I Home I About I Contact I Guidelines I Directory I World I Peace I Charity I Education I Quotes I Solutions I Photo Gallery I Archives I Links I

Thylazine: The Australian Journal of Arts, Ethics & Literature                                                                                                                                         #2/thyla2j THE POETRY OF DOROTHY PORTER Selected by Coral Hull [Above] Portrait of Dorothy Porter by Jenni Mitchell (oil on canvas 1998 30" x 36") "Whose creature am I? How do I code my prayers?" I BLACK FOX I SEA-FIRE I THE TEASE I Scenes from a marriage 1 (from THE NIGHT PARROT sequence) I Scenes from a marriage 3 (from THE NIGHT PARROT sequence) I STARRY NIGHT I DRIVING TO YOUR PLACE I SCIENCE FICTION I THE STRAY CATS HOME I PARADISE BEACH I AURORAL CORONA WITH TWO FIGURE XIV I "A GIRL MAD AS BIRDS" I THE SATIN BOWER BIRD I THE EMERALD LEOPARD I MOUNTAINS WINDOW EDGE I SNAKE STORY I THE STARS I VOLCANO VERTIGO I Hanging by a Thread I Caldera Lullaby I TEMPLE I BLACK SMOKERS I BLACK FOX And now     the black fox        chooses to tell me      about the white river, her fine brush tail      wet with light. My eyes     moving sluggishly        across the water -     love should be redefined        I thought            trancelike. Meanwhile,     there's the thunder         of the hunt and the exhausted          bugle      breaks open          the afternoon      like hands   fumbling with          an egg. Black fox     paws at me with delighted     yellow eyes and reeks         of damp logs,      golden lairs. I want   to be lit up     all over again and grope     for the old switch instead her keen scent       and wet nose glitter like pitch. Black fox          doesn't hear               what      I am saying- my eyes have               been         put out - from the darkest         of foxes' dens I whimper         liturgy for the old tenderness. Published in Little Hoodlum (Prism, 1975). SEA-FIRE Heat-wave        for the shark some arsonist        playing with God and matches igniting        deep-sprung waves in sheets of soaking fire. My canoe        in the wrong spot I ride        the tidal wave furnace over black-cork atolls        and scream Hawaii as tinder! Lesser men have walked        on water - Shadrach        steps out of the blaze        sucking damp feet. I steam        in two minds while my fingers char        on the green flicker        of a sea-horse                 mane. Published in Little Hoodlum (Prism, 1975). THE TEASE Remember    that sudden startling        of the birds           in the pines then the sky        was black           with them. Locust storm    you nudged     in your knowing way and headed       for your crops. Handfuls of birds       handfuls of birds        I chanted         all by myself and the clouds        winced from sharp feathers. A defiance      gummed with beak and claw; beneath which      the pines mope in a whining wind       and can't bear          to be touched. Published in Bison (Prism, 1979). Scenes from a marriage 1 (from THE NIGHT PARROT sequence) How fantastic are these            familiar suburbs     when the night parrot              is driving my car! The ovals, the churches,            the school playgrounds            the hardware stores all swish             like the high skirts             of a Kirchner prostitute; the seedy glamour       of memory          at its most piercing where dangerous old perfume           from a lover's skin hangs about            the streets like a saucy hoodlum       snapping his fingers smoking an unforgettable cigarette       turning this Milk Bar                     this boring suburb                     into El Dorado       where the streets are gold         at its most gamey            like gory Celtic jewellery - when the night parrot           is at the wheel              the Top 40                     becomes hot ice, and I throw these burning songs          from hand to hand              with my pulse                  ticking like a gaudy grenade; it's the jumping blood's answer                   to happiness the night parrot                    drives slowly                      to counterpoint                        my exhilarated heart's speed. Published in The Night Parrot (Black Lightning Press, 1984). Scenes from a marriage 3 (from THE NIGHT PARROT sequence) Narrabeen Lake       reclines under a giant, yellow moon        pocked           with my late-night fatigue- the black, shimmering water           could be skated on it looks            as inviting           as a risk; all the nocturnal animals           are creaking as I decide       to drive past- why do I regard          drowning as the death            I'd choose? Probably          because my heart twines               around                  the cliches           of wonderful, suffocating sex           like surrender           like falling- Narrabeen Lake       is delirious tonight it's stretched out       like a good-looking drunk          on a black carpet it's lit up it's dry white wine spilt in my lap Christ, what am I missing out on? Surely          nothing experienced               on my own         is wild        is a party! This time I'm crazy                   certifiable - berserk I'm answering                   the radio and it really                   understands me as it flies                   over the gorgeous lake. Published in The Night Parrot (Black Lightning Press, 1984). STARRY NIGHT for Steve …..we take death to go to a star…               Van Gogh The rain is an orthodox Muslim,     behind the slits in her long veil         are the stars- there's peace in purdah as the night folds up the wet, slippery roads- Venus is pronged     in a streaming night sky; the perceptions of extreme fatigue exalted and fuzzy swim against the black current - starlight and rain paint every door in the street     with faint phosphorus - the thrill of the private Passover. Published in The Night Parrot (Black Lightning Press, 1984). DRIVING TO YOUR PLACE When snakes slip off their skins when restless Marilyn Monroe         slips into something               more comfortable it's the gleam of a new life- when I drive               to your place I ride a wave                of light that swells                like Hawaii bombora                     sun water around the bends along the beach stretch                    to Manly where       with a dying quirk            of attack    it smashes the pier            to bits    and blacks right out- then corpse-grey sharks          play pinball              in the debris with eyes              like yours eyes of light green        like phantom light            at the bottom             of a sink hole- the absolute           charmed, charged                particles of the beloved          escaping                 into space                into light                 into my car                     cruising on automatic pilot                      taking that                            broad, golden road                               to Purgatory and silliness                     with Satan, Gabriel                            and my idol of you                    all singing pissed                               in the back seat- the lagoons           of the trip pelting            the windscreen                with colour blue; swans, herons, pelicans, egrets              flying                like threads                   on a tapestry                pulled by a miracle- both preceded                 and followed                      by an indolent, gorged sea     like the marine wine         Greeks painted              for dolphins- at the end of the line           french perfume                failed, while a cold night spat out the light               but let me see                  crummy houses              and a chatty stranger                  walking a toy dog- and I replied              that even on a hot night                 amidst sacred, burning                     apple trees I could make love to you         with my clothes on-      and that time it was alcohol talking. Published in The Night Parrot (Black Lightning Press, 1984). SCIENCE FICTION Once a dark rock orchid       struck long, strange roots           in my summer- why stretch your head      to understand the beautiful vagaries      of flora      in science fiction? Now   at the window         a rose a thousand times itself             and still growing    gobbling ultra-violet           its petals              filtering a red                 wildly fragrant sun         closes around me             in the thick embrace                of a Venetian atmosphere while my surface                     recedes                         from the knowledge                         of the naked eye. Published in The Night Parrot (Black Lightning Press, 1984). THE STRAY CATS HOME When poverty feeds the stray cats it's the new age of martyrs- what kind of penance     for a city       that's poached out           tigers? every morning         you wake up           to lose your glitter no matter            whose arms              have turned you around           in a sparkling dance that wears off              like disco perfume you can't dance to work   shouting about sex     and the softest mouth         that's ever painted you           a can't breathe gold all over instead           you watch with an ironed crease             between your legs             between your eyes poverty with a certain hand                with a cracked hand                feed the cats. Published in The Night Parrot (Black Lightning Press, 1984). PARADISE BEACH Dice and madness if no one comes it's not bad luck but you arrive    with the turbulent sky as if a storm was in a wonderful mood    of tropical give you arrive     with ocean-dark hair        deep sea eyes:     yet light/warm         a sunning rock pool           flooded with racing weed                and flashy fish- pelicans landing on a lagoon                 the deep water                 is barely disturbed likewise           I adjust           I lounge in you             because          you're a penthouse             in the Hanging Gardens               turning themselves                   inside out               with a blinder of green light                     revealing                          lorikeets squabbling                     in the afternoon- if this is love let's go swimming!! then it's hot chips        in greasy paper killing me with suspense burning my fingers        sharp with salt- miracles at Haymarket warehouses stinking with cats, fish            while the street is hosed            with lasers               coloured more violently            than rainforests then you're human,          flesh,    a bit tired            waving at me    walking down the street and you keep turning around- wild flowers    cracking through      plateaus of wild           sandstone    sacred dreaming sites    of memory falling       into the ocean     yawning around        Lion Island     a dark blue dinosaur         dreaming fitfully in your arms      I bush-bash fall, slip, dive       down hill on fallen leaves, bits of branch                    to grab, looking for              the direct path                 curving around the headland                     just above the sea it's like loss of balance, chase, pursuit                      hallucinatory leaps                           in a dream where you risk everything        and can't be hurt, where your breath    is renewable fuel       spinning you on            to reach        white sand        the bastard tangle of coral trees the smell     on the wind        of wharf, salt water            and mussels               crawling out                  at midnight - why do I dream    that some moron      plucks the only waratah          before it seeds             from the side of the road? in the dark I can't hear you sleeping      yet      in the dark I can smell     your hair; your back     as warm as sand- New Year's Day-      dawn over the water;       light by slow degrees the colour of silver gums noon a still life- shining palm your eyes speckling in the sun golden light tying my hands chlorophyll or sunstroke the trees, the wattles,    brandishing green swords         jumping at me            like ninja fighters I sit in a very hot car        and cook,           my face skin             sticks to my bones         while you and the beach             blur each other                in a wobbling light no mirage       even though the tar on the road                  bubbles just a knock on the heart     a dazzling fever         discovery             at the end of the                 computerish beep                    of the optic nerve               overheated to glory paradise means                 secret garden but in my happiness       this morning, this noon, this afternoon you're the best beach        on the peninsula democratic enough         to handle the week-ends and the summers christ, you can handle             George Street, Hoyts, parking stations your dark beauty               unnerving                   and attracting pest you unnerve me              from a hundred paces              from across the ocean; the morning sun    during a heat wave        you strike sparks          from my senses            lying about              like helpless flints- the mauve world      dissolving at dusk last seen           a weed                with bright yellow flowers its twining vine           invisible there's smoke           suspended mist over the bush gully just seen       through the wattle against the invisible rails     of a balcony you stand      and faintly shine like an early star- next day the disconcerting moon            above me            above the beach                 in a bright sky it pinions me            to night            to memory            to your mouth on my breasts the daytime moon      fixed above          dead Paradise Beach once netted          from sharks now closed for swimming          by pollution- but you and me           know another Paradise Beach the secret, exotic fringe           of white sand below a sheer drop            of burnt rock Paradise Beach in our eyes in our marrow it's our delight a pact our flirt         with the open, black sea. Published in The Night Parrot (Black Lightning Press, 1984). AURORAL CORONA WITH TWO FIGURES XIV Will we find     an inland sea? in fatigue in reverie I feel its tides- perhaps     a fresh-water inland sea where forests of pine      creep to the edge and a bird      huge, flightless        standing thick-legged           on the shore, stares unblinking         at my imagined intrusion- if it's salt water,    and sometimes      a sting in my eyes    insists it is, there'll be swamps of mangrove      and green crabs         with eyes like red knuckles      crowding          around the smooth bones              of Titus Oates, who wandered from a blizzard         to a shimmering hell                of brackish water         and died of thirst- or is the aurora,     glowing green     joining us again     like a nocturnal welcome leg iron, the sky's fading reflection        of an extinct sea? we put on        silver skis            and catch its waves. Published in The Night Parrot (Black Lightning Press, 1984). "A GIRL MAD AS BIRDS" Shellshock         of king parrots their bright bellies my hands on a hot stove the hands I love with magpies        tangled dangerously above my head gurgling like fresh rivers primary colours their black and white           strutting like lovers' chess lorikeets        sashay across the balcony        are always starving don't feed them sugar         give it to me instead. Published in Driving Too Fast (University of Queensland Press 1989, Hyland House 1996). THE SATIN BOWER BIRD Instead of picking at myself like an old scab I'm going to build a bower and litter it with bits of blue- you walk towards me down a Coles aisle and walk a cute crooked line like a peroxided Chandler drunk you're wearing blue and I want to fly off with you like a bower bird snitching a bright blue plastic peg- under the ripe white moon looming in broad daylight flashing all its deep craters I am pulled like the sea and feel quite washed up until you touch my face with your fine right hand and I see it glitter like a carved Minoan blue octopus gem stone and I'm going to sever it if you leave it lying about and fix it with bluetack to my bower wall, I want to keep it. I'm not up to my bower dance but I have other weapons of seduction, watch my face I'll hold my breath until I turn blue see? didn't I always say I'd die for you. Published in Driving Too Fast (University of Queensland Press 1989, Hyland House 1996). THE EMERALD LEOPARD You're lost if you steer. How did you get here? Leopard, that smell in the air. Leopard, that spoor at your feet. Your knots unfurled into a sail and you tacked into a high colour green. The leopard coughs from the horizon you head for her throat. She's beautiful. A roar of sea, a roar of fur you can look at her you can look at anything. A whiplash of tail as she looks at you. She's so dangerous; immense, she takes your trembling measure her eyes smoke your eyes close you want the cuff of her paw you dream of her weight on your chest. She doesn't move. A lush silence spreads from her stare. Her breath in your face. She shapes you sharp as light. You don't swoon. Published in Crete (Hyland House, 1996). MOUNTAINS WINDOW EDGE for Judy Beveridge Is it mescaline    on the quiet     but constant boil somewhere    in the tight wet battery      of my cortex? Is it some fey gene    from blue-eyed Fay my grandmother   who would perk up    in the back seat of a car   to love the colour    of the sea as we rose over the hill   to Mona Vale? In the centre   of my tooth-grinding    eye-squint of a self is an eye-still     wonder that never hurries through the light-tousled body of the Goddess who looks at the red breast of a parrot in a bare but budding tree as if my own bright blood   was untraumatically      on show life,life,life the white trunk of a young gum    in the cold dusk the amethyst of wine   drunk too fast    to Ella Fitzgerald as the window fogs    in my looking-out breath to stay with the light    picking out     the last of the plum blossoms is to go luxuriant dusk     myself the fade of my veins the glimmer of my hands   a slow intoxicated dissolve        from red to blue. Published in Crete (Hyland House, 1996). SNAKE STORY Death adder, will I ever learn when to step on you? In the dark I can smell your rustling dry mulch home but I can't smell you. Are you waiting? How do I shed this fusty skin of fear and walk with artfully reckless bared ankles? There's so much honour in the benediction of your dream-deep venom. Published in Heat (Australia). THE STARS The oldest dream is the black tar dream your throat fills with it while you sleep your bones dream of a mired eternity your bones dream of thick, steady sinking. The stars are old emetics they'll speed down your gullet like a bright needle punch. Take the terrifying medicine and vomit yourself free. Published in Heat (Australia). VOLCANO VERTIGO Hanging by a thread "We still have our moments" he says pushing off his gas mask, as he stands cocked at the crater's lip in the sulfurous breath of the volcano. She's happy behind her mask breathing evenly, shut up shut up shut up shut up her heart a spitting mud. There's no poison as paralysing as a holiday gone wrong. She almost wishes she was scared of heights. A thermal vent wheezes foully behind them, she thinks of the Earth in its chundering infancy, she smells the blisters of her marriage's raw heel bursting. He talks and talks shaping his hands into cones and craters, his fingers she once unimaginably craved for play the eruptions. The steam and stink frame his face in a hellish acrid glamour, she can almost remember what she once saw in him. And what does he really see of her as he bores on about sulfur-gorging germs thriving in temperatures that would fry any other mug living thing? What would kill her? Or is she slowly dying anyway in cooling bits and pieces? What would kill him? He's parroting for the third time the suicide tale the goggle-eyed guide told. The miner gone missing. His mates' sus story. The boots left goodbyed on the crater's edge. She looks with fresh interest at her husband's cherished runners. Watches his restless toes rippling their grubby leather. And sees them still and empty. Sooty, wreathed in steam. Happily coupled as only inanimate objects can be. She has a flash clear memory of a tiny empty flat, and her own things happily strewn in their own solitary clutter. Oh, christ, she was learning there were worst horrors than loneliness, as he jumps about like a cricket his camera clicking her masked averted face. Would she catch the volcano fever if it were Stephen's finger on the trigger, if it were Stephen's toes rippling the runners? Would her heart's magma rush to his whistle? Stephen. She barely knows him. Stephen. An aging woman's sticky fantasy. Stephen. Should she send him a postcard? Of a volcano. Spewing up its sad old guts. Stephen's long distance enticements evaporate as her husband grabs her arm, she's dreamily moved too close to the edge "I don't want to lose you…yet!" Extinct. Extinct. Extinct. A volcano's death knell sounds her own. Or is she just itchy dormant awaiting her big eruptive moment? Watch Stephen charring in her own last fling Ring of Fire. Let them lie down and die together in her deepest hissing fumerole. Her husband wipes his excited hands on his silly white shorts, and she prays for a lava bomb to gouge him away. "Are you a praying mantis about to munch on her mate?" he jokes, and yanks at the ridiculous nose of her mask. don't touch don't touch me the volcano was bringing out the randy pest in him, he'd be buzzing all night. "Wouldn't the kids find this place wicked!" and he starts moronically singing, as if he can't stand the volcano getting all the attention. Caldera lullaby She's humming her own tune as the boat glides away, an ash plume climbing into the late afternoon sky. And blessing her lump of lucky sulfur, and blessing the luck of hazy head counts. Published in The Sydney Morning Herald (Australia). TEMPLE To what heavens is my uneasy body temple aligned? A red scorch mark like a bleeding witch's tit rubs uncomfortably in my arm pit. Whose creature am I? How do I code my prayers? I am on some nights, Europa, a dry terrestrial primitive smelling with terror the wet white-hot fish gods coming. BLACK SMOKERS I can withstand this. Black smokers come and go. And their colonies of sulfur glutton bacteria and heat junkie worms move on. I can withstand her. Let me be an iron-deaf sea-bed that will not fold at the hot lick of her voice not crack at the magma push of her touch not let her thermal boiling memory poison through. About the Poet Dorothy Porter Dorothy Porter was born in Sydney. She has published five books of poetry, three verse novels and two novels for young adults. Dorothy has traveled extensively and has a strong interest in wildlife and the environment (she is a keen birdwatcher). The Monkey's Mask, a crime thriller in verse, was winner of the Age Poetry Book of the Year award and the National Book Council 'Banjo' for Poetry. In 1997, a UK edition of The Monkey's Mask was nominated as one of the Best Books of the Year in The Times and is one of the fastest-selling works of poetry published in Australia. It has been performed as a stage adaptation, radio play and will be released as a feature film in 2000. In 1999 Dorothy published a new verse novel, What a Piece of Work (Picador 1999) set in Sydney’s Callan Park Psychiatric Hospital during the 1960’s. A play based on this book has been chosen for the Griffin Theatre’s 2000 season.    [Above] Dorothy Porter and Emma by Andrea Goldsmith, 1996. I Next I Back I Exit I Thylazine No.2 (September, 2000)