STEPHEN HOUSE - POEMS

Stephen House is an award winning Australian playwright, poet and actor. He’s won two Awgie Awards (Australian Writer’s Guild) , Adelaide Fringe Award, Rhonda Jancovich Poetry Award for Social Justice, Goolwa Poetry Cup, Feast Short Story Prize and more. He’s been shortlisted for Lane Cove Literary Award, Overland’s Fair Australia Fiction Prize, Patrick White Playwright and Queensland Premier Drama Awards, Greenroom best actor Award and more. He’s received Australia Council literature residencies to Ireland and Canada, and an India Asialink.  His chapbook “real and unreal” was published by ICOE Press. He is published often and performs his work widely.

​political

​if separation of factual knowledge from imagined construction 
through false analytical reflection for power plus control gain
achieves realisation of possibility and rheostat assurance
towards foresight of obtainable winning then onslaught
of gathered falsely identified and named as proof is a sham  
 
for if unstructured unfolding created due to accumulation
of manipulated behavioural historical narrative on opposition
as a result of researched grouping of information derived at
by fear of defeat is conditioned only by blemished circumstances
then nil benefit towards foreseeable society gain will arrive
 
as jolting lies in direction of ambition for authority alone
by planned covering of emotional and physical requirement
through need of want by blinding citizens with stagnating
approach to addressing situational importance towards survival
political and organizational rubbish spout will reach saturation 
 
but confronting concoction of dishonesty and rights degraded  
by those self-indoctrinated in equality war zone will erode
devious sliding further into operational game play tactics
and ignoring manipulators devious propaganda rambling
escapism and self-governing will bring light to distorted reality
 
so can be viewed as power-seeking only inward in unethical
devised selective process of fakery utilising community apathy
combined with trust built from offering false promises barrage
used by those desperate to lead and deliver volley of contrived
excuses bound together and named as positive direction forward   
 
and so we constituents receptive in what is dished sit stacked woven
in their heated destruction of truth consumed greed and annihilation
of planet from finance grab by governing privileged living off 
self-managed experiment with disadvantaged suffering from parody
of persistent lies as trickery overlays manufactured flawed foundations
 
 
 

witch
​

​i was nine years old
 
in our classroom we called her the witch
 
we had an evil witch for a teacher
 
she would walk slowly around the rows of desks
seeking out her victim
often it was me
she would grab my ear lobe
twist it until tears ran down my face
pinch the back of my neck with her long painted nails
but make a sound i never would
for that would mean more torture
 
for a crime like talking
not completing homework
or looking out the window
she would drag the offender into the corridor
and beat their legs and arms with a wooden ruler
 
one day after thrashing me
she took my hair in her hand and shook my head
slapped my face over and over
and then pushed me so hard i crashed to the floor
slid along the wooden boards
and banged into steel lockers against the wall
 
after the attack she went back into the class room
with glazed eyes
dribbling spit from her nasty smile
leaving me slumped on the ground
bruised and crying
 
it was 1968
and that was how it was for us
 
we had an evil witch for a teacher
 
 

on a corner 
​

​there is something disturbingly honest
about living in another city
and wondering why
create measures to gauge the seriousness
of fragile moments
strung together
by no more than the present notion of life
 
another moment
now
no longer the one of just before
so i turn my attention to the rap boys
on the corner playing their music
and i dance
here on a corner in Paris
i dance
 
the rap boys of a dozen races give me a wave
laugh amongst themselves
cheer me on a bit
and whether it’s because they like me
or think i’m an old fool
alone
on a city sidewalk
doesn’t matter
because their acknowledgement of me
and that mixed up moment just gone
that they saw too
means something real
no matter what
 
other people hanging around
still staring
wondering what the encore will be
stuck in their tracks and pulling me down
with a group denunciation of my behavior
from just before
and as i babble jumbled words at them
and give a scream for maximum effect
they begin to shuffle back in fear
to their footpath to follow
thinking that if i completely fly off the handle
in the next burst
they might all be totally fucked