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Brick Through The Window (Poems from the 1990s)
Paperback
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ISBN10: 1986991792
ISBN13: 9781986991797
Publisher: Createspace
Published: May 15 2018
Pages: 118
Weight: 0.30
Height: 0.28 Width: 5.00 Depth: 8.00
Language: English
ISBN13: 9781986991797
Publisher: Createspace
Published: May 15 2018
Pages: 118
Weight: 0.30
Height: 0.28 Width: 5.00 Depth: 8.00
Language: English
(If residing in Australia purchase at www.amazon.com.au) The poems were written by Trevor Poulton during the 1990s. They were rediscovered by the writer in a medium-light cardboard storage box in a garage at the base of Mt Dandenong, Victoria in March 2018. The book additionally includes Aphorisms written by the writer between 2011 and 2023. The themes include the environment, crime and policing, war, Correctspeak and relationships. The writing is concise with striking imagery. The following are samples of the Trevor Poulton's 77 poems. SCULPTURE OF IDEAL A sculptress deciphers white from true white
in a rough-hewn limestone block.
With fall of fragments, a bulbous woman
disrobes. Rubenesque thighs, reclining
voluptuously between gum trees
within hand's reach of tools
to smooth her hair.
Surfeiting on H2O and stone,
she's a rock eater
brimming with whiteness. Contrasts with her maker -
petite, vulnerable. This other side of art
has absorbed the grief of stone,
ascends the rubble of falling men ... falling, falling, I am falling SEARCHING FOR A HIT We are a factory of nerves
between street lamps and the moon. Hit from behind
we stagger to our rooms. Memories flush red on a pillow.
Pain stops the clock. The time has come
to remake our broken world. DRIVING ME MAD (ADDICTION) Mindlessly I drive streets
to where they want to go.
My car is my body.
We acknowledge stop signs
argue with traffic lights
circle around the sun
map power lines.
The car is my hit
and I am its day
we are in tune
the radio doesn't talk back. I am the wavy line
behind the steering wheel
that needles the car
in multiple directions.
The motor doesn't care
as long as it's churning
and the seat doesn't care
as long as it's occupied.
I am a particle of tiredness
shooting thru a gallery of streets
my mind flat as a blown out tyre yet the car stays in Drive. HOUSE FOR SALE IN CASTLEMAINE Gold rings threaded
through a wing of your nose,
matted hair, city mouth,
massaged by an estate agent
marrying you to a house.
Garden encircled with granite,
irises plunging in and out of dirt,
conifers saluting a corrugated roof. Climbing into the nucleus of a magnolia
down its stem and you're inside
the house laid in stone.
Hollows in walls where spiders camp,
floor-boarded railway tracks
stopping at all rooms. A miner's cottage on an era of land.
Many lived here before
making love in cooking smells,
brushing hair back into mirrors. You wander about in striped stockings,
the rising damp of your flesh
sticking to stone walls as an offering. SOULD! You are the new proprietor
the cottage windows
had been looking for. (Trevor Poulton) Trevor Poulton lives in Melbourne, Australia. He was publisher of the regional weekly newspaper, The Central Victorian News & Review. He was admitted to the Supreme Court of Victoria as a Barrister and Solicitor in 2002 and practices as a generalist. He has played significant roles in forest campaigns during the 2000s. Several of his poems have been published in Redoubt, Verandah, On the Page, and the like. Several were read on invitation to two Melbourne Writers Festivals. poulton@labyrinth.net.au
With fall of fragments, a bulbous woman
disrobes. Rubenesque thighs, reclining
voluptuously between gum trees
within hand's reach of tools
to smooth her hair.
Surfeiting on H2O and stone,
she's a rock eater
brimming with whiteness. Contrasts with her maker -
petite, vulnerable. This other side of art
has absorbed the grief of stone,
ascends the rubble of falling men ... falling, falling, I am falling SEARCHING FOR A HIT We are a factory of nerves
between street lamps and the moon. Hit from behind
we stagger to our rooms. Memories flush red on a pillow.
Pain stops the clock. The time has come
to remake our broken world. DRIVING ME MAD (ADDICTION) Mindlessly I drive streets
to where they want to go.
My car is my body.
We acknowledge stop signs
argue with traffic lights
circle around the sun
map power lines.
The car is my hit
and I am its day
we are in tune
the radio doesn't talk back. I am the wavy line
behind the steering wheel
that needles the car
in multiple directions.
The motor doesn't care
as long as it's churning
and the seat doesn't care
as long as it's occupied.
I am a particle of tiredness
shooting thru a gallery of streets
my mind flat as a blown out tyre yet the car stays in Drive. HOUSE FOR SALE IN CASTLEMAINE Gold rings threaded
through a wing of your nose,
matted hair, city mouth,
massaged by an estate agent
marrying you to a house.
Garden encircled with granite,
irises plunging in and out of dirt,
conifers saluting a corrugated roof. Climbing into the nucleus of a magnolia
down its stem and you're inside
the house laid in stone.
Hollows in walls where spiders camp,
floor-boarded railway tracks
stopping at all rooms. A miner's cottage on an era of land.
Many lived here before
making love in cooking smells,
brushing hair back into mirrors. You wander about in striped stockings,
the rising damp of your flesh
sticking to stone walls as an offering. SOULD! You are the new proprietor
the cottage windows
had been looking for. (Trevor Poulton) Trevor Poulton lives in Melbourne, Australia. He was publisher of the regional weekly newspaper, The Central Victorian News & Review. He was admitted to the Supreme Court of Victoria as a Barrister and Solicitor in 2002 and practices as a generalist. He has played significant roles in forest campaigns during the 2000s. Several of his poems have been published in Redoubt, Verandah, On the Page, and the like. Several were read on invitation to two Melbourne Writers Festivals. poulton@labyrinth.net.au
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