Showing posts with label Barbara Boyd-Anderson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Barbara Boyd-Anderson. Show all posts

Tuesday, 15 July 2014

Beached

Massive but friendly, these giants of ocean -
majestic, questing, yet curious to know us,
humpbacks in cavalcade along the East Coast.

But perhaps tossed and tumbled
by a wanton rogue wave,
or tempted, distracted by a rippling strong current,
a baby whale strayed too far from its Mum.

A local pair heard the sad night-time callings,
a long sonic singing as the young calf crooned on,
soft-breathed smudged calls 
for a stressed, waiting parent.

For days it was trapped in the wash of flat waves,
its airy spouts slowing to fragile short puffs
as crystal tides ebbed, coolly indifferent.

Such a gamble, but a mission,
and our best and our brightest come gladly to rescue,
bringing ropes, boats and dredger
to refloat this baby, to help her swim free.

They struggle, they strain
with the whale's ten tonne weight.
They must keep her straight, 
not let her roll over,
with a real threat of drowning
as the swell rushes in.

Two tow ropes have snapped,
and despair's setting in.
But there's too much at stake
to give up this fight,
as the whale lifts a flipper, 
salutes to the sky.
Perhaps it's a sign! 
But we won't say "goodbye".

The next morning brings more ropes, 
a second new harness.
And the whale shifts. It leaps.
It clears the last sandbar.
With a flash of its tail it swims out to sea.

A sacred wild moment - hope now transcendent
where we thought there was none.

© Barbara Boyd-Anderson












Friday, 7 June 2013

Dog Days...

It's a golden dreamy gift of a day, 
light winking in the slanting sunlight,
mums and babes in a scrap of playground,
me with my little dog safe on-lead,
walking the park, our rhythms gentle.

I see them coming, closing in, 
a black mutt, thick-necked, roaming free,
his master, taut in his tight-ass jeans.

And I softly ask if his dog is safe?
It's a trigger for a mouthful of ripe abuse,
spitting contempt as he moves towards me -
a privileged stranger with her poncy dog,
an alien in his tribal world.

Paranoia rises, a default position
with my heartbeat surging,
emotions swirling, 
fogging the brain
as they always have done
with my long-held memories of
brawls and bullies,
a chemistry of anger in the rugged Port.

And true to his breed, this man smells fear.
He threatens. I counter. 
But it's still just words -
till he pulls a knife,
and I lose my cool.

Ghosts of the past dumped, dissolved.
I face him, reckless, unafraid, 
fully complicit with my own anger flaring, 
a boiling brew of scars not healed,
volatile, bold, my street cred rising,
bursting with the old expletives.
'Old' he taunts me, taken aback.
But he knows this code, and I don't care.
It's my dog I fight for,
and his eyes are softening
as I fire off volleys of savage stories,
where dogs like his lunge, attack.
I've seen them rip throats 
in wild abandon.
I've heard piercing screams
from careless owners,
men and dogs going down quick
in a final, ferocious, bloody mess.

And he backs off, slowly understanding.
as I follow him, defiant, 'cos I'm not done yet.
And he slows down, listens.

Now we can talk.

It's no Jane Austen novel
in these grizzled streets.
The stale smell of need lingers on,
in dogs and men in their show of rage;
mine too, perhaps, as I walk our park.

© Barbara Boyd-Anderson


Barbara Boyd-Anderson is an Australian poet.   Formerly a teacher, then a film-maker, she focuses now on poetry and the rich, varied world of