November 10, 2007


itís funny
we speak
nod our heads
and smile
but our only form of conversation is through poems
words that weave and float and fly

deciphering is required
but often thereís no time ó
there are buses to catch
movies to watch
drinks to drink
and the house needs a good spring cleaning

I hear the poems
but how will I know if Iíve understood your metaphors
and you, mine?

when I say
I walked into the room

what part will you understand?

when you say
my breath disappears from view

what will it mean to me?

—Helen Boettcher

Posted by dwaber at 12:40 PM

November 09, 2007

Parlington Street

Poetry, words, what are these things?
an expression of self?
a dirge of internal moments?
and, like the endless words of emails
is it a dreadful and meaningless leakage of self?1
a haemorrhage
slow, fast, mediocre?
doesnít really matter what speed it is
it just leaks out.
is it better not to let it leak?
is it better to keep it tucked away?

why the constant telling?
thrown towards you
spread out at your feet
like soft petals falling off the blossom trees
by confused winds.

why the desperate need to speak
and speak again
infinite rivers of words
that silently fall into the ocean
become opaque,
lost in their watery transition
merge with all the others
stare right into your face
do you see
do you see the staring
as you stand there?

are you overwhelmed,
as I am,
by the suffocating words
that burst out
and begin the cycle all over again?

—Helen Boettcher
1 From the feel of steel by Helen Garner p94

Posted by dwaber at 04:26 PM