July 13-July14, 2009
Poets!
I’ll feed off you.
You feed off me.
Enjoy the cannibal feast.
I text. On the bus ready for departure to Port Augusta. Safe journey, he replies.
Past the Quick-E-Mart, get the real taste at university corner, down town Hindley Street where derros and hookers meet. Lions Arts Centre, steel flash of railway tracks, The Torrens pretends to be a river, parklands green now, brown in summer; iron lace, red brick basket range stone, stacked plastic chairs, ATM here. Loading zone. Car yards car yards car yards Main North road. I love where I am heading. Plastic bunting capitalist prayer flags. It’s a full bus today but so far no-one next to me, down the back, last seat next to the toilet. USED FORK LIFT SALES and Adapt-a –Lift leaving Industrial Land - and on the edge, a saw tooth mountain range of salt. Water lays and water runs: wet winter. Pigeons spot the silo roof. Rain slakes the windows at Port Wakefield. Deltas of rain fall grey into green. Crystal Brook the sign reads Shear Success. Port Pirie and it’s everyone out for a smoke. Moving further north, the sun beams in on me and I am carried home sleeping.
(Yesterday I saw someone texting while standing in the sea. “I am knee deep in water and going deeper if you don’t message me soon.”)
On the ABC: Rifle shots are heard. It’s the marching season in Ireland. Beat the drum.
At the Writing Workshop
My pen full stopped.
tears wrote the words
coming home.
In my fathers house
I lift mine eyes up unto the hills
Sacred ground bleeds
speaks to me
Come to me
I will refresh you.
Port Augusta sand hills
My ancestors walked here
with
guns and sheep
poison and dogs.
Leather shod they wrote a story in sand.
No comments:
Post a Comment