NOTES TO ANOTHER POET [Stefanie Bennett]
It’s the enigma of it all. And, as they say
In this country – I’ve a tendency
To ‘bat the breeze’. Forsooth, I am
A talker but I also walk
My tongue into the heart of action.
Perhaps... it’s in the blood spilled
On other shores. The pedigree
I refuse to mock. There, the hand
Of Campania valour
Would slap me on the back –,
Project, ‘Speech is richer when life’s poor!’
So – verbose or no, critical to the lee-side
Of sullen human nature
[... A term I’d not invent nor let loose]
I specify, ‘a mouth was not meant
To yawn itself to comfortable ends.’
Countryman, never of the same barbarous roots –,
Rather my words be pulped
By the olive-press; by the grape-
Treader’s feet and thrashing elbow than
Forget to breathe free union of thought. And
These opinions drafted first as epigrams, con brio,
Deserve the roughest plywood case
To let the fearless elements in. Later – when
The last mask covers both our names, there’ll
Come a constant whirring...
‘No comforting ends!’ Just nardoo, thistle, fleur-de-lis.
DINGO LINEAGE [Stefanie Bennett]
High-tech hermetic groans
From the parapet -
That’s an inner city paraphrase.
As they say, living’s diatomic.
Later, outbound where highway
Meets the sun
Head-on, a pencil line
Of long division calls me home.
Ladybird clinging to the windshield
- You migrate with finesse;
In speed and earthen light.
Stopped outside a country pub,
The last groundswell
Before that spinifex
Regime takes over – you alight
With me. Taking your place
On the veranda rail
I hear you
The most yellow of songs ...
Something to do with space