Live Encounters Poetry & Writing Volume Five November-December 2024
Self-Portrait with Cutlass, poem by Justin Lowe.
Self-Portrait with Cutlass
I.
I have been told I write with my fists.
I have been told more than once,
by people that I trust,
that were I to parade myself in the street
the way I parade myself on paper,
they would probably lock me up
behind that big iron door
the old man argues with on my day bed.
II
I understand next to nothing,
or perhaps what is worse,
I woke one morning to the song of strange birds.
I play at wisdom
like a kitten pawing
at a loose thread.
I consider stubborness a virtue,
cute as that kitten,
except that kittens with a loose thread never age.
III
my heart gives me trouble since COVID,
my mind wanders,
my long legs carry me deep into the dark wood
where COVID tried to bury me.
three times it tried,
and I’m not quite sure it failed entirely.
IV.
I am not puzzled
by the face in the mirror anymore,
but it seems puzzled by me.
when I turn off the light,
and lock the door behind me,
I sometimes wonder what it is thinking.
V.
trees build their cathedrals of shadow
which the magpies fill with their polyphony
of trill and clack,
and the cockatoos wander in,
screeching at the choir
like midnight drunks.
lightning flashes high
and completes the vision,
of a black bird and a white bird
arguing like cracks in a mirror.
VI.
each day I gaze into the puddle the last rains left.
they were a month ago,
but the puddle is as stubborn
as the face staring back.
something is hatching in its eyes,
sending out muddy ripples.
the mouth grins all murky,
like the mud around its edges.
the first dust of a long hot summer
proffers the grinning face a wig,
like a clown might wear,
like a judge might whose empty bottle is his gavel.
VII.
one of those straight-talkers with the wisdom of a crooked nail.
he of the baleful laugh,
and a chastity box stuffed with monographed doilies.
chest-thumper condemned to the mascot shuffle,
who spits on the oranges before the half-time whistle,
whose moment of reverie is recalling an ancient grudge.
he of the tv eye,
and the lisp of a shadow boxer,
hostage like some weathervane to the public barometer and blind agency.
the shabby pedant always punctual but never prepared,
who likes to pounce on my many contradictions,
who refuses to pay on principle for the damage to my house.
© Justin Lowe
Justin Lowe lives in a house called “Doug” in the Blue Mountains west of Sydney. His ninth collection, “San Luis”, is due out through Puncher & Wattmann in October 2024.