I saw a sparrow hop across the carpet
in the library
toward the Express Collection Shelf.
I flicked my head
like an illusionist’s cape
& it was gone.
I went back to the article about Stevie Van Zandt
& his Summer of Sorcery Tour
& the sparrow
appeared again.
With another flick of my head
it reassembled
into a series of tan dots — & dashes.
Time to head off
to the optometrist again.
It’s not the big ones
like walking on water
that interest me
But the little ones
like walking freely,
doing gym again
without medication,
being able to hear
stereophonically
without ear surgery,
able to love again
without the king’s men
struggling
to put me together;
the body’s palliative care unit
working in unison.
You can’t swat it.
Spray it.
Shut it out.
Tell it to sit. Stay.
It’s in yr brain.
Waiting. Watching
Friends, fellow writers
That first flicker of success
The green frog of envy.
There was a man in our street who had an apparition in the middle of an afternoon.
He was driving on a country road where on a whim he took a detour. His wife was beside him. They drove down the avenues and streets and occasional crescents till they realised they were caught in an infinity loop. The man began to panic. It was like that time he was stuck in a lift. He could feel his heart fibrillating, his bladder wanting to burst, his vision blurring but he held this from his wife who would accuse him of weakness.
That’s when he saw it, the apparition. It came for him, lumbering down some labyrinth in his brain, a Minotaur bristly and bellowing, big as a tank, barging into him. His heart stopped.
His wife never knew what happened but she found her way out.
A bird flew in my mouth.
I gulped in horror.
If it were a mozzie,
A blowfly,
No worries
But a bird
A wattlebird at that.
It panicked in the echo chamber of my mouth.
I wrestled it with both hands
Trying to pry it loose.
Suddenly it plopped out like a fish.
It staggered in the air.
I staggered along the path.
A bird in the mouth is worth two in the bush.
My friend quipped.
So how was it? he asked.
Surreal, I clucked. Surreal
I was down in the dumps when someone praised
A recent poem of mine.
I know we should be immune to Praise
And Criticism
But it’s hard not to be lifted
Like a hot air balloon
Above the petty doubts and grievances
That beset us all
And to bask in the warm sun of appreciation
Knowing that, yeh, we’re okay,
We’re going to get there
We are not alone.
Hope is the helium that keeps us aloft.
can you think of an occasion when praise made a difference in your life?
what is the helium that keeps you aloft?
I don’t know how to take the mattress that’s been dumped in our driveway.
Admittedly it’s not as bad as the dead cat that was dumped in our rubbish bin.
But it’s harder to get rid of.
It’s an affront.
You eye yr neighbors suspiciously.
Suspect the crotchety old bloke across the road.
And then you do something nutty.
You drag it up the driveway and dump it on the street.
You don’t think. You react.
That little guy inside yr head.
Someone in the middle of the night drags it back.
So you ….
It’s like a tug-of-war.
So what’s yr next move?
One thing’s for certain.
Yr not going to take this lying down.
I’ve come to mistrust the little guy who lives inside my head. He used to be such a nice guy but over the years he’s become a little loopy, his thinking transgressive. Now I hardly know him. He’s a loose cannon, an IED waiting to be stepped on. Look, I say, let’s be reasonable. You can’t say that! And you definitely can’t do that! You want to end up in prison with me? Sometimes I give him drugs to quieten him, talk him down, try to get him to see reason. I love the little guy. I just wish he was more like me.
do you find yourself warring with yourself sometimes? how do you resolve differences? is there such a thing as a fully unified being?
I was tearing along the coastal route
The little white horses racing into shore
When this song came over the radio
And galloped into my heart.
I pulled over onto the shoulder.
I was transported.
I closed my eyes and let the music
Take me.
8.30 seconds later I was released.
It was good to hear Derek and The Dominoes again.
It was good to hear ‘Layla’
What songs stop you in your tracks, transport you to other places? What songs do you pull over for?
It’s a good day, I said, the sun angling through the red gums hooking our attention.
I don’t know, he said, Friday was pretty impressive too [referring to the hailstorm]
then he looked at me, knowing I’m a poet, and said, you gunna write about it?
& I said, without thinking, when I get time, Mark, when I get time
& I thought about it afterwards, how you could write about almost anything at all
even the least bit startling — a rock maybe metamorphosing into a frog, the hurtle of creekwater rounding a bend, a screech of cockatoos tearing up the sky
there’d be so many you wouldn’t know where to stop. You’d be writing all day
& the night would hold some surprises too — a spider abseiling down a branch, a fuchsia sunset or a blood moon, the soft sounds of love —-
everything offering itself into words: there’d be no end to it; in the end you’d have to
avert your eyes, close your mind, do what you were told never to do and NOT listen
to the Muse; only then would you get some peace, the world so ablaze with glory
the problem is not too little but too much.
is that the problem with your writing — too much to write about?
or is it writers’ block?
how do you deal with it?
John Malone 