some
of the earliest of the last thoughts
for bob and
wilma mclean sarah and family and adam
those who
collect funerals
ravens dribbling roadkill
remittance men
butcherbird hanging mouseguts
in a tree
matriarchs maven lovelies
shelf-shaking panhandlers
blazers and suits and fizzhags
bright girls in long silk
sunday school teachers rope petticoats
the slavic dancer's bitten
toenails
the blokes with the zip-up
chests
shadow-boxers warty benchmen
whores with mouthsful of
lipstick
lord twining giggling toothless
on a flagon
backsliders backbiters
syndicators
the horse I used to kiss
tough-fingered neighbours in
tears
bringers of soup and firewood
and stew
peacocks on the woodbox
the giant pitch hounds
man we pranced for you
in the spiral waft of your
spirit
man we danced
the open-throated laughter of
rejoice
balancing on talons
the wedge-tailed eagle skrawked
a warning
shotgun discharges on the fence
as I spun
your big hand at the small of
my back
sweet brandy whisper of
grandmother's breath
reassurance of ironed linen to
come
bits went up in the air
we cast dirt skyward
lumps of gravel and clay
hats and butts and worn out
notions
the bones of old
ideas
heaven was our chimney
I hurled bottles
shiraz made mud for our boots
this is the works
these are our roots
philip white
top photo©Milton Wordley ... on the occasion of her 60th birthday, without spilling a drop of Riesling, Wilma exits a very low limbo below a real long Mt Pleasant metwurst, which we then devoured ... bottom snaps by me: Big Bob as Yeti ... and here he is at our last lunch ... the tomato one on his left was his favourite. I think he thought I would deftly devour the other. Sheesh. Wee Rab.
That shotgun reference is a recollection of the day Bob's 12 gauge discharged as he climbed over a fence. About 1984. Silly fellow was hardly a hunter. I was so freaked to realise how close he'd come to blowing his head off I could barely speak but typical of the man, he ended up attempting to comfort and reassure me! No more shotgun after that.
On just re-discovering this poem in the ether I was tempted to clarify this incident by adding to its text, but I don't want to change what must have been an utterly spontaneous splurge of images from the eyelid cinema library ... I can't remember the Philip who wrote that poem but he seems close.
That shotgun reference is a recollection of the day Bob's 12 gauge discharged as he climbed over a fence. About 1984. Silly fellow was hardly a hunter. I was so freaked to realise how close he'd come to blowing his head off I could barely speak but typical of the man, he ended up attempting to comfort and reassure me! No more shotgun after that.On just re-discovering this poem in the ether I was tempted to clarify this incident by adding to its text, but I don't want to change what must have been an utterly spontaneous splurge of images from the eyelid cinema library ... I can't remember the Philip who wrote that poem but he seems close.
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