STEFANIE BENNETT - POEMS
Stefanie Bennett has published several volumes of poetry, a novel & a libretto. Of mixed ancestry [Irish/Italian/Paugussett-Shawnee] she was born in Queensland, Australia. Stefanie’s latest poetry title (2015) “The Vanishing” is available from its publisher Walleah Press, Amazon & Fishpond Books.
NETWORK NEWS – Moscow 1915
“I know the truth -give up all other truths! No need for
people anywhere on earth to struggle.” M. Tsvetayeva
I've not destroyed myself although
They said I would.
I've run my race, but never crookedly:
The diversions, on occasion, were necessary.
And, I've not measured fate. Lady Luck
Had other plans. Familiarity, fame -
It's the same forgery when
You get down on all fours to look at it.
As for that plasmic boy, the one who
Deals out icons and
The wearing lands of the senses:
I read him as best I could.
We lived separately. He – in his fine house
Scattered with bronze eagles, unicorns,
And fire-wheels. I, in my
Trench-coat; total. Conventionless.
Mentor aside, the path was stony. At every
Fork an ambush or reconciliation.
Through the twin births of opposites
I chose – always – what lay between.
After me comes death in her doomed chariot.
I pause long enough
To kiss the living back to life. I've learned
Destruction can be tender, the process
Ongoing. The writing of it: seemingly natural.
Picking up shells on Long Island
I'm remembering a displaced people
As the thin sea's edge draws the firmament
In streaks of pale violet.
Trade-goods would have been exchanged here.
Copper kettles for wild game,
Squash, and field fruits awaiting
The scorched Metacom's advance. *
I dig my heels into quick-silver sand
Wet with the tide's ebb
And reel at a faint earth pulse.
All around are distinctive
Indentations: moccasin shaped.
*Metacom = King Phillip
Drought's my season. Red earth
The soliloquy. Even
This creek bed's cut its losses.
Moribund crab-apple, you recognise *
My skull – your old playmate -
Gone dissonant with haze.
Churlishly, I once believed
I could douse fire up
And fan it back again
But – I am no overlord. The odd
Monsoon puts quiet to that.
Born victims, let's not forget
Our origins. Too adroitly fate's
Equated to obstinacy;
Deliverance grounded on hearsay.
Still, the moon's stark full of mystery,
And land's aging evermore.
I salute us with dust; with passion
- Watch the miraging rivers run.
*crab-apple = desert fruit, Australia
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