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Beatriz Copello – Australia

P Beatriz Copello LE P&W Vol 1 2019

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Poems by Beatriz Copello

Dr Beatriz Copello, is a former member of NSW Writers Centre Management Committee, writes poetry, reviews, fiction and plays. Beatriz’s poetry has been published in literary journals such as Southerly and Australian Women’s Book Review and in many other publications and anthologies in Australia and overseas in English and Spanish.  She has read her poetry at events organised by the Sydney Writers Festival, the NSW Writers Centre, the Multicultural Arts Alliance, Refugee Week Committee, Humboldt University (USA), Ubud (Bali) Writers Festival.


Australia

Red, ochre, vibrant soil
which like notes penetrate
not only the eyes but the soul.
Vast land that swallows water
where ant hills appear to be
silent penitents in prayer.
Here and there pink flowers
break the monotony. Sad.
Sad lament of crows in flight,
they descend onto their meal—
a dead kangaroo victim
of speeding drivers or perhaps thirst.
No chisel-sculpted rocks
which during dawn
seem to metamorphose
into scaring beings to chase
defilers of sacred places.
Dreamland of dreams to be,
where gums dress in many forms
and the earth bewitches us.
Solitude of waterholes
Which, like a caring mother,
gives of herself and sustains
the ebullient and vibrant life
that flourishes under the sky,
a cloudless blue, bright blue,
… and then slowly
grey shapes opaque
nature’s colourful narrative.
How many thousands years
has this silver studded shawl
cover this bejewelled land?

By the way

she sat at the end of a dream
holding in her hands the stem
of a plastic flower
solemn
sad
simple trajectory of an angel

bathed in fury
encounter of the souls
who don’t ask permission

to live
to beg
to adore
the ones who hold the power
the ones who control
the ones who dominate

the rulers

they do determine
the length of the life of the poor
the unemployed
the sick
and …
plants die without water

the miserable shed tears
mothers pray
and politicians give speeches

solace
sublime
silence of the dead

only the dead have hope


Quarter Pounder

Faulty china dolls,
fired from dust and a spark of sapience
we reign in a decaying world.

A brook sings a monotonous song
obscure chanting of pebbles rattling and
at the bottom-fool’s gold wait.
A trail of dreams all the way to heaven
a maiden weaves with nylon threads
a giant net to catch an eagle.

Soldiers march blindfolded and mute
to defend  a future of heat and floods.
The streets are deserted, at the dinner table
families sit to a meal of images
imprisoned in a wooden box.

The powerful play chess with nature
ticks bursting with blood,
fungus growing with lust.

Earthly concerns: war, guns,
cars, trips, gadgets,
and the pill to stop aging
while they devour McDonald’s.

Humans suffocated
by plastic, rubbish,
and the need to consume,
while the creator
cries at the failures
of the china dolls.

Reflexions on a dead man

I

As in a scene from Dante
where fire and heat
consume all passions
a man has entered
a place for lost souls
where the dead rest
till  judgement day.

II

Truth   covered
by a white linen sheet.                        .
Truth of the stigmata
on a man put to rest.
Undeniable truth,
of a now silent sinner.
Truth about the price,
paid for the life he wore,
like a silk handkerchief,
in the right pocket
of his tailored suit.

III

The Witch in the cauldron boils
a pinch of pain, two tears and
the shadow of a man.
Dyeing the widows weeds
she stirs with a spoon
the black liquid
that holds,
her love.

IV

Do the dead feel cold?
Do they suffer?
Does hunger rumble in their bellies?
Do the dead want to live?


© Beatriz Copello