Selected poems
Against the dark
When I was young I squirmed, squeamish-
uncomfortable, while adults watched
the New Year Edinburgh Tattoo.
Far too military for me!
How I despised it all — except
the piper at the very end,
high on the castle wall, raging
bittersweet against the dark.
Not much wiser now, I know
that noble pacifism's no
defence from friend or country bent
on total war, and never has been.
Desperate to end the war
five centuries BC, the Spartans
crushed their Persian-fighting ally,
Athens, so deep in the dust,
so viciously, that both sides lost.
These days, the military tattoo
is just too sad for words, the soldier-
children twirling, dancing, fluting,
prancing, singing, some with rightful
Maori marks, or cheekbones high
as Indian hills, thin teenage girls
in kilts and fancy Argyle socks,
a few exalted dancers flowing
red with silk on stilts. What
have they to do with war or death?
Yet men strap bombs on ten-year-olds.
Knit one give one
KOGO's angelic earthly army
marshals the willing minions
knitting works of heart and soul
to give away.
Back at the start, everyone fit easily
inside a small Port Melbourne pub,
though I was the only knitter
among the tea-drinkers
to order wine. Now busy battalions
build scarves and beanies, gloves
and booties, vests and blankets
to warm our fallen world.
Squadrons of clever-fingered specialists
confect small lacy wonders to hold new creatures,
and to delight them, soft rows
of teddies, bunnies, dolls.
I'm a mere foot-soldier stolidly slogging through
yards of easy scarves and cosy beanies,
trusting that, however simple, they might bring
some warming hope
to mums in need, to refugees,
remote communities, the homeless,
disadvantaged kids. Even the forgotten
are not forgotten.
Flowerpot hats
We stand together, shy, knock-kneed
on the outer-urban concrete porch
behind the curving steel rail twisted
by our so-young father's careful tools.
Fairyfloss-pink hats
the shape of upturned flowerpots
with fancy rosebud edging
encase our heads — hers angelic blonde
mine ("the clever one") mouse-brown.
Stiff-shiny dresses, puffy pink
over our smooth soft knees,
are the prettiest we ever had
bridesmaid and flower-girl
for our teenage aunt —
pregnant, of course.
The bridegroom her devoted carer now
five decades on.
Jenny Blackford's poems have appeared in Australian Poetry Journal, Going Down Swinging and Westerly, as well as The School Magazine and various anthologies. Pitt Street Poetry launched her first full-length poetry collection, The Loyalty of Chickens, in April 2017.
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