Since April is poetry month, here’s a little parody to start things off.
The original is Robert Herrick’s great little poem “Upon Julia’s Clothes.”

Here's the original poem:

Upon Julia’s Clothes
​

Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then, methinks how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.
 
Next, when I cast my eyes and see
That brave vibration each way free;
O how that glittering taketh me!
 

Here’s the parody:
 
​
Upon Julia’s Nose


When in the spring my Julia goes,
Then, then methinks how sweetly flows
The liquifaction of her nose.

The poor girl has such allergies,
Her eyes all red and watery — 
Ah, how her sneezing shaketh me!

 
Here are three new poems, with bit of Australian flavour (sic):


Platinum Sun
Fremantle, Australia
 
Today the heat is a home, purpose built
for stars, which rain their light like water
spilling from a falls, tumbling over granite
 
cliffs. Today the heat has shoulders
and muscle and heft. All morning I hollowed
out the heat, drilling through its invisible
 
hulk, singing my song of flame. My hair
went on fire, my eyes glowed white hot.
I reached for the island pines like an angel
 
hidden in smoke, a presence with breath
dry as a desert wind. You must become
the heat, wear it as a mantel of joy, a glorious
 
robe trailing sparks and embers as you rise
upon waves above a city made new again,
washed clean and scoured by a platinum sun.





In Praise of Soft Stars
 
     So I look yearningly at the soft stars,
     but they will do me no good.
     I think of moral crises, but when
 
     have I known the taste
     of abstinence and self-discipline?
 
                              -John Cheever, notebooks
 
I’ve known the press of crowds, heat
of summer sun, and velvet nights
with soft stars spreading in darkness
 
as winds blow cool from the western sea.
I’ve known the sharp taste of fruit
 
on my tongue, kiwi and mangoes
tart as little spears, burn of chilies, bright
jab of garlic sizzling in olive oil, and I’ve
 
been gladdened to walk alone through
parklands and city streets, and by the shore
 
as the tide rose and waves crashed, turning
white sand gray. But there are whispers
in my town, soft spoken men with many fears
 
wrapped around their arms like snakes
tangled in the boughs of trees.
 
And there are louder voices filled
with violence and hate. “Can we not
kill them all? I’m ready to take some people out.”
 
And there are shouts and people running
in the street, and sirens, and mothers
 
huddling with weeping children
as they hurry to their homes. And where am I,
with my hunger appeased and my healthy
 
stride? Have I opened my door wide enough
to allow the strangers in? When shadows fall,
 
will I know the taste of abstinence, flinty
flavor of courage sipped from a tin cup
dipped in water so cold my teeth will ache?
 
Will I suppress my terror by decency and discipline,
and climb the burning rope to the core of my better self?

 



Paper and Straw
         What has gone wrong, that we should all seem to be made of paper and straw?
                                                                                                -John Cheever, notebooks
 
Not long ago, we dove from slippery cliffs
into a cool sea, our slick bodies lithe
with each stroke, every breath and turn
of the head. We swam into every new day,
and in the sun salt dried on our arms and legs,
our wild and ruined hair. Inland, by the river,
we listened to the song of frogs. Once, far
from any marked trail, we saw a python
dangling from a branch, and watched in awe
as its brown and olive body stiffened
and moved along the trunk of a eucalyptus tree.
 
But today, our houses seem to bend toward
drying grass, away from passionate starlings
rustling among oak leaves, or green lizards
of memory. When I reach for you, you turn
toward another country in another time,
before town halls stuffed with anxious
bodies, before angry crowds and placards,
fear radiating out into the night sky. Sirens
in the distance, and many of our neighbors
gone. We seem to be made of paper and straw,
ready to ignite, burn, turn to ash in the summer wind.