3:43 pm
Thursday, January 12, 2006
Chinese New Year
Tonight I want to hear heartache.
I am out of synch, I know. It still may come though. Ah, say something nice. Just for tonight, let the music swell, let me see her.
It still may come.
I buy cigarettes. The sad eyed girl on the corner. When it is not busy she rests, chin in hand. Little melancholy hymns. Only I can appreciate them, but she keeps them all the same.
A series of percussive snaps. Paper mache dragons vomit fireworks onto the crowded street.
We got drunk and made fun of the singer. A jungle of whiskey heated limbs, we fall asleep forming our own constellation.
Saturday night, the valentine you mean to send, but time weighs it down in your hand.
- Wayne HW Wolfson 2006
Posted by Justin Lowe at 7:34 pm