Portrait of Blood - Guest Poetry from Beneath Our Armour by Peter Bakowski [19.10.2010]
Portrait of blood
The thin armour
you give the newborn,
the midwife
washes away.
In playgrounds,
when the bullied fall,
you rush
to the hill of a bruise.
The shape of your engine room
lovers carve into tree trunks.
In war
you blossom from
every wounded soldier and civilian.
In the field hospital
you glisten on
the gloved hands of surgeons
and each busy scalpel.
You’re not to be trusted,
rummaging in the attic of our skulls,
studying the blueprints of our veins,
deciding where to place
your quick assassins,
clot and haemorrhage.
I hold my breath,
check my pulse,
as you make your rounds.
Sylvia Plath writing in her journal, 23 Fitzroy Road, London, February 1963
7 a.m.
Beyond the bedpost
no mirage of glad husband
moving tall towards me with his English offer
of toast and marmalade,
a cup of tea.
He’s with another.
She has mongrel blood,
a Knightsbridge accent,
can turn a man into
a spinning top,
an arsonist in the house of marriage.
One day she’ll become
a book that my husband
has tired of reading.
I’ll go soon, far from
Massachusetts, Devon, London,
the zoo where my selves are caged,
venomous snake,
sacrificial lamb,
sleepless monkey examining its fleas.
Outside snowflakes fall,
drafts of a poem torn to bits.
In the night sky
I see the Zoo-keeper.
From his starlit belt
important keys hang.
He moves towards me,
I towards him.
We’ll embrace
where it’s black.
Instructions to horsemen, Krakow, Poland, 1241
Your journey will be long,
dangers certain.
From clouds snakes will fall.
These can be killed only
by those amongst you
who have eaten wolf.
Don’t drink from pond or stream
in which black reeds grow.
One mouthful will turn you to stone.
Sleep with an eagle feather
clasped in your fist.
This keeps away lightning.
Find my son,
carried off by Tartars.
He has a crescent-shaped scar
on his left cheek.
By this you will know him.
One hundred fine horses
for his safe return.
I’m too old to ride with you.
Be my eyes,
vigilant in every village and forest.
Put an end to my nightmares
in which two Tartars
whip my blindfolded son
towards the edge of a cliff.
Peter Bakowski writes clear, accessible poems, uses ordinary words to say extraordinary things.
His poems have appeared in literary magazines worldwide and have been translated into nine languages.
Peter has been writer-in-residence in Italy, France, China, Western Australia, Tasmania and New South Wales.
He has self-organized and self-financed numerous poetry tours of Australia, some tours lasting three months, some tours covering 10,000 kilometres.
Peter also gives poetry readings in private houses to groups of eight or more, anywhere in Australia or overseas.
His philosophy is to be alert to the world and to continue.
Peter’s latest book Beneath Our Armour was shortlisted for the 2010 Victorian Premier’s Literary Awards. You can buy it here.
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