Category: Poems (page 38 of 73)

As of October 2011, I’d posted over three hundred poems on this site, including many sonnets and search poems, as well as numerous poems that didn’t make it into chapbooks such as Abendland and Morgenland. I then ceased posting poems here, choosing instead to distribute them via my poem of the week newsletter. Then I stopped doing that too. Every now and then I post a poem here … but not as often as I’d like.

9 August 2006 / 3 Comments

machine four buddha

And I saw a field of Buddhas and there you were, running fast up a hill, laughing. And I saw you laughing and my heart burst, like a small block of granite beneath a sculptor’s chisel, a million shards of myself flying through the air. And my heart burst and I saw us running down a hill, towards another field, into the exploding afternoon. And I saw us running and I saw that we were laughing, trying to hold hands as we ran, falling over each other in the grass. And we were falling over each other like we were on the moon, in exquisite slow motion and full colour.

And then I felt the long ache of our addiction and the tingling of you in my veins and I was crying. And the tingling of you in my veins made me run as fast as I could towards the moon. And I ran as fast as I could and you were there, breathing in the lunar dew. And you were there, holding out your arms, laughing at the faraway earth with long and bursting laughs. And the earth was as faraway as old sadnesses, a photo we might have looked at once but no longer find necessary. And the photos got old but we never did, laughing and running through green snow.

And the field of Buddhas began to run towards us, slowly at first but with gathering speed. And they were slow at first but they soon sped up, falling over us as we ran together through that mint green field of tomorrow. And we fell all over each other in that green field of sunshine and explosions, laughing at ourselves and poking fun at Buddha. And we poked fun at Buddha because we were invincible, standing there in the future valley. And we were invincible because we were both there, holding onto each other as the moon fell out of the electric time machine sky.

18 July 2006 / 0 Comments

buddha three machine

This one’s a secret, between us three. You, me and Buddha – our secret machine. A dim machine with four long limbs, two hearts and one desire. Explodes upon impact with water or fire. A new machine in time, its discernable hum. The clock that will not lock, an horizon’s tilt. A pink smoke machine, a bubble-gum vending Buddha. Lights go out around the world. Someone asks a question but it’s only “what?” – we’re looking for a “wow”. And that’s not even a question.

This one’s a secret, between you and me. There’s no one else listening, and the hotel’s open. I have an interview with the manager. In my mind she’s tall, though I haven’t met her yet. I’m still carrying the machine with me – though I know it’ll trigger palpitations in passers-by, strong motion in pavements and maybe even innovation in poetry. Powerful machine! Drilling stacks, plasmic karma, ornamental crushes. Through the gates of doom, blindfolded and shining!

This is the secret that you told me. Something about an exploding pink Buddha, replete with hums. Something you found under your bed and sent to Buddha in the mail. Delivered to me by mistake or Buddha’s intervention. Forwarded to me, on a sea of single and return tickets. Trying to understand instructions written in a language neither yours nor mine but something close to both of them. The language of tiny numbers. Lonely sound of Buddha counting down the secret days.

10 July 2006 / 0 Comments

two buddha machine

Send me your sunshine. Only you can make this buddha machine run. When there’s just one the drone creeps and the loops begin to skip. Buddha needs two machines to set up his feedback mantra, his fearful explosions. Buddha’s playing your melody. Buddha’s sweating underneath those robes. Your sunshine is Buddha and the sound of the northern sea drowns out my southern gales, my hail and cloud. I’ll post them somewhere else.

Through the chat rain and the weather reports, I can sense the glow of long evenings. Send them to me, too. Preferably on a floppy disk, in Buddha format. Compatible as two bombs. Bam! The machines that hum and create their own sunshine, a kind of quicksand sound I’d happily throw myself into, hoping that you’ll come along. Teen movies starring Buddha. Family sagas in several parts. No more sad bildungsroman. Happy Buddha.

The phone’s earworm keeps drilling its designs. There’s no need to send them on, just yet. Buddha can wait. I’ve stored batteries inside my special air-raid shelter, from within which all I can hear is the sun. How Buddha revolves on a marble-white mandala. An obscure graph that documents our melodic rise and fall. I’ve already sent you that. Check your messages. It’ll come in the mail. Buddha relaxes. Buddha on rollerskates.

3 July 2006 / 0 Comments

Jason Malvern

I can feel the nettle, stuck in my leg,
this remnant of Nebo’s glory, shoved
deep inside my thigh, and poisoned
too. I can just imagine the swelling
there, and the pain. Totally worth it.
An opportunity I’d never had before
In the field. The perfect ambush. No
Sound save for the odd raindrop. Op.†

The only one I missed. We drank
Victory sips from our canteens. Mine
Was nearly empty but I shared it with
Thurston. Up above, the water tower
Promised unlimited canteen refills
But offered us no source, not a tap.
The irony of it was lost on us. Once
We’d recovered we marched, our

Cut, leech & scratch inspections. JR.
My preferred call name. Sure, we’ve
Got walkie-talkies. Sticks, also. My
Hands a circuit board of cuts, made
by brambles. On the other side of Mt
Nebo there’s just the escarpment, and
a farm we don’t ever go to. Rumours
of ordnance, of secret tunnel dumps.

Jason Malvern. Securing the sting’s
Venom could take some time. Must
Remember to breathe normally, thin
Whistles of air between the teeth, my
Nostrils an army brown face mask.
On sale at Aussie Disposals. Should
Pop in there after my haircut. A flat
Top. It’s a totally Full Metal Jacket

perimeter, through the grey cotton.
Wasps and burrs. A three-cornered
Jack. Scorpion of the weed world.
Wheeling around to face an attack,
Thurston dropped his walkie-talkie
In the creek, laughing as its cricket-
like bleeps faded in the jungle dusk.
Returning home, mum read the tale

on my shorts. That’s better. I have
some Dettol in my locker, beside my
camo paint. Lee’s pocket knife still
there, ever since he got suspended.
No more afternoon detentions. His
Chance came early in the game, as
I foolishly left myself exposed from
The direction of Mt Kembla. I had

to cut a fresh trail through jungle –
to win. The second part was easier
than the first. Falling finally behind
the rock, I listened with my stick as
Lee and Thurston slowly advanced.
My first sighting of them would end
The game but they’d improved over
The months and all I saw was jungle

up at the source of American Creek.
Chest heaving, waiting with a stick
For a rifle and an empty canteen, as
My enemies close in on my position.
There’s something of a quiet jungle
when I return to my crow’s nest, my
eyrie of calm in a turbulent world. A
flicker of t-shirts between two trees.

3 July 2006 / 0 Comments

Clint Malvern

The school yard’s dense with bodies
BUT I CAN’T HEAR A THING. No need to
shout, a corona’s hanging around her
head. The silence of summer. Here we
go, across the iron bridge and onto
the sports oval. Grass whistle. I’m
still asleep. Memory tastes of Vita
Brits. Something snaps in my ear as†

the fog on Mt Nebo clears. Pressure.
Younger morning. Raindrop fans on a
jacaranda. Oil rainbows on the road.
Then I get my best thinking done. So
Figtree wakes up. I see it every day.
Watch the streets change shape, grow.
Trajectories of wet newspapers still
visible to me, in the air. Energy of

a little volcano, the one that feeds
the sky with its extinct knob. Nebo.
O’Briens Road like a trail of ants
up its side. There’s the water tank
and the barbed wire fence. Its sign.
The long strip of black tar leads to
the high school far below, base camp.
I rode down it once, without brakes,

into American Creek. It’s flooding.
This is the best, so untold. By this
afternoon, I bet O’Briens Road will
be under water. Mum tells me to shut
up. She doesn’t know. Does anybody?
Try lighting a fire in a flood. Try
what I tried. Curled up in a little
ball, powerless to resist. Try this.

Call me Clint. Yes, I’m the eldest.
Not so easy to pick, at first glance.
Hairdressers are a nightmare, so this
summer I’m growing my hair long. Yep.
As long as Melissa’s. Meeting up with
her, after tennis but maybe it’s been
cancelled. Underwater by now, I’d say.
A ripple on the sports oval. The bell.

It’s okay. Happens all the time. Well,
you’d be surprised. I don’t work out
at all. Why I never make the team. No,
really, it’s okay. I’m used to it by
now. It doesn’t seem to make much of
a difference to them. Never has. We’re
a family. Wonder where we’ll go this
summer. Dad’s got the map out already.

There’s the bell. I’d better run. Got
to clear out the locker and transfer
it all to mum’s car. Easier that way.
One period. Assembly. Lunch. Then two
periods in the afternoon. Surely they
can’t expect us to do much, on a day
like this. Mel’s distracted. I see it
in the way she sits there, thinking of

our big assembly today. Sure. Bye now.
Don’t let me keep you waiting. Fog’s
nearly gone. Maybe it won’t be so bad.
Disappointing really. I’d have liked
it to flood on my last day at school.
Watch the pens and pencils flushed out
of the classrooms, across the sports
oval, into the churn of American Creek.

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This is [d/dn], the home of David Prater, a writer and editor currently living in the third person.

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