CAROLYN VAN LANGENBERG


Carolyn van Langenberg is the author of the fish lips trilogy ó
fish lips, the teetotaller's wake, blue moon (www.indra.com.au).
In 2000, fish lips was short-listed for the David T K Wong
Fellowship, East Anglia University, UK. Carolyn's recent poetry
is on-line at Shearsman (UK), Mascara (Aust), Cordite (Aust), in
the anthology in parallel Chinese and English text edited by
Christopher (Kit) Kelen, Fires Rumoured About The City: Fourteen
Australian Poets
(Macau) and with She Hawke in tender muse
(www.picaropress.com). Carolyn lives in the Blue Mountains,
NSW, Australia.





bones

1.
in mist, the garnering of energies
restless, mulching

there's a sinking into soil
roots, exotic tentacles

sucker down under
parrots crunching seeds

splash out the bird bath
autumn leaves mat

tip kitchen waste in
wormy compost


2.
this sort of thing missed
when I'm standing in front of

egos oiled on canvas, despair
and glamour hewn from stone

those grand statements
lode European art

self-belief inscribed
heavy-headed purpose

a certain complacence
justified.


3.
Istanbul is stories
at orange dawn

the call to prayer
rippling down the Bosphorus

a kind of assurance
floating on pillowed clouds

inscripted flourish
on blue tiles, stone

worn down by 3000 years and
hair escapes the veil.


4.
chopsticks snap up
frogs legs, I like to eat

glass noodles tangle rice vermicelli
steamed in aromatic bisque

money flicks from hands
folded square in pockets

surprise skids the colour of bone
imprisoned in a downpipe

deeply twisted mangrove
puts out one stiff leaf.


5.
where is spring
green shoots

sudden frost blackens
mud greasing

sly
under straggled grass

free of cement
kerbs and gutters

a hint of sour bracken drifts
succulents reach for drains

renewal
dishevelled

like the child snuggled
in damp mounds for warmth

I loosen: after all the
decanted blood and bones

the country of lost children
ossifies

anxiety is where I live and
thyme creeps over rock.








Presente di

In the afternoon
I stretch out
on the sofa,
watch the striped sky
become more
stripey.

Paganini's
Caprices
for violin
striate the zenith.
Ilya plucks the
high note.

Between branches
a silver eye
flits. It pecks
for insects
in spiderwebs thick
around the window frame.

Paganiniís dramatic
vibrato is so extravagant.

A kookaburra
has a go,
beak up to strike
affettuoso, avarian
competitive edge
stupendous.

Time for the news.
The remote sorts out
what's on, what's off.
Kevin waves for the
(is it there?)
waiting crowd.

The sky shifts.
Apricot rolls
under sunlit clouds.
Julie Bishop talks tough,
Beijing unaware
she dresses well.



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