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Leaf Garden Issue 9

Leaf Garden Issue 9

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Published by Arkava Das

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Published by: Arkava Das on May 05, 2010
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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is a twenty-something poet living in her hometown of San Diego, CA until she
can figure out where she really belongs. She has been writing poetry and short stories most of
her life, and she is currently working on a few projects for publication in the near future. She
is inspired to write about the lives of those around her, the things she has experienced on her
few (but far) travels, and of course by the odd things deep within her imagination. She is
grateful that her parents, if no one else, think it's great that she is a writer.

A Conversation Between Two Australians

(as recorded by J. E. Crist)

A: Cricket? The funeral will be sometime later this month, when SA makes it a whitewash (!).
Worst of all, what's going to happen in the next Ashes series? I don't need to be a fortune-
teller to predict that outcome - more's the pity.

B: The pommies aren't looking too good either, but Graham Smith's comment is telling - the
yarpies just rolled the poms and now us, and he thinks they're better. Still, with the retirement
of Hayden, things are looking up. We've got a team of players now who are learning how to

A: We need another captain. Punter's been a great batsman, but as a captain he's not worth a
pinch of shite. I agree with you about now having a team of young-uns who are learning how
to lose. I'm gutted.

B: He's certainly been found wanting now that we're losing. But who can replace him? Clark is
the only candidate, and he's years away I feel. Our cricket team is like our economy: a long
time building to something great, a short time crashing down...

A: Yes, I agree that potential captains are in short, er, non-existent supply, and Clark is a long,
long way off being suitable. It's a tragedy. I agree 100% regarding our economy too, but you
must know my views on that topic!

B: We're in for an interesting time economically, that's for sure... And of course, we voted a
Labor government in, just when we don't need them! Ah, Australia, you've done it again...

A: At least we didn't vote for them...

B: But we still have to suffer for it!

A: And suffer is the right word, with a capital S. It's like a lucky (or should that be 'unlucky'?)
dip when it comes to the Labor Party and policy ... Heaven help us, because we'll need all the
help we can get with this inept lot at the helm (figuratively speaking of course - with them 'at
the helm' the country will sink faster than the Titanic.)

B: [sarcasm] I'm not too worried, ACOSS has Gillard's ear apparently.


J. E. Crist

A: They can have her whole head if they wish - it'd be an improvement (she'd both look and
sound better ... in my honest opinion only, of course.)

B: How sad that we all have to wish Rudd well - 'cause the alternative is Gillard!

A: Unfortunately, we're damned either way, and throwing Swan into the mix only makes the
bitter pill even harder to swallow...


lives in Charlotte.

A poetry reading


Kitty is so happy, the house is packed with poetry lovers, I don’t know most of them. Standing
before the fire is the poet, Winslow McCourt, he is about to give a reading. I invited Father
Coamhanach. “I love it!” says Kitty. Kitty is drinking a lovely wine, Château La Mondotte
Saint-Emilion 1967, she has a ring of purple circling her lips. I think I should inform her, but
before I can get a chance Winslow McCourt coughs.


“My son, God is everything,” says Father Coamhanach. Kitty nods her head, she agrees it
seems, I think Kitty is drunk. “God is but a word,” says Winslow McCourt.


Winslow McCourt is without superfluous fat, extremely good looking he is standing before the
audience of poetry lovers, sedate, anatomizing, a loud sigh, he removes his designer glasses
and bits his top lip. May and Lucy who are sat on the carpet, with their little feet tucked under
their bottoms, are swooning over every movement.


The room is smoky, but what do you expect, it’s a poetry reading.


Although I don’t like whiskey I pour Father Coamhanach a glass, he says, “Thank you, my
son.” My glass is a slightly bit lacking compared to the good priest. Father Coamhanach is old
with grey hair and dandruffed shoulders. I don’t know why I invited him. It’s the first time I’ve
sat next to him and shared a drink. He has a rather bulbous nose. He is the antithesis to
Winslow McCourt. If I had to pick sides I think I would side with Father Coamhanach.


“The best book ever is Roberto Alrt’s The Seven Madmen!” I proclaim. I think I’ve had too
much drink. I’m not a big drinker. I think Winslow McCourt is a big drinker, all poets are big
drinkers. Father Coamhanach is also a big drinker, he’s been liberal with the booze I’ve


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