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Thylazine: The Australian Journal of Arts, Ethics & Literature                                                                                                                                #10/thyla10k-ab AUSTRALIAN POETS SERIES 10 The Poetry of Andrew Burke Selected by Coral Hull [Above] Photo of Andrew Burke by Miles Burke, 2004. I Brown Bag in Freo I 'Poems as gradual as weather' Ron Silliman I Apologia I Stuck with Words I Paddler I Brown Bag in Freo im John Forbes I write this on a brown paper bag John Forbes' Collected inside … echoes of O'Hara writing Lunch Poems on display typewriters, circa 1950s. New York poets, yes - we had your Sydney to my Perth.                                               Over there                        a young man in everything black                      waves his guitar, present tense,                 at the traffic in Freo's High Street.               He crosses to New Edition. Perhaps                 I've bought the book he wanted                      to spend his busking money on. The Collected. How our days are wrapped in commercial papers, faces on the cover, poems pinned to each page reverently. I want to put coffee rings on each one, a little weed here and there, sprinkle a proprietary pharmaceutical line over all like holy water ('In the name of ... )                                           Our busker doesn't have                             a case for his guitar, strings open                         to the weather, face grimacing                             at the exhaust of buses before                                           a night of simple human exhaust. Among the common exhausts of life we had moving furniture in common - Queen Anne wardrobes, sets of jarrah drawers, even old Frigidaires (too heavy for the wages). Already the myths need regassing in poetry's major minor league. So now I write this on a paper bag, John Forbes mummified inside. I shake him like a rattle: echoes spill out, click-clack rhythms of the heart to start, neuro waves extend. I take John out, put the bag to my lips, fill it with air, then burst it against my neck. Published in foam:e (Australia). 'Poems as gradual as weather' Ron Silliman on a green plastic table out back of this rented wreck stand five tomato bushes in black pots waiting to build strength in their roots to go to ground. it has rained for three days and they have grown. a l.i.t.t.l.e mottled sunlight and the first yellow flower shows up in the middle mouth of one. i worry that it is too early and like a kitten having kittens won't fruit properly. i worry for the plant itself not the projected crop i worry for the individual, telling myself not to, they are only plants, but plants which rely on me and so i worry, should i have? should i have? and should i have? but maybe, maybe not, maybe ... Published in Famous Reporter (Australia). Apologia The poem I wrote for her was for me - all ego - That's how I see it now: a masquerade party, With me posing and knowing, confident confidant. The imagery was measured, cut From day's marble of sun and shade; And I spoke of her bejeaned arse like a boy Saying things to shock his mother, cheeky, Not downright rude. Cheeky too The curve of breast - somehow the road Carried my load, red motorbike's roar My mating call to her. It is so Predictable now, looking back … I cut away the glissando and the Boy's Own Symbolism, I cut out the pose and the poise; I cut a page down to a quatrain. Will she See me now? I'm in plain view, ego Lightened by the light of years, a boy Leaning on his bike outside her house. Stuck with Words IM Melanie Edwards (1966-2003) When I told my son of your death, he said, 'That's life, Dad, that's life.' That's life itself, isn't it, another paradox in a long line, another shadow on the face of our memorial lawns. That's life, a mention during changeover at the hospital while your pages settle into silence, characters lie down in corridors of words, dark pages prepare for light. Behind closed doors, they sent you diving past the ocean's floor, before birth, only breathing tubes visible on your body bobbing above like a leaky life raft and nobody bailing. That's life, each of us bobbing alone, anchored by clocks and routine, habits and duty. Don't let us distract you from your life now, don't stay in the corridor just to hear us chat. Seven weeks in hospital. Your dog already expects you gone when he wakes each morning. Perhaps we'll be like that soon, busying ourselves between meals, losing ourselves in chit-chat and television. I can't see that now: right now a sharp light has been thrown over all perspective, and values lie in the yarrow sticks ready to be thrown anew. Published in Nth Position (UK). Paddler for Andrew Taylor memories mark time peppered with days and nights loves, houses and children a train ticket, a photo in Europe peppered with days and nights dawn's long shadow - a train ticket, a photo in Europe tail feathers of a kite dawn's long shadow ripples over rocks - tail feathers of a kite, a mountain stream ripples over rocks, yesterday's rain runs a mountain stream to the river, to the coast; yesterday's rain runs down leaves, off dry sands to the river, to the coast. rafts of sunlight flash down leaves, off dry sands to a paddler in midstream. rafts of sunlight flash, drop from the blade of a paddler in midstream - echoes of great rivers drop from the blade, generation upon generation echoes of great rivers, loves, houses and children, generation upon generation, memories mark time. Published in Journal of Australian Studies (Australia). About the Poet Andrew Burke Andrew Burke is an Australian poet who has lived most of his life on the west coast in Perth. Born in Melbourne in 1944, Burke's family moved west to expand the family business eighteen months later. In his teens, Burke read Kerouac and Ginsberg and other 'Beat' writers, and they gained his interest more than the Hardy and company he was studying at school. He started to ape their style in all he wrote, and published his first short story at 18. He has written on a daily basis ever since - stories, plays, poems, and - to feed wife and children - ads and videos, annual reports and press releases. Since 1990, Burke has taught creative writing and allied subjects at universities, TAFE colleges and writing centres. He is presently (2004) a PhD candidate at Edith Cowan University, writing a novel and an exegesis on post-modern styles in prose writing. Burke has published six books of poetry; Let's Face the Music and Dance (Peter Jeffery, 1975), On the Tip of my Tongue (FACP, 1983), Mother Waits for Father Late (FACP, 1992), Pushing at Silence (SALT, 1996), Whispering Gallery (Sunline Press, 2001), and Knock on Wood (Picaro Press, 2003). He has read and compered readings from Singapore to Wagga Wagga.    [Above] Photo of Andrew Burke by Miles Burke, 2004. I Next I Back I Exit I Thylazine No.10 (September, 2004)