you couldn’t invent the tide
or the blood in my eye
imagine creating
a land
where waves
rushed in
once a day
then left
sand
like the bare spot on your chin
I see from one side
and wonder if anyone
else has spied
do you feel that
something
between us,
the sea and the sky?
or are the pebbles in my mind
worn too smooth by
tumbling
endless thoughts
washing nigh
turning over and over and
the way they
swell and subside
not even a hangnail
to catch certainty
just a shallow
goodbye
birdtrack
skythreat
heartcrack
the wave swirls upwards
to greet me
I swear it knows
what i need
wish it would tell me
out loud
waterwords
are hard to read
Photo: Claire Doble
I really enjoy artist collaborations. They end up so much more than the sum of their parts.
A friend and filmmaker, David Bugeja of Catmari Productions, was inspired to create a video clip for my recently recorded poem Darksparkle.
To be honest, it makes my reading sound a bit shabby! But I adore what he’s done here.
Stretch marks on the ocean
silvery, tired
trying to remember I’m vast
sparkling, a
mother
fucker
more than, enough
can’t be contained, tamed
in a single glass
wine? whiskey? why?
I yearn somedays,
mostly Sundays
afternoons
for self-absorbed
oblivion
a sweat-beaded bottle might provide
those sweet lies
politician in a suit
sneakers and no tie
Modern. Woman.
leaning in
hi!
time to change
time’s are changing
it’s like
holding on to a boyfriend cause
he looks good from behind
only realise
that metaphor
means
he’s long gone
in my mind
can’t win
with an exit-man
start again
if you can
find enough
water in the ocean
to stretch across
exhaustion
make a new thing
never stop
aching
Photo: Claire Doble
more picnics mean
more broken glass
it’s not me
or any of my
friends
we wouldn’t do that
who would
stare out to sea
and ask
if the rusty anchor’s still wedged
on the island
where waves attack
shipwreck litter
you’d be stuck
with a fine these days
for that
and I heard the sailors were
all unvaccinated
in 1870
selfish pricks, I wonder
was their captain schooled
by Opus Dei?
someone who
eats roast koala
for tea
picks his teeth
with the constitution
casts icy eyes over
the cash flow of
stamp duty to
developer, it’s only the poor
who choose to buy
on flood plains
my Hilux explains
I’m OK
burning finest quality
trees in aspic
4.2 litre diesel
smash the plastic
P plates
in the car park
by the boat ramp
someone will
tidy up
for you
black water laps
against the morning shore
faint tang of petrol
in the air
it’s safe for kids
so clean
because
our land is
rich and free
Photo: Claire Doble
frigidaire air
cold on bottle-green arms
inhale exhale, snuffle-gulp
chill shots, no covid
don’t touch
turquoise face
stretch
alabaster calves
yellowhite, marbled
tight, neat, chocked, clocked
surprised but not shocked
ready to run
here it comes
breath like a vape
grey morning takes
extra
moments
to
arrive
pinkorange imperial glory
of clouds over
water as
ghosts glide
majestic
winter sunrise
Photo: Claire Doble
skytumble
and the breeze
tosses me
around
batters my
spiked edges
smooths
the turmoil
of the soul
I watch the
lines of cloud
chased to the corners
of blue
funnelled towards
a far edge, reaching
white, high and fleeting
and below
and beyond
waves rise
out at sea
alarmingly like
the dream
I had
last night
of a tsunami
greygreen
they’ll reach my windows
engulf the house
tight-sealed but
ominous
a trickle
down the wall
all-engulfing
enthrals
colours in a
tropical storm
aquamarine
slides sideways
more like
quiet horror
than fright
Photo: Claire Doble
A wreck of gold and crimson
over the horizon
an island out to sea
not far
frothed in waves and it’s
windy out there
back home the damp seeps
into everything
carpet, eiderdown, towel and bone
while the daughters rev and roar
next door
smoke blooms in the night
once more
peachlight clouds against grey-to-black sky
nostrils flare
all is so quiet but that smell of fire
over the horizon
there
it’s
a wreck of gold and crimson
beyond the shore
Photo: https://unsplash.com/@wtexxfaa1
Somewhat inspired by https://poets.org/poem/diving-wreck
I’m afraid
I am not brave
fingers move
over stitches
bump, bump, bump
tiny precision
treadle, needle, spindle, cradle
what good does it do
to share your opinion
say fix it
my way
drink and pass out
in front of the TV
when every night
I imagine
swimming out
scarred, unscared
because
I won’t return
to worry
about courage
unaired
Photo: Daniele Levis Pelusi on Unsplash
I am the watcher
the runner
unofficial custodian
alone
non-partisan
my feet pray
to mother earth
my breath
synthesises
salt-sea molecules
of sky
and my eyes
monitor
the ways
in sweeping surveil
from mountain
to ocean
and over there
the horizon
mine not mine
owned only
in a global
internal
knowing
tread the land
stomp the sand
it’s yours, ours, no one’s
take care
Photo: Claire Doble
clairevetica 