an old man quavers ‘La Vie en Rose’
on a violin
the schoolgirl bites her thumb
at a boy across the street
the class without a sound . . .
down the corridor
on the jetty
SESH was here, obviously
through the courtyard
look at this
golden light and a man
on the pavement
in bright blue chalk and a child’s hand
Merry Christmas everybody!
sick of your wardrobe
use the floordrobe
do you know how tricky it is to handle an M16 with fake fingernails?
at ice hockey you’re that far away from men hitting each other with sticks
we made paper darts of the church newsletter
I’m going to eat my bizarre vegan sandwich
sewing to death-metal
me mincers are packin’ up
[mince pies: eyes]
he unfollowed me
I don’t want to control alt delete today
dirt on the windows
light makes cobwebs filigree
I want my mama!
some of my best friends are words
the shallow basket brimming with vegetables
this room stinks bad of sandlealwood and mediocrity sailors
we never know when someone’s listening
my husband calls me mum
not special in a negative way
it’s never too late to get bendy
is that a bag?!
happy is buying
I’m going to die tonight, see
maybe after, I’ll be very employable
Camping in a new place
So this is Australia, live ghost of a map. Red dust, families of kangaroos, red parrots, green
parrots, kookaburras, eastern rosellas, common brown butterflies on the shoulders of Mt
Tjanara’s welcome: everyone who comes here comes for a reason and we want to help them with their dream.
Cut back from trees (in the office). Brushing them with the wind, you merge. Humans,
grasses, moths. Buildings hollowed vessels. Walk to the lake, sit at lunch time on a fallen log under a stand of trees. Talking to you.
The campus an abstract to go in fear of.
we can have
fact and reason, she says
reaching for the tea
mark the tree
with our image?
no, a wallaby!
cup the severed land
six slots in the sculpture
to bracket the heart
a perfect question
its shield scar
Now you know it’s here, you can come back.
Paul greets us at the garden, its notes on uses, inherited knowledge. Sun slants, glowing. A
young garden, old. DNA, seed, idea. Peppery leaves can be eaten all year round. Indigo made into a paste to stun fish. You’re not the only one here.
Owen Bullock has published three collections of poetry, five books of haiku and a novella,
the most recent being Summer Haiku (2019) and Work & Play (2017). He teaches Creative Writing at the University of Canberra, and has a website for his research into poetry and process, at https://poetry-in-process.com/