Falcon
Perth
The planter box trees and urban heat waves
the black tar highways like scars through the scrub
the pursuit of happyness* could not be for this.
A Workmate ’96 Ford Falcon
cigarette-stained paintjob
burns down Marmion Avenue.
Goodbyes to lovers, mother, and fathers
shouldn’t feel this good.
The planter box trees and urban heat waves
the black tar highways like scars through the scrub
the pursuit of happyness* could not be for this.
A Workmate ’96 Ford Falcon
cigarette-stained paintjob
burns down Marmion Avenue.
Goodbyes to lovers, mother, and fathers
shouldn’t feel this good.
*Gardner C (2006) Pursuit of Happyness, HarperCollins Publishers, New York.
Great Australian Bight
Fireplace smoke amongst rainy ghost gums
while Lyre birds imitate chainsaws.
And while the Bunda Cliffs hold Australia up*
the Eyre Highway burrows through such fragile limestone.
Crossing the Murray Darling, cracked and dry,
despite the snowfall over Patterson’s curse.
And I think it would be silent here,
if not for the roar of the Falcon.
So, the Barra stops purring and new sounds emerge,
dancing trees and happy birds sing sweet sonnets.
And Mumubla bids I stay,
where the mountains meet the sea.
Fireplace smoke amongst rainy ghost gums
while Lyre birds imitate chainsaws.
And while the Bunda Cliffs hold Australia up*
the Eyre Highway burrows through such fragile limestone.
Crossing the Murray Darling, cracked and dry,
despite the snowfall over Patterson’s curse.
And I think it would be silent here,
if not for the roar of the Falcon.
So, the Barra stops purring and new sounds emerge,
dancing trees and happy birds sing sweet sonnets.
And Mumubla bids I stay,
where the mountains meet the sea.
*Burgoyne I (nds) The Mirning, We are the Whales, Mirning.Org.
Nothing, No One
I’m disarmed by her embrace
brought to as if a whale slaps the sea
to have nothing
and to be no one.
Green amongst ancients
and to be freshly upstream.
Like the sun glare piercing this boxy beast
fills me with blinding brightness.
She shows me that nothing
is scripture and no one
is coming.
So
I’m whole-heartedly hers.
brought to as if a whale slaps the sea
to have nothing
and to be no one.
Green amongst ancients
and to be freshly upstream.
Like the sun glare piercing this boxy beast
fills me with blinding brightness.
She shows me that nothing
is scripture and no one
is coming.
So
I’m whole-heartedly hers.
New Year’s Eve
Dawn never came
on New Year’s Eve.
When the devil wind set in
the sun itself chose to hide.
And we cried so much,
for so long
that the flames died down
and the rivers swole.
So, this time we raged,
an anger so hot
that waters slunk away in fear
of a desperate wrath.
The galah might choose
to remain
Dawn never came
on New Year’s Eve.
When the devil wind set in
the sun itself chose to hide.
And we cried so much,
for so long
that the flames died down
and the rivers swole.
So, this time we raged,
an anger so hot
that waters slunk away in fear
of a desperate wrath.
The galah might choose
to remain
at mercy of the wind.
But
our country
may want us to leave.
Steadfast
What was once headlong, now steadfast
next to the burnt-out ute stands an ancient iron bark
behemoth blackened base wrapped in green shoots and saplings.
A darkness subdued by young, opportunistic life
they dance in the light southerly breeze as
swells spill into a sapphire bay.
So much has died here but
everyday new sprouts emerge mottling
into an ash-born mosaic of green and blue.
Stovetop kettle smoke spills from the house amongst the new growth
the hollow whistle of the billy battles the call of a falcon
where gentle waves kiss the mountains.
The smell of chimney smoke doesn’t haunt me anymore.
What was once headlong, now steadfast
next to the burnt-out ute stands an ancient iron bark
behemoth blackened base wrapped in green shoots and saplings.
A darkness subdued by young, opportunistic life
they dance in the light southerly breeze as
swells spill into a sapphire bay.
So much has died here but
everyday new sprouts emerge mottling
into an ash-born mosaic of green and blue.
Stovetop kettle smoke spills from the house amongst the new growth
the hollow whistle of the billy battles the call of a falcon
where gentle waves kiss the mountains.
The smell of chimney smoke doesn’t haunt me anymore.
Originally from Perth, Jack Corcoran spent his youth traveling Australia before settling on the Sapphire Coast of NSW to study a Bachelor of Education. He is passionate about nature, literature, and travel, and hopes his poetry reflects these influences.