Maybe poetry IS dead:Number three in a series

Here we go again, another quick one, this time from November 1998. This poem is a little heavy handed in the symbolism department, but I like it nonetheless. It rather depresses me that I play the 'homoerotic' card to shock (give that I don't find it all that shocking); but I figured that religious iconography, homoerotism and prostitution all add up to something offensive to someone out there. Forgive me, I was young...

Last night

i met Jesus

no time ago.

walking the wall

“Jesus!” i cried.

(inside) mine eyes

fell down

trouser level (the glory!)

Christ stood still

watching my every move.

Comments

Virginia said…

Kris,
How precious your children are. It looks like you are truly are enjoying while they are so young. The time will fly by and you will have so many memories to cherish.
I taught with a young man from Tazmania two years ago. I am curious if you know him. Email me.

31 July 2008 at 10:51

Debbie Courson Smith said…

I wonder how you assessed your poetry when you were "young." Is there a critique to compare?

31 July 2008 at 10:54

Julie said…

Don't apologise in advance! No need to outline your themes. Rest assured, if it is shite we will tell you.

31 July 2008 at 19:35

Kris McCracken said…

Virginia, I have sent you an e-mail...

Diva, I'm not sure. I know that all of the one's that I have posted to date are ones that I considered 'playful' and not 'serious'. I had a few published in small literary journals around that time, but I look at those ones now and cringe! They seem dreadful to the eye now, whereas then I thought them okay. I was always into prose and short story writing then though. Some of that I think stands up okay today.

Julie, I should hope so!

31 July 2008 at 21:29

Kitty said…

love the b/w, especially.
wow. So striking.

3 August 2008 at 05:03

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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