Wednesday, 5 August 2015

VII

Sharon Olds finished her speech
a tiny peice of spittle clung
to the collar of a man in the front row
she winced a little.

Sue did a mental count in her head
who wasn't there
Lewis.
Phoebe.
everybody else was bright
pen to paper
smiling
ready to go home.
She side glanced her partner
nodding off in the chair
next to her.

Anthony lawrence stuck his hand in the air
one final question.
He knew his would be a good one to go out on
he knew this kind of thing
Olds would a appreciate a good question
unlike that woman who said the thing about the Tampon tax.
What was her point exactly?

Everybody was clapping
good job
congratulations
how exciting
Phoebe's wrists were sore

from where the handcuffs cut in.
She thought about it one more time.
What was her story?
How would she structure it exactly,
face to face?

Who would be the narrator?
Would it be a short story, or a poem? Fiction
or non-fiction?

The grey door before her clicked
and opened. The festival had come
to an end.

She let her story begin.

Monday, 27 July 2015

VI

As the La Trobe students gathered
and mulled about out the front
of the cafe, their cigarettes
slowly polluting the morning air
Lewi's body was turned,
a piece of bark flicked
from his cheek
by a sergeant in a shirt
that pulled too tightly under his armpits.

The sound of the full body zip
crisp
shuddered over the brown river.
A female constable turned her face away
and thought of her son
and tried not to think about
the onyx coloured bruises
ornate upon the unbroken skin
of the neck.

Probably drug related
they all thought, because it made them feel safe
and far away
he probably deserved it
if it was drug related.

Someone turned a La Trobe student ID
over in their plastic gloved
hands
Lewis White Bundoora
he's from Melbourne
"shit shit shit"
lift the body bag into the ambulance
"I do not want to make that phone call."



V



Martin walks Annie along the Murray River everyday after work.
Annie is a King Charles Cavaliar,
with with a soft brown nose. She trots in front of him,
every now and again, glancing back,
her tongue out.

It must be about 6.30pm, just before the sun has fully set. When everything is harder to see, sometimes harder to understand.
Martin thinks while he walks, lets his mind wander. He once said to his wife,
"I'd be insane if I didn't go on my walks." She had rolled her eyes,
crossed her legs, and
changed the channel on the TV.

"I have long legs, good for walking," Martin thought.
His wife was short.

He walks along the brown banks,
tufts of green beginning to emerge,
"Summer can't be that far off," he thinks,
gumtrees splay their khaki green leaves on one side of him,
the river on the other.
 Annie is off the lead. Her tail wags, her nose sniffs the ground,
"As if following an invisible map," Martin thinks.
Annie stops by a tree, it's silver bark in the half light catches Martin off guard,
"How Beautiful."
His eyes fall to where Annie sniffs at his feet.
She has something in her mouth.
"That looks like a finger," he thinks.   

...























Thursday, 23 July 2015

IV


That night I had Sharon Olds poem “Sex without Love” in my head
Although I couldn’t think of anyway with words
To express myself as cleanly as Olds
I felt there was something comforting
About looking down at my naked belly
As I slipped into the bath
And imagining a baby in there
That has come from love.
Perhaps I thought,
I can only express myself physically
When it comes to certain feelings
Words aren’t enough for me
Unlike these Writers at the Festival.

Will sat opposite me
Tiny islands of bubbles formed
In the hot water between us
I took a swig of champagne from the skinny glass
On the edge of the tub
It was cheap
I smiled at him
He didn’t smile back
He was feeling bad.

A loud knock
At the hotel room door
We were silent
I didn’t look at Will
It came again
Will hauled himself up
Dried himself quickly
Rapped a towel around his waist
I prayed to God that would not be the last time I saw those hips
“Coming”
Will shut the bathroom door
Muffled voices slipped under it
They were deep and persistent
I stood up, water trickled down my pale body
Tiny translucent snakes
Will opened the door just enough so that his face showed between
The cracks
“It’s the Police.”







Monday, 20 July 2015

III


I sit awkwardly
On a black leather couch
The authors are talking to us.
This is drinks.
I am supposed to be sucking up to them
Trying to get something
Good out of them
To write about
I am no good at it.

I try to guess their partners
Their age
Their weight
Why they have those shoes.
I am no good at it.

So I clutch my champagne
And stare into the tiny golden bubbles
And look around the room for Lewis
He’s still nowhere to be seen
That bastard.
I check my phone, there is a message from Will
“Have you seen Lewis?”
Peter Goldsworthy stands
Leaning against a wall, one hand in his pocket
He is talking to some students
Listening to them
I am jealous
He looks like a plank of wood
He nods at them as they speak
I am jealous
A fucking intelligent plank of wood.
My bag vibrates again
I reply
“No.”

I’m sitting in the front row
Alexis Wright and Tom Keneally
Are but metres away
Their wet mouths
Echo over the microphones
Lewis is nowhere to be seen
I imagine his head on a soft pillow somewhere.
Tom Keneally strokes his stout beard,
I’m not sure if it’s the right word
But it looks almost concrete -
The way it juts outwards
Like a cliff’s edge.
How many people have fallen over it
I wonder.
I call Lewis

No answer. 







Friday, 17 July 2015

II


The grand hotel overlooks
A deep blue pool
Surrounded by novelty palm trees
Everything seems a waste
In winter
But it’s not raining here
And the sun is beginning to fill the morning sky
I’m too excited to sleep.


We play pool
Under the Jim Beam posters
Pints in hands
At the Sandbar.

Lewi leans over, his eye to the table
He hits the purple ball
Into the left hand side pocket
I groan.
On the TV above us
A football game
From the eighties finishes again
Men in small shorts jump together
Slapping each other on the back
“Did you see Sharon Olds?” he asks me.
I nod.

I had been leaning over a table of books
cradling her Father in my hands
when I had seen her over my shoulder
standing next to me.

I had in a purely surprised manner
Gasped out loud - it was unreturned

I thought for a moment
Of the small grey lady before me
And that perhaps she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen
And would ever see
Then maybe I thought,
I am being too romantic for this world

“Is staying with Brain okay?” I asked Lewis
“Yeah it’s fine.” He replied, his Adam’s apple
Rising and falling with the
Gulp of a beer.
“Who lets university students come and stay with them for the Writers Festival,” I thought,
“Only sickos.”





Will and I run up and down
The golden sand dunes
Gaining momentum
Laughing
And I feel like for a moment I know what it would have been like to be a child with him
In another world
He could have been my brother.
The Mildura desert
Spreads out before us
No one is around
Except for the birds that hang
And glide on the wind above us.
Pieces of torn off cardboard
Flutter on the sand
At our feet.
I am reminded of Anthony Lawrence’s talk
He said the constants in his work
Were landscape and weather.

The sand has wrapped around and engulfed the trunk of the giant Mallee tree.
We climb in its limbs
Anthony Lawrence said poetry was about
Finding something
Extraordinary in the common place,
I feel like we have done that.

What strikes me the most about the Poets
At the Festival
Is that they are cloaked right now
In the glow
Like a sequined cape of celebrity
But when they peel it back
They are still black inside
Lawrence said his default soundtrack
Was melancholy
And that reminds me so much of the poets I know
And the poets I see
These are multifaceted people
Shining in the dusk
We see them at their best – before they go to sleep.

On the drive back we pull over
Will steals some oranges from a heavily laden tree
On the side of the road
Mildura is famous for oranges.


I




I squeeze off the tram and run
Across drizzly Johnston Street
The lights of the cars blurred
By the rain.

Press the buzzer at Will’s apartment
Meet him on the stairs
A grey plastic bag in each of his hands
Hummus, carrots, chocolate.

Lewis’s face over his left shoulder
Blonde curly hair
With a dreadlock at the back
I don’t think he knows about.

He pulls a concerned face
Backs into the hallway
The phone to his ear
“If it’s too late I won’t come tonight.”

Will packs the car
Lewis gets in, after me
He is shaking his head
“I hope he’s not a creep.” I whisper
And actually hope


For a moment I feel like Marylou
Sitting in the back
In the middle
Between the two.

We “cheers” long blacks
Brought under the green fluorescent lights
Oil changes colour on the pavement
Like a chameleon

Long red spaghetti lines of traffic
Spread out before us
On the Tullermarine freeway
And then the Calder.


452 km to Mildura.