pome

There isn't enough poetry about the beautiful island.

Whither the John Kinsella series of works with the salt lakes as inspiration? Why hasn't Fay Zwicky gone into full elegy mode over the hotel.

We'd like to read a tight sonnet about schoolie love (lost and found) on nocturnal Pinky's.

Clearly we will have to dress, Keats-like, in flash clothes and sit down to write some verse about Rottnest in a couple of weeks.

In the meantime...the indefatigable Fremantlebiz has let us know about a Rotto pome.

There is a current affairs nexus: the poem is in indigo, the excellent journal that has had its state government funding so cruelly cut.

Alan James' effort is called Biking Rotto.

"hired bikes and pedalled hard for Porpoise
Bay and lay on sand dry, warm, and listened
to the black-headed terns crying, crying,
croaking as they cried, as they trotted, as
they fossicked at the tide line, and we
listened and listened until their cries had
screamed us empty, and then we lay quietly
in the tender water quiet and turquoise that
cleaned, how it cleaned, and we watched the
water tongue at the sand and rocks and the
limestone headlands and the reef platforms
and the islands little more than remnant rock,
it mouthed and tongued, washed upon them,
and it fussed about them, and fretted at them..."