Wild Seed
by
Book Cover & Preview Text
I’ll be cooking quinces if you arrive
in autumn, leaves beginning to fall,
motorbike sputtering at the end of the drive.
Days have spun past and the years sprawl,
a collection of bright photos without your face.
In autumn, leaves beginning to fall,
I wondered if many years could efface
the longing that bound my heart and mind.
A collection of bright photos without your face
and the shadow of your absence fades behind.
Now I harvest ripe fruit without
the longing that bound my heart and mind.
Quince roots seek deep water in a drought;
we planted the sapling before you left.
Now I harvest ripe fruit without
regret, a few years your only theft.
I’ll be cooking quinces if you arrive.
We planted the sapling before you left,
motorbike sputtering at the end of the drive.
from the postbox
a tendril of smoke
divorce papers
Waiting
rain slaps the glass
trickling summer dust
to a map of winter
wind scoops
the hollow of the letterbox
slides under the door
to glide around
well upholstered chairs
pry at the newspaper
waiting for the visitor
cupboards bulge with cups
damask is spread, ready
a sudden gust
flips a half read romance
to its fifteenth chapter
through sodden grass
bluebells push up clods
snowflake petals quiver
Cruising
She meets the man
an acquaintance on the boat
who says he has great
love for her car
and she has a lot of real estate
time to share investments
will you go with me all over Milan
Janet? he requests we could have
a couple of drinks a good time
at the bar we make friends
on the upper deck yes?
Trouble
Here’s trouble, says he
with a slight smile
his elbow propped
among beer rings
I’ve got a gun here
taps his shoulder
his suit coat
My hands feel their way
among clinking glasses
I grin
Oh yeah, I say
and carefully place 3 glasses
rim down
soap foam trickles
toward the sink
He moves off
pushes through the crowd
Edgy, I’d say
I mouth to the manager
He says he’s got a gun
I’ve called the police
says the manager
Then there’s a noise outside
a sharp snap
I get back to washing glasses
the water’s
gone cold
Wild Seed
The plants that grow best
spring from wild seed
brought by birds
or the wind.
Adventitious
between careful cultivars
they thrive.
They are the buccaneers
our mothers warned us against,
spendthrifts.
They multiply
with a throw of the dice,
seed sifting
into every crevice
like kismet.
kismet= fate, destiny.
Select Format
Book Details
About the Book
These poems travel narrow roads deep north, and they take slow boats east; they sail the Nile south, and they safari in Africa; they turn paintings inside out and find our faces there; they long for love long after love let go; they poke fingers in the eyes of the pompous, and they reincarnate Vincent in the suburbs—and they do all this with a quiet mastery of forms borrowed from all quarters of the world, all the while standing in a kitchen cooking quinces, sitting at an office desk after hours turning emails into prayers.
From the review by Mark Tredinnick
About the Author
Lynette Arden is a poet, blogger and artist with Honours degrees in Geography (University of New England) and Graphic Design (Liverpool Polytechnic—now Liverpool John Moores University). Lynette spent her childhood in country New South Wales and has since studied and worked in Australia, Papua New Guinea and the United Kingdom. She now lives in Adelaide, South Australia. Her poetry has been published in journals and collections in Australia, New Zealand, the UK, the USA, Canada, India and Japan. Her first book of poetry, A Pause in the Conversation, was published in Friendly Street New Poets 15 (Wakefield Press) in 2010. Lynette publishes the online journal Echidna Tracks: Australian Haiku. She is a past Vice President of the Australian Haiku Society and has convened several writers’ workshop groups.