The Poetry of Dawn Bruce

I write because I must. If I get an idea or feel something strongly, I need to get it down on paper or computer.I have always gathered ideas and jotted them down but didn't know what to do with them until 5 years ago when I began to read a lot of poetry and suddenly realised my jottings were almost the heart of a poem. During the last 5 years I have been widely published throughout Australia in lit. journals, magazines, anthologies and newspapers. I have read my work at many Sydney venues and also on radio.

Birds Drinking

and then you threw a stone
and they rose up
tore the grey sky open
with their white bodies
tore the cool air
with hot shrieks of fear
tore my heart
with the stoned one
lying on its side
one wing a white sail
flapping in despair
and the ground red
my hands red
as I wrapped
the bird in a towel
placed it in the car
and left you
standing
by the river's edge
skimming stones
across dead water

Dream-Child

in the shadow-secrets
he lies curled quiet
a whisper away
from truth

in the midnight stillness
he uncurls stretches
a ghost drifting upward
from the past

in the morning bleakness
he is banished by
the clatter of crockery
and every-dayness

Words

Our words discolour
begin to rot
             like old teeth
in the neglect
of this marriage.

Few words are left
safe enough to exchange
for we fear
                a crumbling
                a snapping
an exposure of raw nerves.

We sup
             upon the pap
and thin gruel
of stranger politeness.

in remembrance

even the trees outside are still...
the cupboard door opens
easily and the brandy gleams...
there is a scratchingsomewhere...
a mewling...
and I remember your days
of long slow breathing...
the closeness through the cracks
of pain...
I open the door to the garden
and the cat slinks in
              curls round my legs
soft and loving as you were
as you are
     if only I could reach you

Migrant Family

This night is spiced
sharper than stars
glimmering
            in the ecstasy
of our Spring thaw.

A swarm of wonder
fills the air,
            exhilarating
all our senses.

Those winter spawnings
scuttle under rocks
then perish
as warmth and hope
gilds our world
in the intoxication
of a new beginning.

My White Dove

Peace drapes around each day,
hangs in folds
too tired,
             too sad,
too worn from battles
raged,
            emits the dry odour
of an unused room
             rasps the delicate skin
of morning.

Night penetrates this thin cloth,
chills and numbs,
drains all colour,
leaves it cold-white
in the soft feathers of disguise.

© Dawn Bruce

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