new zealand electronic poetry centre

Fiona Farrell


online works

 

Hamed Ameri’s skull won’t stop growing

(                                           )
(                                           )
This is the language of war,
Can you hear it?
Not trumpets or drums nor the
thrumming of machines nor the
thud of the big guns. Not the
soldier crooning to his sweetie
as he polishes his boots.
(                                           )
(                                           )
This is the sound a child makes
who is born with no head. This
is the sound a woman makes who
labours to bear a child without
mouth, without ears, without
fingers, a child whose head
swells like a pumpkin.
(                                           )
(                                           )
Can you hear it?
This is the sound of bone cells
in frenzy. This is the sound of
an eyeball rolling like bruised
fruit in the socket.
(                                   )
(                                   )
This is the sound the child hears
who has no ears. This is the sound
of war. This is the blaring of
trumpets and the clapping of
satisfied share-holders. This is the
whistling of the scientist in his
laboratory. This is the babble of
many tongues as they are
simultaneously translated in the
glass towers in the stone city.
This is the burping of fat men
and the scratching of their pens
signatory to all conventions.
(                                           )
(                                           )
Can you hear it?
The soft rush of water as the
babies slip onto the table,
crying though they have no mouths
listening though they have no ears
their tendril fingers twisted in
threads of meaning.


 

From The Inhabited Initial (AUP, 1999)
Fiona Farrell
 


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Last updated 26 July, 2007