My Father's Pigs
By Roland Leach
()
About this ebook
‘Roland Leach’s poems explore the elusive link between the self and memory, our fragile landscape and its human connections in lucid and often moving language that sustains a delicate balance between intellect and emotion. These are poems unafraid to make sense in human terms and all the better for doing so.’ – Fay Zwicky
Roland Leach
Roland Leach is a past winner and runner-up in the Newcastle Poetry Prize. His poems 'Darwin's Pistols' and 'Wallace' jointly won the Josephine Ulrick Award, and he has twice received the Tom Collins Poetry Prize. His work has been featured on ABC Radio National's Poetica. Roland lives in Western Australia, where he teaches literature in secondary school, manages Sunline Press, and surfs.
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Book preview
My Father's Pigs - Roland Leach
My
Father’s
Pigs
Roland Leach
Ginninderra PressMy
Father’s
Pigs
ISBN 978 1 76041
392
7
Copyright © text Roland
Leach
2011
Cover image: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/e/e5/StateLibQld_1_239484_Sawmill_at_Sandy_Creek.jpg
All rights reserved. No part of this ebook may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the copyright holder. Requests for permission should be sent to the publisher at the address below.
This edition published
2017
by
Picaro Press – an
imprint
of
Ginninderra Press
PO Box 3461 Port Adelaide 5015 Australia
www.ginninderrapress.com.au
Contents
My Father’s Pigs
Acknowledgements
My
Father’s
Pigs
My
Father’s
Pigs
My father
tells
me
that he has just
come
back
from killing pigs at old Vern Brewster’s place,
bleed like bejesus,
and he looks at his hands
surprised they are so clean.
My sister had
encouraged
us
to tell him, No Dad, you’re in a
nursing
home
,
but that’s
long
ago
and we know he would have preferred
to have died in a bar-room brawl,
been abandoned in the forest
than this soft finish.
So I ask how many pigs
Vern
has
?
their weight, ask if
it’s
true
that they will kill you if you
finish
up
arse-over-tit in
the
dirt
?
and he
brightens
up
,
as happy as a pig
in
shit
,
as if no one has asked a sensible question
in the last month.
Photograph
We have kept photographs. Derelict
timber mill outside Cowaramup.
Sunburnt and half-drunk in an
old
hut
.
We have the photographs. The camera
has caught us young: in the millshed giving
obscene gestures, pretending to
have
two
fingers amongst the rusted ruins
of circular saws. We have a photograph.
All of us. The five of us. All there.
An old winch around our necks like a
shark
hook
.
Like a steel noose. Wearing