New Poetry by Benjamin Dodds

Archibald’s Fountain

After the washout,

we were so wet it was stupid.

We didn’t even get an overture

before dawdling out

into the darkening evening

with the rest of the cackling crowd.

Three or four islands of friends sat hopefully 

on the drenched Domain lawn,

quietly fooling themselves.

If ever there was an event

to be cancelled for rain,

this was it.

I smiled at new families and old friends,

all out for a night of free arias in the open air,

all soaked to the bone now.

But nobody ran.

You can’t get wetter than drenched.

It was Sydney in summer

and no-one was cold.

As we crossed the road back into the park,

I conjured an image:

a silently packed Opera House theatre,

the audience wearing their best

as the roof hinges open 

and the rain comes down.

Corporate-sponsored programmes

curl around hands like wilting posies.

That night we swam 

in the fountain

in the park

with the Greek gods 

and a goddess

and a bronze turtle.

Today I dug up a photo;

I’m wearing a white plastic sheet,

Jesus sandals 

and the dripping rictus of a smile.

I think it’s Theseus

whose bronze scrotum

I cup in my hand.

I only remember this night 

and this photo 

because of Alison Clark 

and her poem 

about these same sculpted figures.

She has dusted off this stupid image

of my wet and juvenile self.

- Benjamin Dodds 2010

 

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