Thursday 23 July 2009

My hips are sore.

I have no cure, only stretching. And I have no particular reason except over-use. And I have no way to avoid over-use that doesn't involve sitting down for long, boring, periods of time. And I hope they feel better in the morning without me having to do anything about it.

And now, a poem.

This is the story of an urbanite

or so you say in that way you have
when it gets to that point in wine-consumption
that ignites a passion for the centre-stage.
Under the soft-focus light of an audience

I am nothing but polite.
You turn your gaze towards me,
indicate an appetite for a tale
revealing nothing but a crucial oversight. But we are not there yet.

The streetlights still orange the windows
and you have given nothing of me away.
I smile, wait
for the rest of the story to latch onto me like a parasite,

close my eyes. This is the story
of an urbanite,
you start again, and her search
for a way to begin.

Thursday 16 July 2009

Science. Poetry.

I am not necessarily pleased with how my brain keeps these seemingly disparate subjects in different segments of itself that prefer to be cordoned off and virtually unaware of each other. I'm trying to get one side waving. I'm not sure which side has the longest arms.

Stem Cell Therapy Symposium, I

Trickery. Trickery and fiddling.
This is, we are told, the only way to heal the heart.

My heart overhears and it does not like this fact,
quotes back some facts that seem to offer counter-argument.

I tell it that its research is out of date, that it’s alone,
but console it with lies and emotion, hold it steady

from its fluttering. Do not falter, I tell it, just because of this.
And anyway, I say, breaking is a state of mind. Mostly.

Friday 10 July 2009

I have been re-writing toads. So here it is again.

It's probably not that different now I think about it, but it's closer to how it was supposed to be when I got it down the first time.


At the thought of each toad, a shudder, and I
have my ears covered as the car pulls off.

My dad and I pick our way for the last three hundred metres
in the pitchest night through the slap-slap

of toad bellies on concrete. There is a flash of carcasses
with every sweep of torch, so it's turned off

and we are straining our eyes with our heads bent low,
afraid for our own weight on soft bodies.

The black closes in, so much so that it’s hard to imagine
a receding fear amidst the croaking and my hand

in my Dad’s hand. The search for the ground is pointless so
I close my eyes against the nature of the dark.

I'm really quite sad about not being able to see foliage any more.

I don't remember being consulted. And now I won't know which skirt to wear because there's nothing I can see that will indicate how windy it is in the morning.

In memory of the only tree I could see from my bedroom window.

Forgive me, but I am thinking of you again.
They were chopping down the tree in your old front garden
when I woke up this morning. The unknown bird
I hear sometimes will have no place to hide and sing.

I Googled you today; your online presence only lists
you at your old address, your other name that rare occurence
of ‘no results’ – you are lost. I watched the tree come down
in pieces and exclaimed to you, though I have no reason

to believe you care for birds. I will try just your first name,
maybe, and see where in the world you have flown.
I used to treasure my space in your life, the one last connection
to the past. But I understand, this is what makes me unknowable now.

The tree is gone and I am home, the bird unsteady somewhere and in flight.
If only I could put it back, crack trunk and green from air.
As it is, I am only waiting to happen across you – perhaps
face to face in some tree-lined avenue we don’t consider home.

Wednesday 8 July 2009

..and another.


I am underdog despite my 43 lengths
so far this morning and it seems my age
is holding me back. I cannot keep a straight line to myself

and no allowances are made for any mis-timing.
The only place I am alone is when I brave the front-crawler
whose arms boom at different pitches to each other

with every steady stroke. His journey is the bass-line of our orchestra,
straight and uncomfortable. The beats pound my heart
and I earn my first looks of acknowledgement

though it is hard to catch them with eyes
stinging from the backsplash.

Ok, so it's been longer.. but I've been writing new ones!


At the thought of each toad, a shudder, and I
have my ears covered as the car pulls off.

My dad and I pick our way, for fun,
in the pitchest night through the slap-slap

of toad bellies on concrete, their high-pitched
rumbles. I don’t picture a torch,

but I do remember the flash of carcass
in the passing of our own car ahead. The black

closed in, so much that it’s hard to imagine
the receding fear amidst the croaking and my hand

in my Dad’s hand and yes, I remember now,
my eyes closed against the nature of the dark.