Ulladulla and other poems - Guest Poetry by Fiona Wright [28.01.2011]
Ulladulla
for Peter
Each year the road winds a little less,
the clustered coastal towns
to local traffic only,
to long twilights, saltburn
and white ants.
We know each car’s trajectory now,
who’ll stop just out of Nowra for strawberry milk and petrol,
who detours to the blowhole,
or delays their toilet stop
What it is that makes tradition out of chance:
The kilo box of stonefruit
the stubborn chaos of communal grocery shopping,
We stack the beer fridge, stand
feed our ankles to wet sand
as the firstnight waves hiss towards the dark,
Persimmon Poem
after Marjorie Barnard
At first cut
This translucent flesh
the tidy.
My sharp lap
Shaped like a young woman’s breast, she said.
This fat and pulpy spill.
I am recovering, I too.
My mind as transparent and tender as new skin
in these,
where light falls thick and desperate,
my vegetable garden glowing gold
I always thought this a female fruit,
Seeds crack between my teeth. The pit is pronged and angular. I’m glad
West
The things you notice once you leave.
That here, the postman comes on foot,
the curled hairs on his bolstered calves
glowing ginger in the sunlight, his tourist-sized
backpack and boots. That here,
the garbage trucks are crewed and frantic
through the fiendish one-way streets and terraced corners,
and the bins are only buckets.
That the front gardens sprout bikes, or chubby succulents
but never grass, and you can hear
your neighbours singing, closing doors
and climbing stairs, can smell their evening curries,
and find their cats inside your window.
That here there are no teenagers, but sports utility strollers,
and even retirees are tightly muscled.
That you can rent a parking space for fifty bucks per week.
The hairdressers are organic
and the dentists wholistic, and the graffiti
is commissioned by the council.
Canberra Poem
‘It’s Apples.’
the petrol hand says,
short shorts on the Monaro, in July
‘The best thing about winter here,
Yours is a crisp city. It curls its boulevardes
You call its CBD Civic and even the cars
merge more politely,
as if they too appreciate a bureaucratic queue.
We see space enough on median strips
The auburn poplars soon
will turn stiff and grey as toilet brushes.
We gather bouquets of dead leaves
In a bar, the specials board proclaims:
If you steal my glassware
I will raise the price of beer
who’s been beaten by a girl.
The punters play Dungeons and Dragons.
In your crisp city, you buy a mug of mulled wine
and a Shetland pony sits fat beneath gloved children.
The lake wears a border of cold cyclists,
and police in steel-blue overalls
on neon leashes.
and the grey buildings still remember
In this staticky city, the air makes my skin
The road signs are blunt, and dented.
Please Don’t Speed.
Drink. Drive. Die.
It’s a long way yet to the Big Merino, you reassure us,
but they sell apples out of car boots
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