On This Very Street in Belgrade
Your mother carried you
Out of the smoking ruins of a building
And set you down on this sidewalk
Like a doll bundled in burnt rags,
Where you now stood years later
Talking to a homeless dog,
Half-hidden behind a parked car,
His eyes brimming with hope
As he inched forward, ready for the worst.
-- Charles Simic (born May 9, 1938).
SUBURBAN FROG
I
stopped to stand
on a
stone bridge
in the
wetlands
I
stopped to listen to
a
frog’s monologue donk donk
but as
I stopped he stopped –
all I heard
was a handyman
thumping
and sawing
to my
left and to my right
space
invaders in a backyard.
I
stood and waited to
catch
my breath and as I
waited
frog started again donk
closer
seemingly donk donk
under
the bridge – and his throaty song
lightened
my load donk donk
and I
smiled as I looked up
to the
top of the tallest gum donk
ANDREW BURKE
burkeandre@gmail.com
"...poetry is survival, sir. it throws some of the stink bombs out of my room. if it comes as rhythm fine or physic, fine, any old way. I think of it more as a loaf of bread, a long fat hot loaf, sliced half down the middle, spread with pickles, onions, meats, garlic, chilies, old fingernails...add ice beer and a shot of scotch, ram it down under electric light, forget the mountains of faces and eyes and wrinkles and bombs and rent and graves, get it in, warm, smelling, filling, light a cigar, blow the whole room paint the whole room blue with smoke, play the radio, think of the bones of Chopin's left foot---that to me, is poetry, or zingplay, or the rays." Bukowski,
SCREAMS FROM THE BALCONY - [To Allen DeLoach] February, 1967
Can I suggest you back Australian poetry by buying The SATURDAY PAPER and reading three poems by Chilian poet JUAN GARRIDO-SALGADO ? That's this week's issue - but the paper has a literary creative page each week which is worth reading - as they are scarce!
