Tag Archives: Dialogue in Arts

Here we are at another round number and still the light is finding us… it might be in the kitchen, it might be in the eye of a self-brewed storm, it may be in the language of water, but it is there, always.

Open yourself to it,

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for a.rawlings

the language of water is soft spoken here
oysters talk in a darker sense of green
and the mangroves remain impartial
to their visitors:
the hungry cormorant and stilt-
legged godwit who come to scavenge
silver riches then slip into sky:
a note of departure
silent save for the rush of being

GN

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CK

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Without the kitchen sink this room could still hold
varieties
organic pomegranates; brie that must be
ordered online
cookware safe for broiler and microwave use
your old phone books
storage containers stacked pyramidically
and like the Sphinx
our checklists, latest practices, best methods
for eye of round
grandma’s pie crust recipe is painted on
the cupboard door
but where would the dirty things go?

AM

It was a blustery night here in Brisbane, but Cindy ‘the girl with kaleidoscope eyes’ Keong and Ashley ‘pink galaxies’ Martin found the light in their own neck of the woods. And as always, filled me with their joy! This week, I riffed on a darker theme, but hopefully, there is some light in there for you (at the end of the tunnel)…

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I know a guy who saves twist ties
and collates spare threads that come
with his new shirts. He despairs that
I am careless, giving away
what might be wanted later

like a favorite lip gloss,
a particular one
applied without friction
to the outlines of my mouth
plumping them into a bow

as we go to the carnival
he will take his cotton candy
home. I watch the girl spooling it
around the stick, pink galaxies
a planet or at least a moon

AM

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CK

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I sit at the desk and shuffle
papers all about me.

The casuarinas in the park
reach out to find their place

each bough hiding the face
of a woman waiting to be kissed.

I sketch on the back of a letter
a girl lying alone in the forest

a child bride sinking into green
foliage – wild dogs and devils

slow dancing around her.
In this world men lower hats

just enough to see the scream
and boys like jaded salesmen watch

as if everything is happening at
the wrong end of a very long tunnel.

GN

Friday night this week had a special glow… the glow of holidays! That’s right, this Lost Shark is now looking into the swirl of two glorious weeks of family time and sunshine. And although it is a rather exhausted glow at the moment, that will soon lift and the possibility of each day will again reveal itself. Cindy and Ashley have (as always) captured the possibility of last night… Cindy, shooting laser beams and Ashley, questioning the construct of a sweater. Nothing sweeter than a a treasure filled inbox on a Saturday morning!

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for Thomas

The morning is rushing to perfection.

I’m in my head, caught up
in a net of verbiage. Shadow of
a monster bent over the desk, tap-tap-
tapping at the keyboard.

Already you’re best at talking:
your garbled consonants and sweet
hesitant vowels slipping through
the cot bars, stealing my language.

GN

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CK

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The sweater in the catalog is described as oxblood.
The placket features a row of demi buttons; you know,
so tiny no one does them
all the way. They start
at the collarbone
quit when they get to
the one that lines up with the navel
with its soft button shape no one dwells on
the blood that used to pass through.

The sweater in question has a loose construction
but I am not sure about the use of construct
giving the impression of building up; this sweater,
buttons the size of small pearls
partly done, part of an undoing
the old woman who lives next to me
who walks every day with her home health nurse
wearing one like it.

AM

As we enter into the final quarter of the project, the passion for this project is unwavering… Last night, I had the pleasure of watching Cindy on location in an exquisitely lit alleyway in Brisbane, so seeing the shots this morning gave me an unexpected rush. And the knowledge that Saturday morning means a new poem in my inbox from Ashley is also an endless thrill. Fifteen weeks remaining… so while it lasts, let the light in!

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I might
ride with the motorbike courier
deliver the architect’s plans
for a site
for grief
I would
use extra light to show all
imperfections
in the entry way, done
in a high gloss
I might
study crabs’ ability to use color
to distinguish food from poison
I would
concern myself
with this renewal of spying powers
with this killed ambassador
I might
attend to far away things.

AM

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CK

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for Thomas 

The slow moving river in Spring
where water lilies flower and tadpoles
bubble into frogs.

My son’s body joins their reflections
his wooden boat slipping into mid-
stream, and though I step down
into brown water that smells
of old milk tea, I cannot reach it:
my Casuarina branch only stirs
the water and propels the boat onwards.

He smiles and lifts his arms
as if it doesn’t matter;
my feet grip in the mud.

I think of Moses, drawn from the bulrushes
and how many other babies have sailed
down rivers to a lesser fate.

Then I’m back here watching the boat
drift through this shimmering day
struggling with the sudden weight
of fatherhood, as my son waves
and gurgles his sweet goodbye song.

GN

These early Spring nights in Brisbane are sparkling… the lights in the sky, so welcoming. It was good to be out chasing them last night, and even better to know that Cindy and Ashley were out there too! Here’s what we brought back for you…

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Tell me about the dream where you pull my body from the boot
of a car and dress me in my wedding suit.

How it was just before midnight and you couldn’t sleep, the song
of the Sooty Owl, red as a police car’s siren.

How every time we kissed there was another blood
orange to slice into segments.

Look at the light shifting in the curtains. That means we have talked
too long. Tell me how all this will end:

that love ruins everything and the light will forever
possess our bodies.

GN

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CK

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Ending, I find no big picture
but details, the ones in books:

taking infinite pains to retain her balance;
statues, sent from this mansion in a truck.

There might be a surprise inheritance.
It has to wait until the denouement

the seal on the codicil being broken, the unknown
benefactor finally giving up his secret to those

gathered for the reading of the will.
Beginning is the same, seeing only

colorless protein strands instead of
a woman’s head of hair, the waves

making their way down
and down as though they have a place to go.

AM

Spring is now here to warm our wintered hearts… but last night, it was the light of the Blue Moon that was there to guide us through the last Friday night of Winter. And of course, Ashley, Cindy and I were there to bathe in the glow. Here’s how it radiated…

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Isthmus?
Neck to neck, we connect

Water?
A valuable distancing technique;
Also, I like your dreams

What about the dress from Monday night, now slightly stained?
Be a saint in any form

Putting it another way:

Song? Machine? Animal?
I can only say yes to you

AM

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CK

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If the Jacaranda in the neighbour’s yard
bruises the sky, its branches grown so long
they lisp the slant of your roof, then
birds, a backyard of them: blue-faced honeyeater
bibbed grey, with one white stripe around the nape;
a sacred ibis’ downcurved bill and awkward flight;
one figbird with red eyes and a black crown.

My job today, in place of purpose: watch
for you at the front window, whether or not
you are due to arrive. Name you Rainbow
Lorikeet, for the way you feather the sky
your bright body made for air, made for flying;
for the fact that you will reach crescendo
by nightfall, slip away to your dark place
then, as if by miracle or fate, return to feed
my hunger with your breath-red calls.

GN