Thanks to my kin, Robert Hunter, and The Dead for the quatrain. It was better than all other scripture. Workingman's Dead was as reassuring as Big Pink.
Friday, March 18, 2011
1971
.
Thanks to my kin, Robert Hunter, and The Dead for the quatrain. It was better than all other scripture. Workingman's Dead was as reassuring as Big Pink.
Thanks to my kin, Robert Hunter, and The Dead for the quatrain. It was better than all other scripture. Workingman's Dead was as reassuring as Big Pink.
Lace
.
Lace
for Annabelle Collett
She was big in black
The mighty great aunt
Shiny and creaking head to toe
As she led me all the way
Through the pines to the letterbox
When we reached the road
She sat heaving on the bank
And drew up her brittle skirts
Layers of stiff yellowing calico
Bits of tattered linen, even ticking
To show the infant me
Her ancient marbled thighs
Beetroot and aubergine
“I’m dying in the legs first”
She said. “Never play cards with a stranger.”
Then came the froth in Mum’s top drawer
That pretty scented mess
Gold, fake pearls and petticoats
Nylons piled soft in the corner
Excited by marriage still fresh
We came down from the mountains
To catch a tram to Dimmey’s
Where the fitting woman said
“Pour your breast Darling
Pour the breast into the cup.”
From that trippy feminine shopful
Mummy’s money went too by cup
Off whizzing along the wire
To the lady in pointy glasses
In a fishtank up in the corner
To be honest we went there
For my first long pair of pants
I’m colourblind, but maroon I reckon
“Big man little boy trousers”
The woman who’d just touched Mum’s tit said
I spent a year feigning illness on Wednesdays
To be home alone with mother’s fluffy stuff
Marvelling on the mystery of breasts
Yearning to learn the water feel them
Swimming in the midnight river
You could catch a glimpse at prayer meetings
When the women took turns
To hike their frocking by the fire
Warming their giant bums
From flaming logs I’d cut
And the bright eyeful I got
When my Sunday School teacher
Leant into our car
That pink unsucked nipple
Suspended in its realm of lace
Her virgin face flushing
With shocked inhalation
Realizing she’d been sprung
The panicked grasp of organist’s fingers
Drawing shut that plain cotton blouse
Bad luck! But wilder fascination
Soon had the rough hand fumbling
Suspender clips rope petticoats
Dreaded step-ins roll-ons uplifts
French rolls crunchy with Gossamer
The Copper Seven came with pantyhose and hotpants
And lace lost instantly out
To blue singlets and army shirts
Whilst froth became something one pumped
On the shrinking lace of the glossies
Until arrived a feminist who understood
Mystique and silk, who would
Laugh at me wearing her knickers Francaise
Neath my Levis in the street
Knowing I’d bar up in the gunshop, discrete
But losing to her lacy wiles
While she sewed my sharkskin jacket
Moulding me her way
Part woman part hayseed boy
Part bagatelle, part toy
Lace was different after that
More a basic essential
In some corner of the life
Forgotten leftovers from leftover loves
Lost somewhere in a sock drawer
But reassuring in its constance
And the impossible combinations of frank and frothy
Frivolous and forlorn
Strands of melancholic politics
On the dirty old sheets of time
Or jumping fearless in your face
From a history of fractal needles
The refreshment of ancient yarns
A-buzz with the annoying tickle
Of lace left yet to adore.
And the flesh.
That’s what it’s for.
Philip White
Yangarra
March 2011
.
Lace
for Annabelle Collett
She was big in black
The mighty great aunt
Shiny and creaking head to toe
As she led me all the way
Through the pines to the letterbox
When we reached the road
She sat heaving on the bank
And drew up her brittle skirts
Layers of stiff yellowing calico
Bits of tattered linen, even ticking
To show the infant me
Her ancient marbled thighs
Beetroot and aubergine
“I’m dying in the legs first”
She said. “Never play cards with a stranger.”
Then came the froth in Mum’s top drawer
That pretty scented mess
Gold, fake pearls and petticoats
Nylons piled soft in the corner
Excited by marriage still fresh
We came down from the mountains
To catch a tram to Dimmey’s
Where the fitting woman said
“Pour your breast Darling
Pour the breast into the cup.”
From that trippy feminine shopful
Mummy’s money went too by cup
Off whizzing along the wire
To the lady in pointy glasses
In a fishtank up in the corner
To be honest we went there
For my first long pair of pants
I’m colourblind, but maroon I reckon
“Big man little boy trousers”
The woman who’d just touched Mum’s tit said
I spent a year feigning illness on Wednesdays
To be home alone with mother’s fluffy stuff
Marvelling on the mystery of breasts
Yearning to learn the water feel them
Swimming in the midnight river
You could catch a glimpse at prayer meetings
When the women took turns
To hike their frocking by the fire
Warming their giant bums
From flaming logs I’d cut
And the bright eyeful I got
When my Sunday School teacher
Leant into our car
That pink unsucked nipple
Suspended in its realm of lace
Her virgin face flushing
With shocked inhalation
Realizing she’d been sprung
The panicked grasp of organist’s fingers
Drawing shut that plain cotton blouse
Bad luck! But wilder fascination
Soon had the rough hand fumbling
Suspender clips rope petticoats
Dreaded step-ins roll-ons uplifts
French rolls crunchy with Gossamer
The Copper Seven came with pantyhose and hotpants
And lace lost instantly out
To blue singlets and army shirts
Whilst froth became something one pumped
On the shrinking lace of the glossies
Until arrived a feminist who understood
Mystique and silk, who would
Laugh at me wearing her knickers Francaise
Neath my Levis in the street
Knowing I’d bar up in the gunshop, discrete
But losing to her lacy wiles
While she sewed my sharkskin jacket
Moulding me her way
Part woman part hayseed boy
Part bagatelle, part toy
Lace was different after that
More a basic essential
In some corner of the life
Forgotten leftovers from leftover loves
Lost somewhere in a sock drawer
But reassuring in its constance
And the impossible combinations of frank and frothy
Frivolous and forlorn
Strands of melancholic politics
On the dirty old sheets of time
Or jumping fearless in your face
From a history of fractal needles
The refreshment of ancient yarns
A-buzz with the annoying tickle
Of lace left yet to adore.
And the flesh.
That’s what it’s for.
Philip White
Yangarra
March 2011
.
V8s On Sellick's Hill
.
V8s on Sellick’s Hill
the V8s go up Sellicks
hungry for more road
the older ones are soft and throb
others tight with angry explosions in the box
some drivers milk cows
others are poets who haven’t yet realized
avoid the angry tattooed ones in the pub if they stop
but the bloke who just painted his 57 Buick pink’s cool
chrome is my favourite colour I advised
and the matte black stovepaint 32 Ford dude
who loves the rain on his seat
these folks are envied by the rest
who will never know
Philip White
.
V8s on Sellick’s Hill
the V8s go up Sellicks
hungry for more road
the older ones are soft and throb
others tight with angry explosions in the box
some drivers milk cows
others are poets who haven’t yet realized
avoid the angry tattooed ones in the pub if they stop
but the bloke who just painted his 57 Buick pink’s cool
chrome is my favourite colour I advised
and the matte black stovepaint 32 Ford dude
who loves the rain on his seat
these folks are envied by the rest
who will never know
Philip White
.
twenty one years
.
twenty one years
for Dylan Thomas
today is Monday September 3rd 1973
i have just completed my twenty-first year
watching trucks go by from our shed
black wild and windy
no further message
philip white
.
twenty one years
for Dylan Thomas
today is Monday September 3rd 1973
i have just completed my twenty-first year
watching trucks go by from our shed
black wild and windy
no further message
philip white
.
to have you here against the city
.
to have you here against the city
walking after midnight streets
determined to avoid the pavement squares
and the reflections of my shop windowed face
cursing the things go better promises of all this cannot give me
it leers
and to have you here against the city
is to have moss on nullarbor sand
a flower in a field
hair over your face and smiling
or pouting over your face and buddha-like
strong behind the wheel
you’re so good warm friend
so good
the sunflower in my garden grew straight up through the corn
smiled his time to the sun
and bowed his humble seeds about to keep his truth in flow
we’ll haul each other up and spread and plant and show
it leers the corn
but even through pavement cracks
we’re growing
philip white
january 1972
.
to have you here against the city
walking after midnight streets
determined to avoid the pavement squares
and the reflections of my shop windowed face
cursing the things go better promises of all this cannot give me
it leers
and to have you here against the city
is to have moss on nullarbor sand
a flower in a field
hair over your face and smiling
or pouting over your face and buddha-like
strong behind the wheel
you’re so good warm friend
so good
the sunflower in my garden grew straight up through the corn
smiled his time to the sun
and bowed his humble seeds about to keep his truth in flow
we’ll haul each other up and spread and plant and show
it leers the corn
but even through pavement cracks
we’re growing
philip white
january 1972
.
The Ornithologist
.
The Ornithologist
“You won’t get much conversation outa this girl,”
Peter said,
backing the old blonde mare from her float.
“She’s not much of a talker.”
They’d been apart for twenty two years
this stately cutter and her man.
He’d sold her as a filly
and sensibly ran off buccaneering,
only to discover he missed her,
half a lifetime later,
after his wife left.
I told him we’d see,
and when he’d gone I walked to her in the gloaming,
talking as I do to humans.
After my hullo we swapped breath,
my tobacco Shiraz for her sweet malt
and quietly she showed me the birds,
tilting the head to that Raven,
nodding to the Hooded Plovers yonder,
lifting the great chin to the Yellow Tailed Black Cockatoos –
awarding them one mighty eye, then the other,
then both.
Pigeon, Red Rump Parrot and Magpie she taught me that twilight,
following each lesson with a long questioning stare,
just to ensure I was there.
The hoot of the Boobook Owl closed our class,
when she turned content and wandered in silence to the trees.
“Blondie’s an ornithologist,”
I told Peter in the morning,
explaining the evening’s affair.
“That’s funny,” he said,
after a disbelieving pause.
“As a foal she watched ants all day.”
Blondie broke down last night,
the grave sucking life from one exhausted leg,
leading Peter from the midnight to say
“You’re gonna lose your birdwatching mate in the morning.
I’ve just given her a good big feed.”
By the vibe outside I know the deed is done:
earth dug open somewhere I won’t go,
the great slump complete,
the last huge sigh of horse,
the red gape healed with shovel and tractor.
The vet has put his stuff away,
Blondie is back with her ants,
and the first grapes of vintage come through on an eager truck.
Philip White
Yangarra
11 Mar 11
.
The Ornithologist
“You won’t get much conversation outa this girl,”
Peter said,
backing the old blonde mare from her float.
“She’s not much of a talker.”
They’d been apart for twenty two years
this stately cutter and her man.
He’d sold her as a filly
and sensibly ran off buccaneering,
only to discover he missed her,
half a lifetime later,
after his wife left.
I told him we’d see,
and when he’d gone I walked to her in the gloaming,
talking as I do to humans.
After my hullo we swapped breath,
my tobacco Shiraz for her sweet malt
and quietly she showed me the birds,
tilting the head to that Raven,
nodding to the Hooded Plovers yonder,
lifting the great chin to the Yellow Tailed Black Cockatoos –
awarding them one mighty eye, then the other,
then both.
Pigeon, Red Rump Parrot and Magpie she taught me that twilight,
following each lesson with a long questioning stare,
just to ensure I was there.
The hoot of the Boobook Owl closed our class,
when she turned content and wandered in silence to the trees.
“Blondie’s an ornithologist,”
I told Peter in the morning,
explaining the evening’s affair.
“That’s funny,” he said,
after a disbelieving pause.
“As a foal she watched ants all day.”
Blondie broke down last night,
the grave sucking life from one exhausted leg,
leading Peter from the midnight to say
“You’re gonna lose your birdwatching mate in the morning.
I’ve just given her a good big feed.”
By the vibe outside I know the deed is done:
earth dug open somewhere I won’t go,
the great slump complete,
the last huge sigh of horse,
the red gape healed with shovel and tractor.
The vet has put his stuff away,
Blondie is back with her ants,
and the first grapes of vintage come through on an eager truck.
Philip White
Yangarra
11 Mar 11
.
Luck
.
Luck
Ballad for Darren Delmore
If one is lucky,
Love is like Death.
She visits often.
Philip White
.
Luck
Ballad for Darren Delmore
If one is lucky,
Love is like Death.
She visits often.
Philip White
.
For Elias Canetti
.
For Elias Canetti
On re-reading The Secret Heart Of The Clock
I was thinking of growing older.
As I did, the ground grew colder.
Which flipped me back to getting younger.
Then, I couldn’t stand the hunger.
So there I was with my warm night,
already in the past: replete; just right.
Philip White
.
For Elias Canetti
On re-reading The Secret Heart Of The Clock
I was thinking of growing older.
As I did, the ground grew colder.
Which flipped me back to getting younger.
Then, I couldn’t stand the hunger.
So there I was with my warm night,
already in the past: replete; just right.
Philip White
.
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