Category: Poems (page 39 of 73)

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.

it’s as if I’m a starter’s gun. Take
your marks, get set, then go. Mrs
Malvern! shouts the small crowd,
Peace, land, bread! As if it’s some
re-enactment, not two unit History.
Summer has stolen its march on the
end of another school year. I could
smell it on the bridge by the Creek.

Mrs Malvern. Mum. Here he comes,
turning into his father once a minute,
slouching like a fucking hat. Swiped.
And then seated. Eighteen years old.
Two weeks of exams. His first adult
Summer. Barely ready. Pretends to
read. Has got a lift to the city library
with Ralph every Saturday this year.

Later than usual, with a look on his
Face like Mt Nebo in fog. Blackout.
Won’t answer me in class. Somehow
I gave up long ago. He’ll get through.
More than I can say for some of his
mates, those two girls in particular.
What he sees in that one Mac Davis
Alone would know. Or The Shadows.

Their last high school summer day.
Zippedy. That strange feeling in the
Empty car park, experienced every
Year, like a loop of teen graduation
Footage. Drawn in for one more lap.
Each curriculum’s circumnavigation
Bringing me closer to no, didn’t buy
Any smokes. Sure Brian’s got some.

Relief’s like the change that brought
Ralph home early one evening once.
I’d support the seniors’ demands for
a smoking room myself if I wasn’t
already compromised. All they ever
go on about. Life without mum. Ha!
I can’t see the look on his face but
He’d get used to it. They’ll have to.

Hot morning. The creek swells under
its bridge, and traffic banks up along
the highway. Assembly, then lunch,
then sweet relief. House to ourselves
for the first time in weeks. Five silver
comet children, spinning out of orbit
into the bleeding Wollongong night.
Might even hear a sound of the creek.

By the old iron footbridge I watch it.
Often changes colour, a kind of khaki
tone today. Sometimes rust, or blood.
Never have followed it down to where
It meets the river, or the sea, if it even
Does. What does the creek remember
Of me, of us? How will we get through
an afternoon of revisions, corrections?

that’s been chopped off at the waist.
I suppose it was infected with some
Kind of disease. I used to drive past
it every day, you know, on my way
to the F6 and Sydney. This kind of
semi-dead tree, down by the creek
there, at the end of our street. Then
someone chopped it off at the waist.

Nothing but a brown stump remains.
I can’t look at it anymore. In fact, I
drive a different way now, cutting
across Figtree Heights to reach the
on-ramp. It’s actually about fifteen
minutes faster. A lot less traffic. As
a result I don’t drive past the school
that often now. Or the fig tree stump.

It’s the reason for my suburb’s name.
I’d like to crawl inside that name and
sit there for a while, listening to its
silent refrain. Fig tree. Figtree. Two
words fused together to form a name
that’s no longer valid. A kind of lie,
perhaps. Cruising in a Newcastle lane.
Anyway, what’s in a suburb’s name?

As for mine, if you ask, Ralph will do.
Yeah. Ralph Malvern. And you? Well,
pleased to meet you. So what do you
want? A lift? Sure, hop in. I’m driving
that way myself. Working in Sydney?
Yeah, I used to catch that one too. It’s
not too bad a commute. I’m stationed
out at Holsworthy. No, Ralph will do.

Mr Malvern to their friends at school,
of course. Not that I get to see a great
deal of them. It’s in the nature of the
job, as they say. Not much more to it,
really. I enjoy the driving, as long as
I break it up a bit. About a thousand
clicks a week, at the moment. Yeah,
Ralph Leyland’s about right. Malvern.

Watch them walk down O’Brien’s Rd
like Brown’s cows, the herd of them.
Another reason I never come this way,
most days. Good to see the old streets
again, every once in a while. God, kids.
Where was the last place I so much as
Talked to any of them? O’Brien’s Rd?

Reflected in the Fairlane’s rear-view.
Then they’re gone. Turning left onto
the highway, the Figtree Hotel in my
right eye & Westfield straight ahead.
I’d be almost at the entrance by now,
If I’d come the other way. Yes, well,
anyway, there won’t be any delays.
A fig tree in the Fairlane’s rear-view.

ii.
Hit by a wave of International Roast
I navigate classrooms, bells. Verna.
Mrs Malvern. Here they come, late
as usual. Somehow excusable. This
public high school’s last summer day.
Relief like the change that brought
The hot rain. The creek swells under
the old iron foot bridge. I watch it.

iii.
The school yard’s dense with bodies
as the fog on Mt Nebo, youngest of
the city volcanos, the one that feeds
into American Creek. It’s flooding.
Call me Clint. No, I am the eldest.
It’s okay. Happens all the time. Well,
there’s the bell. I’d better run. Got
our big assembly today. Sure. Bye.

iv.
I can feel the nettle, stuck in my leg.
The only one I missed at the post-
raid leech & scratch inspections. JR.
Jason Malvern. Securing the sting’s
perimeter, through the grey cotton
of my shorts. That’s better. I have
to cut a fresh trail through jungle –
up at the source of American Creek.

v.
The creek’s steam mingles with our
cigarettes, Joni, me and Star. Durry
sisters, too cool for North Beach, or
school. The rock bulges out under
me like a wedding dress, creamed.
Watching the water swirl. “Hey Jess,”
says Star, passing me the burning
stick, “we get your mum this year.”

vi.
They don’t believe in fairies but I do.
There’s fairies in American Creek &
I’ve seen them, too, in Beaton Park.
Don’t laugh at me like that. You’re
all the same. Alice is the name. Do
you play music? No? Me, flugel horn.
I also compete in orienteering. Good
for the calf muscles. Little Atheltics.

vii
Betty Malvern with a bee. Here’s my
frown. Moment’s mood like that sky
after rain, like the swollen veins of
American Creek. Why do I have to
go to school? I’d like to skate away
the summer, attend gigs. Minds let
loose in carparks, in ghost worlds.
Yes, it’s Betty. Seeya. Soon, I hope.

viii
To chew on grass in the sunshine. To
fall asleep in shadows on the ground.
They’ll bury me beside the creek. In
silhouettes they form a circle round
my stiffened form, all freezing now.
The summer rains will hug me, keep
my little bones warm. A candle is lit
and stuck into the ground. It goes out.