Susan's Cow Blog

Dog three bones has

2011-12-12T15:50:00.000-08:00

The above art work is by Suzanne Bellamy, Text Box (a pictographic poem), porcelain and oils on wood. Copyright 2011.
Photograph by Susan Hawthorne,© 2011.

Dog three bones has

moon : crunch time : three bones : dog : has

fence : ( ) : ( ) : centred : crescent moon : howling dogs : throw : is juggled

woman : dilly bag : carries : full moon : fish : swim : encircle : ( )

moon sets : mountain : path : sees / follows : crunch time : comes

Word by word translation
dog three bones has
moon time crunch time is
(what) is thrown is juggled; dogs howl (under the moon)
crescent moon centred fence (is)
fish swim (and?) encircle full moon
woman dilly bag carries
crunch time comes
she (?)the mountain path sees/ follows : moon sets

Developed translation
dog has three bones
in the crunch time is moon time
dogs howl under the moon in transit
juggling time
above the fence the crescent moon rises centred
fish swim encircling the reflected full moon
a woman in transit carries a dilly bag
she follows the mountain path
the moon sets
crunch times comes

Discussion of grammatical forms
moon (nominative): crunch time (locative absolute) : three bones (accusative plural) : dog (nominative) : has (verb indicative)

fence (locative – above surmised) : ( ? ) : ( ? ) : centred (gerund, completed action) : crescent moon (nominative bahuvrihi compound) : howling dogs (dual nominative with adjectival compound) : throw (idiom: time and throw are used interchangeably) : is juggled (passive)

woman (nominative) : dilly bag (accusative) : carries (indicative – note parallel structure to first sentence) : full moon (accusative) : fish (nominative plural) : swim (indicative) : encircle (gerund) : ( ) (surmised: reflection of moon on water)

moon (nominative) sets (indicative) : mountain (adjectival form, accusative) : path (accusative) : sees / follows (wide semantic arc, can have both meanings) : crunch time (locative absolute) : comes (indicative)

The problematics of translation across species worlds: translating Ooss

As is clear from this translation there remain many gaps in our understanding of Os (or Ooss). While somewhat ossified, the language does have some transparency and a number of difficulties. The first thing to say is that the language while partially pictographic has a number of indicators for complex tenses and verb structures. Like other ancient languages it has three persons: singular, dual and plural. One strange element is that only the feminine gender is found (with a few archaic terms in neuter).

This short poetic fragment is suggestive of ritual time in which the behaviour of dogs as the keepers of time is unsurprisingly given prominence. The only non-canine actor (the woman) is setting off on a pilgrimage of some sort (crunch time?)

The difficulty with the word reflected is, I surmise, due to the lack of smell in a reflection, so the reflection’s unreality is a conceptual lacuna. If the subject of the woman sentence had been a dog, the wide semantic arc would have extended to the word ‘smells’ as well as ‘sees’ and ‘follows’.

It is clear from the original sentence structure that what is before the snout is of prime importance. Furthermore, the moon, the dogs (three so far) and the woman are in some kind of triangulated relationship with the fish, the sea and the reflected moon. Perhaps one indicates the mundane world, while the other has esoteric meanings. The question is which is which?

The above translation was made while visiting Suzanne Bellamy's Mongarlowe Studio in December 2011.

slut but but

2011-05-19T06:02:00.000-07:00

I’m a slut
but but
but I’m not I’m not
I’m a slot
I’m a slut
but but
what what could it mean
am I a slut?
but but
he said you’re a slut
he said look at your butt
you’re a slut
I said
but but
she said she’s a slut
no buts about it
just a slut
all smut
they all said she’s a slut
no doubt about it
but but I said
I said but
I’m no slut
I’m no slit for your bit
I’m not here for you
so fuck off and stop doin me in
he said but but
no slut here
no fear
he said but but
she said but but
they said but but
I’m not the butt of your names
your words are not my words
no fuckin way
so shut up
I’m no slut
I’m no slut walker
I’m a walker but bein a walker
don’t make me no slut
so butt out
get outta my mind
I’ll think what I want
I’ll do what I want
I’ll walk at 3 am if I want
I’ll wear big boots and kick butt
I’ll cut my hair short
I’ll leave it long
but I won’t do pussy on the street
because I’m not here for you
you pussy stalker
cos I’m no slut
you say but but
you look like a slut
you must be a slut
if you’re out a 3 am
if you don’t look girlie
you must be a fuckin feminist
they’re all sluts
that’s what they are
and I say
you got it boy
you got it girl
I’m a feminist
now fuck off
I’m no slut
d’you hear
try again
I’m no slut
they all said but but

Flood, 1974

2011-01-14T00:37:00.000-08:00

In 2008 Suzanne Bellamy and I were commissioned by Lella Cariddi to bring together art and poetry for a touring exhibition on the subject of drought. Drought is often followed by flood and the poem here was written in memory of the flood which I experienced on my parents' farm along the Murrumbidgee River at Wagga in September 1974. This year Wagga has seen floods yet again, as has Brisbane and many other towns across Australia - as well as in the Philippines and Brazil.

The image is from the canvas Suzanne produced in response to my poems while I in turn wrote new poems inspired by her art. We have been friends for many years and it was great to be able to work together on this project.

For all the people reeling from the flood, wherever you are

Flood, 1974
There’s a roar that a river makes as
it breaks its banks– a sound that grumbles

deep into the body, unearthly, I think,
but earthly is what it is. We watch the

sun rise over the front paddock,
our bodies absorbing the flood’s power,

a shuddering that is later taken up
by the muscles in a great release.

It is a day of contrasts: we children
sent to round up cattle, our unkitchened

mother bakes a loaf of bread, our father
is trapped in a tree for thirteen long hours

while we sleep, eat our mother’s
bread, talk of the sky, the land,

the height of the river. Late afternoon
he is delivered in a boat, rescued by men

bearing sandwiches. None of us knew
of his ordeal until it was over. In the days

that follow we gauge the level of the river,
walk again the reduced banks, watch

the swirl of snag-driven water,
thrilling to the sudden birdlife.

The poem is from the chapbook, Unsettling the Land by Suzanne Bellamy and Susan Hawthorne, Spinifex Press, 2008

the game

2010-12-18T22:18:00.000-08:00

It's strange that you can spend a whole year writing poetry daily - and then a year in which you write almost nothing. Here is one of the few poems I wrote in 2010. The image is artwork from Mexico. It reminds me of Frida Kahlo.

the game

death is an exile in the world of the living

in a three-cornered hat
death is stalking this interview

mid-sentence I go down
the synapses and muscles
organising their re-entry
to earth’s orbit together

at one pole a giant snake
ready to pounce
kundalini curled at spine’s base

at the northern pole bears are drowning
ice floes diminish
the body in electrical short-out
earth fizzing in heat

death is an exile in the world of the living

death is dancing
her grin toothy
under a wide-brimmed hat
flowers fall across her forehead
her skeleton flails in the dust

May 5 a day to eat cakes
flaunt the fact of life

prove how the blood flows
expectorate and let the spittle fly
showing off
a bee dancing the flower’s stamen

death is an exile in the world of the living

he’s stumbling along the path
looks frail with that stick
but it’s all disguise

wanting to take you by surprise
as you bend to sniff the rose
your nostril hairs flare
you grab your arm in pain
feel something squeeze your ribcage

it’s too soon you say when they
come in the ambulance
the wall of its siren screaming
through the brittle mountain air

death is an exile in the world of the living

never feel sorry for death
she’s slippery he’s a fool
that’s death duty

death will drive
a tram straight for the target
toss grenades roll tractors
or simply lie down and smother

death is an exile in the world of the living

rip

2010-07-27T16:38:00.000-07:00

I wrote this poem last year when I was caught in an ocean rip. I had never understood how a person could drown in a rip. We'd been warned before going in and before I knew it I was way out and thought I'd better go back. It was the first day of a two-week Sanskrit intensive and I had just met the woman standing next to me. She got back in first and turned to watch while I struggled and somehow made it. I felt the line of her gaze pulling me in. My muscles went to water. My breath was sucked out of me. I stumbled as I reached the edge, almost fell. That afternoon, I had also felt overwhelmed by my inability to understand any of the language spoken around me. I was also drowning in words.

rip dp 60
for Lucinda
She was drowning,
not waving in the
rip of language. Help,
she called breathless,
the cold of its logic
wrapping itself about
her limbs. Swim across
the rip, through the
decline, let the wave
and its rhythm carry
you in. When you are
ready you will stand
upon your own two
feet. Don’t stumble
into the deeps of other
tenses, keep a cool
head. Her feet are
falling out from under
her. Linguistic dizziness
has her in its thrall.
One step, two step.
One breath, next breath.
She has found the
shoreline, the continental
shelf of language, her
feet are solid on the sand.

Valence 12

2010-05-31T04:44:00.000-07:00

12.

you dream of flight with wings with claw some days
you sob because all the elegies for the dead all the strings
played with furious pathos will not stop the clot of war

Valence 11

2010-05-29T03:01:00.000-07:00

11.

pharaohs haunt the tight tendon of night
it is dreaming that makes us human
footprints tracking their own unstoppable destiny
fighting homesickness you wing across the void the planet
hollowing on the verge of collapse while some human-made
god keeps on with his incessant dictation

is it the dead who keep you awake at night
a vision of a planet’s suicide attempt
limbs severed life hung in balance
what kind of shaming will it take to unpurse the future
in the moments before the noose tightens a gutful
of interglacial moments to ruminate on the planet’s past

a species whose collective search for jewels took the wrong
road in pursuit of furnaces and smelting of iron
instead of firelight and song the drying tips
of trees turned into barbs and missiles
overhead sky anvils crash and blast presaging the drop
of earth’s floor faster than a game of drop the hanky

Valence 10

2010-05-28T05:50:00.001-07:00

10.

you try to measure the valence of your feeling
runged like a ladder it is playing truant
these are the astonishments of life cunning as gravity’s spectrum
this morning someone spoke of the desire to be unlimbed
this evening you race to the vet on a false alarm for the dog
how to measure that strength of bond is it like helium or xenon

at the time of vespers a huge flock of lorikeets
sweeps along the street a wave with thousands
of particles like a symphony filled with quavers
bones splinter in earth’s chemicals accrue new geographies
anchor on thin strings of narrative built syllable
by syllable valences as permeable as love

Valence 9

2010-05-27T04:03:00.000-07:00

9.

undoing hatred is a pilgrimage of hurt
power unwinds as much charge as a tangle of wire
we squirm in death’s footprint caught in private fogs of affliction
all that energy ebbing in acts of fury the dying swan stilled exhausted
its wings wired its fluttering mind caged and broken
these many-mouthed furies iron-tongued grind their teeth all night long

uncurl your limbs stretch your spine
walk as if the sky’s mantle is wrapped about your shoulders
when your breath evaporates look at the world with a split vision
imagine a hawk-eyed view of the oceans
from that height see the vast pastures of plankton
whalefood float with cuttlefish unoccupy your days

Valence 8

2010-05-27T03:57:00.000-07:00

8.

revolutions have a tendency to unwind become slippery
as a greasy pole of jittery climbers how to disentangle
the fissures of power those times when absolutes are abstracted
followed by a contagion of swelling theories based on nothing
but a dream of marble palaces endless cases of whiskey temples
and statues to the self an insect grown large thorax like a shingled roof

behind stand the glassy-eyed disciples trilling with praise
promising to sacrifice all retreat to the woods
for fourteen years eat rotting peaches if need be
post-revolution days turn heavy all the dreams bludgeoned
knives appear and serrated philosophies become the latest thing
the way to leave your very own mark

Valence 7

2010-05-26T05:59:00.000-07:00

7.

you are writing hope in dust composing in a rapture
of fingertips by late afternoon ink stains make blotches
on your skin more patterns to unweave in memory of Penelope
your yarn unravelling night by night delaying that jury
of suitors choking on impatience the siren’s voice sounds
it’s you bound to the mast wanting to unmake those knots

the halflife of patience is short and betrayal follows in its wake
the hero sputters about the massacre the one he says
he didn’t want his lips framing the victor’s tale his face
telling another hands in pockets it’s an ambivalent stance as if ash
and chaos and harrowing cries were not stalking his memory
whether justice is ever done or undone is a matter of want and will

Valence 6

2010-05-25T06:33:00.001-07:00

6.

in Sabra and Shatila only bodies are left
shadows of screams echoes of eyes
that have stopped seeing stopped recording
a nation’s memory will not unwrap when the chain
is nothing but missing links one by one
each memory becomes a wilderness

history is the mind of the patient
crumpled in the hallway after electric shock
fate is an uncut life sentence that fine stalk
of a body bent under the burden of guilt
a left handed idiom that itches beneath the skin
among the cedars of Lebanon gods once lived

Valence 5

2010-05-23T05:55:00.000-07:00

5.

at the beginning of every year we ask whether
the killing spree is over for now all the soldiers
who heard earth’s tinnitus ringing on the frontline
fly home walk through the front gate
cannot explain what they have seen have heard
that there is no longer any grace in the world

in the houses where women keep time with days
over stoves where hunger is the taste of childhood
and thirst a close neighbour no one dares to speak
peace is a mirage a vision at the edge of thought
cities stagnate and are separated from the people
countries are divided like pieces of cake

few speak against revenge slit the veins open
let the blood run a long-fingered violinist
plays a spree of notes emergent gravity looping
as a new virus explodes crossing all the man-made
boundaries taking off on its very own killing spree
rampaging through the gutters into the glare of air

Valence 4

2010-05-23T05:43:00.000-07:00

4.

on the tv last night the dead of Rwanda remain
where they died in the school buildings their bodies
preserved displayed as if part of an art installation
hands grasping at air mouths gasping a vacuum
skulls and leg bones sorted by size like hats cloths and rags
skins slung from a fork is it ever enough you never know

in advance what life-dice you have thrown the one where
you get to decide between flat buttons or round ones
on your jacket where foxes minks and seals sacrifice
their lives for your pleasure will you be the one whose foliage
screens the pool’s liquid arabesque where cigarette smoke
wafts lazily in summer air not likely these chances are few

Valence 3

2010-05-23T05:38:00.000-07:00

3.

you study the index find grief sitting alongside greed
how dictionaries can turn destiny on a few letters
consider the difference between a water sprinkler
its afternoon sun of rainbows and laughter running
and a gas sprinkler its grey days of mud rag and bone
what a difference our meanings make of the world

you pick foxglove from the garden hoping for cure
there in the corner among the electric ferns is an old nude
green with moss her eyes crossed her forearms
broken at the wrist like a museum Venus her breath salty
you long for the nostalgia of flames foggy windowpanes
streets that cobble between old stone buildings

leaping shadows of gaslight in real-world film noir
galoshes keeping out the damp as you stroll the stream’s
bank your lungs filled with the effigy of cold air
your destination was the Sistine Chapel but Rome on a
Monday has no secrets to give up to naïve backpackers
with budget time and so you wait twenty years

to see that composition now engraved in your dreams
arriving in Cairo might never have happened had you
travelled a day later not the shock of machineguns in the street
but in the hijacked plane sour breath a blurred video death
you talk the half dead tree fern back to life gentle it out
when the time comes to write the word grief yet again

Valence 2

2010-05-22T18:06:00.000-07:00

2.

that widowed ground has been filled with half-grown trees
almost impassable they are topped by yellow-crowned florets
along each side run sorrow pegs a means to navigate grief¬
against the fox-pelt cloud a woman stumbles tear-blinded
and half-demented her mind dismantling itself in a meltdown
so profound that buried poetry rises unbidden

the tiger’s tongue is red at the root like a meridian
dissecting the fearful symmetry of its body
melting in the delicious buttery light of late afternoon
you dream of Petra’s rock red caves imagine the bone dry
severed joints slumped like a ragdoll lumpy and disjoined
cranes settling above that old city in their precarious nests

no ladder long enough to reach them no florin
of pure gold to take you across that stream of air
you know you’d have to pay a bigger price for death
to mint that coinage sometimes you wish you’d learnt more
than just the Hebrew alphabet like raindrops in an eyelash
preciousness is nothingness against silk and stars

in your heart is a great hollow of pain like the chiselled
sound of a cello washing away the world’s grief
a pilgrim on that Spanish trek to Santiago
your world turns illegible with its multiplying echoes
all you can do is eclipse the scream stuck in your throat
like a sow at sacrifice roped to interminable silence

Valence

2010-05-22T08:59:00.000-07:00

This is a 12-part poem that I am putting up section by section over the next 12 days.

Valence
1

all day long the gods have been screaming
their prevalent song of war and pre-emptive strike
war leaves you gobsmacked words slaughtered in the throat

Elephant cow

2010-05-10T04:56:00.000-07:00

When I wrote this poem, I was thinking about the family of elephants - and this family is made up of the matriarch, aunties and a child. I visited South Africa in 2006 and saw this group of elephants in Hluhluwe-Imfolozi Game Reserve. The elephants have been here far longer than we have been and I expect they'll be here long after us - and having an elephantine memory - well you can see where this is headed. Mahadevi means the great goddess and in India she is very much alive.

Cellist Jami Sieber has composed some beautiful electric cello pieces which she plays in the presence of Thai elephants (I don't know if Thai elephants are any different from Indian elephants.) You can see her video at http://vimeo.com/channels/jamisieber#10832421

what Queenie says about Mahadevi

Mahadevi elephant mother smelt
another being in the world
she said to her friends
it’s time for us to walk the world
and so they set off with Mahadevi
in the lead they walked across
the African veld

they walked
across the seas to the hot lands
they spread out all across
the tundras in the north
crossed land bridges and
waterways an isthmus or two
snow capped mountains
some of the time they carried
thick fur on their backs which they
shed in the desert lands
eons went by as they walked
seven times around die Welt

and one day Mahadevi said
it’s here where we started
now I know the common smell
those small four-limbed creatures
whom we’ve passed in the latest
circumabulation the hairless ones
there is something about them
that worries me

and as she said this
a group of these small wiry creatures
came over the hill and stared
they formed a circle around
the calves protecting them and sent
out a low call to others that rumbled
seven times around the world

earth dragon

2010-04-18T11:18:00.000-07:00

This is a NASA image.

I've been looking at images of Iceland's Eyjafjallajökull volcano and this image came up after I'd written the poem, it seemed to find me!! I might be being melodramatic, but why be a poet if you can't do that occasionally?

thin skin of the dragon

the thin skin of the dragon erupts
in pustules sending out plumes
feathers of air that trail the skies

the thin skin of the dragon rises
this sleeping giant moans
rolls over spilling earth’s blood

the thin skin of the dragon paints
the air green its breath as hot
as stinking sulphurous ash

the thin skin of the dragon sleeps
no more she keeps watch
at this wake for earth’s death

Tongues

2010-04-17T13:04:00.000-07:00

A week after I took this photo in Chennai last year, I was running aerials workshops for actors. It was the day before my birthday when the three classes had come to an end. We went to the restaurant outside which is this small altar. In the time between arriving at the restaurant and lunch, a birthday cake had been organised and materialised on the table. It was luscious and we all licked our lips. After a fabulous four months, I left India the following week.

In February berni janssen ran a wonderful series of talks and performances and brainstorms about tongues. It was called the Tongue-atorium. Poets, musicians, artists of all kinds came together. Everyone brought along a contribution, left a poem, an image, a sound - or several. Musician and composer, Ros Bandt and I were on the same day and it was a great remeeting since we hadn't seen one another for more than a decade. This poem was one of my contributions to the day.

what she says about tongues

these words are worn
utterable like the tongues of poems
there are no confessions
we make our own quilt of guilt
paranoia is hermetic
sealed as only a mind can be
unutterable like the tongues of poets

Published in Melbourne PEN Newsletter, April 2010

More on cyclones

2010-04-05T11:00:00.000-07:00

Litoria infrafrenata, the green tree frog you can hear on the recording.

Ex-tropical cyclone Paul is currently working its way out and bringing bucketing rain to Far North Queensland following on the heels of Cyclone Ului. Tonight the roar of rain was mixed with the screams of green tree frogs. I couldn't tell if they were screams of delight or of terror!

To listen to the sound of green tree frogs and cyclones, as well as poems about Category 5 Cyclone Larry (20 March 2006) you can listen to the podcast of Poetica based on my collection, Earth's Breath (2009).

cows and myths about cows

2010-04-04T17:20:00.000-07:00

The cow has many stories about her. The following picks up on some of these, but also incorporates stories about other animals including snakes and a tortoise. The stories in this poem come from India, Australia, Mesopotamia and greece. The photo is of a wooden tribal altar that I saw in Rajasthan.

what the mythmakers say

Queenie was afflicted with post-prandial drowsiness her four
stomachs all churning together Queenie is no fool she’s been
around for a while since the beginning of time who else spilled
the milky star road? who else set the galaxies spinning?
it’s Queenie who taught us how to make butter and ghee
the churn her very own invention take one stomach fill with milk
stir with a wooden stick until the cream separates move
to stomach number two turn churn spin and stir watch it clump
and cluster look a little longer until the buttermilk seeps out
in the third stomach knead and knuckle make it smooth and firm
the fourth stomach will heat the butter and turn it to ghee

in another time a later time when gods and demons had
forgotten how to be immortal they joined forces to create
a nectar of immortality these boys took their time they carried in
Mount Mandara turned it upside down placing it upon the back
of the tortoise demons one side gods the other each held the
world snake and twirled the mountain top for a thousand years
back forwards back forwards again and again and again
even then the best they could manage was deadly poison

in the great south land the snake laps up the cow’s spilt milk
this one swallows all the girls and women swallows the bleeding
girls the pregnant women swallows them and makes them dance
their insides begin to churn no one can hold anything down they
vomit they bleed and they are swallowed yet again by the snake
who suffers from indigestion the girls and women beat their fists
against the stomach walls when the next full moon comes round
the world snake regurgitates the tribe of women

in a garden between two great rivers a woman encounters
a snake she is impressed by the colour of its scales green
she prods it with a stick and the snake turns blue in rage
the snake is wily knows better than to broadcast its thoughts
pulling its head in the snake offers her fruit from the tree
this woman is nothing but naïve she takes it bites it with her
giant teeth scraping them along its flesh she’s not impressed
with the sour fruit tosses it over her shoulder and walks away

women tossing apples cause strife they distract contestants
in races incite discord among the in-crowd separate
the sheep from the goats and in innocent looking ways
begin wars beware women bearing ripe fruit

dugong

2010-03-14T04:27:00.000-07:00

If anyone has a dugong photo to share here that would be great. They are beautiful undersea cows who graze on seagrass. In Australian waters they are under threat - especially from developments like unnecessary marinas - plans for which are forever cropping up along the coast.

what Queenie says about the philosophy cow (1)

What we cannot speak about we must pass over in silence.
Ludwig Wittgenstein Tractatus Logico-philosphicus.

what is a cow?
an animal
a symbol
a statue
a vocalic
a smooth surface with all the hair going the same way?

an economy
a religion
a politics
a mysticism
an experiment: erste die Kuh, dann Du?

a love object
a lesbian motif
a good meal
a mother
a milkmaid’s best and only friend?

a danger
a lover
a droning sound
a-um
an ocean of milk for all?

a cloud
a constellation
a herd of stars
a word
a voice heard?

is the cow at the limits of my thinking?
what sort of cow am I seeking?
the native cow?
the underwater cow?
the marine cow?
the unseen cow?
the sea-grass eating dugong?
is the dugong a cow because of its shape and size?
or because it is a herbivore?
what happens to dugong dung?

what of intersecting worlds?
the moment when I see the centipede
pulling its hundred legs
over the rim of the wall above my line of sight
ein Blick of another world

the moment when I hear
unspoken histories
genocides
eliminations of the unwanted
every rewriting of history continues that erasure

Ludwig Wittgenstein. 1974. Tractatus Logico-philosophicus. Translated by D.F. Pears and B.F. McGuiness. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul.

micophile

2010-03-11T02:54:00.000-08:00

I wrote this poem early last year and stumbled across it again a week or so ago and I felt this little mushroom should get an airing.

mushroom dreaming dp31

when I was a mushroom
life was simple
the world was dark and warm
and very safe

around me were fungal rhizomes
sprinklings of spores
the odd hard rock and root
and pliable soil

but I was offered advancement
progress, they said
to human form, and now in the light
I feel lost in darkness

so many troubles, wars, torture
economic collapse
I long for regress, to slip back
into the silence of the mushroom

golden cows and non-sense

2010-03-01T04:54:00.000-08:00

I couldn't help myself when I saw this golden cow in a hotel foyer in Jaipur. I don't know which book in the Bible it is, but I do remember the movie image from The Ten Commandments which I saw when I was about ten - Moses coming down the mountain and raging about graven images - and I recall a beautiful golden - calf - I think - a bit like this one. No one goes into rages about such things any more.

A nonsense is anything anyone says which you don't agree with and here Queenie is being ironic. If you've been following my blog and reading cow poems for months, it is beginning to come into shape and Queenie is one of the cow characters who has emerged. I'll say more in a later blog, but suffice for now to say that the word queen comes from the word cow!!

what nonsense Queenie says

seven cows came out of the river
heaven born and heaven sent
these cows headed into the storm
unafraid of anyone’s wrath
they set up camp by the next river

the wild storm passed and the cows
ate breakfast of dewy grass
they conjured up a golden calf
to carry all their wealth
seven cows went into the river

gods

2010-02-23T03:06:00.001-08:00

The photo is of a cemetery in Comillas in Spain; the poem about a night of poetry at The Gods in Canberra.

gods dp218

the gods we make of ourselves are a door
into the social psyche so many mourn the loss
of gods the goddess of dawn to greet the day
or god in a butterfly teaching metamorphosis
even Camus whose name sounds like a perfect
Sanskrit plural threw away that possibility
in the suburbs men worship the god of lawns
only on a Sunday others follow the dogs paws
while Eve rages against eternal damnation
and gives no gods pause no wings to words
instead psyche is let loose in the city with her
accomplice angel to grace the pages of poetry
books dwelling on death searching for the
ultimate definition of god whether by deception
or by grace only to find that the local gods
have changed their names to Tony and Judy

cows and calves

2010-02-14T04:30:00.000-08:00

I was in Udaipur a few weeks ago - a beautiful city - and this mother and daughter pair looked as though they were engaging in one of those deep conversations that happen between mothers and daughters. I grew up with cows and calves but in India I have seen a greater range of behaviours than I ever saw on the farm. I suspect it has to do with group behaviours. When I was a child, if I was with the cows then it was because we were moving them from one place to another. They didn't have the chance to sit around having deep and meaningfuls when we turned up.

what cows and calves say

thunder bolting at high speed
rolls across the corral
shaking it from root to roof
lightning takes off at even
greater speed and the rain comes
trundling after some calves
are fast like bullets others slow
like cycads watching waiting for
everything to pass them by
high speed or low we speak of memories
of the ways our mothers lived their
lives small garden-sized ambitions
revolving around not losing
what is in your mouth under the straw
or expansive ambitious sometimes
cruelly controlling the storm
is backing off just as our mothers
have and we rebellious youngsters
troublemakers unteachable bodytappers
make our own worlds achieving
well-beyond what was imagined we
sometimes whisper in that teenage tone
look what I’ve done

Delhi cows

2010-02-01T00:33:00.000-08:00

When we arrived, the brown cow in this image was resting between the bicycles. It looked to me as though these three had had a day out on the town.

Queenie goes shopping

I woke this morning with a need
time for some shopping
I turned to my two best friends and said
come on girls let’s have an outing
the streets were full of fog
so full of fog we had to walk in single file
nose to tail nose to tail

when I walked into the supermarket
they couldn’t believe their luck
I could see it milk and butter on the hoof
it was a different story in the china shop
they wanted me to back out
but I needed to turn a full circle
a great panic all about nothing

and so we mooched about outdoors
we wandered behind the vegetable stalls
picked up some goodies on the way
I sat down near the bicycle rack
for a bit of a break
it would be a long walk home
between the jostling cars and tuktuks

boanthropes

2010-01-14T05:04:00.000-08:00

This strange photo seemed strange enough to go with this rather strange poem. I took the photo at the Meenakshee Temple in Madurai. She's a fish-eyed goddess and all the images of her are of a green-skinned woman.

A boanthrope is a person who thinks she is a cow. This page dedicated to shape-shifters!

What she says about boanthropy

if you stand in the path of a boanthrope
you are bound to get hurt
they are said to be dangerously
out of their minds

imagined horns are almost as sharp
as real ones especially since these ones
are convinced of the reality of their horns

eating grass doesn’t mean peace and love to all creatures
were-wolves and were-cows are travellers
whose appetites are great
bedeck them in garlands and they will follow you

Mild mannered cows

2010-01-11T00:03:00.000-08:00

When I was growing up, I often overheard my farmer parents talking about particular rogue sheep or cows. I remember a particular cow who was considered a troublemaker. This poem came about when I was thinking about how blame is deflected (especially by humans onto animals).

I took the photo of this cow in Hampi. It is wandering about and at this moment is heading into the temple. Its colour reminds me of that other rogue cow.

What the Mayor says

The cow that strays helps itself to all it gets.
Salma, The Hour Past Midnight. p. 399 New Delhi: Zubaan

this cow is asking for trouble
bringing disaster upon her own head
if she strays across the paddock
into another world where the grass is green
it’s her fault if it’s too rich for her

this cow is a troublemaker
a leader of the pack
you can tell it from her eyes
the way she looks at you
raising and lowering her head ready to fight

this cow is a wanderer
follows her nose along the tracks
ambles off toward the river
before you know it she’ll be bellowing
for rescue from the mud

this cow is untrustworthy
watch how she scrapes her hoof
in the red earth
watch if you will as she stands high
her horns reaching for the sky

a herd of rabble-rousers
and agitators here they come
a social menace
what are we to do
how can we be rid of these firebrands?

glass cassowary

2009-12-21T00:00:00.001-08:00

In early October, I visited the Government Museum in Chennai. I'd been looking at archeological artifacts and then came to the building with animal bones and taxidermy. I walked into the room with Foreign Animals written over the door and almost fell over when I saw this cassowary in a glass case. I was so shocked that even though I had bought a ticket for my camera as well I simply couldn't photograph the bird. In my last week in Chennai I went back specifically to do so. I had trouble getting it to work and then this image appeared before my eyes. It was as if the natural world were inviting the cassowary back into its arms.

glass cassowary dp301

where they land is all important

in the government museum in Chennai
a bird in a glass case

no ordinary bird this
it’s in the room marked
foreign

beside it a tapir
a cockatoo

all on its own
a cassowary in a glass case

encased in glass
a territory hardly big enough
to turn around in

let alone disperse seed
hold up the rainforest

nothing to eat
no shade
no where to go

bring back the birds
bring home their bones
the feathers
their poor stuffed carcasses

allow this bird to rot
in the humus of the forest

I stumble out backwards
something caught in my throat

This is how a live cassowary looks: a father and his chick.

kolam

2009-12-14T04:59:00.000-08:00

For months I have watched women drawing kolam. On my last day in Chennai they sprouted from every gateway, they were small and quick, elaborate and delicate, ambitious and wonderful. I have seen multi-coloured ones but on this day they were all white - with one tiny visible exception.

kolam dp300

where they are drawn and when
is all important

early morning is auspicious
it sets the shape of the day

I watch as a watered driveway
scrubbed clean
has a few points of white grain sprinkled

the woman works quickly
she knows her design for the day
runs the powdered grain
from point to point

it is a mandala
a yantra
a sign

so that the forces of the universe
align themselves

with her intentions

raga

2009-12-01T05:52:00.000-08:00

This photo of S. Sowmya, a Carnatic singer, was taken at the Prajnya Concert on 27 Nov as part of the 16-Day Campaign Against Gender Violence. She and the other four musicians played fantastic music among which was at least one raga. I'm no expert in this area but I recognised this list of notes which appeared on screen at some point.

raga dp285

Sa Ti Ga Ma Pa Da Na Sa

the snake coils around the song tail in mouth the end in the beginning
one coil is a necklace of pearl tears and beaded breath dew settling
into the river running wild the long hair of her head like spiralled water
beside the river a deer stands listens for the illusion of one hand clapping
sniffs at the lotus in a still corner her four feet dancing in a tremble of petals
from her dance comes the drum roll the rattle of creation music from inside
crystallised into sickled moonstone in her head circling in time to the planet’s
breath the snake slithers scaly skin from earth to sky spine to crown

Buffalo

2009-11-29T04:22:00.000-08:00

These buffalo live just down the road from me. One day, early, I had such a surprise because eight of them were walking straight towards me. I didn't have my camera that day. But this week when I went out early, I went in search of them.

buffalo dp358

how days fall
this morning 5.30 too early for me but sleep was avoiding me
and pushed me out of bed

walk she said so I did
I walked to the river where the buffalo hang out– their horns
greeting the morning

I sit and watch
as a young steer gets pushy with the cow– old mothers who
humour him with heads

he’s leaning and shoving
and pushing with all his might and they just flick their heads
get bored and turn away

aerial life

2009-11-26T03:19:00.000-08:00

taurus dp 355

the tissu is hung
it wafts in the breeze
red like a great gash
it is soft and difficult
wrap yourself in it
roll it around your leg
fall into its arms
spin at the end
like a stellar top
the star Aldebaran
red Rohini
follow the sisters
in their flight
think yourself light
as helium float
your way to the top

Tamil

2009-11-25T07:49:00.000-08:00

My first weeks in Chennai were spent drawing Tamil letters. I managed to find a children's reading book with pictures. It was like learning to write all over again. Most days I had the book out working my way through. Like Sanskrit, when consonants and vowels combine the letters change shape. As well as that, to the untutored eye, some of the letters look exactly the same - and so I spent hours comparing and trying to remember. It's very strange how some letters take root immediately, while others keep on puzzling you. About five weeks after I arrived, one day it seemed to make sense. It wasn't every combination, but enough to get some words sounding in my brain. I realised on that day that the strange ear shaped design on the temples was Tamil for Om. The outer ear is the O sound the little inner ear is the mm. And the dot above the mm is a signal to end the word with the consonant. I don't know the precise meaning of the staff, but it is a sign of power.

Tamil dp302

how the letters land
might be an indicator

in Tamil
the letter on all the temples

is the same sound
aum om

in Tamil
it looks like

a giant ear
at the centre of the universe

listening
listening

to the music

Ancient dancers

2009-11-23T23:54:00.001-08:00

This dancer is on a wall at Thanjavur, a world heritage listed site in Tamil Nadu. Here the names of dancers and poets and musicians are inscribed on the walls. In these days of fleeting online poetry and tiny print runs that sort of permanence is quite enticing.

dancers dp328

the dancers names are engraved in red stone
ancient as our dreams ancient like this language

of flowers seasons landscapes and mood
the woman dances and her girlfriend
asks who it is she is pining for
the girlfriend dances and the woman’s mother
tells her old stories of passion and heat
monsoon and desire rain and tears

the dancers names are engraved in stone
ancient as our dreams ancient like this language

Anactoria

2009-11-23T10:28:00.001-08:00

I Anactoria dp350

when the herds are running the ground thrumming
sunlight scaling every beam of dust like a horde
on the move your finest poems are for me
that’s what I love best

when the sun strikes your coat roan with heat
we all stand dazzled by your beauty
and none of us will ever abandon you
you the brightest of us all

when the summer grass grows pale
and the longing strikes up again
I think of you standing always knowing
which way to go

your doubts are few your face dewy
in the morning light and your eyes
brown soft but your glance as sharp
as thorns

so Sappho let me follow you on this track
into that thicket by the river
let us stand flank by flank our love
our armour

Bittersweet

2009-11-22T10:08:00.000-08:00

The cow in this carved rock at Mahabalipuram is so happy and sweet that I felt she needed a poem. Madhukara is a honey maker, a bee. So she brings sweetness to the world. But with a sting. Like the bittersweet taste of love that Sappho writes about.

I Madhukara dp349

has the bee stung your lip?
where love stings there the hurt lies

let the dance take me in its swarm
rise like the sun in spring
the vines embrace me
flowers nod a jig in the breeze

on your body lines of ash
like the pattern of the dance
a dalliance of girls swaying

somewhere beneath the horizon
comes the sounds of a raga
each pada of the song
in the rhythm of the herd
hear the beat of the hooves

the dancers approach
a cloud of bodies
raising gusts of wind
cow dust is on your coat
cow dust in my breath

I am the rasa
I am the lover in the dance
my footsteps in yours
touching like wind breath

the dancer bristles
grass trembles on the river’s edge

Mahabalipuram minotaur

2009-11-20T10:12:00.000-08:00

Five years ago I visited Mahabalipuram and wrote about it in my long poem, India Sutra (which is in The Butterfly Effect). It's strange to revisit a place - the things you do and don't remember. I didn't recall having seen this rock, but when I asked, locals said it had always been there. I imagined that it was unearthed by the tsunami. It was just my memory failing me!

Mahabalipuram dp331

playing ocean and boat
the moon is full
behind a blanket of cloud

sea pounds the beach
waiting for the fishermen
to push off into the surf

the dogs as before
lounge on the sand
curled like coils of net

the same hotel spruced up
beach restaurants
with coloured lights

even the sari-selling woman
is here still plying her trade
five years older some new designs

not much has changed
but on the beach
an unremembered rock

a cow’s head carved
and human hands
minotaur unearthed

labyrinth caved in
no sacred string needed
to lead you out

A few days after posting this I saw a similar image in a book I've been reading called, Devi: The Mother Goddess by Devdutt Pettanaik which is captioned 'Durga attacking the buffalo demon'. This image I've called Minotaur is probably also the buffalo demon. That's not so far from the Cretan story since Theseus could not have killed the Minotaur without Ariadne's thread. Here in India thread is also sacred. It all connects!

Shadow cow

2009-11-19T10:13:00.000-08:00

The photo by Spider Redgold was taken in Kathmandu just before Divalli. Ths poem was my response.

shadow cow dp314

a cow and her shadow
walk a street in Kathmandu

the cow is painted
the shadow is plain

both are black
as the night sky

the shadow says
how come you’re so pretty today?

because it’s good luck on cow day
so my friend painted mandalas

on my backside said the cow
and what about the garland of flowers

who gave you those?
asked the miffed shadow

the same friend said the cow
feeling sorry for her undecorated friend

tell you what said the cow
you can have the garland now

and at the end of the day
you can have the mandala too

when the sun went down
the shadow cow was happy to see

the painted cow had kept her word
there on her shadow back

were the glittering lights
of Deepavalli

Gongyla

2009-11-18T09:20:00.000-08:00

I Gongyla dp348

when winter ices my coat
when it strikes
the heart
whatever can you do–

she has made it public
her longing for me
she wants me to sing
my heart pain

she says Aphrodite
is hard hearted
her love searing

but all I want
is want

Best Australian Poems 2009

2009-11-16T20:55:00.000-08:00

This poem is included in this year's anthology Best Australian Poems 2009 edited by Robert Adamson. It's being launched today in Sydney. It has previously been published in Melbourne's Age newspaper and in my collection, Earth's Breath. The photo was taken as Cyclone Larry raged outside our window on 20 March 2006.

Climate change: yugantameghaha

At the end of every cosmic cycle
at the end of a generation―yuganta-
meghaha¬―clouds congregate
gathering souls for the next yuga

cloud breath, soul mist
rasping winds, rattling bones
here come the galloping horses
humans astride their flanks

here come the thundering clouds
breaking the world apart
the Hercules moth climbs every building
rising upwards through 110 floors

scaling the earth to find the moon
that light in the sky through which
he might escape earth’s pull
and melt into the inferno of light.

dancers at Hampi

2009-11-15T10:22:00.000-08:00

One of the great things about going to Hampi - a World Heritage Site - was to see the fabulous carvings. Of all the archeological sites I've visited (and there have been quite a few!) it most reminded me of Crete, of the images on sealstones in the Museum of Iraklion where I have wandered several days.

I Mura dp343

I’m the singer in the group my song
follows Radha follows as she walks
the forest paths she revels in her body
breasts swaying to the dance of the bees

she’s playful almost drunk with dancing
protected by the bangles she wears
on her arms I sing the rainbow of her body
light fractured shining through skin’s prism

I’m a gopi too our bellies are like snake pits
muscles writhe and flex throb and dance
our days are by turns languid and dynamic
it’s not enchantment simply friendship

the language of the goddess is on my lips
as each day I tend her with song my words
hers I can’t say I’m always fair some days
my lips are scorched with jealousy

as she pays attention to this gopi or that
the seamstress the fruit picker the bread maker
the veena player we all want her gaze
I walk away flick my tail like an irritable tiger

Gaur

2009-11-13T08:06:00.000-08:00

Gaur (Bos gaurus) are the biggest bovines on earth. These four live in Bandipur National Park in Karnataka where I was lucky enough to see them. It's dusk and they were far off. How fantastic is it to see such rare and huge creatures. Like the elephant they are led by the oldest female in the herd. The name I've given to her means mother of the cows.

gaur dp 339

immoveable
ancient as diamonds
gaur are statues against green

mountains
ridge their backs

heads
a saddle between
where water gathers in the wet

the female line
zigzags
the sloped hillside

Matagavaam
mother of the gaur
stands like a giant fortress
at the base
inverting the mountain
top

early risers
greet the day
moaning low

at night
a multitude
of sickle moons
graze

long-sighted eyes
horns almost a circle
pale summer grass
coloured

rufous coats shining
under a full harvest moon

left alone
their only fight
is with time
bulls eyeline
their rivals
if out weighed
they walk away out
horns still
reaching for the sky

but be fearful of Matagavaam
who’ll whistle up her team
circle the youngsters
and gore
even one with tiger courage

Atthis

2009-11-11T09:45:00.000-08:00

Atthis dp321

Atthis is in the temple
they have painted her limbs
her forehead is floral

she likes this temple
on a hilltop where she watches
as dawn scrambles into day

at dusk she faces the other direction
when day lowers itself into night
this is the best season

the dewy grass is lush
buttercups are plentiful
the air cool and clear

since she became a temple cow
life has been easier
each day sixteen girls

clamour around her in the meadow
they fuss over her
stroke and brush her flanks

but she misses her friend
the ever-shrewd and delightful
milky-faced Sappho–they were separated

one day for no reason
and the stories that go around
about Sappho are unbelievable

Sappho thrived in the herd
she loved to lead them
lowing her musical tunes

and soon the young heifers
were prancing along behind
moaning and shaking their heads in time

plucking at tree branches as they went–
but she is gone
and these girls are her solace

Trichy

2009-11-10T05:10:00.000-08:00

It never ceased to amaze me how huge the temples were. This one is the largest in Tamil Nadu.

five finger temple dp325

the temple of the Cholas
grows out of the plain
like five mountains
imitating the granite
rock that rises
on the horizon
the great rock is the
palm of earth’s hand
the gopuram its fingers

temple elephants

2009-11-09T09:08:00.000-08:00

I saw this elephant in Hampi - and as we travelled around I saw many elephants in temples always with the same fiercely mixed reaction.

elephant dp335

the temple elephants’ trauma
is in their rocking
the shackles at their feet
clinking their captivity

but I rejoice seeing
painted elephants
mandalas on their
foreheads and trunks

and I am in despair
picking at my conscience
like an over ripe pimple
and at my own hypocrisy

exile

2009-11-08T02:50:00.000-08:00

exile dp 316

there was a time when we were not exiles
a time when paradise was not some imagined garden
walled from our world
paradise was here and now

in that time and in that place
we long-horned four-footed ones
were honoured and rejected
just as often or rarely as anyone

our horns our feet our udders
were nothing special
but they were us

one day someone said
you lot – we looked around to see if we were that lot
yes said this person
you long-horned four-footed uddered ones
it is time for you to go
take with you your golden calves
for you are no longer welcome here

that was the day we were cast out exiled
from the place some now call paradise
the walls were high covered by thorns

soon after it got worse
not only were we no longer welcome
in spite of our usefulness
we were also spat upon
great gobs of spit spewed our way
landing if we were lucky at our feet
and if we were not the goo was in our hair and on our skin

then they sent the children out
from the garden behind the wall
to throw stones at us
you could see them looking with shining eyes
for the biggest missile
stones and rocks flung by young fingers

we tried to ignore it
walking on in silence
we lowed together
we tried to stop it
but one day one of us
in a fever of anger
lashed out gored him
the son of the most
important man
in the village

after that it was all out war
if we ventured through their village
took a short cut across their fields
if they saw our outline on the ridge
they came for us some of us were killed

some of us were captured
they tied us to the millstone
to the water wheel
and had us walking an eternity of circles
they yoked us to the cart
they whipped us
they took us to their battle fields
we hauled we carried we bled
we were abandoned when they fled

and then some of us escaped
we travelled in groups
some towards the rising sun
some towards the setting sun

you will find us in these places
at the edges of every known world
like it or not we are everywhere

Shore Temple Mahabalipuram

2009-11-06T22:26:00.000-08:00

Have been travelling for nearly three weeks around Tamil Nadu and Karnataka. I was in Mahabalipuram (also known as Mamallapuram) nearly five years ago and had not remembered that the shore temple was full of cows. Imagine my surprise to find a whole herd of them waiting!

the herd dp332

at the temple a herd of cows
waiting for the sea to stop
its ceaseless waves
these cows sit stone-faced
crows leap from rump
to head and back again
the sea flows on
wave after wave

cow faces worn down
by seaspray smoothed
the angles no longer sharp
the temple is eroded
sand salt and water
these cows sit and wait
as eternity passes by
in the feathers of a crow

stone

2009-10-18T04:01:00.000-07:00

stone dp312

who will throw
the first stone?
who will cheer
the stone throwers?

questions that resonate
through the ages

I have stoned
and been stoned
now I despise the throwers
of stones

I will not cheer
for another’s demise
it’s what
the manipulators rely on

followers
unthinkers
those who think
they know better

to stand by
to watch a crucifixion
is to participate
in the crucifixion

hold the stone
raise it throw it
watch the blood come
watch the pain

bury your memory
become like all the rest

will you expect me to rescue
you next month next year
when the stone throwers
come for you?

Double dactyls and nonsense poetry

2009-10-13T10:58:00.000-07:00

Several months before I came to Chennai (also called Madras) the Melbourne Poets Union put out a call for a double dactyl competition. I put this poem in and won the comp. Last week I visited the world headquarters of the Theosophical Society here in Chennai with its collection of ancient manuscripts and gardens full of ancient banyan trees. You feel like you are walking through a jungle of elephant legs. I went to Blavatsky Bungalow and it was like an architectural version of the banyan groves, all verandahs and pillars. I took a photo of Helena and so I felt it was time for this little poem to come out of hiding.

Double dactyl dp140
Horsical snorsical
Helena Blavatsky
Anthroposophistic
Secret meetings

Held in Madras gardens
Her words in old Greek code
Hippotologistic:
Our steeds fleeting

Sita

2009-10-10T11:49:00.000-07:00

In July I attended a Sanskrit Winter Refresher course in Canberra. During that week, in addition to classes we watched an animated film called Sita Sings the Blues made by Nina Paley. This film has Creative Commons, so if you can watch videos on your computer, you might want to look it up.

The photo has nothing to do with Sita, but it does hang in the Asian Studies Department at ANU. It's a Gujarati cow.

Sita dp220

Sita was no slouch just a woman in the tumult of emotion
she tried to help her man get a life – get out and about,
she said, why not follow that deer, dear. She needed time alone.

But it’s always been hard for women to get some solitude
and Sita was no different. Soon the rival king was coming round
asking for samosas with pickles and chutney and before she knew it

he had her tucked up in his flying chariot and was heading south.
She went just to see a bit of the country from the air, but Ravanna
had other ideas: he tried to woo her. But that wasn’t why she came.

A mountain from a molehill: before she knew it the scouts
were arriving on her doorstep, begging her to go home. But why
couldn’t he come and ask her himself? If she wasn’t important

enough for a visit, why bother? And so she stayed on at the
mountain resort with its beach views, elephants, peacocks,
evening dancing, temples and good intelligent conversation.

Ravanna too, didn’t get it. What was it with these men? Can’t they
tell the difference between great conversation and no desire for sex
(in the case of Ravanna) or great love, lust and passion but no wish

to give up on intellectual pursuits for housework, sitting pretty
and emotional deserts (in the case of Rama). All she wanted
was a balanced and fulfilling lifestyle. Was it really that hard?

And then came the war. It was unwarranted. Like Helen,
across the desert lands, there seemed no end to the bloodshed,
the fear, the escalating madness of war, hatred and destruction.

Once started, she was no longer relevant to the discussion. She
tried negotiating. Nothing happening. She tried the cold shoulder
only to inflame the passions of Ravanna. She retreated, kept

out of sight. One day a great conflagration arose and there was
a river of blood. The palace burnt to the ground and Ravanna
lost his head. There was Rama, standing before her, his eyes cold

his heart–she wondered where it had gone. But there was nothing
else for it, she had to go to the place she had once called home.
Nothing had changed, she was still irrelevant in Rama’s list of duties.

She sat alone like an exiled Penelope waiting for the man she thought
she knew to return. Before long she noticed the early signs, she knew
what was to come well before her belly swelled. This time he evicted

her, sent her into exile. She was not much more alone, and here she could
get her life back together and stop waiting for someone to notice her.
She started a school for the study of language, people came from the lands

all around. They told stories, recited day-long epic poems, played music,
danced and painted. Finally life was good. She became revered among
the people of the lands nearby for her intelligence, her wit, her sense

of justice and fun. They also thought her beautiful, but this was one among
many fine attributes. Sita stayed in her own country, her children
flourished knowing only a little of their mother’s trials and tribulations.

Of their father, they knew only that he had been most interested in his
reputation among men. They learned that there was little future
and, like so many throughout history, their father remained unknown.

fugue

2009-10-07T23:46:00.000-07:00

The cows in my head have taken to listening to music.

fugue dp223
for Lara

she runs for her life the music following
haunting every waking moment the voices
of those others weaving the gaps
like the woof and warp of a song

a song half forgotten half remembered
her life has turned contrapuntal
amnesic episodic amnesic again
days lost in fog clouds hanging over her head

wrapping it round swathed in a cloth of sound
she has always been the minor relative
never the major nor the dominant
black sheep can be a tonic but her story

her exposition is always chased away
for the refugee there is no chord
to hang her world on it is disappeared
like the girl with a fugue of memory

her identity lost her subject dissociated
a kind of shame that no one will quite grasp
it is social death clearly warped she will not
attend the event after all no final entry

instead she will be the eternal counterpoint
the free one whose coda is a single jubilant voice

if this is god

2009-10-06T07:01:00.000-07:00

I wrote this poem a few weeks back when I visited a temple here in Chennai. The young woman standing next to me was the daughter of one of the people who worked there. Tulasi is the herb basil; darshan is a seeing. Please note I use lower case g for god.

if this is god dp289

she said
the young woman standing next to me
do you want to see god?
it seemed like too good an opportunity to miss
god available to see
is this a darshan?
does god see me too?

we walk through the heavy black columns
a forest of elephant legs
pass an old man walking in circles around one column
has god already spoken to him?
told him to do this?
in penance?
or for blessings?

she beckons for me to follow
we enter a small alcove
beaten gold walls
a priest inside
he wafts a flame
puts a garland around
is it god’s shoulders?
places fruit in a shallow bowl
scoops water into the hands of devotees
follows it with a spray of tulasi

we leave and go to another grander alcove
god here is bigger
seems to have company
but again
a flame
a garland of flowers
fruit
a gift of water in a shallow hand
tulasi

I am satisfied
if this is god

anatomy of a cow pat

2009-10-03T09:31:00.000-07:00

Sadly, I can't set this out as I want, so I hope it still works.

anatomy of a cow pat dp298

where they drop and when
is all important
consider this:

on the savannahs of Africa
and in the deserts too
a special follower evolves
the dung beetle

watch this little body
work like a Trojan to roll

that corner of
that dung heap across
that road

like Sysiphus
or ordinary housework
this is an endless task
the job of dissolution is fast

in tropical regions
India northern Australia

temperature
humidity
and battalions of insects
ensure the dung
is dissolved in a day

to make use of it for fuel
she must be quick
follow the cow
pick it up
dry it out

on the dry plains
of the western slopes
where the nature of
soil and brick merge

the cow pat sits
and sits
and sits

waiting for the children
to walk past
on the way home from school

they pick them up
toss them like ancient Frisbees
watch the universe spin

quaking earth and tsunami

2009-10-01T10:50:00.000-07:00

This poem is for my niece Louise who is living in Samoa and for her partner Charlene and her family. I know that Lou and Charlene are fine, but the devastation is terrible. This week has also seen the terrible winds and rain in Philippines and across to Cambodia and Vietnam as well as another earthquake in Sumatra, Indonesia. These are difficult times.

earth bones dp296
for Lou and Charlene

earth bones creak
and we all fall off
souls seeking nirvana
flung far

down here it seems
so much more mundane
as walls fall rooves cave in
bodies bob

drenched by mud
women walk their children
home from school
in chest high water

in one ocean an elbow
in another a knee
and breath takes the wave
shoreward

Sanchari

2009-09-30T07:54:00.000-07:00

Over the last few weeks I've had the great good fortune to be involved in the production of Sanchari. A play written by Sumarthi Murty, directed by Mangai and performed by Ponni Arasu. It's been a great journey and when I heard it would tour to Bangalore I offered to be a roadie. I hope I fulfilled the needs. Watching a play in a language you don't know many times over is a fascinating experience. Watching it take shape and become a wonderful performance is something I never dreamt would happen while I was in India. Thanks to everyone for making me so welcome - and for the artistic thrills. I loved Sunday's performance in Bangalore from which the photos above are taken and the poem below inspired by.

sanchari dp293
for Sumathi Mangai and Ponni

a movement an echo of sleep as the music resounds
the tree is swallowed by the world snake who in its turn
is borne by that ancient wrinkled turtle
the sun rises over song a song that endures nine hundred years
biblical in its life span

the woman on stage is like a moving part in a Kandinsky painting
geometric colours shining against black
her dance a reminder of Oscar Schlemmer and his Bauhaus theories
these other worlds other lokas intersect across the planes

is she Persian this Kalyani is that a veil or just an ornament
she sings in Urdu and Farsi her rhythms like Greek rembetika
that segue into rap and indi pop
she puts away the veil the scarf the continuous river of connection
moves into the present

she chastises the audience her cloth blooms petals sagging
like an old rose soon revived her future assured
as a goddess that’s her in a glass case refuse her water
insist that she bloom whatever her circumstances
but the washing still has to be hung out on the line

the cloth blows in the wind draped and renewed
pegged and pulled taut the song becomes a dwelling place
nomadic existence va come says another leave behind your old life
I will make you more famous than you ever dreamt possible

and so the raga unravels twists travels and turns
the performer wrapped in music moving to its beat
she throws off tradition pauses lounges in it for a while
stands like a gypsy arms akimbo breaks into song
an Indian Piaf selling her voice

she sits waiting for the song to lift her carry her away
breath becomes sound and her hand lifts like a musical gesture
following the track of her voice but even this must transform
she unpegs the washing the river of song
redresses and asks have you seen my new mobile phone?

Putna

2009-09-25T01:22:00.000-07:00

Two nights ago I was invited to see a dancer perform a traditional temple dance done by women. This dance form is called nangiar kootu. Kapila Venu, the dancer has the most amazing muscle control over those tiny muscles that mostly we don't even notice. She has great ability for stillness. Thanks to Archana Ramaswamy for inviting me - and the great bike ride through Chennai!

Putna dp289

the world can be lost or made in the blinking of an eye
so Kapila Venu tells us in her nangiar koothu a dance
of moments of moments between moments
in the lift of an eyebrow disaster brews
her hand moves each move telling a story
there are more stories in between
a Russian doll of gestures
Putna’s tale is not a pretty one
she’s been asked to kill every boy in the land
by King Kamsa in an echo of that other king
Herod
never the maternal type Putna
goes about her task until
until she comes upon Krsna
that playful god who in his baby form
strings her along
nearby a cow suckles her calf
and Putna contemplates the unthinkable
to feed this child instead of killing him
fear fills her fear of King Kamsa
not known for feelings of generosity
more likely to lop her head if she does this
she pauses she watches the cow
indecision wracks her
you can see it in the twinging muscles of her face
each one separated out
her eyes moving from compassion to fear
fear to overwhelming love
she has the audience mesmerised
still and listening to the muscles move
will she won’t she will love win or hatred
poor Putna gives her hand to love
there’s a moment of complete exhilaration
but women in epic and in opera die young
Putna for all her consuming hatred
is killed in her moment of love
by a baby
her milk her life sucked from her by Krsna
her end agonising
Krsna meantime grows up to play with his brother

Maruts and dust storms

2009-09-23T07:42:00.000-07:00

I'm posting this poem from Earth's Breath for all those people in Sydney. I grew up in rural NSW and we had these on a frequent enough basis for us to have a system in place when a dust storm appeared on the horizon. For anyone outside Australia, the colour of Sydney in the pictures that come up if you Google Sydney dust storm are absolutely the right colour for an Australian dust storm. I don't think everything strange should be attributed to climate change. Even if there is no record of dust storms reaching Sydney (and I haven't checked this) I would be very surprised if one could use the word NEVER.

Maruts: storm demons

Afterwards, like new lovers telling stories
we talk of all the storms we’ve ever
witnessed, all the storms
that have snatched at our lives. Stories make
sense of our new state of existence
in the post-cyclone world.

I tell you how dust storms coloured
my childhood, the blue sky died
to dark, then red with dust.
We ran to every window: bolt shut
pull down the blinds, tie in a
figure-of-eight, our mother calling
out each place, Is this checked?
What of that? The doors closed
with dust-jamming snakes.
A cold wind runs over the roof
blasting us, and later we roam the house
drawing stick figures in the dust.

You trump me. Tell me of the
sandstorm in Tunisia, getting caught
out in it, not listening closely enough
to the locals’ warnings. Ant-watching
you miss all the signs until it’s
almost too late. Diving into
the car, you plug every gap, every millimetre
but still the sand comes in. You say
It’s the roar of the wind that is the same.

I remember the snowstorm on
Mt Kosciusko. It is nearly summer and
we leave the resort after lunch
dressed only in shorts and T-shirts, walking
compassless, we follow the snowpoles
losing our place on the map, not really
knowing our course. Unplanned, late
afternoon we stumble on Seaman’s Shack
a stone hut above the treeline. In falling
dark, I go in search of firewood
finding a single fallen pole. We cook
eat half-warmed food and pull the
sleeping bags over our heads. At midnight
the roar comes, the wind blizzarding
the walls. We lie with our bodies
curling the stovelegs, our ears filled with
the resounding echo of storm demons.

With each storm story, another
ricochets through our brains, our
startled synapses in overload. The
flood of ’74, the fires, the snowstorms
in your home country. You say
it’s like being in a washing machine
tumbled, thrown, strewn driftwood.

Parvathi

2009-09-22T10:31:00.000-07:00

I stood in awe at this temple this morning. The sheer complexity of all those stories. I've been walking around Chennai for more than a month now, have passed the Kapaleeswarar Temple many times on foot, bus and auto-rickshaw, but getting close was unexpectedly overwhelming. The little pink cows are lower down and you feel like patting them, I'll save them for another day.

Parvathi dp288
for Chris

Shiva is such a softy his temple is filled
with small pink cows with blunt golden
horns and a cheeky smile their mouths
also soft put your hand in feel it

like cows amid traffic these bovines
keep their cool five stories up on a ledge
surrounded by a world Hieronymus
Bosch might have conjured they graze on

all those people to judge all that grass to eat
there are dragons and elephants demons
and devas the judgemental and the forgiving
the flippant and the playful hooded cobras too

it’s Parvathi I’ve come to see dressed in red
her right hand raised in blessing I’ve come
with flowers of fruit hand them in hope
that Yama is too busy to notice me

Durga Puja

2009-09-20T06:14:00.000-07:00

It's festival time again across the subcontinent. The festivals on now are Eid, a day of celebration at the end of Ramadan. It is also the beginning of Navaratri a nine-day (often extended to ten) or literally nine-night festival (from the Sanskrit) in celebration of goddesses. The first three days are for Durga (also known as Kali), the second three days for Lakshmi, and the final three days for Sarasvati. The Kali temple on my way to T. Nagar this morning was filled with people offering flowers and other devotions.

The following poem was written after a month-long trip to Bangladesh in 2005. This is a revised version of the original poem. I took the above photo about a month ago at a local temple in Kotturpuram, Chennai.

Durga Puja

It’s a human struggle–this rising of the soul but in the rising a host of players.
On these few days rivers meet–Ramadan, Durga Puja and my own post-christian
pagan soul. Kali is no slouch and Durga’s lion will eat our lamb for Sunday lunch.
She could be your own black Madonna from Switzerland swathed in that blue gown.
Imagine her interceding on behalf of Elephant Man, the braceleted Ganesh!

It’s a Disco Durga, a multimedia event–Myer Window meets Durga Puja.
The stage is set, a proscenium arch of pantomime figures. The mannequin,
blue Krishna, gives an oration before heading to his early morning chores,
raising the sun, milking the cows, rounding up life. The stage is a waterfall
of milk. Is this a story of milk and honey? Romance between Krishna and Parvati?

No it’s a story of blood, of betrayal and murder, of protection rackets. Enter
stage left, Buffalo Demon (BD) a Zapata moustache scarring his upper lip.
A winged cobra slung across his shoulders. Enter stage right livid Kali
doing a haka. Kali lops BD’s head. Help! Help! he cries, I’ve been killed!
BD retaliates slashing at heads as if they are weeds. Battle frenzy escalates.

A giant maw opens stage rear spitting bloodied torsos. Kali, fed up, ends it all.
She cleaves BD in half. It’s a Mediaeval Mumma play with paisley peacock
reminding me of colonial days, gin-and-tonic evenings. We wend our way back
pass shrines of devotion, smoking incense, fruit-filled platters, the holy man,
praying women, the sacrificed goat, the whiff of its spilled blood still in the air.

How high did our souls rise tonight?

Arjuna

2009-09-19T09:26:00.001-07:00

This poem is a companion to the poem Amba which I posted in August. The dancer is N. Srikanth.

Arjuna dp267

volte face of Amba the archer Arjuna becomes a girl
while Amba the girl becomes an archer
these are tales of twisted destinies
where people and gods intermingle
the sexes flow across the now-static boundaries
sky and sea cannot be separated
hills and clouds are mistaken for one another
the world is in flux and history
is yet to be made
here is Arjuna doing his level best to make it
to be remembered because the god-child
spoke to him so eloquently
but first he must shed his disguise
his woman’s attire with the muscles showing through
he laments that it’s a waste
to spend so much time as a woman
what use is it I’m good at archery not wiles
meanwhile he flicks a finger turns his wrist
and sticks out one hip in a grimace of imitation
he’s been married if sharing your bride
with four right hands and four left hands
can count as matrimony
bows and arrows are his passion
even beating old Indra of the rainbow
his archery always on display in the sky
Arjuna is fretting for battle and like all men
in serried ranks casting their eye
across the same vision on the other side
his innards turn to water
the war machine never stands still
Arjuna is roused to battle fury
the men around in awe even before he begins
none knowing if they’ll see the light of the next day

Liverpool Plains

2009-09-16T10:47:00.000-07:00

A few months ago I saw on TV a program about the proposed mining of Liverpool Plains in New South Wales. It is rich farming land and underneath it runs a coal seam. Today, sitting in a conference on climate change I was reminded of my poem, and so I'm posting it here. I know, I have veered away from cows for the moment but it's all connected. Indeed, the use of cow dung in India to keep the soil in good shape is not far off these same issues.

armour dp225

she dreams of making armour for the earth
a helmet to prevent the drillers from beginning
a breastplate so they cannot cut open her heart
greaves to stop the underground lines
breaking through to the water table

it confounds her that anyone would want
to mine Liverpool Plains
to make the earth a corpse to strip
back the muscle layer by layer
to let light in under all that rich deep earth
to groom her for profit burn coal embers
in the asthmatic air the heat increasing
to burn away everything for the emptiness
of waterdrained lungdrained flatlands

Let them eat coal not food.

Everything, you promised everything

2009-09-15T07:50:00.000-07:00

I had fun in Manila, but shopping is hell.

everything dp277

The rain is falling puddling the doorway to hell. You step around the puddles in your bright pink shoes. Is it heaven with St Petra at the gate, or is it hell with its teeth showing?

Beside the door a guard white shirt blue trousers fake gold badges of authority on her breast.

Where you going? she asks. I don’t know, you say. Supermarket? Yes maybe, you reply. You go mall, you not come in, not open. You go supermarket. Yes, supermarket, you say in this cold anteroom of denied options.

You show me bag, she says. You show. You open bag. You open. She pokes at it with her demonic prod, looks inside.

You go supermarket this way, she says pointing to the travelator descending into this underground maw of hell.

You pass the other people in your rush to descend, find the supermarket, then wander out into the darkened limbo between the shops selling every gizmo under the sun.

It’s 9.40 am and nothing else is open so you turn to the neon brightness of the supermarket, go looking for the glass replacement for the coffee plunger.

You ask, show them the shiny metal skeleton of the small glassless object you depend on to start the day.

You go up, third floor, department store, not here, he says. Where is that? you ask and he waves his hand vaguely up and out.

You wander between the aisles and aisles of packaged coloured product and then into the fresh foods area where fruits and vegetables are cling wrapped under organic signs.

Your stomach is not responding well, your nose twitching, every sense moving toward overload. You almost run to exit this underworld, to return to life. You don't look back.

Outside the supermarket you find a lift going nowhere until after 10 am, you’ve finally grasped that while hell is open 24 hours, heaven has it easier and opens late. With time to kill you set off up the stairs.

Standing at the top of the stairs you see through the windows of McDonalds where faces are filling themselves. A man approaches, says something, you say, No thank you, to his offer of junk food.

He persists, repeats his sentence, No thank you, and again NO THANK YOU, through gritted teeth. You turn to the stairwell, look down at hell's entrance, notice by the railing a woman with a walkie talkie.

You turn, see the man you’d thought was offering McDonalds see that he too communicates between realms with a walkie talkie. Then the plainclothes man approaches you, directs you to a chair, Over there. Wait.

Your puzzled look prompts, Not open, from him and a touch of his watch. As you turn toward the chair you see the bulging crowd of the clamouring dead at the main entrance, guards holding them back.

You sit, watch from purgatory as the last cleaner sweeps the floor lights flicker rollerdoors open and all the things on sale burst into visibility.

It’s open M’am, says a passing guard. You rise and join the swelling crowd moving toward the department store.

If this is heaven, I’m not coming. Plastered smiles greet you the escalators pump people upwards to the celestial realms and blasting from the speakers a jingle.

Welcome to SM stores
We have everything
everything
everything
Welcome to SM stores
We have everything

Rising through the layers of clouds to the transparent zone of kitchens and glassware you are filled with hope for success. You look you trawl the shelves no plunger of any shape or size no glass replacement.

You ask at the counter. The woman all celestial smiles says, No glass for these, maybe we have whole item. You follow. But no, no plungers of any kind. Quietly you say, So you don’t have everything?

Inside you are screaming, But you promised eternal life, you said you had everything everything everything.

Descending into disconsolation you return to the supermarket disoriented by this torture of sound and lights uncertainty and despair. You stumble into the cyberzone no longer dark buzzing with zombied youth.

For a moment you are lost then recall the travelator rise up the smooth ascent to the doorway where you were searched exit into the freshness of rain the relief of silence the stillness of monotoned walls.

Draupadi again

2009-09-14T23:23:00.000-07:00

I've been mulling over the story of Draupadi since the performances I saw a couple of weeks back. Here is my poetic response to the final performance. The dancer is Sheejith Krishna in the role of Krishna.

Draupadi’s Krishna dp268

even before Krishna is on stage
I am worrying about Draupadi again
she’s the lynch pin of the story

let me set it out
a woman has married an eligible young man
a famous archer
as she’s arriving at his house after the betrothal
his mother Kunti in ignorance of the ‘prize’
tells her five boys to share it
only when Draupadi enters does Kunti realise
that she has condemned her to five husbands
when gods decree such things
there is no escape
Draupadi bonds with all five
takes on their interests and passions
becomes the most important person in the household
after her mother-in-law

then the gambling begins
it’s the eldest brother who gets them into this scrape
and he has a problem a gambling problem
he bets everything
his land his people his cattle his houses
his brothers himself and finally
Draupadi

she is in her room taking time out
because she’s bleeding
she is fetched
dragged by her hair into the assembly
her sari is being torn
her body exposed
to a roomful of men
none of them moves
none of them protests
none of the five brothers
not a one

Draupadi in desperation calls on Krishna
gods have a bigger view
and he creates a deception
so that Draupadi’s sari never unwinds
like the magic casket that never empties

my worry about Draupadi
is that she is never redeemed

think of this
a child is neglected abused abandoned
even if we can do nothing
we feel we should
we feel guilt sorrow
and inside we pledge something
we try to make it impossible for this to recur

a man called the son of god
is betrayed abandoned by his disciples
crucified
then worshipped

a woman
is betrayed in a game of chance
publicly humiliated
abandoned
and–
her mother-in-law has the greatest feeling for her
and Draupadi is then abandoned by the storyteller
only appearing in her role as wife to the five brothers
now forced into exile

Draupadi is a kind of Christ
but on some level she is blamed for her
betrayal humiliation and abandonment

The tortoise and the mountain

2009-09-04T23:37:00.000-07:00

The word giri in Sanskrit has many meanings and these meanings are the source of this poem. The dictionary is a marvelous source of associative thinking.

giri dp269

a tortoise swallowed a mountain
having thought that the mountain was slow and steady
like her good self

the tortoise was shocked to discover
that many hidden things go on in mountains
this particular mountain was in eight parts

it seemed to the tortoise who was learned in mathematics
that it was an infinity of mountains
because on every slope in every ravine

on peaks and in the deepest caves
there were multitudes of mountains inside mountains
each of these contained yet more mountains

in fractal form
not only that but each of these multitudinous mountains
hosted different kinds of creatures

in one a small girl played with a ball
in another a man curled like a ball his eyes blinded by some unknown disease
in yet another a mouse crawled up the rocky slope

a rope climber without a rope
a cloud hung over another mountain in conversation with trees
and there was more much more

but by now the venerable tortoise was getting bored
and regurgitated the lot
she deposited this ball on the peak of the nearest mountain
and let it roll

Sarama and the sun cow

2009-09-03T10:40:00.000-07:00

This poem draws on a story from the Rg Veda (10/108/1-11). Sarama, the messenger dog is sent off in search of the stolen cow. For more on this story see Bibek Deboy. 2008. Sarama and Her Children: The dog in Indian myth. New Delhi: Penguin. pp. 69-77.

Sarama and the sun cow dp252

the sun cow has gone on holiday to stay with her sister-
in-law in the mountains there in the deepest caves beside
the river Rasa she slept she slept because she had worked
for too long for too many she slept because she was
tired of being at the beck and call of everyone from
toddler to grandparent and all the old aunties and various
hangers-on she went to stay in the mountains because
the cave was herself that dark interior unexplored
in the cracks of time and then he had to spoil it all
he accused her sister-in-law of being demonic selfish
of abducting the sun cow and leaving the earth those
poor helpless ones in darkness he bribed Sarama
the house dog with promises of all that she could eat
and sent her on a grand search she sniffed and tracked
and swam raging rivers in search of the sun cow
and found her scent again on the bank of the Rasa
River following her nose she came to her side nudged
her flank and said he wants you to come home
the sun cow says stay sister here in this quiet place
is heaven no one to ask you for another drink of milk
no one to make you carry all the shopping home no one
to insist you raise the sun and carry the world all day
every day but Sarama had her orders and so she went
home alone he rages about those demons stealing
his sun cow his world his light he beats Sarama who
quivers and wishes she had stayed he forces her to show
him the way and then he can’t contain himself he kills
his sister and her demon friends he abducts the sun cow
who is raging and kicking and goring him between
the ribs the river still flows the old caves are empty
the sun cow is at her daily work holding things together

Peacock

2009-09-02T10:38:00.000-07:00

Here is a small poem about the masks that sit beside the doorways. I have a peacock, mayura in Sanskrit, appropriate because the masks are said to keep away the evil eye.

peacock dp249

enter my door but before you do
you’ll be eyed Mayura sits wings
outspread many eyed this bird
is my protection with feathers
shimmering optics and iridescence
without Mayura the rains would
not come the river would not flow
Saraswati would go underground
again this feathered gaze a precise
antidote to the wandering evil eye

Draupadi

2009-08-31T11:16:00.000-07:00

Tonight at the Bharata Natyam Festival I saw two very different interpretations of the Draupadi story. I've included two photos of two artists. R. Rohini (the photo with pink tinge) is an actress; Shreelatha Vinod is a Bharata Natyam dancer.

Draupadi dp266

when dharma is mixed with revenge it’s a shame job
Draupadi born out of hatred is found on a mountain
her clothes in shreds her mind wandering
her mouth moves but the sounds are strangled
before they can form words

she had accepted fate when it delivered
the five-fingers-equals-one-hand marriage
she shared their ambitions and fears
she learnt archery and all about cows
and horses to encourage her sons

but she cannot forget that awful day
when her body was the crime
they dragged her to the assembly
she tried to cover herself they teased
and shame ran like blood

that five-fingered hand was deep in its pocket
it was not lifted instead it was fingering
the future with new gambles and she
was the booty her freedom lost
her dignity thrown out with the dice

Draupadi sits on that mountain the wind
running through her she sings a high lament
her pitch out of the range of speech
each time she tries to utter words the wind
snatches them from the edge of her lips

her god-brother comes to sit next to her
she argues through the wind-blown words
she says you gods are unfair my shame
cannot be spoken turn the world upside down
so the powerless can speak their truths

but the winds comes from all directions
the fill her mouth with air and whistle
into the god-brother’s ear and when he turns
to look at her to catch what she is saying
he can see only the silent moon against ice

Paksha

2009-08-30T09:34:00.000-07:00

paksha dp175

moon wing floats overhead in the dark
of the lunar month
fish fin swims by beneath the water’s edge
in the moon’s bright tide
cow flank is a night feather against my shoulder
smelling of straw and chaff
party factions are armies’ phalanxes
still smoking in noisy backrooms
every proposition is an equation to be argued
by show-off peacocks spreading feathers
her hands articulate like wingbones
when she dances
an elephant will dance and cry when the moon’s
wings are clipped

Amba

2009-08-29T09:22:00.000-07:00

The story of Amba comes from the Mahabharata. This week in Chennai a dance festival is being held based on stories from this great epic. Pani Thee / Frozen Fire was written and directed by feminist playwright Mangai and danced in traditional village style called Koothu Isai Natakam by Usha Rani who is a folk artist. The performance was filled with great energy. The photos are of Usha Rani. The second image is from near the beginning where she is on the battlefield and she has just begun to discard the heavy battledress. The top image is of her when she has in a way regained her self.

amba’s revenge dp262

the gods and people dance
while the gods dance the world
in and out of existence
like bees creating and destroying a hive
the people dance stories of love and war
of dharma and betrayal
the dancer transforms
shifting body
changing the temper of the dance

this girl has set her mind to the future
she knows security when she sees it
and she’s here today to choose her future
but fate in the shape of blundering Bhishma
has set a different course
like a game of chance
her life is won in a throw of the die
but she’s no shrinker in the face of fate
she confronts him says not happy
I want the other one

Bhishma seems the proper gentleman
provides an escort sends her to the one she’s chosen
but men are fickle and Salva will not be her salvation
he says Bhishma beat me hands down and
you were the prize
back you go girlie
and so she does
but by now Bhishma’s got himself in a pickle
he’s vowed celibacy
Amba feels like she’s being pulled from pillar to post and back again
and her will just gets stronger and stronger

she retires to the forest
she has supporters but nothing helps
only obsessing day in day out about Bhishma’s future
it is clear she wants him dead
Bhishma’s mother Ganga
that great river
hears the rumours gets in early with her curse
being the mother of all rivers has its benefits
she curses Amba to be born with the woman river in one side of her
but the other would be a paltry forest river of rocks and sand and dried mud

Amba is set to see this revenge through several lifetimes
doing penance to help her reach her goal
one day she is granted a god-boon
clear as light she says
I want him dead and I want him dead by my hands
and a new course is set

Amba transformed in the fire of passion
gets a new body a new life
this girl grows up a tomboy
they encourage her in sports and games and archery
at which she excels
they call her Shikhandi
she out runs out smarts out strategises
everyone
this is an old life reborn with purpose

when war comes with Bhishma standing on enemy lines
Shikhandi dresses for battle
she wears her biggest shoulders
she puts on battledress
crowns her head with the tallest headdress
she shines like no other warrior on the field
Bhishma recognises her
scorns her says I’m not fighting a woman
just because she’s put on her brother’s battledress
and he lowers his guard
and his weapons

whereupon Shikhandi shoots arrow
after arrow
after arrow
and when she hears him say
as he lies pierced by her arrows
it was that man behind you who shot these arrows into me
not some girl in dress-ups
she strikes him again with furious arrows

it’s all a great play to you Bhishma the invincible
but you have met your match in me
so convinced were you that I was just a woman
no man has trained as hard
no man could pierce you with his eyes
no man could see your vulnerability
your over-weaning pride and belief in masculinity
your time is over now
I will discard these vestments of processioning power
this armour of splendour
I will discard the accoutrements of masculinity
and watch the waning power of men
a passing yuga
a mere transit

instead I will reclaim the simple life
wrap my body in a single length of cloth
take off to the forest with her by my side
the best part of this great charade

the gods and people dance
while the gods dance the world
in and out of existence
like bees creating and destroying a hive
the people dance stories of love and war
of dharma and betrayal
the dancer transforms
shifting body
changing the temper of the dance

Cassowary

2009-08-26T08:25:00.000-07:00

Cassowaries in far north Queensland are under threat from developers, increasing traffic and deforestation. I thought it time to put up this poem from my book, Earth's Breath. They are magnificent birds and this photo is of a father and his chick. Yes the fathers do the rearing. Maybe we need to begin evolution again!

Forest
Casuarius casuarius johnsonii

no wabu, no wuju, no gunduy
no forest, no food, no cassowary
―Djiru saying.

A girl goes into the forest
the forest is a rainforest
her guide is a cassowary
the cassowary knows her way through the forest
she knows all the fruits of the forest
she is mistress of the forest
the fruits are red blue orange green and yellow
the girl must collect the fruit

Along comes a big wind
a wind that lifts and
twists the trees round and round
so that their trunks are spiralled
the wind hauls trees out of the earth
and throws them every which way
the girl shelters under the heavy black feathers
of the cassowary which pin her to the ground

When the big wind has passed
the girl is disoriented
she no longer knows which way is up
she hardly knows which is east or west
which is sun which is moon
clouds scud across the sky
but they have lost their shapes
no longer are there stories in the clouds
just loss

The cassowary tries to comfort the girl
at first there is plenty of fruit
fallen fruit native plum lilly pilly quandong
the girl wanders behind disconsolately
from time to time she nibbles at the rotting flesh
but it soon sours
the bitter seed takes over from the soft flesh

As the days pass
the cassowary must wander further and further afield
she ventures into places she’s never been before
followed by the girl
soon the fruit is nowhere to be found
the two sit down to wait for windfall
quietly they drop into sleep
quietly they die

Gopi girls

2009-08-24T17:38:00.000-07:00

Gopi
gopi = female cowherd

So it’s a secret, gopi girl?
You who hide among the cows
who caress her quivering flanks
in secret places where only you
do not fear to go.

Do you too cover your face in
clay, white as the milky way?
You weave light as it bends,
curves along that infinite edge,
kissing eternity’s face.

When the gopi lock eyes
stars meld, collapse in a moment
of singularity. Don’t mess with
these girls, their curls
are like steel.

Sent to protect the cow at the
centre of the universe, gift giver,
vivifier, they dance to their own tune.
It’s a sham, this flute-playing
androgyne,

this boy who dances and flirts,
he has no interest in skirts or skirls.
Suniti got it right, and Gertrude too,
the cow leapt the moon for you and me,
for me and you.

Sanskrit moth

2009-08-22T09:29:00.000-07:00

In the Bhagavad Gita there is the line, Moths rushing full tilt to their ruin fly right into an inferno (11.29). Some moths are content simply to sit on Sanskrit dictionaries and absorb meanings by osmosis. Like this one who is meditating on the ramifications of gola: a widow's bastard. How many hatreds are woven into that meaning? A little further down, off the page as it were is the meaning: a woman's female friend. Astrologically it occurs when all the planets are in a single sign.

I began learning Sanskrit in 2007 and at first I found the task daunting. Now I expect it to challenge me and sometimes defeat me, all the same the climb is worth the view.

Sanskrit

This rock wall is perpendicular–
she scrambles for a foothold
a tiny jutting of rock to grab onto.

The language is perpendicular–
the roots elude her, the gerunds
are thick with meaning and she slips

and falls crashing to the ground.
Picking herself up, she climbs
a conjugation, declines a declension

all the while, the endings are tangling.
Seven mountains she has crossed, each
one higher than the last. The participles

present not too much challenge, but
the passive is aggressive. Now and then
she has etymological epiphanies,

blinding insight and then finds
it was the wrong form, the wrong verb,
an unknown Vedic version.

She has taken to reading the dictionary
forwards, backwards, horizontally and
vertically, even then the sandhi–

internal and external–takes her on
another spin down the rock wall.
Falling is easy, she hopes she never lands.

This poem was performed as aerials and text on 4 May 2008 at Community of Selves, a collaboration between Suzanne Bellamy and Susan Hawthorne held in Northcote. It was later published in Sinister Wisdom.

Plundered poetry

2009-08-20T02:58:00.000-07:00

I took this photo in Orvieto, Italy.

I've been reading Sarama and Her Children: The Dog in Indian Myth by Bibek Debroy and came upon the full version of Old Mother Hubbard which I had forgotten had more than one verse. I have unashamedly plundered this rhyme and turned it into one about a cow.

Old Mother Azure

Old Mother Azure
went to the pasture
to get her poor cow some straw
but when she got there
the ground was bare
and the poor cow wanted more

she went to the granary
to buy her some chaff
but when she came back
she was dealing with staff

she went to the farmer
to buy her some silage
but when she came back
she was flying on mileage

she went to the seamstress
to buy her a cloak
but when she came back
she was sniffing coke

she went to the milliners
to buy her a hat
but when she came back
she was chasing a gnat

she went to the snippers
to get her some colour
but when she came back
she was learning to holler

she went to the shoemaker
to buy her some crocs
but when she came back
she was wearing white socks

she went to the moon
to buy her some cheese
but when she came back
she was dancing with bees

she went to the sun
to buy her the world
but when she came back
it had all unfurled

Old Mother Azure
is now in the sky
while the cow jumped the moon
I don’t know why

Fire walkers

2009-08-19T08:04:00.000-07:00

On Sunday evening I went for a walk. I could see that something was brewing because there were great scaffolds built across roads and women and men sitting on street corners making garlands. I wandered down to a temple nearby but nothing much happening, past another and I was invited in to see the the Kali in the middle of the building. I nearly went home and then thought I'd go to Kotturpuram bridge where there was a large shrine to Kali. There were crowds of people milling in the street. I stood at the back of the crowd that had formed a circle. A man beckoned me to come through into the circle after removing my shoes and he led me to a place to sit. It was a front row seat and I could see a pile of hot coals between legs. After a while two men began waving palm fronds over the coals, heating them up. And then everyone was standing, and me too, and calls for us all to sit down. No way, not when everyone else was standing. And then they came, men of every shape and size, some carrying babies on their shoulders. I couldn't see so I took photos with my camera held high.

firewalk

in the night a monster a man spiked with metal rods walking trancing his way across the coals that monstrous heat but pain deterred in this place where the sacred and the jostling crowds meet the whole world begins to rock like a school of fish everyone moves at the same strange pace our faces scorched by heat eyes ablaze in wonder at this feat that should bring tormented cries as if a mountain were bleeding lava the blousy flowers of trees shrivelling the rain deferred while clouds gather at the horizon’s edge tomorrow will be wet

Rohini

2009-08-14T10:24:00.000-07:00

rohita = red, roha = rising, rohini –3 meanings: a red cow; the star Aldabaran in the constellation of Taurus; a young girl who has just begun to bleed

Rohini sees red

Rohini sees red
It’s not the bull ring and it’s
no matador dancing in the sand
Rohini’s red is of a different
order altogether – her eye
is a giant star glinting red
a galactic trill

I see red
as my car ploughs into
the roan flank – she leaps
onto the bonnet – shattering
glass splintering my lap
as the shards swirl in
galactic thrill

You see red
my friend as you ride
the wave surfing the edge
of yourself calling upon
Gertrude’s favourite
cow of all, a multiple
galactic spill

This poem was first published in Sinister Wisdom 76, Spring 2009

Cow knowledge

2009-08-13T05:58:00.000-07:00

This photo was taken from a moving vehicle, hence the blur. It's an image on the side of a truck in Varanasi.

I am reminded today of the difficulty of learning new languages. This afternoon I walked down to the local shops and market here in Kotturpuram, Chennai and bought a book for children learning to write in Tamil.

The following poem was written during the Sanskrit Summer School in Feb 2009.

Sanskrit cow dp63a

From the cow comes a method of learning,
four footed and sure.

Curled around the first foot is the teacher,
the knower, the one who will inspire you
to take that stretch, parse that sentence,
finish that translation, understand that construction.

On the second foot is the student, the driven one
who spends all afternoon finding the right ya
out of forty-seven uses, who drives friends
crazy with complexity.

With foot number three is a crowd of students,
the one you sang with on the beach, the one who
untangled a phrase with elegant simplicity,
the one who understood your linguistic clumsiness.

Cow foot four is the most uncertain. It’s the dragging
foot and the fast-paced foot, always behind,
forever ahead. There is never enough of it,
for time cannot be confined.

Cows and Cyclones

2009-08-08T23:03:00.000-07:00

The day before Cyclone Larry hit Mission Beach on 20 March 2006 the cattle who live in the middle of the town formed a barrier to the winds by standing in a circle with their rumps facing out. The following poem is reproduced from Earth's Breath.

Warning

The warning came four days ahead:
cyclone heading in―
but people have lives to live
and the dinner was not postponed
the celebration of season’s change
harvest of fruit from tree and vine.

The warning came three days ahead:
on screen the colours of infrared―
you talk of the curl on the sea’s edge
aware in a way of what’s in store
you know it’s not the same
for those who’ve been here before.

The warning came two days ahead:
the day itself no caveat―
calculate the weight of wind speed
all superlatives already stolen
by cyclone categories one and two
you cannot weigh any more.

The warning came a day ahead:
cattle standing in a ring
rump out, calves surrounded
wind churn will not move them.

Victorian bushfires

2009-08-07T16:27:00.000-07:00

Six months ago bushfires raged through the hills outside Melbourne. Driving back down the Hume Highway a week later I was shocked by how far those fires had travelled. I then visited friends several months later whose house was saved by a wind change. Other friends were not so lucky. This poem is for them. It was published in The Age newspaper bushfire special today.

bushfire four months after dp179

headlights flash burnt tree trunks
standing like dead sentinels on a battlefield
the skyline is red the air is silent
no one sings here no bird flies overhead

between the blackened trees plain brown soil
as barren as a napalmed forest
my eyes are red my breath stilled
no animal feeds here where no plant grows

Artists

2009-08-07T09:46:00.000-07:00

This is a north Queensland dairy cow taken at Mungali Dairy on the Atherton Tableland.

As a visual poet, I am very pleased that the first three people to sign up to my blog are artists. Thanks.

For the last nine months I've been writing a daily poem, here is today's

tongue dp242

these words are worn
utterable like the tongues of poems
there are no confessions
we make our own quilt of guilt
paranoia is hermetic
sealed as only a mind can be
unutterable like the tongues of poets

Boustrophedon

2009-08-05T03:52:00.000-07:00

This photo was taken in Varanasi near the cow ghat on the Ganges River.

I've been writing about cows for a while. In 2005, I opened my collection The Butterfly Effect with this very short poem. This poem subsequently went into the Best Australian Poems, 2006 anthology edited by Dorothy Porter.

boustrophedon is a method or writing employed in Crete which was written back and forth across the writing surface without any spaces, imitating the way in which cattle are used to plough a field.

Strange tractors

It’s an ancient method of
ploughing– more ancient even than
boustrophedon– two cattle retracing
their steps in parallel lines

No, here there’s not a
straight line to be seen anywhere– chaos
in the shape of two vulval wings–
the butterfly effect

Ruminants

2009-08-02T23:06:00.000-07:00

I head to India next week. I thought I should post a poem before I go that is appropriate to this blog.

Ruminant
for Coleen

A ruminant has four stomachs
like the four directions, four winds.

One, the rumen, is for thinking, chewing it over
separating the layers – liquid from solid
creating the bolus that goes, not once,
but repeatedly – coming and going
regurgitated, meditated, the cud thoroughly chewed
until it is thoughtfully digested.

The reticulum is the dilly bag of the system
honeycombed, latticed like a fishing net,
the cow carries about her grazings
sifting, sieving the cow’s colander
the net covers the mouth between
stomachs like a doily on a milk jug
the caul of the intestine.

A cow reads with her stomach
the leaves of the omasum flip
like the folios of a book
this stomach folds around time
her pages scored with the acid etched
memory of enzymes finding passage
through the wall like ghosts.

Finally, the abomasum, the second book,
the one after the first, its contents
digested in all the usual ways
that we monogastrics are familiar with,
it is from here that we take
our departure from the stomach.