The final poems #51 & #52 in the wild, plus DIY bonus round

Poem 51 (7 of hearts) was released in Mr Tulk, where I was having a sneaky pre-conference breakfast. Nice work on the eggs, guys.

He eats a pale track around
his apple, inchworming
furrows out of green.
Disposable cutlery of baby teeth
shuffle along shiny skin, pausing
at each new bite to secure his hold,
drive a new peg into the rockface.
He has come full circle, meets
with surprise soft familiar flesh.
Brandishes a bright striped globe
of his achievement, smiling rows
of pearls as though he's lapped the world.

Poem #52 (Joker #2) is made out of phrases in the spam comments I've received on this blog - some of them could be little poems in their own right, apart from the "visit my website buy hot bags and shoes" at the end. It was released during the Reading Matters YA literature conference, in Fiona Wood's excellent book Six Impossible Things (recommended). 

Little things we may take for granted:

Alone: the vary of t-shirts that

somebody, yourself, have laid out.

With others, hand gestures in order

from offensive to polite.

At home: orientation of the bedroom

Without your pet.

The real meat of one’s own company

is obscured, does exist. 

There are 52 cards in a pack, it's true (though I didn't exactly finish releasing all 52 poems in exactly a year, because life), but the one I bought also had two jokers. So I was still left with a king of spades and an ace of diamonds after having released 52 poems.

So, welcome to the DIY bonus round! These cards were released blank, for someone to find, with instructions for them write their own poem on the card and release where they see fit. If anyone does this, I'm hoping they'll tweet me a photo of their release @poemsinthewild, or contact me through the blog. They were both released together at the Little Library in Melbourne Central.

 And we're done! It took a bit over a year, in the end, and only a handful of poems were reported as found, though I know a lot of them were picked up by somebody, as I'd see them disappear. Maybe some of them are being carried around as anonymous bookmarks.

The hardest part of  writing of these regular, mostly unedited poems turned out to be keeping them short enough to fit on a playing card, which isn't much space to say something. Consequently, a lot of them don't really say much, or they're brief images. So few lines doesn't leave much space for story, which my poems often tend towards. Another difficulty was that after I went back to full time work last year (no more writing day, because it was turning out to be a waste of both time and money), I didn't really go to many different places over the course of the weeks: mainly I would go to Carlton, Northland, Northcote Plaza, the park, and home. Life on a tight budget with small children and full time work doesn't lend itself to much variety of travel!

But now they're all out in the world. Thanks to the people who checked in when they found one, the people who helped release them for me, and Lygon St Newsagency for selling me the overpriced deck in the first place.

Poems in the wild #50

Poem #50 (9 of hearts) was released in a copy of Daniel Handler's "Why We Broke Up" (an excellent read, if you haven't) in the Rowden White Library.

Someone ironed morning flat
as a sad business shirt.
The sky is spilled milk,
unfound by any plush pet tongue.
I'm pressed into bed by
celestial lactose intolerance.
There is a failing here
in the vast history of colour.
I'd poke holes in the sky's paper
but I can't lift up my arm.

Table for one

The Old England Hotel has the kind of carpet that is suitable for your grandmother's birthday lunch or a Magic Eye picture. You can't see which bit of the Old England is the dining room from the outside, which always makes me anxious about whether I'm going in the right door, or I'm going to end up in a Local Front Bar For Local People by accident. But my friend and I - let's call us both Anna, to save time - have just spent hours in the Mill Park Savers repeatedly losing and finding my four-year-old as we tried to actually look at stuff, so we've decided a recovery parma is required. We creep in what we think is the right door, and we're in luck. Psychedelic carpet: yes. Sudden silence where bulbous men in tiny shorts turn their heads from their pints and stare at us in unison: no. 

Table achieved, Anna goes back out to the car to get such items that will weld a child to his seat for the duration of a meal. Or at least minimise the number of times I hiss “SIT down on your CHAIR.” I lean on the bar while Luka does spasmodic laps around my legs, a four year old's interpretation of break-dancing crossed with a febrile seizure

"I love you," says his little voice from floor level.

I look down at him. "I love you too."

He looks at me and holds up a toy. "I was saying it to the Ninja Turtles."

The drinks available on tap are Carlton Draught, Vic Bitter, and Brown Brothers Dry White. I like my wine with a good head on it, so I go with the last one. While I’m waiting for my change, a little old man sidles up to the bar and does the "looking for a staff member" head movement. He’s one of those willowy, slightly bendy old men, who look like they’ve curved in the breeze because their head is a bit heavy for the rest of them to hold up straight. He’s clutching his hat in front of him in a very earnest gesture, and is dressed like he might be going to your grandmother’s birthday lunch, or to look at a Magic Eye picture.

“Can I help you?” asks the waitress.

The old man startles gently and clutches his hat a little tighter. “Oh hello, I wasn’t sure where to go. I’ve booked a table for one, for dinner?”

“Oh yes,” says the waitress, and he follows her to a small square table shoved up against a pylon, with one padded pastel-pink seat in attention.

Back at our table, Luka is quiet for 20 seconds while he mainlines his orange juice.

“My wife and I used to come here together all the time,” I overhear the old man tell the waitress. “I haven’t been here for 10 years since she died, so I thought it was time to come back and see what the old place was like these days.” He announces his little speech like he’s been rehearsing it. His voice is brave and papery.

The waitress sounds like she wants to hug him. I kindof wish she would. “Well, we’re very glad to have you back. There’s your menu, you let me know if there’s anything else you need, okay?”

Anna comes back to the table, and after we order dinner I urgently whisper to her about the man at the table around the corner. When I’ve finished, our eyebrows are so contorted with wub, you could cut them out and make us into a flip book of The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

Our meals are punctuated with the traditional tonal folk songs of the four-year-old child:

"My chips are too HOT."

“I want more CHIPS.”

“I don’t WANT to draw a vampire.”
“I want to go OVER THERE.”

“Can I play on your PHONE?”

“I want to go HOME.”

“I want to go home NOW.”

And finally: 

“I need to do a POO.”

It’s definitely time to go home. Anna wins my eternal love by leading my cartwheeling child off to the toilets, and I stand near the bar, waiting. I glance behind me: the bendy old man has quietly eaten his soup and fish, picked up his hat, and is on his way out the door. I hope Luka didn’t make him speed up his eating.

As I wander over to stand near the hotel door, it opens again and a tiny bird-like lady shuffles in. She has white hair set in soft, short curls. She wears sensible slacks and a floral patterned blouse that could almost be a Magic Eye picture.

The waitress beams at her with practiced friendliness. “How can I help you?”

“Oh hello dear,” says the old lady. “I’m just wondering if you might have a table for one available for dinner.”

The waitress presses her hands together. “Oh, you’re in luck,” she says. “One’s just opened up.”

Poems in the wild #49

 Poem #49 (ace of spades) was released in an old jar of Two Fruits off the breakwater in Warrnambool. Maybe it will wash up one day and be found by somebody! I hope they won't be too disappointed if they were really just hoping for some free Two Fruits.

Let’s straighten out some curly family history.

The youngest of three,

he grew up in a slipstream of brothers.

All his milestones were expected;

all his milky vomits anticipated and caught.

Then the silence stretched out anxiously,

til finally, behind schedule, he spoke.

And then, often.

Poems in the wild #48

Poem #48 (10 of hearts) was released at the Little Library in Melbourne Central.

Poetry folds into itself so tight
Like a spitwad primed in the end
Of a disembowelled Bic.
Spray of mâché and saliva
I have minced words all over
The back of your silent neck.
I'll pulp your whiteboard whiter
With a lick and a promise
Lead verse made shot.

foam:e and Otoliths

A bit of shameless self-promotion.

I have poems in the new issues of online journals foam:e and Otoliths, neither of which I've been published in before.

Hurrah! Head over for a read if you've a mind to.

Poems in the wild #47

Poem #47 (7 of clubs) was released at the information kiosks on the ground floor of Union House, University of Melbourne. Apologies for being well behind on this, but it's been a really fucked up month on many fronts.

I have put you to bed
like the end of a book.
You are a little body
in an acreage of bed.
Already butterfly eyelids
you fling an arm back.
It catches my hand
and my skin rises.
I lean over, down
and tuck you away.
Kisses folded softly,
knees as if for prayer.