The Best Australian Poems 2011 by John Tranter

dot
    on the floor of the freshly dug grave, soft as flesh –
    goodness returns to goodness – lush waves of wild grass rolling.
    Under faded clouds, grains of my childhood
    now I enter a Greek Orthodox house of worship in Kingston
    swim in the rising tongues
    of islands and archipelagos and the upturned seas
    bathed in a hologram, sun washing over years and feet
    held in caring hands, then
    cut, roped, shifted, hanged up, nailed, in, out, under, over
    dirt – warm, ever so, breathing

Values Meeting
Jal Nicholl
    Down there by the fence is where everybody goes
    to have sex.              Back to first nothingness,
    a soapbox shouting, its own goalkeep,
    scores, falling into conception: to posit
    Â 
    the use of fire as a universal right … a different
    coat of arms for each insect.
    But how combine
    individual responsibility with a sense
    Â 
    of community, as the tone, fine-tuned, combines
    brightness and power? See, this
    is just the discussion we’ve been needing
    to have, like, do we believe in love?              & if God is love,
    Â 
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â Â Â Â Â maybe we should be worshipping him?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â Â Â Â Â & if so, in what way precisely?
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â†
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â†
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â†
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â â†

Our Lady of Coogee
Mark O’Flynn
    Turning it over
    it’s no coincidence
    that the famous Tom Roberts painting
    Holiday sketch at Coogee, 1888
    preserved here in postcard form
    is also the same view of the very fence post
    where Christ’s mother appeared to the people of Coogee
    on those heated, sunstruck afternoons.
    Â 
    In the painting no one on the beach is nude.
    People stroll the shore under parasols.
    Cliffs in the distance, minus bathing baths.
    Impressionism captures haze so well.
    No shark has vomited up a tattooed arm in the aquarium.
    No distant world wars. Not even a ravenous gull.
    No cynical fence post, either, to deflect
    the sunbright glare of Coogee’s vision splendid.
    Â 
    It is as if the figure that might be Our Lady (dressed
    in black) is picnicking,
    surveying distant figures across the hot sand.
    The sky beautiful as a bruise,
    the waves petrified tulle frozen in paint.
    Â 
    Yet motion is what’s wanted
    as Our Lady of Coogee finally stands up,
    black as pitch,
    brushes crumbs from her holy shroud
    amidst the fish and chip wrappings,
    the apparition’s vandalised fence post,
    and opens her arms in wonder
    at the miracle of real estate.

Four Thirteen
Ella O’Keefe
    kicking in windows like old tvs
    lasso some hose to scatter stray
    hosts of morning tv, the kind
    who’re evangelical about anything
    Â 
    the day began with the question
    of how to fold the labour
    â€“ simultaneous declaration
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â of necessary breeze –
    Â 
    suburban magnolia puts on a show
    â€˜on you frills lose their cuteness’
    Â 
    our street lacks verticality
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â thus becomes a drive by
    Â 
    optimistic housetags
    e.g. call it
    FLORIDA
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â & the cubist palm trees
    Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â will grow in Moonee Ponds
    Â 
    living close to the tracks
    just to know things are going
    (or that you can get going)
    Â 
    these things that are the same as
    looking at your own handwriting
    Â 
    go upstairs to practice  baton twirls,
    a