four
poetry by justin lowe
published 18 may 2007
originally published by retort magazine
 
verse live | volume 1 number 2
 
"Poetry is the music of the soul, and, above all, of great and feeling souls." -Voltaire
 
published since April 2007 | Verse Live centers on the publication of new poetry.
 
 

Born in Sydney, Australia, in 1964, Justin Lowe (eMailblog) 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.

 
 
 
Publisher: Lulu.com (3 May 2007)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1847532349
ISBN-13: 978-1847532343
 
 
GMB Chomichuk (eMailWeb 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
 
My father
was not a man
for letting go
 
the shallow and nefarious
mistook this for a passion
but there was neither warmth nor light in what he kindled
 
he thrived on his many resentments
Angus, my father
on this illusion of tenacity
 
the smallest sacrifice brought great clamor to our home
a great wash of the shipwrecked and the drowned
with their breath of rotting kelp
 
yet my mother
surrendered her life to him
and I much more, in silence
 
it is the way of such men
and they will come to expect
a little more each day
 
they are men unwilling to grow
yet yearn for something bigger
so they steal our time, our innocence
 
it is a lesson
my father branded on my spine
before my voice had even broken
 
the true meaning of sacrifice
is to eschew the man
who names its price
 
my father taught me this
 
that
and to listen out for the creaking door
for the bent nail in the timbers
 
 
the narrow room
 
In the narrow room
with its crimp of grease and rusty pipes
where the sparrows always lose their way
 
I am asked about his mood
what we talked about
with the expressions of children poking at the dead
 
he behaved like an officer
I tell them
and for the first time I realize how little we said
 
they seem to fumble
for the right words
they are all so civilized
 
they cannot take a step
without thinking
'what will I do now/'
 
they would not understand the silences
the dead sparrow on the path
how much he aged when he closed his eyes
 
he is not like other men
with their undying need to explain themselves
as though they had woken in the wrong house
 
rather
I felt like the intruder
glimpsing half-movements through a crack in the door
 
did he mention his father
sister is mouthing a word
but it is lost in a fuss of lips and teeth
 
I want to tell them
about the sound he carries within him
like the whoosh of a swooping bird
 
it would not be a lie
but it would be misleading
to speak of such things in isolation
 
 
 
mines
 
Such a lot of tosh
is being bandied about
says a man who will never don khaki
 
such a lot of women
he titters
grasping the rail with his ringless fingers
 
I believe he is trying to comfort me
to allay my fears
hrrmphs whenever my gaze drifts over the waves
 
it is a new and unsettling sensation
the effect my uniform has
on such men
 
where once I was Imperial henchman
now I am savior of the British race
and I find myself longing for the widows’ steely glances
 
'the Germans are close,' he tells me
thrusting his proud nose up at the sky
'they have their eye on us'
 
an hour south of Bermagui
the claxton sounds, the engines slow
arms flail at an orange glow to the east
 
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
 
mines
the captain yells in broken English
offering me his stiff Japanese salute
 
I have not seen my friend since then
he has asked to move cabins
further astern, above the drum of the engines
 
I am sure it is as close
as he will ever come to this war
the panic of claxtons, a few sinister rainbows of blood and oil
 
but I felt him watching me until my eyes began to water
 
 
the finding
 
In this case
time, not truth, will play my hand
death by misadventure
 
there is no doubt
in my mind
but of what the Lord knows
 
glances where there should be bruises
whispers over the bleached floors
the sheetless bed, the restless corpse
 
I have seen nothing like it
and I am aggrieved that he
could be so confident of this
 
fists clenched so tight
they had to break the knuckles
blood under the nails, pustules on the larynx
 
'Africa', she said
as though watching a bird
fly out the window
 
'well
my sense is Africa
will have his measure'
 
there is a piece
of that girl missing
I have seen her type before
 
skulking below stairs
with a laugh like a razor
and eyes as narrow as keyholes
 

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