Melaleuca Number 7: January 2010 Table of Contents After Meng Jiao It Begins Lyric Horizon Scanning Spirals Witness

Where the Unfinished Things Go Woman the Enemy A Place of my Own Eyes on the Horizon Mangoes Winterville 21, 2008 He Does Not Make Words for me Listening to Calla Hem Lines Letter to Denmark Wooden Bridge Adam Aitken Adam Aitken Adam Aitken Magdalena Ball Magdalena Ball David Barnes Kathleen Bleakley L. S. Fisher George Fripley Matt Hetherington Matt Hetherington Matt Hetherington Janet Jackson Janet Jackson Janet Jackson Carol Jenkins Rae Desmond Jones Les Wicks 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 Editor: Phillip A. Ellis

All works are copyright by their respective creators, 2010; the arrangement of this collection is copyright by Phillip A. Ellis, 2010. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 Australia License <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.5/au/>.

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After Meng Jiao Who's not sad thinking of home no emperor there wants our poems growing old means we're just much smarter no ink spilled to make a living you wait for me with a case of wine why waste time on the what-ifs of going back to a glass palace? Adam Aitken 3 .

and ends in winter. Adam Aitken From: Adam in Cambodia <http://adamaitken. With love there is of course the romance but also the recall: it begins with looking backwards and leaving out the boring parts of which there are none.com/2009/12/it-begins. a bird in the hand. a bird in the bus queue the little bird at the bird bath the bird who's heading home across a field of unpicked vines. Coming home the bird will come to this. It begins with never-to-be-repeated acts of love.It Begins It begins with letters strewn across the carpet.blogspot.html> 4 . and begins again in summer.

just empathy. There are the interiors. or. a deeper arresting of the sense. no roses either no half buried garden shed at the back of Regents Park in which to skimp on our portraits (nude) in an unfinished poem in October. call it epiphanal... or.blogspot. A great deal is about to happen but not yet. then the interiors of the interiors and what comes between us is precisely the subject of the poem: be it a sword or hesitation: more interiors padded with medieval tapestries.Lyric First there is the picking of a rose.. perhaps.com/2009/10/lyric....html> 5 . Adam Aitken From: Adam in Cambodia <http://adamaitken. like the first tentative attempt to say "I would like" in French or Italian brings a faint blush to the neck. then the theory on what it means. no shared lingua. Light will not do . but there is never quite enough time to see all of the Uffizi and like Keats there is the threat of an early consumptive death but not before he teaches you everything you need. if there is no rose there is no symphony.it must be cultivated light inflected through a mild cloud of darkness. perhaps the mineralised torso of a God. or even a country that can't address us as is lacks a studio or eery and so needs no mention of us. rather than digitised indolent gesture an article of clothing so loose a breeze blew it into a pool of swans.

Magdalena Ball 6 .Horizon Scanning Your eyes squint at glare wavering between dreams imaginary lines or clear delineations from this point it’s not possible to judge take a stand from your degraded platform speaker’s corner cardboard soapbox microwave radiation blocking your ears you can shout your head off until everyone gathers it won’t change reality or will it? 28 billion light years one edge to the other there you are explorer without a map scratching your head the horizon problem flakes those broad shoulders Atlas in messy hair and bell bottoms every mystery you solve invokes another.

Spirals NGC4736 take that a dirty incoherence of numbers and letters your identity crushed into a spiral galaxy empty of dark matter an absence of darkness your exotic invisible substance denied some would call that ‘light’ shake unwashed hair and swear no such thing exists you hold tight to darkness the hardening addiction that clinks against the side of your glass each night as your hand drops in spiralling slumber rotation slows as you move further out from the crowded inner reaches of your galactic core your motions sedated gravity weakening it might be the big bang’s afterglow that leaves you gasping for air a stone’s throw from one galaxy full of dark matter to another full of light pulsing as you drift into another dark sleep Magdalena Ball 7 .

Spellbound. and I float. to the upsurge of the roof above. sunlight spits. suspended in Heaven. David Barnes 8 . cut off from the world of golden setting skies: Such brilliance enfolds. colour glides in sapphire waters. in this cathedral enclave scales glint.. Great Barrier Reef. rainbows. reef fish dance under my feet. dying building. and his father. captivates my soul. the reef. this is the kingdom.Witness Light. I see within me my father’s father. Circles of leadlight gracefully encircle me. filling my heart. and I.. on bones of ages past cathedrals. splits in disorderliness. calm before storm. I am the ocean.

Where the Unfinished Things Go David. I dream your unfinished things are floating in the harbour out to sea in a little maroon boat after eight years all the lingering conversations songs yet to be heard books half read scripts unplayed places not travelled are returning to you. In a sea-garden you play your fiddle to the mirth of Neptune dance amongst the coral hold court with mer-maids & men. Afterwards send messages songs complete in shells to the living loved ones. Kathleen Bleakley 9 .

"the lash that stings his soul". 18601900: II: Baudelaire". he cannot but feel it. is anathema. "Studies in French Poetry. the beauty of women. the desire is terrible. Fisher Found poem derived from: Christopher Brennan. he cannot but desire it-indeed. being man. S.Woman the Enemy But the beauty that laughs and weeps. . Being poet. the living beauty. in his diseased nerves. L.

a sandy beach. I ask you. somewhere that I am out of reach. a personal place that’s mine alone. A leafy glade.A Place of my Own There must be somewhere I can sit and ponder how the clouds drift by. where only untamed creature’s cries break the whisper of the breeze. where can I just sit without some worries finding me. allowing me to finally mend. George Fripley . accept my every flaw. a mountain top. a rustling stream. and find myself once more. just sit with my own company. an hour of time that never ends. a place to sit at ease.

Eyes on the Horizon and your face in every distance we have travelled so far from so near to our aim each beside the other a labyrinth of solitude absently dreaming of rest retreating to somewhere there’s no tracks or a bridge between sides it costs too much to cross i trusted a lie which was naturally my own now i carry my darkness under my eyes Matt Hetherington .

Mangoes inside fruit shops he finds them waiting there takes as many as he has money for bites into each skin and tears off with nails and then teeth the flesh is like sun inside the tongue Matt Hetherington .

Winterville i wake from the sheer boredom of my dreams the sun is a child’s toy lost in the past our trust is where the sky and sea just meets the town groans like its let its lifeblood freeze but things fold inward to where they heal best i wake from the sheer boredom of my dreams my tongue lies like a carcass in the streets released from freedom’s indifferent fist our trust is where the sky and sea just meets in the hungry grey garden without trees a horse was resting its hoof on my chest i wake from the sheer boredom of my dreams beyond the work of any new techniques she won’t kiss me if i don’t kiss her first our trust is where the sky and sea just meets the rain stays in the same limp clouds for weeks the wall isn’t listening to each list i wake from the sheer boredom of my dreams our trust is where the sky and sea just meets Matt Hetherington Previously published in: fourW. 14 .

then open it. Be big-eyed and soft-lipped in pantyhose. Wear a silver cross at your pushed-up cleavage to promise him godly motherhood.' Not 'ellipses.. safe behind tall gates in beautiful BMW McMansionville. a powder-blue twinset.com/index.. newsreader hair. Janet Jackson Previously published in: AustralianReader. 2008 Lipstick your mouth. Pronounce your full-stops as 'stops.21. Finish your words and leave spaces between them. a beret.' Not 'questions?' Not questions. Speak clearly.php? section=articles&articleID=856&page=1> 15 .com <http://australianreader. and a knitted scarf.

frames it in jarrah. he plays music that shows me only itself. with its pairs of strings too taut for bending blue. moves furniture to where I want it. 16 . He makes tea and toast every morning. He does not make words for me. He makes me a mirror. He makes a coat-rack for my long black coat and the children's raincoats. he installs tracks and poles for my curtains.He Does Not Make Words for me He does not make words for me. He asks me nothing but the open question of skin. On a mandolin. devising solutions to the problems engendered by these eccentric walls. Janet Jackson Previously published in: Cottonmouth. When I ask him to.

. to satisfy you. to take you out. Devil-may-care has the best songs.Listening to Calla I want to write like this guitar with its shimmering folds. explosions of cut-off flowers. Janet Jackson Previously published in: Creatrix. To touch you. 17 .. Just to touch you. I want lines your lips can dance to and lines to lay you flat. lime juice. Lines to make you want.

milk and porridge. in the passage. moment. both puzzling about her penchant for misery. with us three on it. so we arrive together by that kink – where the road disappears – apparently – from view. milling. Elizabeth and I concentrate on the sad seamstress.Hous e Gues t While my spoon scoops up porridge that’s sweet from sugar.Hem Lines “ and our hems f ore ver croo ked?” El i z abet h Bi s hop. I’m reading Bishop. fluttering. present. Carol Jenkins 18 . pinked with rhubarb that flocks the milk. while eating sugar. till the sift and dance of light in the room I’m really in fills all dimensions. Then there is the art of finding that all my own crooked hemmings arrive. The time away as Bishop’s guest. into this seamless. delivers me. properly.

despite the chance That some great lump of jagged rock could Flick us with nonchalant indifference. into consciousness. in the time It took the eternal clock to factor the passage of light Through matter. Worms eating into the carcass Of this tiny ball of mud & fire That has sustained us. Knocking us sideways into some turbulent emptiness A few million light years away. wriggling & squirming. as though we could Drop back into the fat cloacal mush From which we writhed (& thought we rose) A few seconds ago. star gazing From the fragile venerable earth. Things look not so different Though we’re upside down. It smells rich & soft.Letter to Denmark It is spring in the South. & Purple flowers spatter the horizon. Sitting in this most ancient garden I contemplate The pregnant predestined chemistry That made possible our vulgar growth: Millions of us. Rae Desmond Jones 19 . Breathing out their dense syrup of light & life.

Les Wicks Previously published in: Polestar 20 . I am this harbour neither whole nor unholy.down to the beach we must have our fun food acid/sugar sand castles & tinted society-mums. In free supply but undrinkable lantana manana man in a mangrove embarrassed cluster an afterthought. The eyes are the city building glass they slip beyond the trees scratch the humming sea. Know so little oyster. Beneath a rigged fig . keep ground down Serious injuries may occur at cliff. My fingers are ferries teeth are loam my back is gantry this hair is an introduced flowering weed ears carry the wind. I go to the change sheds to embrace change. National Park railings keep me up.Wooden Bridge My feet move like the negotiations of a containership approaching berth.

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