KIN Editorial

KIN explores how kinship, our understandings of who we are and where we come from, engages with dynamic senses of Country and belonging to Country. Country is storied, we are storied and kinship is nurtured and sustained by living and emergent stories about place and belonging. As Kaya Ortiz teaches us in ‘Naming ceremony’:

i am the long finger of country pricked with a needle
to get to the blood where the stories live

The collection of stories within the issue recognise Country as a holder of knowledge, stories and memories about how we are interconnected. They trace how we have become kindred to Country and cultures. They account for diverse and complex understandings of kinship which collide, converge and unsettle.

Weaving together the stories within the collection, we listen deeply to a heartfelt yarn about navigating senses of place and belonging which patterns the mosaic of our global homelands. The yarn is unbound, artfully criss-crossing boundaries of homelands, generations and histories. It relocates the intimate, the domestic, and the ordinary from the periphery of cultural resonance to its centre. It asks the reader to reflect on fleeting moments of time, which hold living and beating histories of love, loss and yearning, and to feel their reverberations within our own chests. In ‘Mami Wata’, N’Gadie Roberts writes of such emotions:

dwelling
in the crevices of my memory

The collection is imbued with a melancholic yearning to return to lost homelands, as well as a vivid agency of thought and expression to return in the words on the page. It impresses on us the significance of storytelling to give voice to desire, recognising and accounting for loss on the one hand, and hope and imagination on the other, to renew and rematriate our cultural life ways, and enliven self-determined futures.

The yarn about senses of place and belonging is grounded by First Nations understandings of kin. In the collection of First Nations writing within the issue, Country is kin. In ‘Yamaji Kin Songline’, Charmaine Papertalk Green reflects that:

I am kin to the old people now sand grains
My barefoot lifting their spirits into my being

Country is living. In ‘Rivers’, Yeena Kirkbright writes of Country:

Three rivers run in my blood, where my mother takes me home

Country is sovereign, expressed in Samuel Wagan Watson’s powerful repetition of ‘I will not be moved’ … in ‘A Scorched Earth’.

The collection of stories within the issue move in time to an intimate rhythm of shared humanity. They teach us about an instinctive longing for home, family, kin and a sense of belonging in an ever-changing world. It has been a privilege and joy to guest edit KIN. I have been deeply moved by the daring vulnerability and honesty of the writers, and the creativity and experimentation within their writing practices. I would like to thank all of the writers who submitted their writing for the issue and generously shared their stories with Cordite Poetry Review.

Posted in ESSAYS | Tagged

Door of Air: Poems by Morgan Yasbincek

door of air

eight of us under this ceiling, seven standing, one
supine then four sitting, three standing, one
supine, fingers interlocked over ribcage

seven people speak between dumplings
of quiet, not all of them entered with us
some left by the family before, they
filed out like a rosary of sorrow

room has two lungs, not like a heart
with its lop-sided cross, two lobes, one
curtain, one doorway of air at its left edge

nobody has ever, nor ever will

this division

because a world on one
side dreads the world on the other, though
One is the umbra of the other

this is a case of human
breaking at the threshold
of the door of air

Posted in CHAPBOOKS | Tagged

3 Dong Li Translations by Song Lin

Jorge Luis Borges Imagines China

A sandglass. A second. Touch of the finest skin.
Jade of joy. An itch. Secrets in books you have read
sans a page number sans a punctuation mark.
Chapter of the sun. Chapter of the moon. Chapter of the sea.
A pantomime script. A palindrome poem by an anonymous
author more beautiful than a chandelier, a rotating brocade.
A lady-in-waiting advising the emperor on Night of Devotion.
A chapter from Erya or a hexagram couplet from I Ching.
Wounded feet and iron shoes of Yu the Great. Waters rushing.
Shu Hai walks barefoot to measure the world, as prototype of K.
(Kafka knows he will never reach the two poles.)
Two gates to Hangu Pass, on the table sits
the first version of Tao Te Ching, ink still wet.
Affluent vacuity. Return of disappearance.
A tear from an ancient mermaid drips into a pearl.
Li Shangyin writes an untitled poem to some Daoist lady.
An Argentinian ant climbs up Mount Tai.
Sailors row in unison on Jianzhen’s boat.
Matteo Ricci draws in Zhaoqing’s Map of World’s Kingdoms.
The Great Wall of China seen from a spacecraft.
An ancient coin symbolises round sky square earth.
The sound of snow falling on the Grand Bell of Yongle.
The opulence and decadence of oriental Venice in South-of-Yangtze.
Archaeologists’ tweezers. Puppets’ pulling strings.
Unheard-of mysterious creatures in Classics of Mountains and Seas.
Silence of Terracotta Army. Furnace and sword of the Chinese alchemists.
Before a stele in Japan I read through the palms
of my hands the immortal inscriptions of the Middle Kingdom.
A bronze doorknob in Buenos Aires calls out to
another bronze doorknob in a Shikumen from Shanghai.




博尔赫斯对中国的想象

沙漏。秒。最细腻的皮肤的触觉。
玉如意。痒。你读过的书中
既无页码又无标点的秘籍。
太阳的章节。月亮的章节。海的章节。
哑剧的脚本。一首比枝形吊灯更美的
佚名作者的回文诗那循环的织锦。
宫女在奉献之夜对皇帝的规劝。
《尔雅》的一个章节或《易经》的一个对卦。
大禹的病足和铁鞋。滔滔江河。
徒步丈量世界的、作为K的原型的竖亥。
(卡夫卡知道,他永远到不了极地)。
函古关的两扇门,桌上摆着那
字迹未干的《道德经》的第一个版本。
空虚的富足。逝去的回归。
南海鲛人的一滴变成珍珠的眼泪。
李商隐写给某个女道士的无题诗。
爬上泰山的一只阿根廷蚂蚁。
鉴真号水手划船时整齐的动作。
一张利马窦在肇庆绘制的坤舆图。
宇宙飞船上看到的万里长城。
象征天圆地方的一枚古钱币。
雪落在永乐大钟上发出的声音。
江南那东方威尼斯的富庶与颓废。
考古学家的镊子。木偶的提线。
《山海经》里闻所未闻的奇异动物。
兵马俑的沉默。丹客的炉与剑。
我在日本的一块石碑前
用手掌阅读过的天朝的不朽铭文。
与布宜诺斯艾利斯的一个铜门环对应的
上海石库门上的另一个铜门环。

Posted in TRANSLATIONS | Tagged ,

6 Grzegorz Kwiatkowski Translations by Peter Constantine

In the summer of 2015, Grzegorz Kwiatkowski and his friend Rafal Wojczal made a gruesome discovery. Walking through the forest outside what was once the Stutthof Concentration Camp, where Kwiatkowski’s grandfather had been interned during the Second World War, the two young men came upon several thousand old shoes. They were grimy and grey: single shoes, shoes in pairs, men’s, women’s, children’s shoes, all of them tattered, weather-beaten, many decades old. As Kwiatkowski and his friend cut their way through the undergrowth, they were to find many thousand more. These were the shoes that had been gathered en masse by the Germans during the war, taken from people murdered in Nazi concentration camps throughout Europe, and brought to Stutthof for a macabre recycling project, to be reworked into an array of practical leather goods.

Today there is a museum on a small part of the sprawling terrain of the Stutthof Concentration Camp. Grzegorz and his grandfather would go there when Grzegorz was a child, and his grandfather would weep. As part of the exhibit there is a great mound of shoes. But, as Grzegorz realised after his discovery in the forest, the mound of shoes exhibited in the museum is just a token. It is not indicative of the ‘mountains of shoes, bigger than houses’ that Sarah Hannah Matuson Rigler, who had been interned in Stutthof as a teenager, reported in 2010. ‘Mountains. I’m talking about as tall as buildings.’ She said there had been notes in many of the shoes – as they faced death, people scribbled last messages, hoping they would not be forgotten.

The many thousands of shoes Kwiatkowski and his friend found in the forest had been dumped and buried in the 1960s by a Polish government that felt it was better not to dwell on the painful and controversial years of Nazi occupation. A manageable number of shoes had been selected for the Stutthof exhibit; the rest were thrown away.

For Kwiatkowski, these actions and actions like them are symbolic of society’s preference for silence in the face of history’s terrors. In the poems translated here, he brings together the stark voices of victims, perpetrators and collaborators, all bearing witness – in very different ways – to the brutal crimes of Nazi-occupied Poland. The voices in these poems are woven together in a subtle and ruthless tapestry: farmers speak of recurring massacres as if they were seasonal crop cycles; German soldiers remember the droll image of desperate people foolishly running in circles as they are hunted down in the fields; a woman, about to be murdered, weeps in the forest with her son. The poems are frightening testimonies: short, distilled, often cool and cold. Particularly frightening are the narrations of the perpetrators and apologists, voicing in drab banality acts of sudden and devastating brutality. As Kwiatkowski warns: ‘We must not forget our tragic past because it might well return. The mechanism for its return has already been set in motion.’

Posted in TRANSLATIONS | Tagged ,

5 Halina Poświatowska Translations by Karolina Zapal and Ryan Mihaly

(women are prized for their beauty)

women are prized for their beauty
men for the shadow of their long lashes
and poets for hiding flocks of aquamarine emotions
in a word

oblong night — under a kneecap moon
the poets walk the hills bursting with bone-white light
they kneel before the dead bird of silence
whispering prayers swollen with tropical pain

above them, opposite the motionless moon
mosquitos chirr their wings of dread
later it rains — and the poets return home
cradling word-eggs under their pea coats


(kobiety ceni się za urodę)

kobiety ceni się za urodę
mężczyzn za cień od rzęs długich
a poetów za to że w słowie
kryją ptactwo wzruszeń seledynowych

nocą – podłużną od smukłych kolan księżyca
wychodzą na bardzo biały światłem porosły pagórek
klęczą nad martwym ptakiem ciszy
szepcząc modlitwy nabrzmiałe tropikalnym bólem

ponad nimi naprzeciw nieruchomego księżyca
komary lęku brzęczą przezroczystymi skrzydłami
a potem pada deszcz – i do domu wracają poeci
pisklęta słów chowając – pod zmokłymi płaszczami

Posted in TRANSLATIONS | Tagged , ,

Lunchtime Variations: Dominic Symes Interviews Peter Bakowski and Ken Bolton

Perhaps I’ve spent too long in the self-help sections of bookshops, expecting to find the secret to long life and enduring happiness written down somewhere. As a poet, I am preternaturally worried about poetry running out on me: the inspiration drying up, the fun of it going out for a pack of cigarettes one day and never coming back, leaving me with nothing but a sink full of dishes and a manuscript full of melancholy poems about birds.

When I first read Ken Bolton and Peter Bakowski’s 2019 collaboration The Elsewhere Variations, I laughed. At first because of the humour – a truck sends the poem’s speaker into a ditch where they marvel at the names on the passing shipping containers ‘Tranter Parisian, Murray Australian Pie…Adamson and Fish… Judith Beverage, Bolton Drivel’ – but secondly, at the idea of two poets a generation older than me writing poetry to make each other laugh, as much as anything else.

I became interested in how Ken and Peter worked with one another, with an eye to discovering the conditions which allow poetic collaborations to remain fresh and full of humour, in the same way people examine the diets of people in Blue Zones, like Okinawa and Ikaria.

Pulling this interview together had its own, unique process, given that Peter and I both live in Melbourne, and Ken in Adelaide. Conscious of Omicron which was sweeping Australia in summer 21/22 and all suffering from Zoom fatigue, we decided to conduct the interview via email. I sent the questions to Peter who sent his answers to Ken, who sent them back to me. Like the poems themselves, this collaborative process took place ‘on the page’.

Throughout the two weeks of the interview’s lifespan, Peter emailed numerous black and white images of old race cars being driven recklessly around tracks with subject headings like ‘Ken Bolton races to the shops to get bread and milk’, and ‘Dom records Bakowski and Bolton on the home stretch’, I caught Covid at a wedding, and Ken very kindly corrected my spelling and grammar, which I was unable to blame on the virus.

Dom Symes: My first question is how did you become aware of each other? What was the early part of your relationship like and how did this develop into a working relationship – roughly up until when this collaboration became a possibility?

Peter Bakowski: I first became aware of Ken being the editor and publisher of Otis Rush and formally submitted poems to him. Ken accepted three in 1989 for Otis Rush #5. As one of my poems was about listening to Olé by John Coltrane, a correspondence started, then I mentioned that Helen and I were coming to Adelaide and could we please be billeted at Cath (Kenneally) and Ken’s, to which they agreed. While staying with them I perused Ken’s library of contemporary American poets and subsequently delved into the poetry of Frank O’Hara and Ron Padgett who became influences. There were subsequent stays at Cath and Ken’s with more talk about admired and influencing countries, music, and poets. In my 2014 poetry collection Personal Weather there’s a poem titled ‘Some lines are straight, some bend a little’ in which I praise both Ken and Ron Padgett’s ability to successfully detour in a poem. I sent a slightly different version of the poem to Ken, a version which mentions cufflinks as in my mind Ken had mentioned cufflinks in one of his poems. I suggested (without pressure) that Ken ‘respond’ directly or obliquely to my poem ‘Some lines are straight, some bend a little’ and he did with his poems titled ‘Phew’ and ‘Roadtrain’ to which I then responded. Our thought but not overthought accumulated responses to each other’s poems became a book length collection of poems, The Elsewhere Variations which was published in 2019 by Wakefield Press. Personally, I considered our fun and uncharted collaboration begun when Ken responded via a poem to ‘Some lines are straight, some bend a little’.

Ken Bolton: That’s about my memory of it too. It was a year or so on that I finally responded with two poems – and suggested two more by him then one by me would round it out as a unit of six, a ‘sixpack’.

Posted in INTERVIEWS | Tagged , ,

Accepting the Gift, Doing the Work: Angelita Biscotti Interviews Sara M Saleh

Catching COVID-19 didn’t stop Sara Saleh from showing up to this discussion about poetry, place, and the place of poetry in the present moment. The exchange took place between 21 – 25 January 2022, quickly expanding into a 7,000-word conversation. The below interview reveals a condensed version of this chat without removing the essence of our exchanges.

Sara has walked many roads, traces of which are present throughout her published work: she is an eldest daughter, child of migrants from Palestine, Egypt, Lebanon, community organiser, Juris Doctor graduate, editor, future novelist, advocate, Bankstown Poetry Slam board member, Scorpio Sun, Virgo Rising, Sydneysider, multiple award winner, oat milk drinker, Banksia Bakery apologist, and poet.

Together, we explored Sara’s journey through the often-contentious world of poetry.

Angelita Biscotti: Hello Sara!! How has your day been? These have been interesting times, to say the least.

Sara M Saleh: Bed-ridden this week unfortunately, coming to you from day 10 of COVID, a stockpile of tissue boxes, vitamins, ibuprofen tablets, lozenges, and Hydralyte (COVID survivors toolkit). Yesterday I may have gone back to working from home too quickly, so I decided to give my body the rest and hydration it needs because clearly, it’s in overdrive. It’s been a precarious time. I feel grateful to be supported right now.

AB: I’m so sorry to hear that, Sara. Please do take the time to recover. The thing about mission-orientated humans is that there’s an incredible energy to push beyond the limits of what’s possible – and succeed. But the body and the mind have real limits. If you ever need a rest and recovery playlist, or Netflix recommendations to help with the lie-down period, let me know.

[A space between communications while Sara takes time to recover from the virus and continue with her other commitments]

AB: In a 2012 Cordite Poetry Reviewinterview, Emily Stewart asks Astrid Lorange: ‘What kind of a place is your Sydney? What are your key coordinates?’ I’d like to ask the same of you.

SMS: I don’t think I have ever been asked this question before and I love/hate it … probably because I love/hate ‘Sydney’.

I love it deeply. It is a city that has looked after and grown us, it holds so many people and places I love (Banksia Bakery is the best – fight me), the proximity of country – being in bodies of water, in nature, and of course, any place with books, including my local library, is often where you will find me.

But really people hold the coordinates down for me – my mentors and teachers and elders. Cup of coffee around the kitchen table with them is my starting point. You bring your problems and they have an answer for everything. There’s caffeine and accountability and a whole lot of mockery and laughter. It’s perfect Arab Aunty Energy.

But … I hate the city because how do we ignore the ugly side? The unsafe side? Taxing people out of their family homes, the profiling of us in department stores, the over-policing of black and brown communities and the ‘areas of concern’ rhetoric we recently heard during the lockdown, rhetoric that is an inevitable, logical extension of our elected officials and their racist policies, the fact that even public spaces like parks and stations and benches are made with the intent of keeping the public out! It’s cold and cruel. This is the social theory of space, architecture, and place as power … and it’s playing out daily.

Ultimately, it’s hard to reconcile anything ‘good’ with the fact that we are on stolen land. Hard to ever be truly at peace knowing this.

If people don’t see the cosmetic façade of the city – they are not paying attention. And that’s deliberate.

Posted in INTERVIEWS | Tagged ,

18 Works by Maxxi Minaxi May


Maxxi Minaxi May | Tarting the Tartan | 2019 | 622mm x 622mm x 56mm (framed) | Washi tape (paper), glue and epoxy resin on board| Pattern Clasher (solo), Art collective WA

I am a multidisciplinary artist predominantly working with sculpture, mixed media, print and installation. By interconnecting representation, consumerism, and mediated culture, I remix perspectives of the Anthropocene, moving towards a more Symbiocene standpoint that is optimistic and harmonious. Themes related to the industrial, the everyday and the environment are frequently embodied through or by objects or collected materials that typify a Zakka (the savvy in the ordinary) aesthetic. Process and materiality are integral to my work. My art has a slick minimal or a decorative maximal quality, details resulting from repetitive action, components and patterns. Colour, play, humour, duplication, objects, craft, design, childlike nostalgia, humour and juxtaposition are often seen in her works.


Maxxi Minaxi May | Flower Patch – Morris, Ashley, Broadhurst, Marimekko | 2019 | 317mm x 317mm x 20mm (framed) | Washi tape (paper), glue and epoxy resin on board | Pattern Clasher (solo), Art collective WA

I am a pattern clasher. Mixing up designs in my clothing, my penchant is for the decorative. Combining collected boards, previous artworks and found objects with weaving, wrapping and decoupage, these works are quotidian, ornamental weavings – hinting at Maximalist, Zakka, and Expanded Painting theories.

This body of work (for Pattern Clasher) continued my research into Zakka art – a Japanese term, explaining when mundane ‘things’ are elevated, selected or used to improve lifestyle – both the ornate and functional. Washi tape is an example of this. Japanese masking tape, traditionally organic materials with glue, imprinted with varied colours, patterns, symbols and pictures, has become a staple of hobby-craft – a Western commodity widely used for DIY embellishment.

In the Pattern Clasher exhibition, masking tape is elevated from a media of ‘masking-off’ to become the actual ‘paint’ surface. Through these materials, I engaged with my affinity for stickers, stationery, global fashions, and fads that permeate culture. Materials such as Washi tape hybridise and augment popular cultural artefacts.

Posted in ARTWORKS | Tagged

11 Works by TextaQueen


TextaQueen | Conveyor | Pigment ink on archival cotton rag | 420 × 597mm | 2016

As TextaQueen, I have been widely and wildly showing work for over twenty years in independent, commercial and institutional spaces around the world. I’m a queer, disabled, non-binary, second-generation Goan Indian settler, living on the unceded lands of the Wurundjeri Woi Wurrung and Boon Wurrung people of the Kulin Nation, in so-called Melbourne, Australia.

Known for using the humble fibre-tip marker to draw out complex politics of gender, race, sexuality and identity in detailed portraiture, I also investigate these themes via photography, painting, printmaking, video, performance, self-publishing, curating, music, writing and murals. Collaborating with other displaced and diasporic people, I examine our existence and empowerment in dis/connection to our own and others’ ancestral lands. With these intentions, I am currently creating TheySwarm, an artist residency for diverse and disabled artists, in Collingwood on Wurundjeri land.

Here is a selection of my work.

Posted in ARTWORKS | Tagged

Dante Graphology Drawing Poems: 14 Works by John Kinsella


John Kinsella | Dante Optics Failure Purgatorio 15

What is more?

As part of my decades-long Graphology poems cycle, I have created many drawing-poems that (to my mind at least) exist between/around/across written text and visual images, and which hopefully test and blur semantic delineations and category definitions. Mostly, they exist in my journals, and co-exist with many different forms of ‘writing’ that possibly contextualises ‘legibility’.

I see ‘writing’ in everything around me, and do not think ‘script’ is the definitive form of ‘writing’. When I first read Ray Bradbury’s ‘The Illustrated Man’ at twelve, I thought that body images conveying/telling stories like movies seemed logical: when I see a ‘still’ visual image, it always moves, it is always active, and is always an act of writing and being written. I look at a ‘natural’ swirl in sand caused by wind, erosion, the movement of creatures, as being a form of writing: a record, a telling, of what has been and how that sand has interacted with the ‘world’, and how it has been interacted with.

Handwriting, something I do poorly but am infinitely fascinated by, always conveys more (to me) the more it breaks away from its system/s of constraint. ‘Scrappy’ handwriting is often an illustration of so much more than the symbols it’s supposed to replicate, and thus so much more than what it is intended to represent. Meaning exists in the incident as much as the intent. My work pages are often covered with doodling.

Also, over the decades, I have been writing different versions of Dante – Divine Comedy: Journeys Through a Regional Geography which responded to a specific region of the Western Australian ‘wheatbelt’ on Ballardong Noongar country; On the Outskirts which responded to Blake’s illustrations to Dante’s Comedy; and The Musical Dante which responds to musical interpretations of Dante (especially Liszt’s), but also bringing other music into vicinage with Dante’s Comedy. The Dante Graphology Drawing Poems are a fourth part of my engagements with the work of Dante (and in all of these works I also engage with other aspects of Dante’s life and practice, especially La Vita Nuova), and constitute an engagement with the historical approaches to Dante that impress on contemporary readers so much of their visual perception of Dante (e.g. Botticelli, Gustav Doré, Blake, the 1911 Italian silent film L’Inferno by Francesco Bertolini-Adolfo Padovan-Giuseppe De Liguoro).

But the Dante drawing-poems are mainly concerned with ‘reading’ the Comedy through a series of different personal lenses over a period of time. They are visual-temporal distortions. In an archive somewhere, there are a number of my earliest attempts at drawing-poeticising Dante’s Comedy, maybe done when I was around 22, which predate the beginning of the Graphology poem cycle by some years. Anyway, autobiographising aside, the drawing-poems around Dante exist as a kind of extension of what I’ve been doing for so long – try to find different ways into reading Dante, especially what I call ‘the ecological Dante’.

Here is a selection of Graphology Dante Drawing Poems. I have created many dozens of such works in which text is either overtly part of the images, or is sublimated through signs or even drawn over to make it ‘vanish’, with traces remaining in abstracted ways. Or, the images are words. Really, the images are an orthography – they are ‘how’ the words come out in this reconceptualising: a rebus, a semaphore, a denial of any primacy of ‘written language’ that denies the separateness of ‘illustration’.

Posted in ARTWORKS | Tagged

un-settle

my grandfather told me that at dusk / the lizards make their way down to kiss the floor / paying tribute to the dust that birthed them / cursed tongues flicker, lapping dirt / before the slipping sun chases them back up the walls / the sun–with its own rotation of high corners and dusty floors / and the undisturbed splatter of fallen fruit in my grandfather’s garden / tomorrow new stains will replace them / but tonight / a wood spirit sits on my chest / digging for her lost roots / in the sigh of my lungs / I asked my grandfather once / why we close our eyes when we sleep / he tells me / because we open them tomorrow / today—the rain sweet as the purple stain of duhat / left a mist that clung to my arms / and the back of my throat like the crescents of loam / framing fingertips, after a day of repotting / for his last nights we ask grandfather / why he cannot sleep / he says / too light / they shutter his bedroom / sealing out the summer blaze and electric hum of lamp post and headlight / but I can’t help thinking of / gravity and the pull of waking / of lizards compelled to descend and rise / like sun and shadow / and the circular chase /of trampled fruit and spirit / too light / he says / and I think of cloud and suspended rain / the dust unkissed / the still branches / wide eyes / the absence of the need to rest
Posted in 104: KIN | Tagged

The Capital of KIN

We add a lower case s to the capital of KIN: give body to the body of dancing. Warehouse becomes cathedral. Us, a mass, a mess. The roof lifts to accommodate mirrored balls. Lasers, lights, confetti waterfall. We oft oft oft to The Schumann Resonance. Wyrd and wired, we add a verb to the night. Doing is a word that does this. We have spoons to give, spoons to bend. Our ankles, awash in dry ice. Within rhythm, unearth memory of microbe and mountain. We are the in-between, liminal with limbs, grinning. The veins on our arms: roadmaps to arousal. Swollen for the show. Off with our shirts, our guilt, our hurt. If they make a movie of our lives, do not hire ScarJo to play these roles. Instead, resurrect our ghosts, let the screen fill with the ectoplasm of the past. A glimmer, a glamour, our love. This movement is a forest you can never cut down. We graft ourselves to the future. In another poem, Jill asks: “What do you wear, what do you take off?” The answer: everything, save for the glitter. How we sparkle inside ourselves. As we throb, we sweat wishes and unheard prayers: rest in peace, hate speech. Here, we unshackle the PTSD you have gifted our community: our fists clench around each other’s flesh. This supplication and servitude, this need and haunt. We cheer when the gay saints sing: Kylie; Annie; Sylvester. Records of stoned walls and a brick hand. Marsha smiles down on this gathering. As if the prestige in a magic trick, a drag queen appears, revels to reveal our reverie. The back-up dancers are either friends or past hook-ups. Gender is a con, a strut. We tear ourselves apart when the beat drops. Pyrotechnics add to the flash, the fever. If this is sin, then show us your God, blushing: Jesus is in the chill-out room, turning water into ecstasy. We all walk on air here. In the morning, we dial up the sun and ask it about the weather. We leave, adorned in the stink of sweat, stranger’s lips, the promise of another. Dawn is an augury, rising.



NB. This poem quotes Jill Jones poem Skin Clothes Nights Days Or what did you do at mardi gras (Hecate 22-1, 2018, p.27)

Posted in 104: KIN | Tagged

I Have to Explain This Because I Hate the Word “bastardization” and I’m Tired of People Equating Me to Things I Am Not

Kumkum. Ashok tree. Cinders floating in Varanasi’s river. Chaat masala. Khatak. A tongue bitten. Brown tints of my mother and father’s mother and father’s mother and father. [          ] waiting around peepal trees to steal [          ]. Curry leaves. Mangal sutra. The tilt of your head as you look at me. Tricky questions are landscapes unplaced. As in no, I’ve never seen a field of mustard flowers [but please stuff them in your mouth the next time you ask me for directions.] As in, a woman may have been stolen on her way to pilgrimage or on her escape from her husband before she ended up here. [Or not… there is a story we all don’t know.] Survived by chowtal and [          ]. I must ask that you refrain from imagining her wrapped in a saree with a red tika in the middle of her forehead.
Demand, really.


*


Because descendant means [                    ]. As in the taan bellowing out of my Aja’s lymph nodes and my father’s lymph nodes and mine might make Mukesh and Kishore lovers raise their eyebrows. We pelting waist to Kes and de band. We ‘ent makin’ mudras to call cuckoos into our hands. Yuh mad? Walk up to me and say namaste and I givin’ yuh stink eye. Should I say Swagat hai mrityor and let you enter my home? [Note that if you speak to me, looking for the Himalayas in my eyes, you are not a mritr.] Walls leaking turmeric. Yellow eyes [          ] after you. Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to. Kavacham on my breath. Cream bottled green between my thighs. My uncle calls me a mutt. [If that makes you feel better about the way you see me.] Mutt mutt in the way that I go stomping eyes into molasses. Sugar cane dying teeth black. Pommecythere fishboned in the back of your throat. Mirrors as puddles rippled.


*


Is the woman in your mind starting to morph [away from my image]? If yuh see me, mind yuh business, eh? If you see, please refer to the wrapping paper left behind after I finished eating my doubles and aloo pie. Let its oils creep behind your eyelids and blossom into cysts. If yuh feel yuh deadin’, yuh haffi ask yuhself what karma comin’ fuh yuh. You who would like all brown to be brown [subcontinented]. I carry the women who became [               ] in my veins. I write thinking, tell me what to say. Tell me so that they stop trying to turn me into [               ] that no one talks about. The girl who spoke too much. The one who doesn’t know how to keep she blasted mouth shut. Who spends too much time writing and erasing. This first started off with something about petting the floor and imagining it as tiger’s fur. Shifting. Forcing blood out of a pin prick. Red necks and black tongues. A laugh as a laugh. Letters hidden. Rain, not clouds. Something that knows how to fall and rise back up without blemish.


*



Bloodlines brewed, landscapes
             distorted into film. What’s
left says speak. Preen. Flee.

Posted in 104: KIN | Tagged

Monopoly on Stolen Land

Cousins bargaining, collecting, rolling dice –
Monopoly on stolen land.
Buying and auctioning and mortgaging,
nicking money while Banker’s gone,
all in the stinking heat.

How strange the joy of rolling an unowned Flinders Street Station,
when that place was stolen two centuries ago
when that place has been kin since time immemorial.

Posted in 104: KIN | Tagged

the toddy tappers

it’s been years since my father
called Galle home
since sepalika flowers
bloomed in the night
and stole into his dreams
with their scent
only to carpet his path
in the morning
with their petals

years since the toddy tappers
climbed the coconut palms
and lowered the clay pots every morning
years since he walked to school
with his brothers in pressed shorts
crisp white shirts and black ties
and poked holes in the pots
then stood underneath to drink
the fermenting coconut nectar
more of it ending up
on my father’s shirt
than in his mouth

now he tastes the frost of a Canberra winter
sometimes snow, always cold
minus eight degrees celsius over night
creeps into his shoulder
and makes it ache and creak with
a longing for the tropics
and the warmth of monsoon
rain on his face

Posted in 104: KIN | Tagged

hereditary

brown girl sweat runs in my blood

amla stained bathroom sinks, floor-length acrylics, and Sunday morning pooja

this civil liberty was never hereditary

my proclamation of womanhood was stolen before I could speak

my hair oiled, and my skin bleached (I untaught myself)

they tried to snatch me, pull me by my piggy tails

but this muddy hand bitch was too slick

so now before they take my akka I am yelling for her before me

her red sari is too quick for me

jaggery! thick sweet jaggery drips from her teeth

amou, amor I have a confession to make

I still suck my thumb when ama braids generations of strength into my scalp

I still whimper and whisper when the glass cracks a little too close to my feet

I still scream when I close my eyes and the guillotine of girlhood snaps

I’m still thinking about the summer

thieving and scheming under the sun

my gods are pleased with my dishonesty

my Durban aunty is always yelling at my loose hands

‘DONT TURN YOU BACK ON THE STOVE’

lessons of mixed masalas ingrained in the backs of my burns

garlic and onion first, grind, no thyme, mix don’t stir,

my heart has lived in too many cities

so, I hope this village shit will lead me on

my objectification will end in my glory

Posted in 104: KIN | Tagged

Drift

Stretched your tubular tendrils out
from square of earth, you call home
it’s nutrient lode of love
shading boughs, entwining
clutch of too close ivy
and become airborne.

Thrill of cool air, glow of variegated
leaves, before unseen
now floating in your undetermined
drift. Soft fall into foreign soil
that for a while, feels supple
sliding at your sides, such different grain

and oh, the fecund thrum of colours
swaying sun-worshippers
so reed thin and elegant, all pulsing
in the heady scent and thud
of chlorophyll
coursing through your core.

And yes, you shed a little
parch in too bright sun
don’t drink enough water
but briny breeze, new field of friends
and a springtime of freedom
means you hardly feel your feet.

You’re not evergreen, after all.
Surely, meant to seed and stretch
beyond immovable old roots.
Slowly, though, you start to understand
the end: this wane’s not
mere fallow sleep of winter

no new seasons here but scorch and shine
sucking life from lungs of earth
so, you shoot out desperate fingers
into dirt which faster friends already fled
and see your haven: loamy, loose
and shallow–

blossoms blown to cultivate the new.
Wilted, wistful for the rich embrace
of home, you cling, frantic
with the ragged scrub
of other weedy regrets
and wait a stronger wind.

Posted in 104: KIN | Tagged

Ghosts

They asked me once
what it was like to have no blood connections known
no sadness or loneliness shared
no cousins, no aunties, no mother, no father
to have prayed to the wrong ancestor most of my life
Oh, how people like to assume
asume lo peor siempre que es mejor, the man who raised me used to say
but he was wrong they are wrong

*

When the man who raised me died
the tiny bones he had buried in our home garden remained
there was the white Boxer dog who welcomed me back home from school every day
the grey cat always too scared of my childhood games
the unborn sister I named Alice
and, oh, how many secrets we shared
how many games we played
ugly ducklings
apple-poisoned princesses
Thumbelina rescued by a blue bird
Hansel & Gretel trying to find a home our home
the road marked with empty snail shells
we got lost, but we found it
nuestro hogar
Large windows and stone walls
blue carpets and the scent of mould
The white dog rests in its garden
the cat basks in the sun
the ghost of the unborn five-month-old smiles
bones the length of a banana mixed with the remains of childhood dreams
My dreams los sueños de la casa
overseen by the ghost of the elderly woman who called herself my grandmother
She died there in one of those rooms with blue carpets
She didn’t look peaceful, her eyes scared until a gentle hand closed them
Abuela chosen ancestor
smoking Marlboro reds from the window of the room where she died
waving to her yerno – the one who died too soon
the one who brought me to her and told her I needed a limpia and
a home arms to hold me
an abuela
to feed me
Did my birth mother ever feed me?
[when I meet her ghost … when I meet her ghost]

*

Five lonely ghosts remembered by adopted kin
They travel every year
Así de la tierra de los muertos
y compartimos historias
y el perro blanco me lame las heridas
y el gato se enconde bajo la cama de mi hijo
Abuela
and I smoke Marlboros
Alice plays with my daughter’s hair
my father asks for forgiveness
most secrets are too heavy to be turned into ashes

*

New apartment buildings now cover the bones of an unborn girl and two pets
A man’s and his suegra’s ashes share the space at a church that no one ever visits
Their secrets covered in dust
But who will visit my ashes?
Spread them instead
Take some to my dog and unborn sister but don’t scare the cat
leave some next to papá and abuela
throw the rest to the sea
allí, flotando un mar de ancestros

Posted in 104: KIN | Tagged

Second Skin

When I talk about the
heartbeat
I am talking about that rise and fall
– pregnant with wisdom –

the crest and cavern
that carries us, belonging
to the backbone
that birthed us,
the river red gum
sapped and scared
where bark was stripped

to cradle
salt / seed / snake /
found fruit and other food,
or water otherwise waded through
at high tide.

It is the landscape library,
or what to them
is arid land,
the terra that their cheek and tongue trip over,
their nullius which is to us
our sentient second skin,
mapped
on fingertip
and carried by lip.

Posted in 104: KIN | Tagged

Root Fire

Silver gums shiver in the gold sun,
rivers cracking redly in their deep
Blossom birds in wilden roars
now howling while they sing—

Nature tells us what it means
There’s none in thieved inheritance—
Rending, cleave and break the word,
unholy in our being, but

We are not native—we are
too far and lost from Mother—
Many mothers across the sea
saw nothing sacred in this country

And after war our embers flee
aground in earthen blazes—
Brewing flames, infernal veins
and soon, we’ll blacken trees

Posted in 104: KIN | Tagged

network

shadows form veins across the earth
stretch outwards expand dissipate
into soft permeable spectres
a colourless friend reflected
hopeful
one day you will shed a branch
or leaf
watch it fall and meet at the intersection of your feet

a mycelial network sits
substrate beneath the city
like a hivemind of live-wired trains
speak hunger
transmit food

fungi plug themselves into the network
of delicate lacework
and symbiotic aunts

Posted in 104: KIN | Tagged

Molly

I’ve heard when you drown it feels peaceful

Like floating in the womb

In a homespun shroud of blue water.

You found another way

Far from the sea, the salted shallows

The paperbark trees that lined the tracks like a church

And the skeletons of cuttlefish you carved into stories

With your fingernails.

Stranded in the red dirt

Under a sky so high and wide

When it yawned, it swallowed you whole

You curled up small

Sank into those endless plains of nothing

Turned your face to the dust

And ate what you could.

It hurts less each time, you told your daughter as a comfort

Slips down your throat like a fresh-shucked oyster

You don’t even notice the taste after a while.

There’s nothing in our archives

Only your first name, a quiet imprint

Among the faded cascade of blood ties

The women in our family

Lost or unspoken

Washed away in the tide of our men.

Posted in 104: KIN | Tagged

Queendom

In a woman’s hands did I meet God branching into ancestors who sung beneath trees, sat among waterfalls, journeyed towards a mountain’s peak, and whispered a message to the wind. They asked her to visit a place her great grandparents forgot in the ruin of rice fields and bamboo huts.

She saw stories in a pot of tomatoes finally in fruition, the first offering after generations of destruction – the beating of the flesh, a subduing by men who cultivated customs taken from different lands.

Women, she met, taught her how to be still. To break open in daylight. To tap into a reservoir of pain repressed by a dam of generations laid like stones. What life can she have when they are released?

One day, she will wake up to a child kissing her forehead, a stillness she has known in a garden revived, and a harvest to nourish descendants walking out of her. They will learn the message she brought out in poems.

Her hands would have collected more lines in climbing trees, soaking in rivers and waterfalls, and scaling mountains. She will close her eyes and meet ancestors in the cold:

Welcome home.

Posted in 104: KIN | Tagged

Connected

Wounds that run so deep
They cause our spirit to bleed
It hurts more than life itself
Leaves us struggling to barely breathe
There’s this place deep down within
I want to reach inside there
To that darkened place
To let it out and lay it all bare

It has been lifeless and dormant
For over 100 years
Our hidden life story
Full of heartache and fear
But a call out of the blue
Sheds some much needed light
As we wade through family history
We have been given new insight

Like the pieces in a jigsaw
They all seemed to fit
And the feeling was indescribable
But we savoured every memorable bit
When the truth came to light
It drenched us in lost history
As we connected with family
Solving a 100-year mystery

Now my spirit is alight
And there’s fire in my soul
I feel it burning inside me
Protecting me, keeping me whole
I finally belong somewhere
It’s a dream come true
Being connected to lost family
Was our greatest breakthrough

Posted in 104: KIN | Tagged