Engelados (Earthquakes)
Where the seams of the earthstart to bulge and strain,something seeks to escape.
When the intricate fabricrends from withincivilisation's fragile veneer,or molten energy is forcedthrough geology'scomplex laminate,sometimes bile rushes outin torrents of lava,fountains of cinders;sometimes the darkbird of discord is loosed,to circle massif and savannah,inciting acts of mayhem,orgies of slaughter.
But sometimes the whitebird of hope is releasedand the tears it weepsrestore something like order.
Birthday poem
You would wake, as usual, with the birds —the koel's querulous demands for rain,the magpies' effortless mellifluence,butcher birds and cachinnating kookaburras;pheasant coucal's husky hooting; screeching, trillinglorikeets, raiding the mango trees for early fruit.
You'd open dusty kitchen louvres,closed against the night's insects,breathe the morning airbefore the heat could cloud the atmosphere;the wood stove lit, you'd muse awhileuntil the kettle boiled,perhaps attempt to toast a slab of breadif there were coals enough,then take your mug of tea outto the top step, watch the faint steam rise,sip it and revive before the household stirred.
A woman and a mango tree,a mug of tea, a calling bird,a swag of memories better not unfurled.Another year: what difference does that make?No need to calculate;best to count your blessings, all of them;to think that you're still here ...
Pandora and Prometheus
It was Prometheus who woke my passion;I chose him as my muse, but was wedto Epimetheus instead. Prometheus and Iwere kindred spirits to the core,creatures of will and fire, doomedto be sacrificed. His born-conformistbrother bored me witless, to be frank.How could siblings be so antithetical?It was that boredom led to my undoing,I suppose, although it's true what peoplesay, there was always hope, flutteringher fragile wings, blind as a moth seducedby flame, but we were punished cruelly fortransgressions and mistakes, Prometheuschained all those long millennia as vultures'prey, I maligned till patriarchal mythsdisintegrate ...
Prometheus was like the phoenix-bird,a fiery, wilful saint, goading heaven to appeaseobsession, taunting titanic fate, deeming firethe birthright of the mortals he had dreamedand shaped: fire-spirits have no fear of deities,hazard is play. But for the machinationsof the thunder-god, hope might have revealeda female face, but my gifts were subvertedby an epic spite, my name became a synonymfor heartache. We had a vision of a world maderadiant with light, together we'd work miracles,exalt the just and truthful life ...
Prometheus and I both sharedthe flaw of too much pride,we both wanted so badly to be wise ...
Nature morte
I watched her leaping in long grassas if pursuing butterflies,and thought no more of it, untilthis soft form