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Graham Nunn is based in Brisbane, Queensland, Australia. He is interested in the internal structure of things. In bones and the framework of cities. He writes about the experience of beauty found in desire, death, loyalty and compassion; and of the beauty bestowed on objects by the obsessed. He has published 4 collections of poetry and all are available by emailing the author at: jennyandgraham@optusnet.com.au

Pink Umbrella

I am still too old, or
older than I seem and it's due
to the poems you can see reflected
in my dirty window
they explain everything
that's gone wrong with civilization:

they're a drab catalogue of semantics and pretension
they're full of desperation, regret and triviality
they're like a mime on the radio
they're like an electric fence around a deserted island
they're more like David Lynch than Steven Speilberg
though more like Speilberg than Big Brother
and less like Big Brother than a good fuck

they're like alzheimers or a geriatric running race
and you're like a pink umbrella in spring
and the war's begun already and it's nine o'clock
and nine o'clock is like a shot of caffeine
or a lightning bolt injecting menace
into the unbearable blue of night
where the sky's face is pock-marked
and the poem's promise thunders at its edges

Dust

and this was the picture
you came home to

a still pond
where a canoe floats

and the air has no weight
twigs, blades and leaves molded

to a plover’s belly pressing
against the nest walls

shaped and reshaped by
each palpitation

a glimpse of your son
following a caravan of ants

down the garden path
a multitude of thoughts

gathering like rain clouds
the test results burning

through your pocket
in this light

blue is as true as
the foliage of a crow’s wing

and the picture takes on greater meaning
a reversal of fortune and perspective

the sudden realization
that none of this really matters

stars collapse and
scatter their elements

we are not metaphor
we are simply dust

Copyright © 2007 Graham Nunn