not to mention harpur his prophetic dream of lawson exhuming

By | 14 December 2009

not to mention harpur his prophetic dream of lawson exhuming
jabberwockies
stuffed and exhibited in life-like dioramas
and Henry Kendall letting the belled birds free
translating flight into words of white
with a nun, every Thursday evening
as she guts the fish for the next day’s chowder
And lotus eater by day under the harsh light of afternoon.
He recalls Macquarie, building towns like tight sonnets
where feeling ran highest.
down by the yellow stones of the playground
where lesbia harford sang her playful songs
sic homini homini homini; homo homini lupus contest
, one of them. Another was “Rain Chowder”. Another “Bun”.
The Canon thought otherwise.
Baxter is dead. Wylie, can you hear the Sound?
and for reason the number in five-fold interest discovers meaning
will this discovery upset the natural order?
give rise to a ministry given over to dead poets and dying philosophy?
or simply dust off the secrets scrawled on the inside of the
     carapace, glyphed by mystics?
Outwit linguistic nitwits choking on Dizzee Rascal tongue-fits?
in the seventh tier an angel flicked the last ‘p’ from my forehead
maleleuca, grevillea, bell-bird, kook-a
senators cheaper n swings
n rouseabouts
n shearers in blue n possums in the rafters n ducks on the pond
foxfire dandleweeds wulfing the backyard thistletesters backdusters
knack-thrist camseed blackburned down
others like doleful Brennan and the old John Shaw Neilson –
he of that changeling light in the orange tree
… listening
and meditating; one eye focused on the rain
falling from a cloudless sky onto a lake north of wentworth,
     where the emu are hunted by ghosts of travellers past
and the schools have no more history books
just interactive history wars
Oh! Where are the voices? Where are them we can bow down to?
     Where the silver tongues weaving a thatch for us to lie under,
     sheltered from the heaven’s cruel washing.

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