Selected poems
Winging it
The birds woke us early today,
Not that we could sleep.
The news has ruffled us.
Light creeps over
the dresser, the pile of clothes,
my shameful shoes.
We didn’t make love last night.
I have given up trying
to rationalise it.
You think that what you want
is sameness,
but it is only that because
unsameness is always worse.
I envy your dog its
undiagnosed reality.
Sometimes too,
Birds just fall from the sky,
Eventually,
Often in mid…
Picnic At Hampstead Pond
The weeping willows bowed
To the weight of small birds
Who clicked in its branches
like typewriters on holiday.
Beneath it we picnicked
And got drunk and laughed.
You talked to me
Of older poets and what they’d said,
And I listened to your calm voice
Spread out over the brown pond,
To where a speckled duck chugged by
Drawing two silver threads of sunlight
In a vee from its stern.
Beyond, the Hampstead houses
dipped their heads in the water
and drank long and slow
as if in companionship.
At last the pond darkened
beneath evening clouds
And we rose to go,
Leaving behind the precious crumbs
The birds had waited all day for.
Takotsubo Cardiomyopathy
When you receive a permanent shock
your heart becomes gripped
as if by an octopus,
and then it forgets its function
or assumes the shape of a Japanese octopus trap.
Something like that.
I read this is a book
by a new young poet
who was trying to describe
the effect of exile
or displacement
or violence.
She was right about one thing,
All damage is capable of lodging in the heart.
Julian Wood is a poet living in Sydney. He is of mixed Irish and English descent. He has published in both the UK and Australia. Poetry can be found lurking anywhere but spotting it and bringing into the light often requires patience and a certain tenderness towards things and people.
Main image: A view of Hamstead Heath. (RichGreentea / Getty Images)