Guy Peppin

Rookie (1982 / Sydney, Australia)

September May - Poem by Guy Peppin

Barbed wire crows
(you swear you'll change)
Kore, daughter - please,
when you go to the orchard
to pick the last flowers,
don't wake the watchman.
He sleeps all season,
and; as you know,
the shivering bones
of boys are his pillow,
his mattress is stuffed
with dead girls hair.
He comes around
when the Summer's
weighed with leaves,
and the weary Sun
puts on his cloak.
When you go; girl, try,
to smile to the trees,
so they won't whisper
your beauty under.

The other girls were throwing
their bodies around in circles.
You, swinging your basket
in a tangent, across grass,
over, towards the undertow,
this is how your self got taken.
That was it: A blue dappled day,
and your clean shape collecting
orchard flowers, like papers,
seas foamed, clouds quivered,
hooves stomped, and then
you're straddled across
the back of a big black beast.
Under, over, and under the clay,
and that is how the earth is.

Dawn garden, a badger
weakens my resolve,
(rumours of your death)
petals droop, edges curl,
but, bees still come to them,
blinding sun, melting frost,
and when I open my eyes
fresh roses, greenest leaves,
as all the girls sing to you,
and shake the trees awake,
offering honey and straw birds
to the shades, with new peaches,
pomegranates, a wet machete,
steaming breath, cold silence.
September may be cruel, but -
Come home again, come home.
Three times I say this: You exist.
And look - at everything, and look
at every thing that leaves you.


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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, January 16, 2013



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