B. R. Dionysius
B. R. Dionysius Poems
Three ruby jewelled seeds
free fall between the pomegranate's
cosmetically enhanced skin
& the forefinger of the pre-pubescent
...
He whistled to her & like an inquisitive dog
The bowl of her head angled, a satellite dish
To receive the new music. She was muttering
Away in some mimic’s foreign language when
...
The arms of his spiral galaxy were not punctured
With bright stars, but with buckets of bore water
...
To some we’re the polka-dotted red menace;
We are feared for our beliefs, blood sacrifice
...
A power as diluted as the monarch’s they were named for;
Their colonial reach across the border, tempered by more
Indigenous agitators, the great unwashed mass of noisy miners
...
Fire cleanses more than memory; a bad
Season will clear out tussock grass without
A backward glance. The charred ‘calling logs’
Where males wrought sound waves into fine
...
The first thing Helen says is,
‘If any of you touch me,
it’s assault’.
Their first session
...
(Roxanne daydreams on Crete.)
There, that island crouched down
ready to pounce on the blue Mediterranean
...
(Baldwin daydreams on Crete.)
Like Dionysius I & II of Greek Syracuse
Oh, to be a tyrant of wine, women & song
...
When he was a young man
& the flower of his mind
opened wide as a birth canal,
...
Mr Warren Dionysius your appointment at the x-ray department is on Friday 27/8/76 at 12.00pm
sorry you're sick it must be a strange new feeling for you
...
In the Reina Sophia, Madrid,
Baldwin can't help but think;
What are these German tourists
going to make of Dali's, 'The Enigma
...
The freckled back of poetry
flexes prismatically through
the front door's stained glass
kookaburra. Warped cells bunch
...
If they had been Roman, then someone would have
Died every night for months on end as the Boobook
...
The light years of their birth & death. The immeasurable
Expansion & collapse of eras, like a husband’s stretched
...
Look for the tell-tale signs of our existence.
Half eaten purple fruit dark as a shark’s eye
...
B. R. Dionysius Biography
B. R. Dionysius (born 1969) is an Australian poet, editor, arts administrator and educator. B. R. Dionysius was born in Dalby, Queensland. He was the chairperson of Fringe Arts Collective Inc from 1994 to 2001; directed the Brisbane Writers Fringe Festival from 1993 to 1996, and directed the Subverse: Queensland Poetry Festival from 1997 to 2001. In 2004, he completed an M.Phil (Creative Writing) at the University of Queensland. He is currently enrolled in a Bachelor of Education (Secondary) Grad Entry, again at the University of Queensland. He lives in Ipswich, Queensland, is married to the writer Melissa Ashley and has two daughters, Rhiannon and Sylvie, and a son, Theo. Universal Andalusia, his third poetry collection was shortlisted for the C. J. Dennis Prize for Poetry in 2006.)
The Best Poem Of B. R. Dionysius
Xxxxxxv. An Allegory Of Time
No doubt some thorough American manual can give you the low down on Europe's margins but mine, designed for only one traveller is better written & much shorter. Besides, if you remove the art, Europe's like the US, more or less a dead loss.
John Forbes, Europe: a guide for Ken Searle
Three ruby jewelled seeds
free fall between the pomegranate's
cosmetically enhanced skin
& the forefinger of the pre-pubescent
Christ child. This fruit stigmata;
pre-Christian underworld throwback
makes Martin Johnston pause, smile,
push his glasses back up the long
wall of his nose. His left hand
combs through black shoulder length
Velasquez hair, stump-jumping over
the Doric capital of a hidden mole.
His Italian hiking boots squeak
like a pair of Inquisition
thumbscrews turned up to the max,
inches across the polished beech
fingernail floor. Bosch's demented
figures take on more of that
tortured look. Bite down hard on
the afternoon's touched up flesh.
Further on, St Francis dances
on the head of a leopard to receive
the crown of thorns from Jesus
& Martin, turning a corner, enters
a scene of true chaos.
Two deranged men, a fat, thirty
-something Australian & an elderly
American tourist jostle each other
over a plumb position to view
Picasso's Guernica.
Martin, distracted by the sound
of security guards about to pounce,
doesn't hang around to see the fun.
Splits this sad Western ex-pat scene
& skips casually over the next
couple of centuries; thinks about
the five hours he queued once,
to get into the Uffizi Gallery,
& the one hour it took him
to go through it.
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