Live Encounters Poetry & Writing April 2025
Easter Spirits, poems by Jonathan Cant.
Easter Spirits
I’m driving, hungover, through Kangaroo Valley’s rainforests and
farms. Perched on a disused plough, a magpie—totem to the local
First Peoples. Behind this—another kind of totem—a Hills Hoist
adorned with brightly-coloured children’s clothes flapping in the
breeze like Tibetan prayer flags.
Rounding the corner, I suddenly see the snake—a long, dark carpet
python—Moses’ staff, laying still, outstretched, warming itself on
the road’s Indian summer surface. All I can do is position the car’s
wheels either side and hope for the best. I don’t feel or hear a bump.
The rear-view mirror reveals the python now coiled tight. This
troubles me. Did I hit it? I might have. I hope not. I continue driving
—northward—further up the valley. I cross a bridge and look down
to the river. The tinkling sound of its riffles and runs soothes my
guilty mind.
In the branches above, a small flock of Wonga Pigeons side-eye me
with a judgy suspicion. Riding the thermals, higher still, a pair of
wedge-tailed eagles (Aquila audax). A killer of bunnies! It’s Easter.
Rabbit season. Bunny served rare for a raptor’s breakfast. Hot cross buns
for mine.
Beyond the circling eagles, a sandstone escarpment. Through a
long lens, the looming cliff faces—brooding, heavy-browed effigies
like the Moai figures on Easter Island. Monolithic and menacing;
tracking my journey through this silent landscape the whole morning.
Returning, I scan the road for the snake. Nothing. A good sign. It
must’ve slithered back into the lush bush. Uninjured, I hope. Hope
hangs heavy in the air this Easter Sunday. Hope for my health and
for the serpent’s survival, resurrection, or at least its forgiveness.
Fishing on the River Styx, 1997
There are no other boats on this wide reach
of the river. The only sounds are birds
and the occasional splash of sea mullet
jumping. It’s a cold August afternoon
and I’m drifting, alone, in a rented tinnie,
fishing for flathead and bream.
I remove the head of a thawed prawn, insert
the sharp hook below its tail, and—just as my
grandfather had taught me—slide the prawn
around the curve of the hook, with the tip protruding
from its belly, before securing it with a half hitch of line.
I flick the old Alvey reel sideways and cast towards
the nearest shore. There’s the distinctive
stink of prawn on my fingertips when I light
another Dunhill and draw back. It’s Sunday.
I’m still feeling the effects of last night
as I think about someone I met
at a hotel in the early hours.
Those thoughts are interrupted by the urgency
of my Nokia ringing loudly. It’s my father.
He tells me there’s been a car accident
in a tunnel in Paris. A princess is dead.
My shock sends concentric ripples out
from the hull of the boat—a silent tsunami
of realisation spreads across the empty river
to the far embankment and back again. I hang
up the phone and look up to a sky as deep blue
as her sapphire engagement ring. Overhead,
an osprey soars—hunting—searching for shining
prey in the water below. Suddenly, my fishing rod
bends into a parabola. I grab it and set the hook.
Judging by the dead weight, it feels like a decent-
sized flattie. I lift the rod high and retrieve line
each time I lower it. The battle lasts
a few minutes, before the line breaks
and the rod lightens. Resistance gone. All is lost.
Davo
The big crowd favourite at Sydney’s Sculpture by the Sea* is a statue
of a giant, white, naked, bald, overweight, middle-aged man with love
handles. And, unlike Michelangelo’s David, Dave has no genitals at
all. Is Dave Australia’s realistic version of that ideal male form from
the Renaissance? Or was he inspired by a more recent figure:
the wise and unique eunuch, Varys, from Game of Thrones?
Looking up from this angle, you squint and wonder if he’s an ageing
cliff diver from Acapulco about to jump in and rescue some struggling
tourist from Bondi’s Backpackers’ Rip. Or maybe he’s another kind
of saviour: Rio’s Christ the Redeemer with outstretched arms ready
to embrace the masses in his birthday suit?
Or perhaps he just is. Himself. Big Dave. And that’s okay, too. But
Aussies do love to add on the affectionate and obligatory “o”—so
that he becomes everybody’s mate…
*
“Davo”. You take in Davo’s surroundings. See things through his eyes.
Below him, the honeycombed layers of sandstone, beaten and eaten
away by water, wind, and time. You examine the cliff face closely
and imagine all the Tim Tams and Crunchie bars on which Davo
has binged. You look down to the white waves smashing against the
rocks and retaste every foaming cold lager he’s ever enjoyed off the
tap on a warm summer’s day. You inhale the salty air and savour the
hot chips and crispy battered cod of a million counter meals past.
And you ponder how Davo is probably a far cry from his athletic and
virile youth. You see, Davo could be any of us fellows who’ve
“let ourselves go”. Davo might be Jonno. Hell, Davo may well be… me.
Note: This ekphrastic poem is after the art installation Dave,
by Cathyann Coady, that featured at the 2016 Sculpture by the Sea (SXS).
© Jonathan Cant
Jonathan Cant is a writer, poet, and musician. His work was shortlisted in the 2025 Gwen Harwood Poetry Prize; won the 2023 Banjo Paterson Writing Awards for Contemporary Poetry; was longlisted for the 2023 Fish Poetry Prize; and commended in the W. B. Yeats Poetry Prize. Jonathan’s poems have appeared in Cordite, Island, Verandah, fourW, Meuse Press, and Otoliths.