National Poetry Month!!

 Well, it's been a while. This is A Moonlit Campfire. But you know that.

Grab a chair and sit down, or just perch on the big fallen tree, closer to the fire; shoulder to stranger's shoulder, knee to unknown knee. Careful where you tread, there might be a few empties lying around. Things got a bit silly in 2010.

Billy and Ellcee will show you where the wine cups are.

I'm a bit tentative to begin, even though the weather is kind and I'm really only posting a poem. There's no point reading previous posts; all the good stuff was on 20six, and that's long gone. So, just read the following poem. Read it aloud, because that's the way poems are supposed to be read. If others in your household laugh, tell them to go fuck themselves. And if you feel stupid reading a poem aloud, that's a personal weakness you need to address. Then read it aloud again, at least once. That way you'll work out all the mistakes you made and you'll get closer to understanding what the poet was getting at.

I haven't asked permission to post these poems. Der. I'm hoping that if you like one, you'll check out the poet and buy some of their stuff. Your bookshelves need more poetry books. Really.

Oh, and I just saw an icon at the bottom of my New Post page which implies that if you are reading this on a phone, you should hold it in landscape. Yair, I dunno either. Just read it on a putey and make it simple.

I've begun with a poem that's just lovely nonsense. There's no Important Lesson. It doesn't deal with (my) mortality. It's just one of those simple, clever pieces of writing that makes you wish you had written it. It's quite long too. Have another sip of red and deal with it. Remember having to write stories, and how hard to was to move the plot along? This is about that...

In the Boot of Someone's Car, by Josephine Rowe.

There is a woman 
locked in the boot 
of someone's car. 
The darkness is pressing down on her 
so hard she can't breathe 
and she can't be sure 
whether she's choking on fear 
or petrol fumes 
or the darkness. 
The driver takes the corners too fast. 
It hurts less if she just goes limp. 
She can't remember how she got there 
but she will be there forever 
her voice hoarse from screaming 
because I can't think of a way to get her out.

I know that somewhere 
there's a cable release 
or a toolbox with a crowbar 
or a wrench. 
She could jemmy the lock. 
All she has to do is feel around in the dark 
but her hands are tied behind her back 
and I don't know what to do with her 
once she's out. 
I don't even know who the driver is. 
So I leave her there 
in the boot of someone's car. 

I've run out of endings. 
I leave women crying on doorsteps. 
I leave lonely men 
in empty carriages 
on last trains to nowhere. 
I leave families sleeping 
as their houses burn to the ground. 
I leave gamblers, 
cocaine addicts, failed musicians, 
prostitutes, lawyers, fathers, 
at the top of buildings, 
under bridges, 
on freeways, train tracks, rooftops, 
on the cracked linoleum floors of 
restrooms in fast food restaurants 
somewhere in the outer western suburbs, 
or chain smoking at kitchen tables 
watching the smoke curl up to 
twenty five watt Homebrand lightbulbs 
that flickflickflicker 
as they wait for unfaithful lovers 
to return home from work. 

And I leave a man 
with smoke in his eyes 
both hands on the wheel 
driving as far away as he can 
on ten bucks of fuel 
before he breaks down. 
He calls me 
to ask where we're going from here. 

And I tell him that I don't know 
because I've run out of endings. 
I tell him that I'm sorry, 
but there's a woman 
locked in the boot 
of his car.