If facing the paper, your thought is 'I am an artist', you have no clue what to do. If the concepts of your function are, 'I am a shape maker, an entertainer, an expressive symbol collector'...then you have an explicit road map. Edgar Whitney

Monday, September 5, 2011

apple strudel

My mum and aunties stretch it with their fists. They coax it thinner and thinner stretch it until it covers the whole laminex kitchen table and I can see the check of the cloth through the membrane of pastry. Stretch out their pride in their children stretch out their cackles of laughter at the stupidity of their husbands stretch out their tears for the sister who died young. At 15 they let me have a go, I try to mimic their hand over hand and rip a big hole in it they laugh at my clumsiness and shoo me away. When I’m 20 they laugh at my university-learned hochdeutsch even though I can stretch the dough as good as them “ooo la di da” they screech taunts at my posh accent and it thins the pastry a little more. Taunts add tartness to the apples they scatter. They add the finely chopped bitter rind of  long standing family feuds, a sprinkle of spicy sugar gossip and roll the whole thing up using the cloth, lifting it so that fold upon fold of pastry swaddles the apples and all the ancient history.

Monday, August 8, 2011

Stubborn as Stone

I sent my love a naked lithotint,
gold print on stone. 

He says I’m a kind of rock
plants grow on,
a stone swallower,
rock borer,
fossilized fruit,
a concretion in his veins.

I assert that
for my fire I have flint,
to furrow the rows of my garden
I have a small stone adze;
live and worship in a stone circle.  

A stone that falls to earth I become
phosphorescent when heated.

Sunday, July 3, 2011

reasons for silence

so the wheel barrow
full of star frequencies
can speak

so the energy wave
that is body
may be seen

a table cloth may
embroider itself
with grub roses

of the sewing box
may be heard

thunder of rust developing
on the hollow legs
of picnic tables
rattle the trees

the harmonic of frost chimes
resonant in the lacunae
within the leaves
of felicia amelloides
calls the followers to prayer

so that a rush
of seedlings heaves
the clay aside and terrifies

so the crackle
of thin bible pages
is delicious

so that as you
breathe out
and I breathe in
we synchronize

fuse at the sternum
with a seam of gold
in the ore of our bodies
the sound
of silent lightening

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

My Wedding Shoes

The cobbler couldn’t squeeze my foot
into the standard last size no matter
how much sweat beaded  his forehead.

So he went back to the drawing board.
He made a new shoe last.
He cut a new pattern;
cumulonimbus for the upper,
plumes of pampas grass for the sole,
and a wedge of utopia for a heel.

The shoes reach for my feet.
First the broken left one,
the shoe strokes my scars with its dainty
leather straps calming the angry
swelling before buckling
with the sound of lips on lips.

The right shoe is more teasing,
pretends coyness before
it invites my foot to tango
giggling when I tickle the buckle.

My wedding shoes are wrapped
in delicate linen and boxed.
I stumble across them when
I put away the winter woolens,

open the box, nudge aside the fabric.
My shoes glow with a wake up
smile and hold out their hands to me.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

child's play

as snake
beautiful but blue

as snow
remembered but black

as human
innocent but almost
born inside
a monster
a child
a bird
a cry of wings