Les in Real Life,
The book of Les’ s poetry just fell off the desk
onto the polished wood floor.
At 783 pages it created quite a bang.
The millipede on the wall twitched.
The fluff sausage dogs in the corner jumped.
Les in real life was as hefty as his ‘Collected’.
He wrote poems celebrating the fat, his tribe,
including Quintets For Robert Morley,
the bushy-browed, triple-chinned English actor.
with the plummy voice.
There’s nothing plummy about our Les’s poetry.
It is wide of girth as Les himself, capacious,
containing jokes, puns, outlandish rhymes,
skew whiff metaphors., and clever insights.
It is written in Aussie English.
I bent down, picked dear old Les off the floor.
No need to go to gym tomorrow
lugging Les around.,
There’s something special about a small wooden fork.
Small, slender, artisanal.
Things just taste better with them.
Apple and cinnamon muffins, for one.
And this explosion of a pavlova my daughter made,
the slice I’ve just eaten,
mango and whipped yoghurt
which gave this poem its prod.
This world — we’ll never see the end of it.
So much beauty, above and below.
And just when you thought you’d seen it all,
up pops the Photographic Exhibition on Sea Slugs.
Slugs! The very name invites disdain, derision.
But these are something else: an artificer’s folly,
a frolic of design and colour, of quirky geometries
and improbable beauty — and there are 3000 varieties!
What practical use, what purpose, if not to delight?
Later I trawled through the depths of the web and emerged
staggering, reeling ; & that strange word, ‘nudibranch’
- pic courtesy of Wikipedia
I got my sea slug poem
but not the one about yr cataract
how when it was removed
& the dressings came off
you went out into the world
like Mary Oliver did
amazed at all you saw.
going Wow! Wow!
yr little expostulations of beauty.
I suppose I should be getting ready
rather than hanging out here in the garden
drinking G & T’s
reading an ode to the art of ‘goofing off’
which is sort of like Jenny Joseph’s
‘When I am an old woman I shall wear purple’
which she wrote at 29
& that pic of Bill Murray at Cannes in his short-sleeved
psychedelic shirt, baby blue shorts & panama hat
looking ‘gleefully unhinged’
- pic from Style in ‘The Age’
When I was a kid I used to wander down the park and watch dragonflies flitter over the pond like tiny, restless angels.
Later I wanted to write poems about them the way Monet would go down to his garden at Giverny to paint water lilies.
The only difference is that water lilies stay still. They don’t dash and dart about the pond at 100 ks an hour. Even when they have sex they’re on the go, coupling like planes fuelling mid- flight.
I almost got one once when a dragonfly dawdled on the front doorknob one drowsy afternoon, after summer rains, then saw me and took off, its gossamer wings flashing rainbows.
Perhaps I should turn like Monet to waterlilies. He got 250 paintings out of them. I haven’t got one poem though I reckon I’ve made 250 trips. [ pic by loriedarlin on pinterest ]
What sort of wuss wears a beanie around the house?
It’s not Outer Mongolia for f**’s sake
But it looks exotic and it’s warm and woolly.
A tower of a hat from Ulaanbaatar, the trader told me. A beanie fit for Genghis Khan.
I could see him storming through the steppes wearing it proudly like a crown,
I had to have it with its burnished reds and browns and black leopard spots.
But I look a proper Charlie wearing it in the mall or library or on public transport.
In restaurants people just stare.
So I wear it when gardening or on evening walks along the esplanade before disappearing
into my yurt where I cuddle up with a copy of Sonomyn Udval’s ‘Collected Short Stories’
which everyone should read.
- what’s the strangest structure you’ve slept under?
- have you read any of Sonomyn’s wonderful stories?
- do you wear beanies on cold, wintry days?
the musky glow of the candle bowl
the frisson of flesh on flesh
the cinnamon zing of Venetians
crosswords over coffee
Joaquin Phoenix singing Cry, Cry, Cry
the ineffable sadness of Jackson because we both
know people like that
the voice of Johnny Cash, proof that there’s a God
Rick Springfield on Gospel Radio speaking to the sky
& those blackbirds, after rain, bless their untidy little hearts.
Nice bag, she says as I place it on the chemist’s counter.
Thank you, I say.
Yes, she says, admiring it.
Not likely to topple over.
A bit like me, on a good day, I reply
She smiles, the sort of smile that says, I better humour this guy, he might be dangerous.
I have a very bad feeling.
Tell me I’m wrong.
That I have written myself into obscurity.
That I was too clever by half.
That no one knew what the f*** I was writing about
in the previous post ‘Not a nightingale ode’.
It was a glass of red wine.
But that’s what happens when you put up a post
while you’ve been drinking
while you’ve been rhapsodizing about a glass
of red wine