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ARTS AND CULTURE

In the Dreams of Whales & The Muses

  • 13 June 2007

In the Dreams of Whales Grant Fraser In the dreams of whales we are the sons of Ishmael, Fleet of limb, Sheened with droplets of water, droplets of air, Crammed with kindnesses. In the dreams of whales We are the half-heard song That makes harmonies of storms, The gentle line that joins eyelids into sleep. On the lips of anger We are the syllables of assent, In fallen hearts The rising wind. In solitude, we are the watchers-by, In war, the word named peace. In the dreams of whales We are the sons, We are the sons of Ishmael. To listen to this poem being read by the author, click here.

The Muses L. K. Holt Man spills oil O Petriana. O Al Qurain, upon the meniscus it goes, ten-thousand feet of Jesus. It sways at the current’s suggestion, blindly the teleologies of the tide. It beaches itself O Sygna. O Era it holds feather to feather to skin, locking out the ingredient for flight. The tarry birds on white sand, they are simplified, as holes, an inverted starry night O Kirki. O Laura D’Amato, the mangrove’s fingers are useless now. A seal pup’s flippers stick to its sides, a sink-stone O Nella Dan. O Sylvan Arrow, fish rest under the slick’s shadow, an oasis of reference in the blankness of sea, like death in the blankness of time. But O Esso Gippsland, the blackness is worse.

To listen to this poem being read by the author, click here.