MICHAEL FARRELL
The Lord’s My Green Shepherd
The lord is my problem; an interrupted mission; baroque theorem
ecstatic cognition. It was a sea place with copper in the air: I lived
there, hanging over the balcony, my honey blonde hair. It was a fish
place for spearing, a crab and a gull place. We took nothing with us
but found things there
They had a hospital and a secondhand shop
The trees were bare, but the walls took messages from the artists
passing through. There were books to be made. He’s
twining with
ivy and flowers from Turkey (the old country). He brings us to the
river; we have a job and no fireplace, I throw the deeds to the acres
in the fire. My husband lost a bullock, my cupboards floated out to
sea, I thought I would be murdered (there was a madwoman shot
by
police; but when the staff ran to her help, there was only a bundle of
clothes, harm no one of good will, the bombers say
Curl your hair
in the manner of Eve, wear a strawberry beanie like a Russian refugee
There was no good grass there, ask at the pub, where’s the good grass
At the hospital, locked in the secret ward, so no one knows about the
disease. Winning cardgames, breaking horses, well that
was somewhere
else … but reputations follow like an Apollo (a nickname
Fields of pistachio
emeralds block the sun. I rang the bell, he didn’t know how
and the other thinks that heat can be contained like a square of cement
(I like a flat monument). As velvet as a waistcoat. Why laugh or mock
The tongue soon grows filaments, that in turn accrue pollen, while
overpaid moths ding up and down like a mobile. The lord was cast more
than decades ago. Divvied up in portions for those with telescopes and misused bell
towers. Below the telescopes the skaters twirl their
mirrorball stunts, shrieking, ‘How do you like these abs?’ and the
gulls come in with affection and then realise they don’t understand. A bird’s
abs are taken for granted
A baby was born during the play; all
my lost clothes turned up. There was kelp for long stretches, and clematis
grew on the beach. How do you rollerblade me now? With prayers
from the churches and temples, with watermelon that stands in for bread. I
have a drink with a piece of the building, and wish I could have been
there when it was still in place. It was later retrieved by the
architect. But then the
architect became an actor, and the actor became a lawyer, and I narrowly
missed becoming a priest by spilling a white rabbit. There were goldfish
in the bay today, the ship was taking a rest so the sheep could
enjoy the sunshine. Two sheep were saved, two old ewes, mother and
daughter. As they would tell anyone who would listen
a lot of slaughter goes on in the background. People began to avoid them, and
they would bleat after them ‘who’s that jolly jumbuck, I’d like to
have a beer with old regrets?’, as they pushed their
shopping trolley through the sand, nibbling on
anything half green
ecstatic cognition. It was a sea place with copper in the air: I lived
there, hanging over the balcony, my honey blonde hair. It was a fish
place for spearing, a crab and a gull place. We took nothing with us
but found things there
They had a hospital and a secondhand shop
The trees were bare, but the walls took messages from the artists
passing through. There were books to be made. He’s
twining with
ivy and flowers from Turkey (the old country). He brings us to the
river; we have a job and no fireplace, I throw the deeds to the acres
in the fire. My husband lost a bullock, my cupboards floated out to
sea, I thought I would be murdered (there was a madwoman shot
by
police; but when the staff ran to her help, there was only a bundle of
clothes, harm no one of good will, the bombers say
Curl your hair
in the manner of Eve, wear a strawberry beanie like a Russian refugee
There was no good grass there, ask at the pub, where’s the good grass
At the hospital, locked in the secret ward, so no one knows about the
disease. Winning cardgames, breaking horses, well that
was somewhere
else … but reputations follow like an Apollo (a nickname
Fields of pistachio
emeralds block the sun. I rang the bell, he didn’t know how
and the other thinks that heat can be contained like a square of cement
(I like a flat monument). As velvet as a waistcoat. Why laugh or mock
The tongue soon grows filaments, that in turn accrue pollen, while
overpaid moths ding up and down like a mobile. The lord was cast more
than decades ago. Divvied up in portions for those with telescopes and misused bell
towers. Below the telescopes the skaters twirl their
mirrorball stunts, shrieking, ‘How do you like these abs?’ and the
gulls come in with affection and then realise they don’t understand. A bird’s
abs are taken for granted
A baby was born during the play; all
my lost clothes turned up. There was kelp for long stretches, and clematis
grew on the beach. How do you rollerblade me now? With prayers
from the churches and temples, with watermelon that stands in for bread. I
have a drink with a piece of the building, and wish I could have been
there when it was still in place. It was later retrieved by the
architect. But then the
architect became an actor, and the actor became a lawyer, and I narrowly
missed becoming a priest by spilling a white rabbit. There were goldfish
in the bay today, the ship was taking a rest so the sheep could
enjoy the sunshine. Two sheep were saved, two old ewes, mother and
daughter. As they would tell anyone who would listen
a lot of slaughter goes on in the background. People began to avoid them, and
they would bleat after them ‘who’s that jolly jumbuck, I’d like to
have a beer with old regrets?’, as they pushed their
shopping trolley through the sand, nibbling on
anything half green
A Queer Opening
A woman alleged; a woman in the same
hall. They’ve been written the same
When two heads are shaped, they’re chic
They’re not coming towards you. What he’s saying’s
that, the Women of Europe, Ophelia
Catherines on Katherines, and Helen, weren’t stand-
ing in the window, waiting for their explor-
ers to die. ‘I can’t see’, she said; ‘to be fair
he said, Circular Quay. An emotion, a
frog, a stick of chewing gum. Lay down under
a ficus, get up. I waited for the wheel-
chair. ‘This is the dream.’ We begin to rebe-
gin. That fossil with a cream handkerchief and
fragments of a borrowed sandwich. There was a
hex in the sky; I noticed a severe lump
of alternate blueness, that looped around
a welded scrap. To realise that: falling
down obscures the act of kissing, however
large. You must combine with Play School to bring that
scene in; you ask me what’s between these two wo-
men, one active in wifery, not like the
other, arrayed in the nonhuman. An ar-
ray like a sparkling mood, a come-get-me of
feathers. We’ve travelled far from sympathy: that’s
the point. Sympathy’s the centre from which one
self-taught tribe wars with another. Words stand up
a violin becomes a shed. Eyes play in
the shed and the flowering plane. Black appa-
ritions on vertical pillows; obliqueness
making a blind spot for police with its tongue
Its signature’s on my back
hall. They’ve been written the same
When two heads are shaped, they’re chic
They’re not coming towards you. What he’s saying’s
that, the Women of Europe, Ophelia
Catherines on Katherines, and Helen, weren’t stand-
ing in the window, waiting for their explor-
ers to die. ‘I can’t see’, she said; ‘to be fair
he said, Circular Quay. An emotion, a
frog, a stick of chewing gum. Lay down under
a ficus, get up. I waited for the wheel-
chair. ‘This is the dream.’ We begin to rebe-
gin. That fossil with a cream handkerchief and
fragments of a borrowed sandwich. There was a
hex in the sky; I noticed a severe lump
of alternate blueness, that looped around
a welded scrap. To realise that: falling
down obscures the act of kissing, however
large. You must combine with Play School to bring that
scene in; you ask me what’s between these two wo-
men, one active in wifery, not like the
other, arrayed in the nonhuman. An ar-
ray like a sparkling mood, a come-get-me of
feathers. We’ve travelled far from sympathy: that’s
the point. Sympathy’s the centre from which one
self-taught tribe wars with another. Words stand up
a violin becomes a shed. Eyes play in
the shed and the flowering plane. Black appa-
ritions on vertical pillows; obliqueness
making a blind spot for police with its tongue
Its signature’s on my back
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Michael Farrell‘s newest book is open sesame (Giramondo 2012). He has published poems in Brief, Poetry NZ, Jacket and others. He lives in Melbourne.