The Best Australian Poems 2011 Read Online Free

delivered to the door, postcards in the box outside
    Â 
    she has a sturdy stick to hold down against this earth
    tapping as if to wake someone down there
    Â 
    a warning they are coming

In my phone
Pam Brown
    for Gig
    Â 
    you said we didn’t but we did
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â have telephones
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â in seventies share houses,
    bulky bakelite telephones
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â ringing as often
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â as Frank O’Hara’s
    and Brigid Berlin’s did, a decade earlier
    Â 
    we had honour systems –
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â add phone calls
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â to a running total
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â in a column under your name,
    like a boardgame score,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â pay up
    when the household bill arrives
    Â 
    *
    Â 
    I could ring to say
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â sometimes I imagine you
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â in a Max Ernst collage
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â ( Une semaine de bonté )
    Â 
    there’s a woman reflected
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â in an ornately gilded mirror
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â behind an open door,
    you’re the other woman
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â guiding a feathered bird-man
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â into a high Edwardian
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â drawing room –
    he carries a tooled leather bag,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â he seems to be a doctor,
    â€˜mind how you go doctor’  you say
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â€˜just step over
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â the apopleptic monkey, doctor’
    Â 
    doctor feathered bird-man
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â brings sleeping elixir,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â an anodyne
    Â 
    *
    Â 
    in sleep
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â I’m filled with thought,
    my dream constructed
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â not by surrealism
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â but by Slabs R Us,
    solid, solemn, grey
    Â 
    half asleep, half dreaming,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â a phone is ringing,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â I hold the earpiece close –
    Â Â friends pollute the swoony hours
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â with caring
    Â 
    in a poetry world
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â everything is providential,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â or not,
    and, sometimes,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â just life on hold, call waiting,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â like Tennyson’s poetic
    Â 
    reading now, quiet,
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â a newer title –
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â I always skip
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â redacted poems,
    the crossings-out seem obvious
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â and attention seeking –
    you would