Andy Quan - Down to You

I trampled those days, a lion, believed
in myself with a ferocity that has since
never been the same. They were days
when self-knowing became real, a dented
bud of a tulip infused with its own
fragility and what it might reveal.
I'd discovered Great Men. This late
in the century, in so vast a country, so
few gay poets. On my invitation, you
read for the university's first gay
pride week. The dance that night,
dining tables upended, chairs stacked
in corners, nervous men and women
from town mixed in with students. I dressed
in what I hoped gay men might wear. You
asked my straight friend to dance, he tried
not to show how proud he was not to
be an oaf, and when it was our turn, after
odd late-eighties tracks and disco throw-
backs: everything you held high and told
yourself was true. It was my first dance
with another man, my right hand
awkward on you rhip. You told me
it was your favourite Joni Mitchell song.
We glided, slow-motion skaters, on that
cafeteria's hardwood floor, the man I
would become blooming in the distance,
pairs of men and women in our
orbit, dim lights suspended from the old
rafters above. As the days came down to you.

- From Out of the Box: Contemporary Australian Gay and Lesbian Poets

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Fair warning: I've managed to establish a habit of reading poetry before bed and/or first thing on waking. I think I shall start posting a poem-a-day this year.

Whoo poetry!

OK, so, three people think it's a good idea! I like good ideas. I hereby state an intention to post 5 poems a week in 2013!.

Note to LJ'ers: after this, poetry posts will not be crossposted to LJ. They'll be public at highlyeccentric.dreamwidth.org - add to your blog readers if you want to join in. :) Comment using openID if so you desire.

To celebrate, a poem I posted at poetry at the end of last year:

Pointless
John Pfitzner

For Graham, who is mad on sport
but sees no use for poetry.

You're right, there's no point
to poetry. It's useless

as a Michael Clarke cover drive
with dancing footwork,
body balanced, head steady,
weight gliding to the front foot,
the almost lazy sweep of the bat,
the perfect timing and rhythm,
the flow of the follow-through,
the seemingly effortless elegance,

which changes nothing, adds nothing
to the sum of human knowledge,
rights no wrongs, cures no diseases,
provides no food for the starving,

as pointless as a poem
with language that dances down the pitch,
gives itself room and launches
its outrageous idea, its subtle
observation high over midwicket
and into the members stand
with perfect timing, rhythm and
seemingly effortless eloquence.

- From 'Best Australian Poems 2012' ed. John Tranter

Photos: Rottnest Island plus a gratuitous Brooke!phot

A timely(ish) photo post!

( Including quokkas, guns, and toddlers )