Hill of Enzymatic Content and Parboiled Days

Parboiled days are upon us in Lambertville, and Bart Brassica is indoors moping melancholically with Mr Elli Fun - or Elli NoFun as Mavis Eggwhistle has christened him, and so the farm work is in a state of disarray, the beans having been picked so late they are partially cooked. The stalwart Mr Farmhand has hoed to, and having made what Granny Egg calls a Bean-Line, to salvage a mass of giant Borlotti Beans. Mr Farmhand has been shovelling so long that the grass has grown up around his bean pile, and while he periodically shouts - Borlotti, Borlotti, hoping to get Bart Brassica to do something, Bart has only mumbled to Mr Elli Fun, that he never buys a lot of anything, regarding the shouts as a tinker’s cusses, if that can be rightly pluralised.

Mavis Eggwhistle, mindful of an outbreak of ground gas, has stayed put in Whistle Stoppe Florist.

As a child I thought there was a jewel box hidden in my parent's house, I imagined there was a cache of pink cut glass rings - the ones with adjustable soft metal sizing - laid out in pink foam in the nailed tight plyboard box in my brothers' walk-in robe.

Years later, I realised the box was really the back of the bathroom cabinet. I got a lot of enjoyment out of those pink glass jewels that weren't there. Imaginery treasures are curiously satisfying.

Here is a central point where someone who might be interetested can see what bits of words, some links to work published in journals and ezines, and images that I have made.

Absent Knowledge

We are talking about knowing certain facts,

and he says, I know all that or used to,

it is only that I can’t remember.

Is this not knowing or forgetting

what you know? Perhaps the head holds

a trace of what was there,

perhaps it is there but can’t find

the way out; maybe it was there but left,

or there was a rumour that it was coming

but never did,

like the promised holiday ,

in Pennant Hills. At eight years old

I would lie in bed at night a hardly contained

precipice of anticipation that time

would take me to Pennant Hills and a big house

with a swimming pool. I can see

the façade of the house, the curve

of suburban street, where that house

I never went to might be - or even was.

Though I know I never went, maybe

somewhere, there is an unborn memory

of being there, and I am thwarted by absent knowledge

from enjoying what I did not do.

Carol Jenkins

From Voices from the Meadow Wollongong Workshop Anthology 2007 ( Five Islands Press)

Bambiraptor

The Going Down Swinging # 25 -special double CD edition has at last unwrappped itself in Sydney, with a lauch at the Last Bastion of Civilisation last Wednseday 25 September. I still don't know what is in this CD it apart from my spoken word poem Bambiraptor as I was incarcarated in an invention called Good Mummydom. I hope every one else had a good time at the launch party.

The fossil Bambiraptor’s importance in the evolutional of dexterity and the dissonant name gave me this rave by Blanche (Street Car Named Desire) - here she makes a play for Bambiraptor believing his tough and powerful persona is lined with tenderness, like Stanley. This poem is one of my bids to get fossils to colonise and take over the myth as the substratum of literature.

Show Me The Treasure

Hill of Enzymatic Content and Parboiled Days

Share this:

CONVERSATION