David McLean Mathews
Biography of David McLean Mathews
Born in 1962, David McLean Mathews has written his surreal and existential poetry since the late 80s.
At times prolific or sparse, Mathews has grown from introspective investigations of art, persona and self to what he calls life-landscape poetry, focusing on his love of the Australian coast.
Mathews is currently working on a book of poems based in Bawley Point, New South Wales.
David McLean Mathews Poems
God Dead Dog
god dead dog aims lips of ooze fruit of strength tongue of passion,
Dylan Thomas rode up the highway in Milton His warbling jowls ruddy with drink At 99 he’s seen the howling World with egrets and sea eagles
A Corporate Life Part 1
Good evening I write for a living Or describe and think With a visionary zeal
In two foot of water Foaming like baking soda 8 footer in front You’re far enough back
New Years Day 1998
Gambolling gaze across Mount Ainslie where the azure spray of impeachment blue meets the harassing nature of gumfull land, as the heat eases its way into eye sockets
The winds groan through virgin pine valleys as we sit and puzzle over the death and birth of two nations so remote they might as well be brothers.
Quick 140 chars In laneway Black and moods To match
The Catalina Flying Boats Swing low Catching the sou‘easter On a right bank
In autumn, I tend to my words and write of the plane crossing the sun.
Song Of Every Sphere
i sit on my roof watch the alien birds fly wine and treats to a nest in the Japanese maple ~ i understand the valley breeze puffing up my nose ~ its hook reserved for flicking raindrops when the blackcloud dumps ~
On Seeing Nebuchadnezzar On Fire
Riverlets of summer rain cascade down the outurned window as lightening strikes pale Ludwigian tragedy;
Sparklers warblers backpackers frontlackers Litepackers dull tie-rs Flashlites bright sparks Groaners grunters spruikers
On The 431
There was madness on the bus this morning, a lilting, baffling madness rolling up in a wall from the south
Early Sunrise Over Brush Island
As if one 5: 30am swim Wasn’t mad enough Let’s do it twice In three days
On The 431
There was madness
on the bus this morning,
a lilting, baffling madness
rolling up in a wall from the south
like a huge black thunderstorm
Lip flicking, brow arching