My God what transactions transpire in toilets, in nightclubs, in cities
In the early hours of a weekend!
I’ve never understood the doing it in the toilet thing…
Walking in on two folks going for it… Oh ‘scuse me
Focus on the pretty signet ring of the hairy hand, not the hairy butt…
Hey isn’t this the ladies?
You retreat accompanied by a percussion of snorts, sighs, grunts and long inhalations
Only to turn to meet Drug dealer on the Early Shift!
Hey you wanna get on it? What’s your thing?
Got some excellent caps, pure MDMA (yea right) Will get you in the zone,
Make you fly Keep you high, ‘til 9-5 comes round again!
Sure I’ll take two you say. Two? Puh! With shit this good you’d best take four
Let’s get loose, let’s share the love on the dance floor! OK!
But as soon as you are out the door… a man with a badge!
Entrapment sees you three months later dealing with the law
Your lawyer says; Stay cool, express remorse, it’s your first time of course.
Didn’t I see you there that night? You say. Not me, says he
Oh but you’re one lucky punter ‘cos the judge is gay and likes to party
Just like you, wink wink. I’m not gay, you say, and party once a year, it’s a treat! Really? Says your hardworking lawyer thinking on his feet
I’ll see if I can get you with the family guy!
After a barrage of legalese the judge fixes you with the obligatory steely eye…
I can see you’re clean, been going through hard times,
How ‘bout you pay the fine And move on…
but you’re transfixed by the signet ring your judge is wearing
Last time you saw it slammed against a cold tile wall!
Something snaps inside …
Your Honour, I work, pay my taxes, I barely drink, I’ve raised a family
Now I think it’s time to speak the truth:
I only have remorse that I was caught!
And in the words of that doyenne of teen pop wisdom, Lily Allen
Everybody is at it! Why not legalize the lot?
Let’s face it human beings will get themselves addicted to any old thing
Whether prescription, illegal or some other nefarious sin!
Let’s raise the bar, let’s expand the free market even more
We already consume GMO, why not tamper with everything that goes in
Freedom to indulge, freedom to explore the heights of being …
A chemically modified human being!
So you like Prozac with your cornflakes
Valium with your afternoon tipple, Viagra at night!
You need to go shopping every day to feel that you are worth something!
Let the youth go tripping in the woods… Communing with nature
Or the monsters in their mind!
Forget drug testing; let it be a free for all!
Go The NRL …
Roosters cranked up on crystal meth!
Dragons inhaling coke!
All bought down with GBH!
Then … They won’t get into trouble at the after party!
Swimmers with bionic lungs and just the right amount of speed!
How far can we push ourselves? Isn’t time we evolved?
How fast can we go with a bit of extra this or that?
He with the best chemist wins! Instead of all this pretending…
This being natural is getting tedious.
Meditation takes far too long!
Who cares about our souls, our spirit?
What gods will show themselves in this orgy of gratuitous indulgence?
Only Bacchus!
Tell me why we spend so much time getting on it, out of it, maggoted, shit faced? Why is reality so readily avoided? Abandoned?
When half the world can’t even get access to clean water?
Every 5 mins a child dies from lack of access to clean water!
After this outburst you realize that you have gone too far
The world is surely screwed; and we are all serving time.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
BELLO BARD BAGS POETRY WORLD CUP - Courier Sun 12/8/2010
A strong showing by Bellingen poets at the 2010 Nimbin Performance Poetry World Cup was capped when Hydes Creek’s Elizabeth Routledge won the cup, or half of it; the judges were unable to decide on a single winner, and split first prize between Elizabeth and Sydney’s Tug Dumbly.
The other trophy on offer, the coveted people’s choice award, was also won by a Bellingen poet: Craig “The Darkwood Clarion” Nelson, whose persuasive paean to the power of P proved profoundly popular with the punters.
The event held over the last weekend of July, attracted a field of 48 poets from as far afield as Canada, the UK and Ireland, as well as contingents from each of Australia’s capital cities.
Northern NSW was represented by Bellingen and, of course, Nimbin, which boasts the highest density of performance poets per head of population in the southern hemisphere. The standard of poeting was extremely high, and the competitors included three former winners, of which only one (Tug) made it through to the final.
The Bellingen team comprised of four poets – Liz, Craig, Brian Hawkins of Boggy creek and Fiona Kendall from east Bellingen (also called Sawtell) – as well as around a dozen support personnel in the form of psychologists, massage therapists, life coaches, groupies and a babe-in-arms.
Unfortunately there were more poets than prizes, and two of the Bello bards went home empty handed.
However Brain would certainly have won “best hat” , had such award existed, for a creation adorned with hard-earned lyrebird feathers (those birds can run!). Similarly, had there been a prize for best prop, it would surely have gone to Fiona, who delivered her powerful “Confessions of a single mother” from inside an ornate confessional box.
Hundreds of Nimbonians and visitors crammed into the memorial hall for Sunday night’s final, and were royally entertained by a diverse company of poets.
Liz’s winning poem, “Fresh Meat and Intercourse”, is a funny, biting and tender meditation on love and sex, particularly as manifested in a small town. It elicited hoels and guffaws of recognition from the audience, and was worthy winner of what most veterans agreed was the best Performance Poetry World Cup ever.
You can hear Liz and Craig do their winning poem at this month’s Bello Bards poetry night, on 27th August ( free entry, venue TBA – check http://bellobards,blogspot.com/ for updates. Alternatively, the video of the final will shortly be online at www.nimbinpoetry.com.
The other trophy on offer, the coveted people’s choice award, was also won by a Bellingen poet: Craig “The Darkwood Clarion” Nelson, whose persuasive paean to the power of P proved profoundly popular with the punters.
The event held over the last weekend of July, attracted a field of 48 poets from as far afield as Canada, the UK and Ireland, as well as contingents from each of Australia’s capital cities.
Northern NSW was represented by Bellingen and, of course, Nimbin, which boasts the highest density of performance poets per head of population in the southern hemisphere. The standard of poeting was extremely high, and the competitors included three former winners, of which only one (Tug) made it through to the final.
The Bellingen team comprised of four poets – Liz, Craig, Brian Hawkins of Boggy creek and Fiona Kendall from east Bellingen (also called Sawtell) – as well as around a dozen support personnel in the form of psychologists, massage therapists, life coaches, groupies and a babe-in-arms.
Unfortunately there were more poets than prizes, and two of the Bello bards went home empty handed.
However Brain would certainly have won “best hat” , had such award existed, for a creation adorned with hard-earned lyrebird feathers (those birds can run!). Similarly, had there been a prize for best prop, it would surely have gone to Fiona, who delivered her powerful “Confessions of a single mother” from inside an ornate confessional box.
Hundreds of Nimbonians and visitors crammed into the memorial hall for Sunday night’s final, and were royally entertained by a diverse company of poets.
Liz’s winning poem, “Fresh Meat and Intercourse”, is a funny, biting and tender meditation on love and sex, particularly as manifested in a small town. It elicited hoels and guffaws of recognition from the audience, and was worthy winner of what most veterans agreed was the best Performance Poetry World Cup ever.
You can hear Liz and Craig do their winning poem at this month’s Bello Bards poetry night, on 27th August ( free entry, venue TBA – check http://bellobards,blogspot.com/ for updates. Alternatively, the video of the final will shortly be online at www.nimbinpoetry.com.
Monday, August 2, 2010
WINNER of THE NIMBIN PERFORMANCE POETRY WORLD CUP 2010!
Shock Controversy ! Cup split between two finalists!! Will they cut The cup in Half!
No! Absolutely NOT! Elizabeth Routledge takes the Cup home to Bellingen, telling her co-winner Tug Dumbly that he's already won before so she has first dibs!
No in all seriousness, I am thrilled and privileged that the judges put me up there with Tug who is a brilliant , polished and experienced performance poet / satirist. I was blown away by the skills and energy of the other finalists and many of those who didn't make the finals( Randall Stevens, Brian Hawkins...),it was a fantastic weekend, intense, funny, entertaining and full of colourful characters in the iconic town of Nimbin, NSW , Australia. It was doubly exciting when Craig Nelson bought the People's choice trophy home to Bello as well!
I want to thank Susie and Bob of Upper Tunatable who put up the Bello crew and of course Iain , Marty, Ruth, Sally and Rosie for being there and sharing a great weekend. We all thought Marty was joking when she insisted we would bring home the cup! Thanks also to Gail and all the other organisers of the Nimbin Cup ... it is a special event... one that we can go on and develop with a sister Cup in Bello ???
A round of applause for Fiona who got up and delivered her Confessions of A single Mother behind the confessional box but in good voice ... many in the audience related to her words. Brian Hawkins was as usual a unique, precious and confidant voice over the weekend and Craig has started a trend ...that could be around for a long, long time with his Ode to the letter P ... it got the audience going!
There were so many outstanding performers , some old stalwarts on the scene Robin Archbold was by turns hilarious and heart wrenching, David Hallett and Zelly were in great form ( as was Ruthie - spellbinding...over the time limit but.... time is not a kouri construct!)and Candy Royale a previous winner was also excellent. But in my opinion it was the young poets who were fascinating : Doubting Thomas ...so powerful, Darkwing (wig is good too!) Dub,Steven Smart and Randall Stevens (funny and smart all of them!); in the girls camp Sophia Darcy-Cole was outstanding and Betsy Turcot and Jarrah Schmah who were in the finals were all intellingent, clever, funny poets.
I could rave on! It really was a fantastic weekend and I am on a high ... it's taken me nearly half a century to win a Cup ! I was crap at sports ... now I am the winner of a WORLD CUP !!!!!
Thanks again for welcoming us into the Nimbin community spirit...spirited community ... I am excited about judging next year already ...
Peace, Love and mung beans... Elizabeth Routledge xx
No! Absolutely NOT! Elizabeth Routledge takes the Cup home to Bellingen, telling her co-winner Tug Dumbly that he's already won before so she has first dibs!
No in all seriousness, I am thrilled and privileged that the judges put me up there with Tug who is a brilliant , polished and experienced performance poet / satirist. I was blown away by the skills and energy of the other finalists and many of those who didn't make the finals( Randall Stevens, Brian Hawkins...),it was a fantastic weekend, intense, funny, entertaining and full of colourful characters in the iconic town of Nimbin, NSW , Australia. It was doubly exciting when Craig Nelson bought the People's choice trophy home to Bello as well!
I want to thank Susie and Bob of Upper Tunatable who put up the Bello crew and of course Iain , Marty, Ruth, Sally and Rosie for being there and sharing a great weekend. We all thought Marty was joking when she insisted we would bring home the cup! Thanks also to Gail and all the other organisers of the Nimbin Cup ... it is a special event... one that we can go on and develop with a sister Cup in Bello ???
A round of applause for Fiona who got up and delivered her Confessions of A single Mother behind the confessional box but in good voice ... many in the audience related to her words. Brian Hawkins was as usual a unique, precious and confidant voice over the weekend and Craig has started a trend ...that could be around for a long, long time with his Ode to the letter P ... it got the audience going!
There were so many outstanding performers , some old stalwarts on the scene Robin Archbold was by turns hilarious and heart wrenching, David Hallett and Zelly were in great form ( as was Ruthie - spellbinding...over the time limit but.... time is not a kouri construct!)and Candy Royale a previous winner was also excellent. But in my opinion it was the young poets who were fascinating : Doubting Thomas ...so powerful, Darkwing (wig is good too!) Dub,Steven Smart and Randall Stevens (funny and smart all of them!); in the girls camp Sophia Darcy-Cole was outstanding and Betsy Turcot and Jarrah Schmah who were in the finals were all intellingent, clever, funny poets.
I could rave on! It really was a fantastic weekend and I am on a high ... it's taken me nearly half a century to win a Cup ! I was crap at sports ... now I am the winner of a WORLD CUP !!!!!
Thanks again for welcoming us into the Nimbin community spirit...spirited community ... I am excited about judging next year already ...
Peace, Love and mung beans... Elizabeth Routledge xx
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Fresh Meat & Intercourse
Prologue
A sandwich of meat and in-between
a little bit of intercourse- intercourse being
communication, communion between
the sexes, human beings and god
and should you think my observations
somewhat …mean …wait for the epilogue
a taste of an ending to The Longest War
male and female, we are more alike than not
we just forgot where we came from!
Fresh meat 1.
There’s a new guy in town
And all those flying solo
perk up …Oh did you know…?
They gossip excitedly with hopeful delight
in the fruit and vege section of the IGA…
aah he’s probably gay! But secretly feel…
that he might just be the man for me!
they sigh and they swoon
as though it’s just spring
and the world is lovewonderful.
Maybe this time, this one’s for me
maybe this time it will be…
“The One”. The One.
Friday comes around too slowly
Babysitter bought in to mind the kids
Just until the pub closes, maybe until one
Oh this yummy mummy just wants to feel
Young, again, and free, if just for tonight!
She dusts off her g-string, her jeans are too tight
She showers and shaves; moisturizes and plucks
oh tonight she feels that she might just get …lucky
but worries about her butt – does it look big in this?
and the other flaws that naturally adorn her female form
which the media has her convinced he won’t adore.
But she closes the door on responsibility
though in the back of her mind she knows this bloke
will roll into town and down to the Fedo
for a cold one or two, and nary a thought
for his past, for his issues, his growing beer belly
the fact that his daks are a little bit smelly!
The girls are off the vino tonight
It makes them too messy, and slurry
and gin is too maudlin, but vodka is good
if you have it without the soft drink and all that sugar!
You know where that goes! Straight to the thighs!
And all their eyes are on the street
The loud ones laughing loudest
Then at last he arrives, vaguely aware
That for once in his life he’s in the wake
Of attention, as five pairs of eyes
Size him up!… to the beat of their hearts
Is he the one? Is he the one?
Ah but a good man is hard to find
We’ve all made mistakes and though longing
For love and intimacy, companionship
tenderness, a kind reality; we all know
we’ll probably settle for a drunken grope
a pash, an inebriated shag, a one night stand
and to hell with the consequences!
I can see he’s a player! but god dammit
It’s been so long, it must have been a year!
So right now I’m pissed and I want some lovin’
And though you all know I’m worth so much more
If he picks me I’m leavin’ through that door
And if tomorrow I take a dive, I’m feelin’ low
The blokes shot through, he had to go
Please don’t say I told you so!
Intercourse
It is a source of unbearable shame
It is profoundly spiritual, beautiful
It’s a sweet game.
It draws us together, it pulls us apart
a curious intimacy, an opening heart.
It is an itch, an addiction, ritual, routine
comedy, tragedy, a marketing dream.
It is a comfort, a joy, an unholy terror
a giving, a taking, an absurd messy error.
A surrender, an attack, a weapon of war
a deep, deep longing; a strange foreign shore.
A desperate grappling, twisting and twining
liquid merging, limb locking, sighing and pining
for it, the catalyst for life.
It is a need, a blessing
a contract, an exchange
a performance, a dance
a clumsy embrace.
Disappointing, predictable
dull or bon chance!
timid or bold, awake, in a trance.
In the morning, at dusk, afternoon delight
sunday siesta, ecstatic or trite
it’s a casual fling, an exciting fiesta
it’s hot n’ heavy, it’s so cool
it makes you want to sing
… a corny love song!
And, maybe, just maybe…it could be
a way to the gods.
And maybe, just maybe!
It can be the highest expression
of love.
Fresh Meat 2.
There is a new girl in town
and the men who congregate
in the tree lined street
grey haired and skeptical
over lattes and morning crossword
take note, as though it's justspring
and the world is lovewonderful
They look like pirates waiting
for their ship to come in, biding their time.
She's young, barely twenty
and only has the one kid
wearing her London funky clothes, clunky shoes.
Skinnybutcute.
They stumble into her orbit like dancing bears.
They will perform, they all have their routines.
The regulars have seen it all before
and watch with rolling eyes as the girl is charmed
by their small town eccentricity. Ringins all!
“You're delicious “he says, ”fascinating
I could eat you up!
I want to get inside your …head
I want to know you better, you're
not like the others, I could fall in love with you...”
He touches her like a dog marking his turf.
The small, still voice of her intuition
is tugging at her skirt, but she is
lapping it up, lapping it up, lapping it up!
So intuition is getting loud and sassy
“ Girl, girl! are you green?
are you really listin' to this?
girl you KNOW where this is goin’ to end
you know, what I'm talkin’ about
uuummm hhmmm ! That's right!"
Unlike the city men in their shiny cars
smiles shiny with rampant ignorance
stifled only by their neckties, C21st emblems of slavery
and the gods of consumerism who would lead you
into their chrome and leather bachelor apartment
feed you Charlie and cocktails...
These country ringins will astrologise you, ply you
with organic fine wine, after dinner talk, tantric promises
Buddhist chants, yogic flattery as foreplay
I am your guru goo goo ga joob!
But they all end up in the same place
men, on a couch
their hands down their pants
watching the box.
Epilogue - Musing
In nocturnal reverie
smiling at you through the open door
you shunned my mute sympathy.
How precisely we missed communication.
Again.
So when you accuse me of being provocative –
inciting lust, inciting war
I bow, heavy with sadness
that ruthful beauty, contrived to please
in form, colour and sway, is merely ritual, for…
the nameless flower in my heart
cannot articulate the scent of compassion.
My condolences, you fear a siren
who may devour your hoary carapace
eclipse each conflict by the by
commiseration, from a pure source
that has nothing to do with gender
where you will understand what I try to say
beyond what I have said
in another language that has no duality.
I supplicate, Mister muse.
A sandwich of meat and in-between
a little bit of intercourse- intercourse being
communication, communion between
the sexes, human beings and god
and should you think my observations
somewhat …mean …wait for the epilogue
a taste of an ending to The Longest War
male and female, we are more alike than not
we just forgot where we came from!
Fresh meat 1.
There’s a new guy in town
And all those flying solo
perk up …Oh did you know…?
They gossip excitedly with hopeful delight
in the fruit and vege section of the IGA…
aah he’s probably gay! But secretly feel…
that he might just be the man for me!
they sigh and they swoon
as though it’s just spring
and the world is lovewonderful.
Maybe this time, this one’s for me
maybe this time it will be…
“The One”. The One.
Friday comes around too slowly
Babysitter bought in to mind the kids
Just until the pub closes, maybe until one
Oh this yummy mummy just wants to feel
Young, again, and free, if just for tonight!
She dusts off her g-string, her jeans are too tight
She showers and shaves; moisturizes and plucks
oh tonight she feels that she might just get …lucky
but worries about her butt – does it look big in this?
and the other flaws that naturally adorn her female form
which the media has her convinced he won’t adore.
But she closes the door on responsibility
though in the back of her mind she knows this bloke
will roll into town and down to the Fedo
for a cold one or two, and nary a thought
for his past, for his issues, his growing beer belly
the fact that his daks are a little bit smelly!
The girls are off the vino tonight
It makes them too messy, and slurry
and gin is too maudlin, but vodka is good
if you have it without the soft drink and all that sugar!
You know where that goes! Straight to the thighs!
And all their eyes are on the street
The loud ones laughing loudest
Then at last he arrives, vaguely aware
That for once in his life he’s in the wake
Of attention, as five pairs of eyes
Size him up!… to the beat of their hearts
Is he the one? Is he the one?
Ah but a good man is hard to find
We’ve all made mistakes and though longing
For love and intimacy, companionship
tenderness, a kind reality; we all know
we’ll probably settle for a drunken grope
a pash, an inebriated shag, a one night stand
and to hell with the consequences!
I can see he’s a player! but god dammit
It’s been so long, it must have been a year!
So right now I’m pissed and I want some lovin’
And though you all know I’m worth so much more
If he picks me I’m leavin’ through that door
And if tomorrow I take a dive, I’m feelin’ low
The blokes shot through, he had to go
Please don’t say I told you so!
Intercourse
It is a source of unbearable shame
It is profoundly spiritual, beautiful
It’s a sweet game.
It draws us together, it pulls us apart
a curious intimacy, an opening heart.
It is an itch, an addiction, ritual, routine
comedy, tragedy, a marketing dream.
It is a comfort, a joy, an unholy terror
a giving, a taking, an absurd messy error.
A surrender, an attack, a weapon of war
a deep, deep longing; a strange foreign shore.
A desperate grappling, twisting and twining
liquid merging, limb locking, sighing and pining
for it, the catalyst for life.
It is a need, a blessing
a contract, an exchange
a performance, a dance
a clumsy embrace.
Disappointing, predictable
dull or bon chance!
timid or bold, awake, in a trance.
In the morning, at dusk, afternoon delight
sunday siesta, ecstatic or trite
it’s a casual fling, an exciting fiesta
it’s hot n’ heavy, it’s so cool
it makes you want to sing
… a corny love song!
And, maybe, just maybe…it could be
a way to the gods.
And maybe, just maybe!
It can be the highest expression
of love.
Fresh Meat 2.
There is a new girl in town
and the men who congregate
in the tree lined street
grey haired and skeptical
over lattes and morning crossword
take note, as though it's justspring
and the world is lovewonderful
They look like pirates waiting
for their ship to come in, biding their time.
She's young, barely twenty
and only has the one kid
wearing her London funky clothes, clunky shoes.
Skinnybutcute.
They stumble into her orbit like dancing bears.
They will perform, they all have their routines.
The regulars have seen it all before
and watch with rolling eyes as the girl is charmed
by their small town eccentricity. Ringins all!
“You're delicious “he says, ”fascinating
I could eat you up!
I want to get inside your …head
I want to know you better, you're
not like the others, I could fall in love with you...”
He touches her like a dog marking his turf.
The small, still voice of her intuition
is tugging at her skirt, but she is
lapping it up, lapping it up, lapping it up!
So intuition is getting loud and sassy
“ Girl, girl! are you green?
are you really listin' to this?
girl you KNOW where this is goin’ to end
you know, what I'm talkin’ about
uuummm hhmmm ! That's right!"
Unlike the city men in their shiny cars
smiles shiny with rampant ignorance
stifled only by their neckties, C21st emblems of slavery
and the gods of consumerism who would lead you
into their chrome and leather bachelor apartment
feed you Charlie and cocktails...
These country ringins will astrologise you, ply you
with organic fine wine, after dinner talk, tantric promises
Buddhist chants, yogic flattery as foreplay
I am your guru goo goo ga joob!
But they all end up in the same place
men, on a couch
their hands down their pants
watching the box.
Epilogue - Musing
In nocturnal reverie
smiling at you through the open door
you shunned my mute sympathy.
How precisely we missed communication.
Again.
So when you accuse me of being provocative –
inciting lust, inciting war
I bow, heavy with sadness
that ruthful beauty, contrived to please
in form, colour and sway, is merely ritual, for…
the nameless flower in my heart
cannot articulate the scent of compassion.
My condolences, you fear a siren
who may devour your hoary carapace
eclipse each conflict by the by
commiseration, from a pure source
that has nothing to do with gender
where you will understand what I try to say
beyond what I have said
in another language that has no duality.
I supplicate, Mister muse.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Lament of the Fag Ash Lil’
© Copyright Elizabeth Routledge 2010.
There’s a couple of fag ash lil’s
holdin’ up the bar of a Friday night
suckin’ in a lungful of poison
yellowing teeth, yellowing digits
puckered lips like a clenched bum hole
exhaling nicotine yarns through crêpy lungs
boozy lunch confessions
sozzle’d sweat,fuesty breath
preserving things, long dead.
Not buried
as yet.
When youth is gone
desire muddled
thoughts tangled
rose colored memories
tinted with sentimentality
blurry with wishful-ness
recycled histrionics littered
with corpses draped
with imaginary B grade filters
or enhanced, for a laugh
down the well worn path
of a much told tale…
I could’ve been…
I was gonna…
One day…
Through the haze of smoke, and mirrors
life eludes, addictions ensue
take root, like lantana
a host of choking weeds
contaminate any blueprint divine
stifling miracles of DNA
and large sections of the brain remain
dormant and our souls
sing the blues.
Wistful sighs, plaintive cries
escape their lips like a wheeling bird
a furious gull, who thinks
I should‘ve been a swallow
but all I feel is hollow
the seeds of my potential
fall on the fallow, stony ground
of the human condition.
Briefly the sound of sorrow
a fragment of soul hangs in the air
wafts it’s way into the branches of a nearby tree
comforted by cool leaves, rising still further
to join a host of unspoken wails
hanging homeless over the earth
to revisit you on a windy day.
© Copyright Elizabeth Routledge 2010.
There’s a couple of fag ash lil’s
holdin’ up the bar of a Friday night
suckin’ in a lungful of poison
yellowing teeth, yellowing digits
puckered lips like a clenched bum hole
exhaling nicotine yarns through crêpy lungs
boozy lunch confessions
sozzle’d sweat,fuesty breath
preserving things, long dead.
Not buried
as yet.
When youth is gone
desire muddled
thoughts tangled
rose colored memories
tinted with sentimentality
blurry with wishful-ness
recycled histrionics littered
with corpses draped
with imaginary B grade filters
or enhanced, for a laugh
down the well worn path
of a much told tale…
I could’ve been…
I was gonna…
One day…
Through the haze of smoke, and mirrors
life eludes, addictions ensue
take root, like lantana
a host of choking weeds
contaminate any blueprint divine
stifling miracles of DNA
and large sections of the brain remain
dormant and our souls
sing the blues.
Wistful sighs, plaintive cries
escape their lips like a wheeling bird
a furious gull, who thinks
I should‘ve been a swallow
but all I feel is hollow
the seeds of my potential
fall on the fallow, stony ground
of the human condition.
Briefly the sound of sorrow
a fragment of soul hangs in the air
wafts it’s way into the branches of a nearby tree
comforted by cool leaves, rising still further
to join a host of unspoken wails
hanging homeless over the earth
to revisit you on a windy day.
Green –eyed.
My lovers eyes are green but
His soul cannot be gleaned
I talk, I open, I reveal.
I would give it all away…
No … not my heart, not my soul
Which is well protected
Not like Ned Kelly’s in 80 kilos of steel
But sealed in a net, like spiders threads
Delicate but strong.
I feel. I feel.
I feel our hearts beating.
I want to peel away the layers
Find the jewel.
I breathe my lover in
I know his smell
But the rest of him?
A perfect stranger.
Alluring, beautiful
Hesitantly offering
Small kindnesses
Small hurts.
A few steps forwards, sideways, backwards
An anxious dance, the dance of lovers
When no one is quite sure of the steps
No one is leading or sure of where they want to go.
He looks into my eyes and I look back
tongue-tied, mutually mute.
He talks to everyone, but me…
I…feel. I feel…
I feel lonely.
He moves amongst the people like a graceful horse
Bestowing charms; Flexing, prancing, stretching
All glorious muscle planted in the ground.
My lover cooks for me
Meals full of richness and flavour
His hands like an artisan
He moulds bread, hacks weeds
Picks fruit straight from the tree.
He says what you see is what you get…
I have to disagree.
He likes kissing but is hesitant with intimacy
He likes hugs but is … lazy … with foreplay.
He knows about my clitoris
(But not the crook of my arm, my wrists, my belly…)
He likes fucking… slowly
He likes cheesecake… his own cooking.
He likes me.
The first thing I see in my lover, long before he was my lover.
His skin; like a child’s, clear, unlined, unblemished, unscarred.
Unlike mine, lined with life stories, scars, silvery stretch marks
Veins, spidery or blue, mottled and swollen from carrying children
Dimples, a baby belly, suckled breasts that tell a female tale…
She’s fat, she’s thin, she’s sad, she’s happy, she frowns.
Smiling lines, laughing lines, weary shadows.
My lover’s eyes are green.
He smoothes the bed cover over his bed
So that the pattern perfectly aligns.
He talks about commitment like he is trying it on for size…
I don’t think it fits, it constricts, like a suit and tie.
It roles off like a drop of water on oily skin.
He thinks it’s what I want to hear but
I am emerging from a connubial nightmare, so
I am curious about him, but …
He’s too scared to let me in.
I sit alone
I watch him over blueberries, a latte
Restless, he gravitates back to me.
His eyes flicker over the crowd
He strokes my hair tenderly, he kisses my face
He places his hand in the small of my back
Like he owns me
Like he’s guiding me back to him, for a moment
He unfolds, unfurls slowly, but not completely.
The seed of the end is clearly seen in the first hours
Covered in a rubble of passion, soft kisses
Fragrant caresses, earthy sighs.
How time can wear a lover down
Beyond acceptance
To look for greener grass.
My lover had green eyes.
My lovers eyes are green but
His soul cannot be gleaned
I talk, I open, I reveal.
I would give it all away…
No … not my heart, not my soul
Which is well protected
Not like Ned Kelly’s in 80 kilos of steel
But sealed in a net, like spiders threads
Delicate but strong.
I feel. I feel.
I feel our hearts beating.
I want to peel away the layers
Find the jewel.
I breathe my lover in
I know his smell
But the rest of him?
A perfect stranger.
Alluring, beautiful
Hesitantly offering
Small kindnesses
Small hurts.
A few steps forwards, sideways, backwards
An anxious dance, the dance of lovers
When no one is quite sure of the steps
No one is leading or sure of where they want to go.
He looks into my eyes and I look back
tongue-tied, mutually mute.
He talks to everyone, but me…
I…feel. I feel…
I feel lonely.
He moves amongst the people like a graceful horse
Bestowing charms; Flexing, prancing, stretching
All glorious muscle planted in the ground.
My lover cooks for me
Meals full of richness and flavour
His hands like an artisan
He moulds bread, hacks weeds
Picks fruit straight from the tree.
He says what you see is what you get…
I have to disagree.
He likes kissing but is hesitant with intimacy
He likes hugs but is … lazy … with foreplay.
He knows about my clitoris
(But not the crook of my arm, my wrists, my belly…)
He likes fucking… slowly
He likes cheesecake… his own cooking.
He likes me.
The first thing I see in my lover, long before he was my lover.
His skin; like a child’s, clear, unlined, unblemished, unscarred.
Unlike mine, lined with life stories, scars, silvery stretch marks
Veins, spidery or blue, mottled and swollen from carrying children
Dimples, a baby belly, suckled breasts that tell a female tale…
She’s fat, she’s thin, she’s sad, she’s happy, she frowns.
Smiling lines, laughing lines, weary shadows.
My lover’s eyes are green.
He smoothes the bed cover over his bed
So that the pattern perfectly aligns.
He talks about commitment like he is trying it on for size…
I don’t think it fits, it constricts, like a suit and tie.
It roles off like a drop of water on oily skin.
He thinks it’s what I want to hear but
I am emerging from a connubial nightmare, so
I am curious about him, but …
He’s too scared to let me in.
I sit alone
I watch him over blueberries, a latte
Restless, he gravitates back to me.
His eyes flicker over the crowd
He strokes my hair tenderly, he kisses my face
He places his hand in the small of my back
Like he owns me
Like he’s guiding me back to him, for a moment
He unfolds, unfurls slowly, but not completely.
The seed of the end is clearly seen in the first hours
Covered in a rubble of passion, soft kisses
Fragrant caresses, earthy sighs.
How time can wear a lover down
Beyond acceptance
To look for greener grass.
My lover had green eyes.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Behind the Lines
© Copyright Elizabeth Routledge 2010
The Major lit up, watched the afternoon tropical deluge
hit camp like an attacking frontline enemy, a fast and furious wave of sound
unlike the tiny, somber guerillas, silently creeping through the creaking jungle
of glossy leaves and fantastical flowers.
War is waiting, waiting, he demurred, blowing an elegant, wafting
Perfect-for-a-moment, smoke ring into the wet-blurred trees
but no one heard above the roar, the deafening rhythm on khaki and tin
regulation din, lush with fat snakes, jabbering monkeys and malarial hum.
Only their prisoner, stubborn mute before polite British Interrogators
cursing the heat in this, God Forsaken Land, concurs, his smile frugal, inscrutable.
The rain slows to a ponderous drip. Drip. Drip.
Did you ever kill? , she said, and he sighs, tries to teach her to play chess
writes poetry about the blue Aegean seas that he crossed with his wife
the image of her leaning over the side of the ship, her hair blowing in the wind
on their way to adventures protected by the might of Briton.
For his wife, drinking gin at the Dog club again, eyes too bright
still bleeding from a back street abortion, memories of her Indian lover
skin like butter, she smoothes her white gloves, removes the hat
that perfectly matches her Susan Small dress that nips in her tiny waist.
The wives of the Yang di Pertuan arrive, fluttering in brightly coloured silks
Amah takes the children and they retire to the cool of the bungalow
as the rain arrives like a regular guest always dropping by
who expects nothing, just your being, a silent salutation in their direction.
She serves nasi goring and Pimms N.O. 4, but it’s not long before
she wonders how she got here, so far from all she’s known.
Who is she now? What has she become?
She feels she has dissolved in another’s rituals, someone else’s routine
gravity has made her one with strangers, loneliness has lead her into a dream
where no one recognizes her or remembers who she was.
The rain slows to a delicate trickle, a passing lighthearted laughter
A belly rumble of thunder drifts away
and the women go out for a game of tennis.
© Copyright Elizabeth Routledge 2010
The Major lit up, watched the afternoon tropical deluge
hit camp like an attacking frontline enemy, a fast and furious wave of sound
unlike the tiny, somber guerillas, silently creeping through the creaking jungle
of glossy leaves and fantastical flowers.
War is waiting, waiting, he demurred, blowing an elegant, wafting
Perfect-for-a-moment, smoke ring into the wet-blurred trees
but no one heard above the roar, the deafening rhythm on khaki and tin
regulation din, lush with fat snakes, jabbering monkeys and malarial hum.
Only their prisoner, stubborn mute before polite British Interrogators
cursing the heat in this, God Forsaken Land, concurs, his smile frugal, inscrutable.
The rain slows to a ponderous drip. Drip. Drip.
Did you ever kill? , she said, and he sighs, tries to teach her to play chess
writes poetry about the blue Aegean seas that he crossed with his wife
the image of her leaning over the side of the ship, her hair blowing in the wind
on their way to adventures protected by the might of Briton.
For his wife, drinking gin at the Dog club again, eyes too bright
still bleeding from a back street abortion, memories of her Indian lover
skin like butter, she smoothes her white gloves, removes the hat
that perfectly matches her Susan Small dress that nips in her tiny waist.
The wives of the Yang di Pertuan arrive, fluttering in brightly coloured silks
Amah takes the children and they retire to the cool of the bungalow
as the rain arrives like a regular guest always dropping by
who expects nothing, just your being, a silent salutation in their direction.
She serves nasi goring and Pimms N.O. 4, but it’s not long before
she wonders how she got here, so far from all she’s known.
Who is she now? What has she become?
She feels she has dissolved in another’s rituals, someone else’s routine
gravity has made her one with strangers, loneliness has lead her into a dream
where no one recognizes her or remembers who she was.
The rain slows to a delicate trickle, a passing lighthearted laughter
A belly rumble of thunder drifts away
and the women go out for a game of tennis.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
The Veranda of Endless Sundays
These veranda days, they’re ok, you say.
Cloud drifting, mountains winking in the distance days.
Sometime in the future we will remember these moments
you announce. As seas rise, a world groans, underbelly shifts
overwhelm all our doings, all our longings and dreaming.
What are you thinking? You ask, with the wind chimes.
Sun glinting off the cliff face high in the spongy purple folds
of the mountains, close now as clouds dissolve, momentarily.
Light fills the sky, a white flower, opening.
Nothing, I say, nothing.
As though I had perfected Meditation practice
a breeze flowing through my empty mind.
The truth is I am chasing words, the right words
to say how I love you, come what may
in veranda days and when you go away, but
It’s all been said before, a million songs, all just … wrong
Except for slightly melancholy melodies with ironic, wistful phrasing.
In between times, a chord strikes.
Still I am tired of all the noise, endless cleverclever talk, talk, talking
as though everyone was getting ready to proclaim
the latest, rehashed profundity for TV crews or radio mikes
prompted by a hyped up Personality, fast and loud
visual, aural, hyperbole looking for a new story.
In between, endless patter and political spin.
Listen! listen to the wind! A rain storm riding in
obliterating the mountains, devouring roads and farms
flattening my shabby garden, seedy vegetables and tired herbs.
Drenched by glorious, unfeeling Nature and gone again.
A thousand industrious spiders observe these lazy veranda days
unperturbed by the raging rain cracking on corrugated roof.
We congregate, we lounge, we sigh
on the veranda of endless sundays
A shy carpet snake and two stripy cats
hunched down, watching, but ready to strike
or curled up, sleepy in subtropical humidity
We could all just be hoping for the afternoon change
or for a revelation.
Cloud drifting, mountains winking in the distance days.
Sometime in the future we will remember these moments
you announce. As seas rise, a world groans, underbelly shifts
overwhelm all our doings, all our longings and dreaming.
What are you thinking? You ask, with the wind chimes.
Sun glinting off the cliff face high in the spongy purple folds
of the mountains, close now as clouds dissolve, momentarily.
Light fills the sky, a white flower, opening.
Nothing, I say, nothing.
As though I had perfected Meditation practice
a breeze flowing through my empty mind.
The truth is I am chasing words, the right words
to say how I love you, come what may
in veranda days and when you go away, but
It’s all been said before, a million songs, all just … wrong
Except for slightly melancholy melodies with ironic, wistful phrasing.
In between times, a chord strikes.
Still I am tired of all the noise, endless cleverclever talk, talk, talking
as though everyone was getting ready to proclaim
the latest, rehashed profundity for TV crews or radio mikes
prompted by a hyped up Personality, fast and loud
visual, aural, hyperbole looking for a new story.
In between, endless patter and political spin.
Listen! listen to the wind! A rain storm riding in
obliterating the mountains, devouring roads and farms
flattening my shabby garden, seedy vegetables and tired herbs.
Drenched by glorious, unfeeling Nature and gone again.
A thousand industrious spiders observe these lazy veranda days
unperturbed by the raging rain cracking on corrugated roof.
We congregate, we lounge, we sigh
on the veranda of endless sundays
A shy carpet snake and two stripy cats
hunched down, watching, but ready to strike
or curled up, sleepy in subtropical humidity
We could all just be hoping for the afternoon change
or for a revelation.
Leunig Girl
© Copyright Elizabeth Routledge 2009
Leunig girl chasing clouds and curlicues
Steeped in silence, feelings well in her eyes
But no matter how hard she tries
They stay deep inside.
She falls in love with dead poets and mystics
She won’t throw her flowers at rock n’ roll pretenders
She won’t congregate at girly nights or cat fights
She’s falling in her own imagination.
Her whimsical gait and faraway gaze
Seduce the dreamers and the schemers
Looking for gods and goddesses
in a suburban, sentimental reality
a confectionary of the next big thing.
Others get her wrong, but I can hear the words
she doesn’t say, I’ll protect her from the maddening crowd
Shield her from the trauma of shopping malls
Epileptic lights and pancake make believe.
Take her to a quiet place to resurrect her mission
Where I will read her zodiac first, give her the bigger half
and save the last bite, for her, because I think she is nice
and kind of lovely, in a fragile, quirky way.
Also because I understand the ache of songs unwritten
songs unsung and songs forgotten
One day I will sing her out of her condition
I will sing her free of inhibition and sing her into love.
Hold her when she can no longer stand, alone.
Because she is a leunig girl, chasing clouds and curlicues.
Swinging her legs and whistling in her head.
2010.
© Copyright Elizabeth Routledge 2009
Leunig girl chasing clouds and curlicues
Steeped in silence, feelings well in her eyes
But no matter how hard she tries
They stay deep inside.
She falls in love with dead poets and mystics
She won’t throw her flowers at rock n’ roll pretenders
She won’t congregate at girly nights or cat fights
She’s falling in her own imagination.
Her whimsical gait and faraway gaze
Seduce the dreamers and the schemers
Looking for gods and goddesses
in a suburban, sentimental reality
a confectionary of the next big thing.
Others get her wrong, but I can hear the words
she doesn’t say, I’ll protect her from the maddening crowd
Shield her from the trauma of shopping malls
Epileptic lights and pancake make believe.
Take her to a quiet place to resurrect her mission
Where I will read her zodiac first, give her the bigger half
and save the last bite, for her, because I think she is nice
and kind of lovely, in a fragile, quirky way.
Also because I understand the ache of songs unwritten
songs unsung and songs forgotten
One day I will sing her out of her condition
I will sing her free of inhibition and sing her into love.
Hold her when she can no longer stand, alone.
Because she is a leunig girl, chasing clouds and curlicues.
Swinging her legs and whistling in her head.
2010.
Bali 2009
© Copyright Elizabeth Routledge 2009
A fingernail moon winks amongst a fringe of leaves
ripples in the watery combs stitched with young rice
tender green bristles nodding in the new neon flares.
The night rain falls like confetti; like petals
on suede blue pools reflecting a sultry sky
where swifts and swallows and starlings fly
over offerings enfolded in banana leaf origami
marigold and white rice sanctified by the incantations
of a soul purified swami, drifting in the narrow canals
this Balinese Venice veined with a sacred geometry
of waterways pulled by a subtle gravity
from the pristine waters of lake Batur
protected by the sacred mountains
Gunung, Agung, Abang
chak-a-chak-a-chak-a-chak-a-chak
and the rhythm of the gamelan.
Overflowing sculpted terraces to the sea
lifting to the gods perfumes of frangipani
cempaka oil and burning coconut husk
a devil dog howls, frogs croak
the ducks and insects sing along
to the sacred night song.
Wayan first son, of Ketuk, the fourth
lights sandalwood and lays hibiscus flowers
on fresh linen, a fresh flask of sweet coffee
a pandan-green-hued cake.
Ancient ceremonies and rituals flow
ceaselessly on the streets of Ubud
the dancers slip into a trance, the music weaves a spell
as Dewi Saraswati , the consort of Brahma
lifts four graceful hands with gifts for her gentle devotees
wisdom, devotion and creativity, a rosary of prayers
for her prolific artisans.
And the listless tourists like ghosts
bring the decaying dreams of the west.
The cult of materialism. Our futures entwined.
Come, look, see! I need to feed my family.
“Maybe tomorrow”. Maybe.
Their youth, like ours, enmeshed and branded
styled by the image makers, skinny jeans, technology
a myriad illusions; slavery and poverty cannot prise them free.
The odor of fertilizer and petroleum deform
their ocean creatures, victims of our greed
insatiable productivity.
The vague scent of an open lotus
proclaims their innocence, their purity.
The big hearted woman who carries fifty kilos on her head
knows she was born to work, help feed her family
like her daily prayers, her breath, her smiles
she thanks the gods for life’s simple ceremony.
© Copyright Elizabeth Routledge 2009
A fingernail moon winks amongst a fringe of leaves
ripples in the watery combs stitched with young rice
tender green bristles nodding in the new neon flares.
The night rain falls like confetti; like petals
on suede blue pools reflecting a sultry sky
where swifts and swallows and starlings fly
over offerings enfolded in banana leaf origami
marigold and white rice sanctified by the incantations
of a soul purified swami, drifting in the narrow canals
this Balinese Venice veined with a sacred geometry
of waterways pulled by a subtle gravity
from the pristine waters of lake Batur
protected by the sacred mountains
Gunung, Agung, Abang
chak-a-chak-a-chak-a-chak-a-chak
and the rhythm of the gamelan.
Overflowing sculpted terraces to the sea
lifting to the gods perfumes of frangipani
cempaka oil and burning coconut husk
a devil dog howls, frogs croak
the ducks and insects sing along
to the sacred night song.
Wayan first son, of Ketuk, the fourth
lights sandalwood and lays hibiscus flowers
on fresh linen, a fresh flask of sweet coffee
a pandan-green-hued cake.
Ancient ceremonies and rituals flow
ceaselessly on the streets of Ubud
the dancers slip into a trance, the music weaves a spell
as Dewi Saraswati , the consort of Brahma
lifts four graceful hands with gifts for her gentle devotees
wisdom, devotion and creativity, a rosary of prayers
for her prolific artisans.
And the listless tourists like ghosts
bring the decaying dreams of the west.
The cult of materialism. Our futures entwined.
Come, look, see! I need to feed my family.
“Maybe tomorrow”. Maybe.
Their youth, like ours, enmeshed and branded
styled by the image makers, skinny jeans, technology
a myriad illusions; slavery and poverty cannot prise them free.
The odor of fertilizer and petroleum deform
their ocean creatures, victims of our greed
insatiable productivity.
The vague scent of an open lotus
proclaims their innocence, their purity.
The big hearted woman who carries fifty kilos on her head
knows she was born to work, help feed her family
like her daily prayers, her breath, her smiles
she thanks the gods for life’s simple ceremony.
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