A social site for poets in Sydney.
Beautiful things don’t happen here,
ugly things happen
dirty, deranged, depressing things
sprouting-from-the-bottom-of-red-basin things happen here
Around the next corner is the new opportunity to face old disappointments.
kookaburras in the cathedral of trees
hymns of cicadas
Bushfires that tear through the underbrush, crack open seeds -
rehashing, repeating
no revolutions here. no bells
You European. You France. You Steeple. You Romance.
your culture will be consumed by space and heat in two generations
withered by the morose glare of no worries
by the never-ending stretch of not minding
of sails limp in dead wind
Us laidback. Us larrikin. Us unfathoming laconic
we will be forever awkward opening that door for you
of three pecks on the cheek for greeting
of speaking the language of nuance
and then meeting
your moon eyes
with the fullness of our own
And we met in the melting pot between us
the centre of Sydney
where colony fights continence over a bridge
And on our date I am wanting to pull back
the seaweed hair from each of your ears
and whisper quietly,
one time alone in each
how I think you are
cool,
intelligent
and beautiful
but when my elbow is caught by the waiter
passing with your plate of steamed Thai
I am wanting only to say
how we are ugly
and that I never should have tried.
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Hi Timothy, the poem definitely started off strong with good rhythm, but I felt it then turned into a short story. Indeed, it was like reading a page in a non fiction book. When writing free verse (which I don't do.....or maybe can't do), it's critical that the poem maintains good rhythm, otherwise it may start to read like a non fiction novel.
I loved this stanza:
"Bushfires that tear through the underbrush, crack open seeds -
rehashing, repeating
no revolutions here. no bells"
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