The Day We Lost the Volkswagen

During a momentary lull in her head,
the poor old thing lost her grip.
The boat she was towing towed her instead
ponderously down the slip,
backwards into the water.

For a swirling moment she almost floated,
she thought of setting sail.
But her bum tilted, her britches bloated —
she was heavy in the tail —
and the sly seaweed caught her.

I thought even then she might make a try
(she seemed to be righting her flank)
but she spun gravely, one eye on the sky,
gave a dignified splutter and sank.
The sea frothed briefly.

I don’t know — she wasn’t the kind to drift,
much less come apart at the seams.
But the sails and the clouds that day had a lift,
and perhaps she had some dreams.
It was a damn nuisance, chiefly.


© Rosemary Nissen 1974
from Universe Cat, Pariah Press (Melb.) 1985, and
Secret Leopard: new and selected poems 1974-2005 (Alyscamps Press, (Paris) 2005
First published Nation Review.
Also in:
A Second Australian Poetry Book for Children, Oxford
Secondary English Book 3, Macmillan
Off the Record, Penguin
Penguin Book of Australian Women Poets.

An oldie but a goodie, submitted, in addition to previous post, to dVerse Translucent Poetics: Writing Spoken Word, because unlike the previous it's in first person according to the requirements, and because it's my most popular poem in both publication and performance. (The only difference, I've found in practice, is that whereas the last line works best as a throwaway line on the page, in performance it must be hammed up and spoken with exaggerated drama as if written with an exclamation mark – as in the Soundcloud recording below.)

Also submitted in 2019 to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #484 because I think it's time it found a wider audience outside Australia.

Buggered

‘I’m buggered!’ he said, as he buried his head
in his arms on the table. I am unable
to move or speak or even groan.
Help me someone, don’t leave me alone
paralysed here. Shit, pour me a beer
and then I may rouse to take just a sip,
a purely medicinal wetting of my lip.

But they all ignored the poor drunken sod,
left him alone on his own: his bod
sunken down on the wooden pew,
his brain wandering in a fog, or a stew ...
till morning arrived at last with the dawn
as it usually does — first light of the sun
staining the sky a beautiful red.

They looked for him then. He had not been to bed.
He was still in the pub, revived, looking for grub.
‘I’m not buggered any more!’ he yelled from the floor
(where he had fallen the night before)
as his unworried friends ambled in the door.
Then he shook his fist and out he staggered.
His mates in chorus said, 'Well, I'll be buggered!'

This dissertation on a good old Aussie expression was written in response to a prompt during a WordsFlow session in November last year. I just rediscovered it in my files and decided I like it. (Last line rewritten 31 March 2012.)

I'm submitting it for Poets United's Poetry Pantry #89 and dVerse Translucent Poetics: Writing Spoken Word. (Humorous, rhyming verse goes down well in performance.)