On our sweaty walk, we passed under archways of feathering clotheslines with the belief we were following the faded footsteps of scribes and philosopher-kings
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Or maybe it’s not true, maybe Jost is in all of us, me, a person like him, stalwart, inflexible, easily destroyed by the modern world;
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He tried to twist prejudice his way, that he was lucky to sit high above the others, alone and uninterrupted. And for a couple of hours he could escape and leave his blues somewhere next to nowhere.
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The man’s voice broke the silence. Though it was soft it seemed to reverberate throughout the house, as if the vibrations of his vocal cords had become a part of the very air molecules, sending them all ablaze. Rosa stayed frozen in her bed, heart hammering so hard it actually hurt. She tried to listen to what he was saying and think of what she should do at the same time, but it was as if her mind had jammed. Everything seemed fuzzy and slow except for her heart and its persistent thumping. Her underarms felt moist and her skin burned with anxiety. She wanted to run, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to move.
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Strange how the events of a life, once so stratified, shift like pieces of glass, evolving into a memory not of conflict but of harmony.
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it was the first time I felt like a real poet. After all these years of trying to figure out what poetry was, what being a poet was all about. During my walk back home I ruminated about writing a philosophical tract on EXIT signs.
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The tulips grew apart from each other that Spring. The ground cracked and crumbled in ways that I’d never seen before.
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As winner of the coveted Billybong Prize for progressive literature, Theresa, not yet 45, should have been on cloud nine. And had her sister not come to the ceremony, young daughter in hand, Theresa having left her worries about her future decision (syllable or one letter?) at home, bask in the glory.
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