(summer is fiendish and life is a curse, I said in my heart)
Melinda Smith / Poetry

(summer is fiendish and life is a curse, I said in my heart)

It was a cold summer that year. What I remember is the chill on my skin as you stripped me in fiendish haste, the raw southerly swelling and parting the curtains of the rented room. Now, when life begins to leave itself why is it this figment that clings? Such a light thing, and yet … Continue reading

Given
Melinda Smith / Poetry

Given

Christmas is in the air. You are given into my hands out of quietest, loneliest lands. My trembling is all my prayer. “Five Days Old” – Francis Webb Given Poolside baby showers herald the summer pregnancies. Sweat caresses swollen knees; mothers tally labour hours; giftwrap is everywhere. Christmas is in the air. But by the … Continue reading

I prefer
Melinda Smith / Poetry

I prefer

I prefer                       (wish list for autistic primary schooler) serious illness to surprises computers to my brother reading number plates to Christmas morning straight lines submerging my ears in a warm bath to waterslides deep fat fryers to matchbox cars torture to haircuts libraries to birthday parties standing ankle-deep in ocean tenpin bowling to climbing … Continue reading

Ho Ho Heil
Poetry

Ho Ho Heil

On the station the aging Nazi skinhead is just another baldy now, he’s finished his last minute Xmas shopping. Poking out from his festive T-shirt those swastika tattoos on his neck have paled to a gunmetal grey. Torn cotton shorts on a multicoloured rail station, it seems like all his arguments have been fought to … Continue reading

Mimic
Anne Walsh / Poetry

Mimic

The day tries to be                    as beautiful as you                                       How she mimics your eyes in the dawn                    How she dresses the wind in your soft T shirt How she laughs sideways at me                                                                               when I don’t hear what she says How she paints her doves with the same colour wingtips                                       How she escapes me © … Continue reading

Intact
Anne Walsh / Poetry

Intact

Visible in the wild wreck I am is the empire I was                                      My ruin is the most beautiful architecture                    Wreckage has made me dervish, an astonishing ravaged split log angel In the brown of my eyes pulled up, the Spanish doubloons                     of the autumn squash yellow of debris,                                                              the shock of stained glass intact after … Continue reading