Ode to dismantle a poetry god
I saw you bathing on the roof with all your Greek myths.
Medusa was my favourite – I caught her staring at your naked
royal verses – she hissed something inaudible
I interpreted as You’re not much more than a soap-sodden
language poem, sitting on its arse at an ars poetica conference
peeling stickers from a Rubik’s cube. Talk about playing the long game
of sardonic indifference! The one about Artemis appealed
but another about waxing lyrical was too close to the burn.
Still, brought up on a diet of worms, I dug the Herculean
idea of weeding out impostors lined up for a break
from your syllables, slamming together ironically.
God, it was so fucking exhausting reading the entire oeuvre
of mytho-logical creatures populating your poems
cupiding to your bank account, your tenured superannuation plan
a rhyming couplet worth howling to an empty lecture hall.
Lines on Maps and Foreheads
i/
I’ve forgotten how to say
what cannot be said. I no longer
know how to find what
cannot be found. This used to be
all I could say and do. Now,
so much of little consequence
stands between me and knowing
how to express the inexpressible.
For example, the padlock on the door
loosens and falls, the farmer lowers
his hat over his field.
ii/
We all got to keep our tiny spoons
with their emblems and there is nothing
I care about less than whether I’m happy.
Does that mean I am?
I don’t care
whether it does or doesn’t.
Which probably means the drugs
aren’t working, or the ‘90s hit factory
has closed. Too long ago.
I can’t seem to be sad or feel or stop
feeling sorry about not feeling.
Which probably means I’ve forgotten
something. A birthday, probably,
or an anniversary. At least a comma.
iii/
Thank God for the seventies’ Valiant:
under its bonnet, amongst
cold and silent parts,
is a heart of autumn leaves.
iv/
In a rented beach house
another solo listening party
to Tubular Bells and now
windchimes won’t let me sleep.
My wife in a different bedroom
because she likes her space
and hates my snoring as much
as I hate hers, but a different bedroom
is better than a different country
with a different man
as someone asks me if
with a second wife I’m happier
and I tell them the question
never enters my bed.
v/
Hold out your hand to wholeness
it won’t be there
but that’s okay, it’s in
the holding out that wholeness is.
vi/
Another jumper pulled from the cupboard,
the true finding of self. Note to
someone else: forgotten jacket,
clothesline empty. The day before,
I came across a cold coin
and a house flipped. Stay awake,
drive slowly. But hurry, this offer can’t spell.
vii/
It’s at least possible to believe God
has created us to relieve God’s self
of the burden of existence
for a few billion lifetimes
like I always pick the wrong day
to tell her she’s beautiful.
viii/
In the end, why not be born
and have the autumn sun shine
off your face and into a stranger’s eyes?
Oh, yeah, I forgot: we’re given life
as a way to deal
with not being dead.
All four horses are in the stable
naysaying and ready
but it seems we’re still at the tea
and biscuits in the courtyard
stand-off stage.
Angels of mercy, pushing your gurneys,
where do we bury our foolishness?
?/
May the river never insult you
the trees that lean across
to listen to every word you think
never turn their backs. May
dollar bills light your way,
the bodies of your enemies
float past as you read a koan
about their metaphoric presence.
A couple of covenants
After that Old Testament of a camping trip,
the plan, it seems, is to kill us all
so we can live. Seems bloody drastic.
There should be a waiver, something signed by some higher up
or a truth serum we could swallow a bit easier – a peach tree
in blossom, announcing itself a metaphor for everything
there is a season and a time to kill whatever makes us
doubt what the cross hanger said about grains of wheat.
I never said anything
about a party.
*
In flannies and AC/DC tees
this death shalt die revolutionary posse
laughs as we barricade the pub door
and wait for the big surprise to arrive:
Knock, knock, bang, bang – little kitty
whiskers buttered? No, just a cloaked
theatrical bloke with a shovel and a grave expression.
Still, there must be some hope for us all
below this wattle load of sun, this scrub season
that’s turned full circle work station wagons
the colour of autumn trees have armed
bogans disembarking with fresh winter grins.
It’s a long way to the top of anything
especially a two-ruckman tall she-oak
where an empty noose hangs
and kick drums have stopped beating.
An engine roar and a letter arrives
in the hand of Bon Scott
stuck out the window of his twin-flame Torana:
I could have given you all this and more
if you’d only glistened for me
like tombstone angels in moonlight.
Anyway, backpacks on and off we go:
a new camping trip following old mate
through another bone dry and silent desert.
Paul Mitchell is the author of seven books, including his 2024 poetry collection High Spirits. His poems, essays, and stories have appeared over the past twenty-five years in numerous magazines and journals, most recently The Guardian, Westerly, Antipodes, Meniscus, and Eureka Street. He’s written several works for stage and he’s currently a co-writer with director Chris Nelius on a commissioned feature film for Third Man Films. His play, You’re the Man, was staged at La Mama Theatre in September 2024, and he also co-wrote Actions to Live By, a 2021 AFL documentary on the Brisbane Lions’ dynasty of 2001 to 2003. Find more from Paul at his website.