Peter Minter

Peter Minter Poems

Under the dim grey sky of an early evening
in September, that mountain sky
when air rests across the surface of the world
and strays on the body like cold,
...

You enter the suburbs,
drive down through the fair blue distance
swelling at the road's end,
the luminous window
...

When you walk out
into the derangement of earliest morning,
too early, for the stars
still examine you and trees, unencumbered
...

The world does not know it offers nothing.
I am meant to see a white shirt,
whale bone buttons flashing under lights,
the advice of a lissom woman
...

Foam Days

Waves topple
and roll over, spray may
affect visibility
...

6.

Lately, what have you, my arrogance, been writing
in The Pieces, the sense of you in That Library on the shore one of me
let's say
...

The day's evil ends, county of soft air and airport bars
where dog's hair slogs out the horoscope
floats atween logic
nor the Other View
...

All academics are hopeless
is a line I remember from Ed Dorn's
‘The Land Below'. It synchs neatly
...

i.

The dream begins here
on a Good Day, where light
whittles up hands' gold
...

The lines line up & nothing happens.
What was that about ‘affect', your attitude detached
but still in the black?
...

Night closes in, sea spray
& spindrift
curl around my idle feet
...

Peter Minter Biography

Peter Minter, an award-winning poet, editor and scholar, lectures in Indigenous studies and poetics at the Koori Centre, University of Sydney. His poetry collections include blue grass, Empty Texas and Rhythm in a Dorsal Fin.)

The Best Poem Of Peter Minter

Living Systems

Under the dim grey sky of an early evening
in September, that mountain sky
when air rests across the surface of the world
and strays on the body like cold,
unremarkable sweat,
you question the validity of new growth,
an apparent urgency
to fresh lime leaves unfurling from the tips
of branches, knee-high grass left uncut for seeding
heavy under the pressure of damp,
point out to me the raindrops
resting on leaves of grass like indian mirrors
sprayed out across the yard.

This one, like them all,
held against the green verge by asymptotes
of gravity and friction, the fabric of living
and falling into the earth as a pebble
or circle of life
seems larger than the rest,
the dark green shadow of the world
and weight of the sky
turned as an eyeball to eyes
we bring and strain through the matter
of belonging, here, against
the matter of not belonging,
the strain of accomplishment, the names
we share and pretend again to forget.

When night falls, again,
forgetting the air that thickens
from nowhere into rain,
the raindrop gathers dark
into its gentle, impressive detail
and symmetry, the broad grass leaves
sink to the ground and emerge
as a field of black hands
sprouting from the torso and blood
and aeons of waiting for day.
We stay to see the first lamp
flicker away on the street,
eyes watching the rain as it slides
through arteries of light
to our feet, and then, to the deepening clay.

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