Sunday, in-queue– what if my national identity sells out? Flags flapping, helpers and hi-five, (take a look at the absolute resilience of this volunteer!)
We had a happy b-day in-queue, where as they waited, the whole of Copland St joined in to sing, Happy Birthday! I gave him a birthday present of a poem that could move with them. If not move them.
Lovely to actually be asked by someone next in line to please share another.
NEXT (STORY) TELLER PLEASE
And to actually share
THE REASON YOU RUCK
“it disappears this muscle clutch
in a grinding muffled roar
an elastic snap second
a blink-less swallow…
your rising determination
thrusts me back
till I’m swinging
nestled in your hooked elbow
egg-cold and tightly stitched
brushing your heaving chest
till I’m spinning
seed-giddy, through a held breath
hurtling between seven intentions
knocking teeth loose in a tackle
at a rugby sevens line up.
Where do you think they are from? Stewart asks, of those wearing a green and gold t-shirt, boasting AUSSIE, carrying an inflatable kangaroo & clutching a curling colonial flag. Maybe there is something in a stereotype because we bonded rather quickly, and I shared the poem about the sea and Sydney-
“the bridge yawns gracefully above
houselights huddle on a stolen headland
camped conversations silenced by distance
and the inky black spill of still ocean
the water is a kiss or a slap
against the city’s concrete rim–
I can’t decide”
We cut quickly to political agitation. The Brits were the first boat people to land on Australia, ah, “she knows our history” one of them chimed in. Lets not in Britain suffer from the same amnesia that Australia does when it comes to what actually happened to get us where we are today. Empire was, and did, and settlement wasn’t really so much that as invasion, and where I come from I’m not considered Indigenous and the first people were not the first to suffer a near genocide, and there is today a Commonwealth of nations in which there is rarely (each of us) a common wealth.
Wow, what a day! Despite the slight dribble of rain, the wind blowing my poncho into a portable ‘poet’ bubble, and the tube station hold ups, (long lovely queues) – there were smiles and spectator glee.