Monday, March 1, 2010

Peter Jeffery, Poetry Reading 28th February 2010

Ostia Antica/3
by Peter Jeffery

We are half cousins to the fish

On the Lido, small black Romans eat the fruits of the sea,
Spiked anemone, mussel eye and whorled sea snail.
Still dripping salt water held between fingers,
They are gulped down as a groper,
Blind with huge dull eyes, mumbles weed on rocks,
Till sated, they belch and flop away
In a dribble of towels and flapping thongs.

But in Ostia the small brown Romans
Dived deep into the element,
With the alertness of a gull sighting flake of fish.
Water held as their port in the hands of the sea,
Thus cradled and rocked, they watched
The sad dying of dolphins in the net
Or the squids cast on the mosaics.
No wonder they were brothers to the sea,
And saw the huge marriage feast of Neptune
Where nymphs and horses and gods trailed tails,
Sexual, rhythmic and pulsing through water,
Their proudest stance
Was prone or diving down
Into the rapture of the deep
Where in bronzed love, these water gods
Laughed ripples of minnows from their mouths

WA Poets Inc

Nicolette Stasko, Poetry Reading, 28th February 2010

by Nicolette Stasko

All over the world

poets are going up in flames
little piles of ashes
in the shape of mountains
it seems we do not notice
their going
so much else is ablaze
but the darkness
is growing and
it is not our eyes
who will be here
to help us see?
to be the mole of the wind
reminding us of death’s bright
pointing out
where the stars used to be
from under the glare of so many
busy street lamps

Glass Cathedrals

Jeremy Balius, Poetry Reading 28th February 2010

I don’t hurry
By Jeremy Balius

Way out past the ship masts
that look like fakirs’ beds

of needles in the harbour,

ship lights blink like Christmas lights
on the gutter of the sea.

Whoever hung those lights did a shitty job.

I would not be proud of my house
if my Christmas lights looked like that.

If we tried to swim out there, I’d say
There they go who know; they might not
have a dollar to their names,
but they sure got a lot of sense.

And everybody’d chuckle.

Let’s swim out into the night with
one stroke for the lonely-hearted,
one stroke for the left-behinds.

I’ll keep watch
to see if we make headway,
occasionally shout directions,
but my goodness, will they listen,
those fools?

Sweep me up wind and carry me within earshot.

I don’t hurry for heaven.
So what? I don’t hurry.

*first published on a Red Leaves / 紅葉 bookmark;

Black Rider Press