Earth's Breath

Susan Hawthorne

• Éditeur: Spinifex Press
• Année: 2009
• ISBN:
  9781742194165
• Édition: 1
• Sujet: Literatur
• Sous-sujet: Poesie

Situated between the realms of the real and the fantastic, this collection of eco-poetry relays the ferocious power and long-lasting effects of extreme weather events such as cyclones, hurricanes, and typhoons. Exploring the period before, during, and after a cyclone's arrival, these emotionally charged poems travel from trampled forests and torn rooftops to the inner heartache and emotional distress felt among disaster survivors. This poetic and psychological journey through trauma explores the deep connection between human beings and their environment.

Earth’s Breath

They say that a great wind is sweeping the earth.
They say that the sun is about to rise.

—Monique Wittig, The Guérillères

Earth’s breath

Breath is an origin story
before breath is non-existence
winds ride the edge of the storm
cloud messengers galloping loud
orchestral kettle drums beat.

Summer has been long
its breath has spanned millennia
and now comes the rain
the storm, the raging
rotten breath of cyclonic winds.

Myths are made of such noise
the rampages of Heracles
have filled our childhood ears
the violence of men and gods
he sneezes and we all fall down.

Who will be Delilah, brave enough
to calm Samson with a pair of
scissors, his long hair fallen
trampled like old vines that
strangle the biggest trees?

We are not so lucky with
Larrikin Larry, no shears large
enough to make his pate shine
as we watch, the ground turns bald
with his blunders through the undergrowth.

A shredder over his shoulder, Larry
larks about turning bark and leaves
to confetti and in his next breath
plays graffiti artist, pasting every
wall door and window.

But even wind needs to draw breath
a moment’s stillness, earth’s smoko—
then we hear the trampling across the roof
the flue knocked off, the guttering
torn ripped and discarded

as Larry changes direction, running rings
widdershins, bellowing earth’s grief
no longer at play, this brat is serious
his blood has curdled, our souls are rattled
ears drumming against bawling Larry.

Cyclone time

when earth exhales
we inhale, hold our breath
as that great turbine of wind
rolls over us

three hours we sit
nursing the rising wind
the power goes out
the TV light extinguished

through the window
trees gyrate
wailing to the wind’s howl
fascinated in devilish thrall

darkness lopes across the void
of sea in tormented uncertainty
stark-eyed watchfulness
grips us and curiosity listens

6 am we look at one another
gather the bedclothes
move pillows doona
dog into the bathroom

you have the spot by the loo
I have the towel racks
wind thrashes, sky lightens
to grey, the air a roaring

bulldozer in the room
night’s stride awash, flecked
with salt I sit in the door jamb
you are videoing

the dawn of a new world
a world of strewn trees
matted leaf torn rooves
metal dress flapping

the dog sleeps on, curled into her
own tight dream 7.30 am
wind turns, limbs snap in fright
lying down for the wind no longer works

light dribbles in, time drags by
I’m reading poetry the space
before me a thinking space
outside a tree branch wings

past the window its leaves
slashing the sky, inside a strange
equilibrium holds me still
in a state of cosmic acceptance

corrugated roof
slams into the garage wall
guttering spills its contents
the down pipe is down

the path spattered confettied
in the pall of wind we poke
our heads into the air
trepidation stalls our steps

Eye of the storm

All else was dissolved by this lustrous moment made visible in the eye of the storm.

—Patrick White, The Eye of the Storm

the eye is not the stillness of fear
the eye patterns the storm

we are the concentric circles of the eye goddess
the iris of the storm
the I of the storm

here, the barometric eye
the panopticon
the all-seeing eye
the all-devouring eye

is at the southern edge of the storm
at the immaterial edge of the self

even at the edge of a cliff
ready to take the leap of faith
of love, into the void

here, we are thoroughly material
blown about by the reversing wind

frozen at the edge of nothingness
caught in the torn shreds of leaf matter
swirled and pasted

the radical, marginalised, left, forgotten
yet the eye, the I, is always central

Into the aftermath

after th...