These guys have been in my poetic sights ever since I first read This Changes Everything. I regularly cite the key tenet of this poem in discussion with CC deniers.
*****
Heartlessland
i. one of the most strident climate change deniers is american conservative
think tank — & i use those words advisedly — the heartland institute
by rabidly rejecting the scientific consensus on climate change it has done
perhaps more damage than even the trillion dollar fossil fuel corporations
that put us here
ii. to the surprise of no one this organisation took the coin of tobacco giant philip morris
spent the 90s discrediting smoking’s health impacts, the risk of secondhand smoke & fighting smoking bans
i guess that says it all
*****
Day 12 – TI Wrote some heart poems as easy as shooting fish in a barrel
miles & litres
supposedly my heart pumps almost 7 litres of blood around
the over 60, 000 miles of blood vessels in my body
every. single. minute.
& i’ve driven each. & every one of them twice. looking for the slightest signpost that you still love me
BONUS #1 — above average
the average heart beat of a woman is (on average) 8 beats a minute faster than a man’s — assuming it beats at all
(i always said you weren’t average)
BONUS #2 — all I want for Xmas
each year more heart attacks occur on Christmas Day than any other
Monday, likewise, has more cardiac assaults than any other day of the week
Lookout 2028 emergency rooms when Christmas falls on a Monday!
For once, I don’t feel conflicted about writing an Anzac Day Poem. And as happened 2 days ago with Bill Shakey Day, (& last year for both days) having a superimposed theme (“love” this year, “climate change” last) made me look at the day in a whole new way — which in turn has generated not 1, not 2, but 3 poems of which I am exceedingly pleased.
Looking at love in war time is a wonderful way to get around the whole uncertainty I have about A25.
It’s also a lovely way (pun intended) to honour, commemorate, call what you will my grandparents in poetical form.
*****
Anzac Triptych 1. Atherton Tablelands 2. Goodbye Will Moon 3. TIL
*
1. Atherton Tablelands
In April 1943 following three weeks leave after seeing action at Tobruk, Mersa Matruh and El AlameinGunner RL JONES of the 2/7th Field Regiment arrived at Kairi in the Atherton Tablelands.
It was love at first sight.
Even though he was from a notoriously lush part of the Adelaide hills the green in Far North Queensland is several degrees greater than most mortal eyes are used to — or able to endure.
Gunner RL Jones remained on the Tablelands with his unit for almost two years — training and playing upon the rich red loam born in ancient volcanoes. Before being sent to Tarrakan that began the Allies’ Borneo Campaign. He survived those jungles by thinking often of the equally lush Atherton tablelands — until the Americans blew up the world and the war ended.
Gunner RL Jones eventually made his way home & made Florence his fiancé.
Rueben told Florence. Of the green. Of the red soil. Of his desire to move there.
Florence said no.
He never saw the Tablelands again
*
2. Goodbye Will Moon
In late 1944 Corporal BI Burgan of RAAF 1 Squadron was likewise on leave when he visited his parents in Port Wakefield.
Quiet Sunday evening. Parents off praying. It’s been a long journey and I’ve only a few precious day’s leave. But I know dad will be disappointed if I don’t attend. So although I don’t feel like it reluctantly walk across town.
Only one seat remains in the very back pew. Slide into that space next to a beautiful young woman who smiles as I sit down. Can’t concentrate. On what the pastor is saying. Nor the service itself. Nothing but — that sublime smile.
Afterwards, I offer to walk her home and am bemused and delighted to discover she’s boarding with our next door neighbour.
We stand talking for ages til I brazenly lean in and kiss her over the garden gate. I’d best go in now, she says.
The best night of my life.
During my leave we spend as much time as possible together but it ends all too quickly. Before I deploy to New Guinea I must tell her. I confess undying love. The hammer blow. She’s engaged to another! I didn’t know I say and chivalrously offer to step aside.
Leave it with me. She says. I’ll deal with it.
And. She. Did.
*
3.
TIL
today i learnt that unlike my gran and grandad nana and papa weren’t engaged or even dating while he was away during the war they only started seeing each other after he got home
her first love died flying bombers over germany she was s h a t t e r e d when Will was killed
suddenly saw my frail ninety nine year old nana with newer sadder eyes
My two wallowversaries are quite close together this year — Good Friday & Easter Sunday. GF being Day 1 of the Festival of Grief, ES Day 2. Each year I don’t know whether I’ll write about my grief on the date it happened or the day. Some years it’s both. The interesting thing about choosing a theme for the month is it makes me approach topics I’ve written about countless times with fresh eyes. Such as this …
to pin a wish
my only-ever astral child my first star girl my free spirit my whispered wish
only briefly tethered postmarked but never delivered addressed but never sent never faded never dimmed always present in my heart
would’ve loved you with my whole soul every ether of being guided you from child to woman as best i
cradled you comforted you held eggshell close gifted free range love love loved
walked you down any aisle — assuming i could see given my eyes are waterfalls simply imagining such moments
the first wish i’d make if any benevolent genie ever give me a chance
my beautiful wondrous astral-only child my heart was torn away the day you ran red down your mother’s legs
During NaPoWriMo there are a plethora of sites & groups publishing writing prompts to help poets overcome the terrifying prospect of the blank screen or page day after day for 30 straight days. I rarely have a problem finding a topic but I usually check out what the prompts are in the groups I’m part of, just to see if there’s anything that interests me.
An Australian-run group called The Dirty Thirty’s chosen topic today was myth. The number 13 is lucky and scary and shrouded in myth. So today, let’s talk myths. In your poem, find creative ways to include the actual story your myth was based on.
This is manna from heaven for me & I immediately thought of one of my go to topics: the myth of Orpheus & Eurydice. I love this topic so much that I have several books devoted to the subject & I’ve written at least a dozen poems around the theme; the best of which I one day hope to publish as a chapbook or suite of poems (as part of a bigger volume) called songs of under earth.
The Death of Orpheus
after many years : wandering : ever-mourning : his lost Eurydice : Orpheus worshipped : only the Apollo-sun
one morning : at the Dionysian oracle : on Mount Pangaion : while greeting dawn’s rosy fingers : with his peerless lyre-playing : as part of his : daily sun god salute : the Maenads : resenting Orpheus’ refusal : to honour : his previous patron : sought to harm him : threw sticks & stones : yet the lilt : of his music : was so sublime : & so strong : the rocks & branches : refused to strike
enraged : they threw themselves : instead : in a furioso frenzy : ripping : rending : wrenching : his mortal body : to shreds : blood lust madness : engulfing them all
when the women : who tore him apart : tried to cleanse : their gore-covered hands : the river sank : below ground
as did : Orpheus’ shade : finally : to be reunited
Because Anzac Day always falls during NaPoWriMo, I often myself writing about it owing to my many & varied (often conflicting) emotions about it. I think I could quite easily publish a chapbook of just Anzac Day-themed poetry.
Once again, this is not the poem I set out to write, that one remains half completed needing more time & more research to complete. It is conceivable that parts or all of this poem may one day make their way into that more encompassing piece.
*****
Lest we forget
i.
When Cousin George declared war against Cousin Wilhelm
in August 1914, 13 year old Australia, a British Empire dominion
was likewise at war
— automatically.
We had no choice.
ii.
While many thousands of young
men eagerly rushed to enlist;
thinking it a grand adventure
to assist three spoilt imperial cousins squabble over colonial interests;
Australia twice voted against conscription
as political parties split & formed new alliances, elections were fought
& a Prime Minister resigned over the contentious issue of our involvement.
iii. 60,000 Australian diggers
were treated for venereal diseases — almost as many who were killed.
iv.
When the war was over
thousands of thousands of men
many with debilitating physical wounds: torn limbs, gas-burnt lungs,
missing eyes, metal-sliced flesh;
as well as those enduring
post-traumatic stress disorder
back when it was much more poetically named shell-shock:
the warhorror of bursting bombs
mates exploding next to you,
then days in the trenches
alongside their rotting corpses,
had to be re-integrated into a society revulsed at the monumental destruction,
keen to resign the war (& too often
those symbols of it) to the past & attempt to resume normal life.
Many soldiers kept their war silent.
But many of those did not or could not make the transition.
BONUS POEM: April 25, 2018
In France. In V-B. 100 years on.
*****
Idols
for many windswept years
it’s been our special story
entrenched in lore & legend
my grandfather’s uncle
his father’s younger brother
guts unpacked by a MG bullet
killed in the battle
to retake Villers-Brettoneux
early morning, Anzac Day 1918
however today I met three families with the same story
all blood drained from it
like a carcass on the hook
plus the bone dry testimonies
of half a dozen more
which has simultaneously made our special day
less & a little more so
The third of three pomes all exploring absence in different ways. While not completely successful, it is the most successful of the three.
*****
absence iii
every so often your absence is more noticeable, like today
the removed from the rainbow …a heart only air
the that is all hole …a night without any stars
the bullet the glass …a spine with every missing
the who cannot blow fire …a fish without
BONUS POEM: April 19, 2018
It can speak for itself.
*****
Homecoming
swan wings : the saw of the air : the piece : oftentimes : of return : the peace : the safety of a new place : where no one : any one : has their way : but every one : will prosper : coming through the lock : reflection ripples : relentless birdsong : playing dogs : oars up & back : leaping into the unknown river : willowy light : birthplaces : spires into memory : across time : making a mark : that lasts
Last night, dear friend & wonderful poet, Louise Nicholas, launched her first, very beautiful, full-length collection of poems, The List of Last Remaining through 5 Islands Press. It was a fabulous warm funny (mildly drunken) night.
Today, after dipping my way in & out of the collection, I have taken the last line of her poem, “How to scale a fish” & tweaked it to use as the title of today’s poem.
moonlight, unearthed
& so it’s come : to that time : of life : to once again : take out the tools of excavation : to dust off : my brooms & tiny brushes : sharpen my trowels : put pads on my ageing knees : & get down in the pit : in the dirt : dig down through the layers : the strata of my happiness : & my grief : to uncover the bones : & broken pottery : & terracotta floors : of true love : lost : of childhood : lost : of embryos : washed down drains : blood on thighs, over tiles, over everything : & to keep digging : until all that’s left to see : is an empty grave : a soul shaped hole : a silver wash : of moon : light : & salt
gareth roi poet boi 