Luke Davies Poems
|1.||Poetry And Flowers||5/3/2012|
|2.||Spastic At The Beach||5/3/2012|
|5.||Crescent Moon Over Over The Eiffel Tower||5/3/2012|
|6.||A Short History Of Polar Exploration||5/3/2012|
|8.||Poetry And Blood||5/3/2012|
|9.||Selection From 40 Love Poems||5/3/2012|
|13.||North Coast Bushfires||5/3/2012|
|15.||From Theory To Pulse||5/3/2012|
|17.||Wave Function, Bondi||5/3/2012|
|19.||Mythic Sacrifices In The Friendly Summer||5/3/2012|
Poetry And Flowers
Lark and rose go mad, even with winter
coming on, the garden beneath the verandah blooms,
the park is dense with sun and soccer balls.
By lark I mean generic bird, God knows
the names for all these things with wings. Ditto
the rose: the garden drooling colour and bloom.
Lavender I recognise, and jasmine climbing
the concrete wall, and a real rose in the corner,
red as blood. I meant to say: birds and flowers
go ballistic, even with winter coming on.
Carrying on their own life. The earth drowns
in the blooming. Even when there is no wind there is
Poetry And Blood
The leaves are budding on the trees. The buds
are popping everywhere. Spring as in spring in the step
makes sense. In Paris there is the dead of winter
as in you think of death as in great boats
of the dead ploughing through oceans of sky.
And then one week, bang, there is spring
and it feels like summer. You can almost hear
that popping and the blood quickens in the turtles