More Than Just One Tale To Tell:

Poetry by Michaela A. Gabriel

Copyright 2001

 

Golburdok Dillybag

 

Make a golburdok dillybag, he said.
Now her skillful hands, dry as the desert,
bend pandanus leaves into shape.
In the twilight, ghosts whisper,
softer than stirrings of snakes.

At dawn, they go to claim the bones
that cast crippled shadows on the hill.
Soon there's only powder,
greyish and light, so unlike
the earthy sound of didjeridus.

Under an endless leaden sky,
she slings the bag around her waist:
his wife, mother of the dead one.
Their feet leave no traces,
the ancestors will follow.
This place is no longer home.

 

 

based on: golburdok wana anmarbat nula, by Jimmy Ngalakun (The Big Golburdok Dillybag for the Remains of Dead Body, by Jimmy Ngalakun, translated by Kathy Glasgow), Australian Museum, Sydney

 

 

mundi mundi plains

spinifex pockmarks
this red endlessness

flies struggle skyward,
crazy with heat

silence is a curtain
that's never raised

shadows fall
uninterrupted

 

headphones

a small girl becomes
a rhythmic fish: mouth spouting
round noiseless bubbles.

 

decadenza

 

oblivious to canal grande bustle,
shut-down palazzi slowly sink
into the arms of the greedy sea.

in the sombre intimacy of their rooms
cooing pigeons feed their young.
they'll soon patrol mouldy backstreets
for breadcrumbs thrown from narrow windows,
a box of biscotti left outside.

sunbeams are rare, black-clad widows
cast no shadows. pretty birds in plastic cages
twitter comfort till late at night.

northern summer

 

summer held flowers in her hands,
taught them to smile
the way girls smile in old pictures.

butterflies danced at the seams
of her dress, full of stories.
she bathed in a breeze
every morning, every night
and slept among the ferns
under an everlasting sun.

sometimes her eyes
misted like emerald ponds
while bumblebees chatted
of unrequited love.

then autumn bribed her
with russet charms and crept
into bed beside her.
leaves blushed crimson,
hid their faces in the damp earth.
they did not see his grip tighten
around her pale october neck.

now mournful trees stand in line,
witness autumn's final bow
as he drags the sombre sun
below the horizon.

neptune's children

 

neptune's crazy children dance
in the waves' white crowns,
cling to rugged rocks for a moment.
in their father's backyard,
behind the rusty anchor,
they boast, "we have been ashore!"

the mermaids only laugh,
the way sirens laugh,
hoarse and hollow,
and wrap themselves in their
smooth salty hair.

the moon in scorpio

 

the stars tell me it is too late:
i should have kept my mouth shut.
a bargain buy, my latest inspiration,
job applications, kinky dreams:
any or all of those may be disclosed.

from now on my lips are sealed,
i will not tell such secrets anymore,
come what may. they are safest
in my head, stored on hard disk,
guarded by passwords and my sting.

no need to tell me the moon's in scorpio,
i feel her stirring, keeping me
awake, restless, full of words and ideas.
pen and paper on my bedside table
have more than just one tale to tell,

but i still need a monday masterpiece.
my mind's made up: i do not go to work,
instead i sit cross-legged on the floor
and meditate. i'm certain this will stop
the rains, if only in my head.

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