Kissing Angels on the Eve of Revolution

Poems for Performance by Robin Davidson

Illustrations by Deborah Matrice

(Boris Books, vi + 30pp, RRP $9.95 Australian, ISBN 0 646 23814 0)

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What Poetry Is...

after Brian Patten

Poetry is rarely seen in classrooms, and then is placing a
         thumbtack on the teacher's chair.
In libraries, poetry is told to be quiet, and is later ordered to leave.
Poetry slaps the faces of academics, screaming 'Reality! Reality!'
In lecture theatres, poetry scribbles obscenities on the
        blackboard, then runs off giggling.
Poetry is most often seen with mischievous, mud-covered
       children, or making a threesome with two young lovers.
Poetry never wears a suit, a tie, or a string of pearls.
Poetry never washes, enjoying its own smell.
Poetry howls at us in our nightmares,
       and seduces us in our wet dreams.
Poetry consoles the last person at the party,
       after everyone else has left in pairs.
Poetry walks down midnight alleys with junkies and drunks,
       completely unafraid.
Poetry runs down white hospital corridors, dripping blood.
Poetry lies in Beirut, pretending to be dead.
Poetry is seen at demonstrations, carrying a blank placard.
Poetry will be seen in the final flash of nuclear annihilation,
       silently screaming, 'I told you so!'
Poetry is seen on building ledges,
       urging business executives to jump.
Poetry is the photographer who took a picture of God's face,
       leaving the lens cap on.

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For Angel

who chose her own name
staring stark stoned under the drunken stars

who don't take no shit

who lives in a refuge on 25 young-n-homeless n 25 jobsearch
a week n you fucken try that eh?

who wants t be a youthworker
cause she fucken knows man

who's a one bong wonder
bin dared to smoke a whole stick in one go
no-one's got th dough to try it but

who's sick o bein hassled
       pissed n stoned in th park
       by the fucken pigs
       where else can y go nights   but

who fucked off her prick of a boyfriend
after she carved his square-lettered name
in her ankle with a bit o wire

who knows the fucken liberals only care about th rich
n if she had a fucken machine gun man
labor's as full o shit but

who was 4 months in ospital
       after her mum's boyfriend laid into her with a baseball bat
       while her mum watched

whose mum's fucked the boyfriend off n wants her t come home
       no fucken way but
       she don't need no parent or guardian
       she's her own guardian
       Guardian Angel

For jet-haired angry-eyed Angel
       runnin      fist-raised
       n screamin t all the other fucked around
       that th revolution's ON
       like NOW

For Guardian Fucken Angel

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The Iraq Rap

Among the arms traders things were gettin tense
Without the Berlin Wall no myth of defence
But there's parties in the boardrooms
cause they're makin a comeback
Toasting french champagne to the armies of Iraq