My poem ‘White Noise’ can be read in the latest edition of the Pocketry Almanack

The Pocketry Almanack (Volume 3) is a literally small publication, made and folded from a single sheet of A4 paper. It contains five other delightful and clever poems in addition to one of my own, White Noise.

And the really good news is that you don’t need to part with any cash to get a copy. It is either free or bartered for an unusual word or intriguing anecdote. So ask me for a copy next time you see me!

The Pocketry Almanack has been produced regularly since 2019 by the amazing Indrani Perera.

You can find out more about all the poets in the current issue here.

Thanks Pocketry!

#pocpoe #pocketry #pocketryalmanack

The meaning of locality in a time of covid

As borders close and lockdowns proliferate I find that the meaning of home and locality is beginning to transform. Here’s a partly light-hearted poem I wrote whilst contemplating exactly that issue. Although the landmarks may not be familiar to you (they are drawn from my own locality of Northcote in Melbourne), you may enjoy either substituting them with some of your own or taking yourself on a journey of the mind to Northcote itself!

We all know where we were on 25/09/2000!

I was one of those people lucky enough to be in the Sydney Olympic stadium on that iconic night when Cathy Freeman won gold. Savour the atmosphere in my latest poem.

I hope you enjoy the video. You can also read the poem in full in the youtube comments section – see my youtube channel at https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCmNmUAcQ9wAFUc_r5_NRU-Q

August lockdown

In Melbourne we have had a tsunami of positive covid cases from numerous clusters resulting in a very severe lockdown. It’s our second lockdown of the year and my latest poem reflects a little on our latest situation.

You can hear me reading the poem below. And please do subscribe to my youtube channel if you want to hear more.

I hope you enjoy the video. You can also read the poem in full in the youtube comments section – see my youtube channel at https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCmNmUAcQ9wAFUc_r5_NRU-Q

A lockdown poem

Here’s a new poem written during lockdown which reflects on some of the dislocation and angst which the current (necessary) restrictions engender.

What of love?

I

It is Autumn here and Spring there. We are kept separate.
Two fish floundering in a rare tide, hemispheres apart.
The sea will not relent, and we have no wings to fly.

While I sleep briskly, you dream walk. While you sleep briskly,
I dream walk. We sleep walk through it all. And what of love?
The world is asynchronous and sick. It cannot let us meet.

II

Time-trapped flocks of silver birds, immobile, desert-roost.
All perfectly aligned. A statuesque Xi’an army
Waiting for an afterlife, which never comes.

I dream you fly south to hibernate. Brought by
Winds which never rest; which have no knowledge of
Pestilence or death. Your wings brush my sleeping face.

III

We each morph into avatars; gain beautiful
Green screened backgrounds; go viral. There is no cure.
We become pixelated. You cannot see my tears.

During beach-burnt summers of my youth we ate Zoom ice lollies
Rockets of yellows, reds and greens which melted in the sun.
Salty waves crashed onto windswept pebbled land.

IV

Touch becomes forgotten. An expensive commodity,
It can cost our whole lives. Supply is restricted.
Governments control its flow. They watch how it is used.

I remember the hairs on the back of my hand
Caressing the invisible hairs of your cheek.
Electricity still flows across twelve thousand miles.

V

In my front yard untamed bottlebrush is rampant this fall.
The honeyeaters are in love with its red-flamed gown.
They fly free; perch; throng the nectar as they wish.

Each year, in the dead heart of frozen fiery winter,
A single red rose blooms outside my window.
The wind gives me a sweet-smelling, petalled carpet.

VI

Some know seven years of Pacific isolation.
In my land, we are fretful after seven weeks.
Fear loiters in our streets, and bolts our borders.

You and I hope for less than seven years. Much less.
In your land, things reopen after seven weeks –
While death still stalks your streets, and haunts your air.

VII

Fickle uncertainties of winds and tides, of life and death,
Of the bottlebrush and rose, of freedom and the sea.
Nothing is more substantial than air, fire, water, earth.

And still you are far away, in Spring. The wait, it is –
Exhausting. We know it saves lives. But what of love?
The sea will not relent, and we have no wings to fly.


(C) Andrew Brion, 2020