Issue 3: Iain Britton
Carnival
I remember hemlock
drugging the air
and you
far from the carnival
running through heat
and sweat, the sword swallower
gone to his tent, his wife
curled up
in her crystal ball.
I remember you had
fled the flattened yellow grass
the clown's last laugh
the sounds of excitement
squashed under a weekend
of agricultural feet
parked wheels
and heavy lashings
of too much sun. Ropes of flags
had been draped over
the stomach of a hill
to hold it down.
From loaded cows, potholes
were white-lipped
with dropped morning milk.
You remember
the displayed pygmy
the animal clothes of mottled skin
the spear, the rage
of his solitary
confinement in a shrunken
skull. Africa,
a desiccated and preserved ear
flopped over the branch
of a dead tree. Africa to him
squeezed into the
small complexity
of his pint-sized self.
Away from this harsh-blue lens
of sky and cloud
the smell of enjoyment now gone
I recall the moment
when you stood beside me
locked in your own version
of freedom
wishing for the tents
the people, nature's freaks
the coils of the big white
sousaphone
to appear in the field
to top up your reliance on
comedy, on the farcical
uglier side of life.
Liquefaction
Caught a snap of him
passing, a webbed hand
flapping like a fan
a face
steaming and hooded
under hot clouds.
Lollies punctuate the air
and the small Michaels and Rebeccas
of this world
all squeal, spread their arms
and a sweetness
hits the turf
and there's this scramble
for fun.
The crowds cheer
and toss lumps of words
at their idol made flesh
for another year.
San Gennaro's blood
liquefies
and the cave dwellers
emerge
to stand at their exits.
I flatten my nose
against the sky's window
and push it across a landscape
of oranges.
At night, men gather to talk.
They swap places with angels
flying out to hunt
and feed on stars.
They avoid
this grassroots bloke
his cup running over, gifting
smiles every second
and cures made of herbal teas
and giving voice to poems
wrapped up in beads.
Water runs off his back
reshapes his profile
and makes him question
who he is today
who he should be tomorrow.
He waves his hand
as he swoops the loops
and does a fly past
and lands
in a wheatfield.
I'm no good at joining crowds
to listen to some pretender
who wants to rule
by sitting on a stony throne
who works miracles
at the flick of a finger.
On a clear Saturday
a cripple walks properly again
the schizophrenics
straighten their faces, the boys
in their prime make rainbows
while the sun shines.
The blood in the glass
glistens
trickles.
The children
know the signs
and leap after him.
I pull back from the scenic frame
of town meets country.
A woman on the road
calls up the moon
and a flock of starlings
pecks at her blackness.
Native born
he tests the morning air
with a finger
refers to my thin armour
as his house
is happy to let himself
walk in my shoes.
Before we visit the ruins
he tells me no one
of significance lives there
or eats spuds or carrots
kills the birds
which eat the fruit
the sweet fat bugs
which hollow the trees.
The coming of the horse,
cow and chainsaw
changed all that
the savage offspring
of a dead English mother
changed all that.
No one of significance
rolls down the aisle now
marrying similar skins.
No one thinks
to rebuild the tabernacle
in ruins.
He picks what he likes
to look at.
Music fills the blanks
between the cut-down
narratives of old storytellers.
It rises and falls
amongst the morning's
chants, the man on his roof
talking to the sun, the woman
at her fire cooking,
the children spinning their tops
their songs whirring
in the dust. The future
is about smaller paddocks
squashed-up streets
houses packed
with too many arms
and legs.
He chooses what he wants
to show me, tells me
it's safe now to go further afield
pretend the scene
is coated in chrome,
marble is the rock to stand on,
that the savage offspring
of a dead father
is of no consequence
any more. He compares me
wrongly
to a blood companion.
Iain Britton's first collection of poems Hauled Head First into a Leviathan was published by Cinnamon Press (UK) in February 2008, which was a Forward Poetry Prize nomination. Interactive Press (Australia) will be publishing his second collection this year. Poetry is published or forthcoming in Ambit, Agenda, Stand, The Reader, Magma, The Stride Magazine, The Warwick Review, Mimesis, Wolf Magazine, Succour, Mimesis, London Grip (UK), Harvard Review, Drunken Boat, Slope, Nimrod, Tinfish, Rattapallax, Fulcrum (US), Poetry NZ, Jacket, Cordite, Heat, Southerly, Meanjin, Island and Harvest Magazine (Aust). Iain Britton's website.
Copyright © 2009 by Iain Britton, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.