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| four |
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poetry
by justin lowe
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| published
18 may 2007 |
| originally
published by retort
magazine |
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verse
live | volume 1
number 2
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"Poetry
is the music of the soul, and, above all, of great
and feeling souls." -Voltaire
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| published
since April 2007 | Verse Live centers on the publication
of new poetry. |
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Born
in Sydney,
Australia,
in 1964,
Justin Lowe
(eMail blog)
spent much of his formative years on the Spanish
island of Minorca,
an experience around which he
is busy shaping a novel. After completing his studies, Justin
moved to England
before settling back in Newtown
for the duration of the '90s. There, he edited seminal Homebrew
and published two collections of poetry, as well as penned
songs for such diverse musical outfits as The
Whitlams, The
Impossibles, and Sydney jazz diva Lily
Dior. He also composed dithyrambic text for the annual Mascon
Festival.
Justin currently resides in the Blue
Mountains west of Sydney. In the recent past, he completed
a poetry commission for the 2004 Sydney
Festival, recorded a poem for the Red
Room Company's Poetry
Crimes project, and appeared at the 2005 Sydney
Writers Festival.
Justin has been published all over the world and is currently
negotiating the rights to a film script based on Henry
Lawson's tragic marriage to Bertha Bredt. He is also preparing
his second novel, The Wordman, for publication and is busy
compiling a collection of his poetry, published over the last
several years, for a book entitled Glass Poems. Justin
writes the occasional review for magazines such as Cordite,
receiving nothing but hugs and fragrant bouquets for his efforts.
Justin's publications include: Poetry: Try Laughter (Deadpan
Press, 2000); Humanesque (Zeus Publications/Ebookland,
2001); Glass Poems (BluePepper, 2006); and Fiction:
Hang on St Christopher (Ninderry Press, 2003).
The Great Big Show (Lulu), is Justin Lowe's book from which
the four poems to the left derive. It is largely set in Kenya,
during World War I's East
African campaign of 1914-18.
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Publisher:
Lulu.com (3 May 2007)
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Language:
English
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ISBN-10:
1847532349
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| ISBN-13:
978-1847532343 |
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GMB
Chomichuk
(eMail
Web
site MySpace
page) is a writer, artist, and founder of Alchemical Press,
in Winnipeg,
Manitoba
(Western Canada).
He is a proponent of illustrated, sequential, novel-length stories
that are equal parts prose and picture. Current creative endeavors
include: working as art director on two feature film projects
with Absurd
Machine Films, CD design and art direction with the band Tele,
and writing/illustrating two novel-length projects for Alchemical
Press. GMB has been part of the TBA staff since May 2007.
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legacy
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My
father
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was
not a man
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for
letting go
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| the
shallow and nefarious |
| mistook
this for a passion |
| but
there was neither warmth nor light in what he kindled |
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| he
thrived on his many resentments |
| Angus,
my father |
| on
this illusion of tenacity |
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| the
smallest sacrifice brought great clamor to our home |
| a
great wash of the shipwrecked and the drowned |
| with
their breath of rotting kelp |
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| yet
my mother |
| surrendered
her life to him |
| and
I much more, in silence |
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| it
is the way of such men |
| and
they will come to expect |
| a
little more each day |
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| they
are men unwilling to grow |
| yet
yearn for something bigger |
| so
they steal our time, our innocence |
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| it
is a lesson |
| my
father branded on my spine |
| before
my voice had even broken |
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| the
true meaning of sacrifice |
| is
to eschew the man |
| who
names its price |
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| my
father taught me this |
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| that |
| and
to listen out for the creaking door |
| for
the bent nail in the timbers |
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the
narrow room
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| In
the narrow room |
| with
its crimp of grease and rusty pipes |
| where
the sparrows always lose their way |
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| I
am asked about his mood |
| what
we talked about |
| with
the expressions of children poking at the dead |
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| he
behaved like an officer |
| I
tell them |
| and
for the first time I realize how little we said |
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| they
seem to fumble |
| for
the right words |
| they
are all so civilized |
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| they
cannot take a step |
| without
thinking |
| 'what
will I do now/' |
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| they
would not understand the silences |
| the
dead sparrow on the path |
| how
much he aged when he closed his eyes |
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| he
is not like other men |
| with
their undying need to explain themselves |
| as
though they had woken in the wrong house |
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| rather |
| I
felt like the intruder |
| glimpsing
half-movements through a crack in the door |
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| did
he mention his father |
| sister
is mouthing a word |
| but
it is lost in a fuss of lips and teeth |
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| I
want to tell them |
| about
the sound he carries within him |
| like
the whoosh of a swooping bird |
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| it
would not be a lie |
| but
it would be misleading |
| to
speak of such things in isolation |
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mines
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| Such
a lot of tosh |
| is
being bandied about |
| says
a man who will never don khaki |
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| such
a lot of women |
| he
titters |
| grasping
the rail with his ringless fingers |
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| I
believe he is trying to comfort me |
| to
allay my fears |
| hrrmphs
whenever my gaze drifts over the waves |
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| it
is a new and unsettling sensation |
| the
effect my uniform has |
| on
such men |
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| where
once I was Imperial henchman |
| now
I am savior of the British race |
| and
I find myself longing for the widows steely glances |
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| 'the
Germans are close,' he tells me |
| thrusting
his proud nose up at the sky |
| 'they
have their eye on us' |
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| an
hour south of Bermagui |
| the
claxton sounds, the engines slow |
| arms
flail at an orange glow to the east |
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| it
soon slides into the brooding swell |
| and
a frigate rounds us in a figure-of-eight |
| barking
at us to be on our way |
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| mines |
| the
captain yells in broken English |
| offering
me his stiff Japanese salute |
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| I
have not seen my friend since then |
| he
has asked to move cabins |
| further
astern, above the drum of the engines |
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| I
am sure it is as close |
| as
he will ever come to this war |
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panic of claxtons, a few sinister rainbows of blood and
oil |
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| but
I felt him watching me until my eyes began to water |
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the
finding
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| In
this case |
| time,
not truth, will play my hand |
| death
by misadventure |
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| there
is no doubt |
| in
my mind |
| but
of what the Lord knows |
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| glances
where there should be bruises |
| whispers
over the bleached floors |
| the
sheetless bed, the restless corpse |
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| I
have seen nothing like it |
| and
I am aggrieved that he |
| could
be so confident of this |
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| fists
clenched so tight |
| they
had to break the knuckles |
| blood
under the nails, pustules on the larynx |
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| 'Africa',
she said |
| as
though watching a bird |
| fly
out the window |
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| 'well |
| my
sense is Africa |
| will
have his measure' |
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| there
is a piece |
| of
that girl missing |
| I
have seen her type before |
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| skulking
below stairs |
| with
a laugh like a razor |
| and
eyes as narrow as keyholes |
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Views expressed
on this page may or may not be representative of The Bohemian
Aesthetic or its founder. All materials appearing on this Web
site are copyrights of patsymooreDOTcom, respective authors,
or original sources.
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