Dream Home : 5 Poems
These poems are from a current project aiming to use language and the act of remembering to unpack the subtle violence of colonialism, patriarchy and capitalism as it is played out within a 1960s farming family as a microcosm of the wider culture.
It is also a meditation on the effects of habitual repression of feelings on safety, intimacy, and being.
Can you have real intimacy if you are never allowed to express anger, and if there is so much unspoken? What happens to a sensitive child in this mix who feels her only choice is to harden up to survive?
This is a history in fragments, and the challenge has been to find a way to enter deeply into and translate the child’s point of view, without becoming trapped there. To use language and poetry to splinter the story, and find a way out.
The Walls Have Ears
My sister heard them through the wall.
Like I heard the mouse under the bed,
riffling through hand-made doll clothes.
Gnawing. Unknown. Small, but terrifying.
In the middle of the night when it is dark
and still. When you are alone with your dreams.
I dreamt of Prince Charming. Or was it Prince
Charles? (In his red bathers at St Kilda beach.)
The eucalyptus, the good tree, outside, shivers.
Eulaliah. Is there a word for the opposite?
The word ‘no’, perhaps. (What if ‘no’ is unsayable?)
One tiny word that can’t be heard.
The mouse gnawing under the bed.
The Barbie doll saying : no
— but nobody listens.
Nobody opens the door / drawer.
There is nobody in this whole house
who will come and save you.
*
Little Petal
You are so over-sensitive
Said the rain to the camellia.
I barely touched you!
Said the hand.
The rain to the camellia —
What’s wrong now?
Said the hand —
You only bruise for attention.
What’s wrong?
So pathetic. Gedoverit.
You always bruise to get attention.
Why can’t you be tough like the others?
Pathetic!
I don’t have time for this.
Why can’t you be more like others?
We barely touched you.
*
The Murder of Little Joy
When she flew around the room with her family watching
Homicide on the couch, when she slid down the hallway
in shiny sock feet — so grim, so sad, all those people
(on the TV, on the couch) — Joy didn’t know then
that this was anger.
Didn’t know what it was (not allowed).
But see those set mouths? See the way no body
touches any other body? Her mother, locked
inside her knitting needle moat.
Bodies — Yuk!
Except. Joy loves bodies. Massaging brothers’ bare
backs as they lie on the carpet after work in summer.
Having hair rubbed into knots between father’s
feet while he watches footy. Loves sister drawing guess-
the-letter with a soft fingertip on spine at night in bed.
But in the living room as Joy flies around up on the ceiling
(Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?) she can see anger
like a mist. And that against-the-law thing on the TV.
Taking life. An eye for an eye. Let’s examine the evidence
shall we? (What does that cigarette butt mean?)
No cigarettes. No vices. No drinks at elbows. Just a tiny
bit of sugar for a whole big family in each hard to swallow dish.
(Why is it called ‘sweets’ if there is so little sweetness?)
Just desserts. Eat it! Then Dad brings home a whole block
of Cadbury’s chocolate. Sabotage!
And all of our hunger fixates to that crafted
sweet-milk on the arm of the chair (glass and a half).
And all of our bodies line up to receive a piece each,
while Dad finishes the rest. Silently. Eyes on the TV.
Mum keeps her knitting needle fence tight.
And Mac tips his hat
to Detective Sergeant Barnes.
Case closed.
*The Murder of Little Joy was previously published in Westerly; and Good Blood, in Live Encounters.
*
Tread lightly
In the bush up the back there are paths, secrets.
Kangaroos loose. Men with guns. Intentions.
A wild-west in our small town. Scrubby remnant
where trees were once giants, wide as houses, bark
thick, long enough to carry you in a canoe down
Birrarung. Shelter you in winter from Old Man Frost.
Smell of leaf mould, rock, fern.
In those days every part of a tree is a long
conversation. The roots delve, deep, joined in a
network of spores, life, dreams, stories.
The branches overhead, respectful.
The drip of moisture.
No cloven feet.
No axe. No guns.
*
Good Blood
In the anger workshop the Zen master says ‘Oh, little mosquito,
why get angry at an insect? Only wants a morsel of blood
to feed her family. Poor little mosquito. Only taking a tiny bit.’
Each mosquito a miniature work of art.
We have ‘good blood’, my father and I. They track a path to dine
on thick rich Spencer soup. Weaving and dodging
past less tasty bodies.
Gourmet delight. Five star!
So generous. They tip for their meal with small protein deposits
(I’d rather they didn’t). These develop into massive lumps
that itch for days.
Here, please — take without giving!
But no use being angry about it.
No use spoiling anyone’s meal.
No use losing sleep.
(Quick — hide under the sheets!)
I remember that day my father said ‘Bloody’ and stormed
out of the house. I was so afraid he was not coming back.
We ate our meal in silence.
Was that a mosquito buzzing?
Yes, funny you should say that! That’s what they said in therapy
when I pleaded with my group ‘family’, please
listen to each other.
‘Just a tiny mosquito. So easy to ignore.’
Little mosquito, here you are, look. Here is my father
coming back through the door.
See? Don’t cry.
Here, take my blood to feed your family.
(Don’t disturb him.
Don’t anger him.)
Shhh. Put on your tiny napkin, and dig in.
