Issue 8
September 2001
Gary Langford
Author of 24 books, including 9 novels & 8 books of poetry, his latest book being 'Lunch in the Storyteller's Restaurant'(stories), 2001. Presently, he is co-ordinator, Creative Writing, University of Western Sydney, Australia.
SNAKE ON SIDE
When this happens we can look at headlines,
glad we aren't there. Most are morbid,
we are incapable of treating good news seriously,
such as, no kids were abused today,
not a single murder,
the hospital's empty.
We suspect goodness as lies.
Snake knows this will never happen,
enraptured by fallout of the human heart,
often defined as clinical depression,
the one who has dived under the surface,
resurfacing in horror,
and blanching forward.
We want wings to take us above all,
here the atmosphere cherishes.
Snake calls these fantasies, yet encourages them,
all on the soft slope of silence,
all the poppy-fields we lie down in,
believing in alchemy.
When we sleep above the camps of wire,
when we grow tired and sell our homes and shares,
cast off all possessions,
we are in the straight line,
refusing to take thoughts from strangers,
raising our heads into the rain.
Then we realize what life has always had,
that Snake is in our arms,
folding them back as they merge,
and we lie in bed, talking to ourselves,
no longer embarrassed as Snake crawls,
sea calls and we fall forward into the water.
SNAKEHOUSE
You can hear all words in this house,
each beat long on the edge of knowledge,
though many are out-of-season,
mould between books, pages soft and fading.
People fall out, listless or yelling,
convinced they're on a slippery floor,
faces haunted, barely recognizable.
We say, odder than having tea with your enemy,
and believing everything they say.
We don't know each page is our page,
no matter how many rows we sit in,
and that's what we laugh at,
walking the corridors of each other.
We select our own books,
turning each page is turning ourselves,
the soft semblance of winter-control.
Then the heart beats faster,
catching sight of our faces in the mirror,
thinking that can't be us, something's wrong,
the pulse is exploding, and we don't know where.
We leave, claiming we've learnt,
even that we are the author,
and all sound is ours.
Just for a moment.
FISHBONE
For weeks, I was above fishbone,
then the plot changed. I had no control,
unable to even write the words.
The air was flat, grass harsh.
These are not places you want to enter.
You smiled briefly, as you disappeared,
heavy under bone headlines.
I wanted to bring you back,
praying and bathing in fragrant oils,
leading to spring, or so I believed -
the bigger the promise, the more I paid,
yet you never returned.
Now, only silence, memories on slow fade,
until only a single fishbone was left.
I threatened to boil and eat shape - irrelevant.
I scraped and cooked its tissue - laughter.
The following day saw you whole again,
angular, pure white and gauntily growing.
All that was left was pure bone.
THE ISLAND
The island lay at the center of the bay,
near the breeding ground of seals.
Tourists took photographs,
blind to the decaying pool below.
Each wave battered the rock,
where once farmers had dreamed,
failing in the relentless tide,
worn away as the land was.
We stood at the edge,
waves on black-mussel rocks,
near houses where television played,
unable to see the earth owns us.
Years, breath, and the final sigh.
We had lunch, packed our bags,
returning over the mountain pass,
approaching clouds of another storm.
We reach the front door of home,
lightning strikes, illuminating the hills,
and each other, jagged stones, bending curves,
and we, we smile and breathe again.