suspended in poetry

There is so much me me me, I I I.

Does no one tell a stories any more?

While I was not looking, or in fact, while I was looking, something quite terrible and strange occurred, but because I was looking but not looking I both permitted and bore witness and then promptly forgot.

The room is dark and tastes of metallic adrenalin. Sometimes we all want to win.

Then there is someone talking or crying or wailing or someone not talking or crying or wailing or a thing I’ve heard before or not heard before, which was the background to Beethoven, our grandfather’s memories, the mother of black women, the trees that were sorry, an open courtyard, the men who were once gods, the trees that grew like great great novels, waiting to be pulped.

We manifest the stories that we wish to live.

Oblivious to my own insignificance, I grew used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around me. I simplified the complicated and complicated the simple. Strength was disrespected while power took the time. I did not watch. I looked away. And I forgot.

Categorized as musing

By Eleanor Jackson

Eleanor Jackson is a Filipino Australian poet, performer, arts producer, cyclist, writer, gal about town, feminist, freewheeler, and friend.


  1. Strange, terrible, and unspeakable? Really?

    I kept thinking of the more poetic bits occurring in an imaginary poem entitled ‘Ode: On Watching the Olympic Games at Eleven P.M.’ Otherwise, a bit too much like the ‘The Age’s opinion page.

  2. JDS, you know that I love you, that I adore you, that I always have, and that this is in spite of our complete lack of simpatico.

    And I look forward to the day when Gina buys me and contributes to my editorial direction.

      1. Holy shit. Maybe I was! A whole day apart, as well! I thought I must have imagined the first one.

        In any case, it’s a threat under a veil, desperately trying to make a connection. I also wanted make you were aware of the fact that I know what a lawyer is.

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