Poem

The Internet doesn’t tell me
where they’ve gone, my predeceased
contemporaries. It’s
a lengthening list though the more

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Out on the viewing platform you look down,
From heights of sky
The wind-hit storeys try to scrape,
At this grand canyon of a cityscape

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after Tom Roberts

 

Holding the ram in awkward embrace,
he comprehends gravity while watching
the shearers charge through their task.

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He tells me a woman more exquisite, more exotic
than any of the luminous objects found in the zodiac,
will come into my life. Yasodhara, I ask? He stays
silent, turns to a farmer and tells him he’ll lose

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The
legendary discovery by Sigismund Freud
(also known as Golden Sigi)
and
no other
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But wait, there’s more – as when the hummingbird
flies backwards for the hell of it, or
the odd flamingo’s pinkened up by snacking
on blue-green algae. Aeschylus, potted

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Empty for years, the house can tell us nothing.
Even though it is a maisonette, ostensibly half of a pair.
The other half is normal, inhabited, has a real dog.
Rubbish gathers here, junk mail overfills the letterbox and droops when rain makes it sodden.

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1.

Surrounded by the countless dead
And restrained in illness to her bed
The hilltipped winds that seared her face
Made her young as they made her old

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I

Rooms so familiar
they complete themselves in me –
this darkened hall where the glass cases,

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The answer could only be yes. Or,
(as James would have it) it was a question,
the way she turned back to him
seemed to say, that deserved

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