A collection of poems inspired by the chaos that is the creation of life: my child/let me/tell you/a story/the butterfly/a young mother/lays the eggs/ and flies away/round, white eggs/become green grubs/with tiny feet and feelers/searching for something/one day, one strays/and looks around/she is the only one left/hides away, up high/wiggling and wriggling/until her skin peels away/floating to the ground below/she shuts her tiny eyes/holds on tight/until she emerges/in the warm light/of a spring day/transformed/a new creature/with bright blue wings
Metamorphosis
my child
let me
tell you
a story
the butterfly
a young mother
lays the eggs
and flies away
round, white eggs
become green grubs
with tiny feet and feelers
searching for something
one day, one strays
and looks around
she is the only one left
hides away, up high
wiggling and wriggling
until her skin peels away
floating to the ground below
she shuts her tiny eyes
holds on tight
until she emerges
in the warm light
of a spring day
transformed
a new creature
with bright blue wings
she beats them, once
one beautiful wing
against the other
the world stops turning
consumed by
waves and fire.
my child
let me
tell you
my story
I
a young mother
created you
and ran far away
your tiny, pink body
became a whole, real person
with tiny feet and hands
searching for me
one day, you’ll run from me
stop! and look around
when you’re the only one left
hiding and high
cooking liquid gold
watching it bubble and burn
on a silver spoon
float back down, below
you will shut your eyes
and ride the wave
re-emerging
in the cold street light
of midnight
a new creature
a fleshy body with no wings
you will clap your hands, once
put one wrong foot
after the other, until
your world will keep spinning
and mine will be consumed
by you.
Vida
I was born
to a dead Mother
on white linen sheets
as the virgin Mary
rested beside her head.
Lost in a family of seven
I supped from the breast
of an unknown woman
and grew into a tall girl
wrapped in a pink dress
with a skeleton’s face.
I grew up
tall and wise
with wide hips
and a sharp mind
and Papa always said:
“She is the most like me.”
I met a boy
a smart one too
but I knew
he wasn’t enough for me
so I searched for a man
with a palette to paint
a portrait of pain
to match my own.
“Can you hear me?”
I implored him
to read my lips
to feel my pain
but he was too brilliant,
clever and cold
to care about
the little girl
in a pink dress
with a skeleton’s face
inside of me.
All I had left
and all I believed in
was the power of the
hidden space within
where like a child
dancing among faeries
in a garden of colour
I saw hope.
But I was broken
from one hard blow
to my soft, warm body
and the line stops with, me.
Meurte
when
the skeleton once more
that hangs my honey feet
above my bed glide along
becomes me these halls
when once more
i awaken I stand
from long in my house
silent sleep the home
and open up we shared
my eyes
our (special) place
la casa azul
when my days
i look hang here
into your eyes and there
i see us trapped in
i see me gaudy frames
behind glass panes,
before then it pains me to see
before us my paintings
“do you remember?” exhibited
there was me in my house
alone (where) i no
with myself longer (live)
a company
of sorts un museo
of one of life
of one sort our history
lining the walls,
hanging from the rafters
and settling on the mantel.
Paper Girl
the headline
the front page
the words inside
forged by her hand
landed her in hot water
hit boiling point
and bubbled over
Victoria Street
down in Kings Cross
terrace houses
red brick and white iron
where children played
and friendly neighbours
shared beers and BBQs
families
out on the street
lined the curb
tearful women
speechless men
with nowhere to go
a lone voice
broke the hum
brown eyes
beehive
big mind
she made a stand
refused to leave
staked her claim
and took her place
at the top
the rallies and the power
the signs and the slogans
the unions and the meetings
on mean streets, ruled
by hungry wolves
a pretty little lamb
called out loud
tread on toes
what she did best
troublemakers get
what they deserve
NOW: the time for action
silencing her
was never
an easy task
but a great pleasure
the big wig
Mr Sin
lured her in
Carousel Club
come alone
quietly now
a firm grip on her arms
fingers wrapped tightly
around her red lips
no screaming tonight
a pink pillowslip
over her pretty head
heavy, brown-paper packages
different shapes and sizes
addressed to always
delivered to eternity
rest on the ocean floor
of Sydney Harbour.
Alpha
her time is long gone now
the people still remember
and they always will
with her face in portraits
and her body in bronze
how could you forget?
she can hardly remember
yesterday and the one before
she saw the war end
and the wall fall down
she is history walking
shuffling and pausing-
what did you say?
she can remember
one thing
the green leather seat
at her back
hear hear
they say
then turn their heads
taking knives to her back
men, men, men
sensitive, touchy
terrified little boys
oh, what one woman can do!
no! no! no!
she says
with a stern look
eyebrows pulled together
lips pursed
slightly lop-sided
but her fist is clenched
she takes to the podium
taps the microphone
one, two
and she means business
the lady’s not for turning
Ceasefire
The rules, written long before the ship’s briny bottom had even brushed the shore,
filed away in private archives and only taken out on special occasions
like your best Sunday dress, to wave in the faces of the opposition.
The forces, assembled in gaggles of those who have suffered enough and for too long,
lining the streets with placards and banners- their voices are sirens-
crawling out of kitchens and from under ironing-boards into the streets.
The message, spread out wide and slowly seeped in like a spilled glass of milk,
“Cookin’, cleanin’ and creatin’- all they’re bloody good for!” he says,
“Watch your mouth, darling, or you’ll go hungry tonight,” she replies,
slap!
A firm grip on the detonator
thumb quivering on the big, red button
you count down the minutes
second by second
tick tick tick
you wait, ready and blazing
blood squelches in your ears with every beat of your heart
there’s a tickle in your throat and a bead of sweat runs down your nose
a sister in the crowd jogs forward to march beside you,
with a six-starred flag draped across her shoulders
she raises her fist into the air and smiles
you turn to face your comrades bringing up the rear, but they’re down
sprawled on the pavement, limps splayed and placards crushed
your breath hitches in your chest
a heavy hand settles on your shoulder
you turn back, to find yourself nose-to-nose with a stout man in a suit,
he slips an envelope deep into your pocket with a sneer across his lips
you march onwards, sliding your fingernail under the seal
there’s an answer inside that envelope- a good one-
but it’s nothing more than
a baby’s step forward
in a giant’s marathon.
@JuliaGillard Now that we have almost all rights once denied of us
now handed 2 us on a silver platter, will we eva hav 2 stop apologising?
An Invitation
A tribute to American artist Judy Chicago and her 1979
installation artwork “The Dinner Party.” Each line is dedicated to one
of thirty-nine influential women of history, chronologically, across the
ages in three distinct stages: Mythology to the Roman Empire, Christianity
to the Reformation and America to the Women’s Revolution.
I kindly request the honour of her presence
and the pleasure of her company…
birthed from between the thighs of chaos
she bears summer fruits, juicy and buttery-yellow
an eight-pointed star hangs around her neck reminiscent of that first and fatal love
the black one, the consort who exists beyond the hands of the clock
and the maenad, who follows close behind with stretched skin sagging down her chest
are you wise and eternal like all unseen things?
watch her as she cuts off her breast to spite her bow and arrow
she is the Pharaoh – both lands, above and below the belt
a book in one palm and a head in her other
she implores you: ‘come again, my limb-loosening lover’
courtesan to a general, she remains virtuous, knowing her own mind
ruler of the revolt, horse-whipped and humiliated
a teacher of numbers, stars and magic with virgin blood flowing in her veins
a dowager, she walks the halls of the family home in her dead husband’s suit
the virgin Mother appears before her, angels sweetly sing and light fills the room
a saint whispers prayers in a theatre of soft tissued slaves under red lights
her chaste voice crawls from her lips to the page to the ears of a nation
she is the doctor of disease and a purveyor of fine cosmetics
a widow queen with a sacred wedding present – a crystal vase
a weaver at the loom of words, who felt God moving inside her
a good witch, guilty of nothing but life, yet burned alive at the stake
between sheets, she writes with a fleshy quill, her shield
the cure: a first breath taken at the stroke of nine when the moon is high
a blind, deaf and untouched queen with a fiery crown and undercarriage
she cuts his throat with her paintbrush, daubing skin and sex onto a white canvas
a multi linguist with a soft, warm tongue, she speaks of “honest delight”
a preacher with a womb, un-heard of and condemned, a travesty
her face is on the golden dollar, taken as a wife and prisoner
she opened the eyes of the earth unto the sparking sky of stars above
the book penned by her hand: a monster made from pieces of the past
she questioned and queried the world but she was a woman of honey brown colour
peering from behind bifocals she sees behind closed doors, a future of balance
the very first with a scalpel in her hand, slicing away the lies, can’t you see?
her verses – woven from wilted petals and starving bodies – have a heartbeat
“there is no G-d!” she said, but she wrote music to please his ears anyway
ending lives not yet begun for the sake of preventing living pain
can you allow her to write the play-book of women and scandal? an autobiography
a darkness clouds her grey eyes and the water pins her down to the riverbed
it is only a black iris flower, don’t make it more than it is
… I extend to her my warmest regards,
and hope she will accept this invitation.
The First Lady
Firmly seated in his leather office chair,
she glides the palms of her black-skinned hands
along the varnished surface of her husband’s desk,
carved from the resolute one
with an eagle’s wings spread wide
where the histories of the great land
and the scandals of those who came before
are laid out for the world to see
in public addresses on the television screen.
The Forefathers each left their own etchings
in the timber where she lays her hands:
one had a son who played peek-a-boo at his feet
one couldn’t fit his knees underneath the desk
one spent time in a blue dress with a cigar tube
one told a nation to be strong in the face of terror
and her man, he told his fine nation: “Yes We Can!”
The ladies of the past are silent shadows in her wake,
born of a time before, not forgotten but committed to the books of history:
one was left with pieces of her husband spilled down her pink suit
one was left a cuckolded woman, but became much more
one was left to clean up the mess he left behind (aren’t they all?)
and she, gives her man a run for his money; every day of his life.
Their two children play in the corridor
as men with dark glasses and earpieces
keep a close and careful watch,
the little girls smile and giggle as Daddy
signs his name with his left hand
then answers the ringing telephone,
he leans back in his chair and
puts his feet up on the desk
click click click – go the bright flashbulb lights
like a naked popstar dancing on a balcony
or a model caught with a powdered nose
the eyes and ears of the world are open
and waiting for his next mistake.
She knows she’ll never live to see
another normal day, anonymous and quiet
and is fine with that decision as long as
she doesn’t stop to think about it,
too deeply or for too long…
Smiling with her eyes
through the camera lens
to the people of the world
she tries to make them listen
but it has been a while
and they feel a little neglected
a little rusty, a little lost and a little lazy,
as they tweet and blog
without having to take
any responsibility;
maybe it’s time
for someone
new?
They all want the title
the highest honour in the land
that is why she knows, they will fight
capped tooth over manicured nail
to knock the crown from her head
but she will rule for another four, for sure…
Unless the Mormon Mama
beats her to the throne.
Change
Later in her life
she will wake up and notice
the clock inside her
has suddenly stopped ticking:
she begins her metamorphosis.
Charlotte Goodwin
Charlotte Goodwin is completing a Bachelor of Arts in Media & Writing at Macquarie University. Her poetry has appeared in Grapeshot Magazine and in 2011 Charlotte was awarded the Marjorie Robertson prize for proficiency in Creative Writing. She won the “Best Story” prize in the 2003 Newcastle Permanent Building Society School Newspaper Competition for her first published work, at eleven years of age. Charlotte has experience in television broadcasting, online publishing and the performing arts. She seeks to one day write and direct for stage and screen.