Winnie Jiao1 May 2017
The sky in the frog’s eyes
is only as big as the mouth of the well
dry chamomile grinds between my toes
passing the skin of a goat hung proud
air perfumed by fresh leeks
stirred in warm water by an ancestor’s hand
Is beauty the same as love? You used to know this answer, but now you’re not sure. You used to know ugliness meant fragmentation, splintering, isolation; you thought beauty was their absence. You’re finding it harder and harder to find that difference. When you knew beauty, poetry came easily to you. When you’ve forgotten it, when you think poetry has an obligation to be more beautiful than silence, you can’t write at all.
I am nowhere tiny twitching suns
By the end of it, Mary didn’t feel any love toward the sheep. She didn’t want to hold their slimy bodies, cold and wet, abandoned by their mothers. Most didn’t even know how to suckle properly. She had given up trying to help lost lambs.
They say your dreams were actually migraines,
that those luminous sighs cascading before your eyes
in burning heavenly rains were in fact
a derangement of pain and shivering neurons.
The darkness webs from
shattered homes in silence,
and spreads through the petrol-stations
and the pizza shops on Saint Georges Road.
Have you heard about the Night of the Beast? It’s the day those creatures we cared for, creatures we treasure, and the creatures we hunted come back to our world. Clothed in the skin of the underworld, fit for a hot summer evening, they march down the streets, their legs returning them to homes where the memories of them subsist.
The contrast was enhanced as the surroundings got progressively darker. I could sense another alien colour, just above the orange, which I had not witnessed till then that day. To him, it was a sky blue. At that point, even the sea began to participate, carrying the sunlight towards us, through the waves.
Earlier this year, my Grandpa published a book of poetry. It’s a compilation of over 150 poems spanning half a lifetime, a bona fide history of his experiences in China and then subsequently here, in Australia. There are poems about everything, from the flowers in our backyard to my late Grandma. There are even a good five or six poems dedicated to yours truly.
Gunther woke up feeling sick.
Pedestrian crossings beat as my heart.
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