A social site for poets in Sydney.
Wheelhouse
which I never knew was a baseball metaphor
and stereotypically I was that boy in the outfield
which shows how language loses its meaning
and how we steal for our own devices — I mean
there it is, it’s in the telling, conversation.
I never escaped imitating who I grew up with
and who I brought with me. why not just drop
meaning like a hot pan, treat language as Lego
to scatter and reassemble like, well, my nephew
does, who at nine I find unengaging but mention
him unlike those who group family with dolphins,
rainbows and — are metaphors out of style?
what if you trip over a sensational one like [insert
great metaphor here]. humour works time to time
but because poetry readings are so deadly? Or is
spilling your guts considered amateur, or worse,
American? The confessional seems misplaced.
Here they give away so little yet recycling my own
tropes, trapping myself in grammar and lazy
analogies… I could leave it there. pith. punch. I’d
usually aim for a long line, an unusual image, some
emotional depth but not too obvious and
far too often the overused epiphany. Instead
just a full stop or period but where did I pick
up ‘full stop’ since we never said that in Canada?
a round cushioned cork hurtles towards me
wrapped in wool and yarn and hidden in cowhide
stitches. The sun in my eyes, or merely day-
dreaming. Or a sting as it lands in my gloved palm.
(I'm amused that the previous poem posted also refers to the full stop. I was honoured to read at the Sydney Poetry 2nd birthday, yesterday, at Sappho books, and this is a new poem that I read out. A work in progress so would be appreciative of any comments or constructive criticism. A shout out to Adrian for all his hard work on keeping this site going)
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