AT YOUR GRAVE

by Martha Landman

Arthur Rimbaud 20 October 1854 - 10 November 1891

I’m the only visitor today,  
small cemetery, speechless graves,
Your mailbox at the gate is full of fan-letters,
as if you’re the tooth fairy or some god.
 
It is wet and cold and my shoes 
gave me hell on the walk here.
Tomorrow I’ll wear my sandals, rain or not.
There’s lots I could ask you, but not here,
not today where you lie helplessly dead
on a peaceful summer’s afternoon, 
violet eyes shrouded in eternal sleep,
in the same plot with your mother 
and seventeen-year-old Vitalie.
 
Come to the cobbled square with me tonight.
Let’s dine and dance and have a quiet beer,
no absinthe, no hashish. Afterwards we’ll walk 
along the river Meuse under chestnut trees, 
past the mill, step into the tanner’s little boat
at the quay. Let’s sail into the flimsy air, 
set the night on fire, our reflections on the water,
you melding into me, the moon our lamp. 
Let’s write formless verse about our years in Africa,
mine as a child, yours as a merchant, explorer. 
I promise I won’t ask what I know you won’t tell
           —why did you give up poetry?


Martha Landman writes in Adelaide, South Australia on unceded Kaurna land. Her first single collection like scavenger birds was published by ICOE press, June 2023. Her poem “Girl From the Underground” (for Arthur Rimbaud) was highly commended in the WA Poetry d’Amour contest in August 2024.

IN SEARCH OF ALIEN CIVILISATIONS

by Martha Landman

According to a new study in The Astrophysical Journal, scientists at the University of Nottingham estimate that there is a minimum of 36 communicating intelligent alien civilizations in the Milky Way galaxy. —CBS News, June 18, 2020

sitting on the veranda the other night
enjoying a hashish pipe
I got dreamy
and disappeared into the Milky Way
passing Venus and Mars
I didn’t stop this time
because they had a domestic quarrel   again
                                      palm to palm
my sky map forged me ahead      to Orion
who offered beer and cigarettes, chips and cheese
Conselice was staying the night
his nephew E.T. played with his Rubik’s Cube
                     trying to solve the Drake equation
we sat on a mega rock   Orion and I had a long chat
                                           between wake and sleep
about alien galaxies meandering around
when his laser phone detonated three loud shrills
it was Peter Backus wanting us to know
“we live in a very quiet neighbourhood”
Orion’s eyes were large      I tried to pacify him
quoting Rumi: “Love is the breath of the cosmos”
he took out his horoscope and zoomed in
                                      on other galaxies
stars were born as we looked at them
alien galaxies were signed in different languages
in front of No 23 a sign on a large wooden gate
said in Hebrew:  תישאר בחוץ לעזאזל – “stay the heck out” -
this is holy land      we assumed
         we needed an exit strategy
we weren’t going to make a covenant with hypocrisy
or with gypsies on walking sticks    their blood green
so we flowed down lava tubes through pigeon holes
                                into a glorious dystopia

Martha Landman writes in Adelaide, South Australia and has previously contributed to TheNewVerse.News.  Her chapbook Between Us was published by Ginninderra Press in November 2019.

THEY KILLED THE MOON I'D LIKE TO WRITE ABOUT

Photograph: Buzz Aldrin sets up an experiment into solar wind. Credit: Neil Armstrong/AP/Press Association via the Kennedy Space Center

Martha Landman lives and writes in Adelaide, South Australia. Her work has appeared online and in print in UK, US and Australia and she has previously contributed to TheNewVerse.News.

BLUE DIAMOND

by Martha Landman

Botswana has unveiled a blue diamond whose value could outstrip that of the storied Hope Diamond: the 20.46-carat, close-to-flawless Okavango Blue. The diamond was presented in Gaborone, Botswana by the state-owned Okavango Diamond Company. Found as a 41.11-carat rough stone in the Orapa mine operated by the producer Debswana, the jewel is the largest blue diamond ever found in Botswana. . . . While the Hope Diamond is larger at 45.52 carats, the Okavango Blue's immense value lies in its clarity. The Gemological Institute of America (GIA) graded the diamond as "Very, Very Slightly Included," or VVS2, meaning inclusions—internal imperfections—“are difficult for a skilled grader to see under 10x magnification." —CNN, April 18, 2019

Allotrope of carbon, unbreakable
stone of Gaborone, Okavango Blue
and glimpses of white arranged in oval shape
extracted from deep within Earth’s mantle
brings to this April month, a 20-carat sparkle


Martha Landman writes in Adelaide, South Australia, where she is a member of Friendly Street Poets. She has previously contributed to TheNewVerse.News.

MIKE PARR UNDER MACQUARIE STREET

by Martha Landman

The artist Mike Parr will be buried underneath a road for three days as part of a new performance work at this year’s Dark Mofo festival in Hobart. Parr will be buried below the bitumen in the central lane of Macquarie Street, which passes through the Hobart city centre, in a container measuring 4.5 metres by 1.7 metres by 2.2 metres, and the road will be resealed once the container is in place for traffic to continue as normal over the site. The work, entitled Underneath the Bitumen the Artist, is intended to be a comment on the violence of Australia’s colonial history. It will begin at 9pm on Thursday 14 June when the container is buried, and close at 9pm on Sunday 17 June, when Parr will make his exit. “When Mike Parr asks to be buried under the streets of Hobart, it’s hard to say no,” the Dark Mofo creative director, Leigh Carmichael, said in a statement.“Underneath the Bitumen the Artist acknowledges two deeply linked events in Tasmania’s history. The eventual transportation of 75,000 British and Irish convicts in the first half of the 19th century, and the subsequent, nearly total destruction of Tasmania’s Aboriginal population.” —The Guardian, May 25, 2018 Photo: Dotted white lines mark the spot where the hole for artist Mike Parr will be dug. —msn news, May 26, 2018

Let me be your experiment
I have nothing left to do
take me in your solemn arm
drown me in bloodshot eyes

Eat my fingers, my toes
I’m barefoot, supple as an apple
sip me through a bloody mary

thirty years’ fasting
unleashes a wishbone,
rainbows! Devour them!

Bury my madness in your rib cage
Paint me underground, taste the danger
                               beneath the surface

paint brushes, sketchpads, grinders explode —
a fire stoked in total silence
your walls breathe me

Mike Parr being painted in his own blood for his 2016 performance art piece Jackson Pollock the Female. Photograph: NGA via The Guardian, August 17, 2016.

Martha Landman lives in Adelaide, Australia.  Her work has appeared in various online journals and other anthologies.

I SHOULD HAVE PLAYED

by Martha Landman

after “Unfinished Business” by Primo Levi

Sir, please accept my apology
for taking up your time.
And the apology of all the others
giving you so much work.
We should have left you
to care for the badly injured.
I was supposed to play marbles
with my brothers in the sand,
but I hid with my family inside.
I was supposed to play with friends— 
enjoy the outdoors, run in the maze.
I would have loved to do it. I’m sorry.
But my parents kept me inside.
They said it was safer in there.
I was meant to tease the girls,
while they were skipping rope
or played with their dolls.
And now there is blood on my hands.
I’m not sure where it is from.
I haven’t done anything wrong, I promise.
And sorry for having made you cry, Sir.
I didn’t mean to do anything wrong.
If there’s any way I can help, let me know;
I do not want to waste your time.

Editor's Note: Efforts to identify the boy [in the photograph] were unsuccessful. He was treated on Tuesday night at the Omar Hospital [in Aleppo, Syria] and released, said Baraa al-Halabi, a citizen journalist who photographed him. None of the medical workers who could be reached remembered the boy, which is not unusual in the overwhelmed hospitals. —The New York Times, August 21, 2016

Martha Landman lives in Adelaide, Australia.  Her work has appeared in various online journals and other anthologies.

PASSION SKY

by Martha Landman

This is the incredible moment when a huge volcano erupted in Indonesia sending ash spewing an estimated 12 miles into the sky. The powerful explosion took place at Mount Sangeang Api in the Lesser Sunda Islands - an area that plays host to 129 active volcanoes - and sent a distinctive spaceship-shaped ring of pyroclastic smoke high into the air.  The photographs were taken by professional photographer Sofyan Efendi during a commercial flight from Bali to the fishing town of Labuan Bajo in West Nusa Tenggara province. Scores of farmers who work but do not live on the island were ordered to leave and not return until the volcano has finished erupting, said Muhammad Hendrasto, head of Indonesia's National Volcanology Agency. There are not believed to have been any deaths or injuries as a result of the eruption. Authorities have had Mount Sangiang Api - which means 'Mountain of Spirits' in Balinese - on high alert for almost a year, he told China's Xinhua news agency.  The volcano sits in Indonesia's notorious 'Ring of Fire' - an area where a large number of earthquakes and volcanic eruptions occur in the basin of the Pacific Ocean. It has 452 volcanoes - 75 per cent of the world's total. --Daily Mail (UK), May 30, 2014

The sky is a passion tower
A vertical breath from the bosom of a fire God
Voluptuous love-plumes bellow like a death sentence
An inferno of justice

Where are the birds, the planes?
Entranced by elemental fury, farmers hover in the shade and
offer incense and a thousand goats to the gods
who enrich their soil

The sky is a love sculpture
Tangled clouds of fairy floss assault the atmosphere
Rivers flow in lava, arisen from the mountain floor —
Tomorrow’s saucers fly —
The sky is passion.


Martha Landman writes in North Queensland, Australia. Her most recent work has appeared in Jellyfish Whispers.

LUNAR IMPACT

by Martha Landman



Phil Plait writes on February 24, 2014 in Slate’s Bad Astronomy blog: “On Sept. 11, 2013, an asteroid hit the Moon. That happens all the time, but most of the cosmic debris is tiny, far too small to detect from the Earth. But this one was different. Roughly a meter across and moving at interplanetary speeds when it slammed into the lunar surface, it created the brightest explosion ever seen on the Moon! The whole thing was captured on video.”


Walking in the moonlight then,
we basked in that long afterglow,
our lips a molten mass, your face
a spectacular episode in the whiteness
of moon. At the sight of your silhouette
gliding in the water, desire dislodged
like lava, with the force of a fridge
hitting the moon; an asteroid
through a sea of clouds.

Through a sea of clouds
the moon gazed at us, her naked
eye a telescopic lens, her smile
a thermal glow. She moved at
elegant speed around the earth,
dodged and winked at every
meteor along the way.


Martha Landman writes dry poems in the wet season of tropical North Queensland, Australia.

GIVE US OUR DAILY KALASH

by Martha Landman 

 
                  ". . . the world has moved a little." --Phil Kafcaloudes

Peace-time peasants are born ignorant of
the Pill, the Apple Mac and breast implants

Looking like ordinary men they coin money
from vodka, umbrellas and pocket knives. In

honesty, they work for the good of the people.
Iconic, as Gatling and Colt, their Siberian son

receives the Order of Saint Andrew, wrapped in
a Mozambique flag, a hero of socialist labour.

There are no regrets in his photograph or
in poetic dreams buried in shallow graves

where the counterfeit child soldiers of Africa
pray that their crayon boxes be filled with

enough bullets and Big Macs to crack all the
cocaine plants of the world during short break.

If Russia had a Bill Gates they would patent
him Kalashnikov and be proud as a mother

They would let him battle Bryansk and Brody
and decorate him with more than a lawnmower.


Martha Landman lives and writes in tropical North Queensland, Australia. Her most recent work appeared in Poetry 24, Every Day Poets.

A COMPANION OF HONOUR

by Martha Landman





            “. . . the sign of a mind that is restless but not wandering.”  -- The Guardian


A farm girl, lover of cats,
started writing and never stopped
the controversy

from communism to feminism
a sharp contrarian
chanting slogans
a step away from lunacy

ran away from motherhood
into a household of adolescent
waifs and strays

“I will not”
written in her Bible

every pigeonhole declined
a curtsied “no” to damehood
in a non-existent empire

her visionary power captured
in a golden notebook on a
dinosaur typewriter
her novels and scepticism
travelled the world

she thought freely, independently
an irascible soul with little tact

an impenetrable icon of wisdom
a lover of Sufis and cats.


Martha Landman writes poetry in North Queensland, Australia.  Her work has appeared in various journals including Every Day Poets, Poetry 24, Eunoia Review, Muse.

BOAT PEOPLE

by Martha Landman

Survivors from an asylum seeker boat that sank off Indonesia say the boat returned to land after it hit trouble in rough seas and sank only 50 metres from the shore. About 50 people are either missing or dead, 30 of them understood to be children . . . One survivor told ABC News he had lost his whole family because Australian rescuers did not come when they phoned a day before the sinking.--ABC News, September 29, 2013. Photo: A section of the boat's hull washed up on the south coast of west Java.

Crude boats navigate open waters
Their cathartic hope a controversy.
A curious myriad of destinations
crowd the dreams of young and old voyagers.
Why are we called boat people, mạ?

Wind and waves swirl higher than hopes
the angry South China Sea a perilous journey
hunger, thirst and disease unstoppable.
Stave off pirates searching for gold.
Why are we called boat people, mạ?

Children battle the wind against rusted rails
their pleasure-filled shrieks fly above the sea.
Torn sails whip at seabirds sweeping from high
not a morsel found on the sardine-packed deck.
Why are we called boat people, mạ?

No school, no chores who cares about poverty
brilliant beginnings await on foreign shores
human remnants won't refuse refuge.
Merry gale winds bluster at 47 knots to the future.
How exquisite to be boat people, mạ!

A luminous moon at the calm end of the storm
dog-tired, famished crew fall into listless sleep.
Bloodied hands and chapped lips a small price
for the merciful miracle of freedom in a new land.
For how much longer are we boat people, mạ?

A snapped mast appeases the heavens
to save the haggard wide-eyed stunted cargo
with unwashed faces and unbrushed teeth.
Cold, stiff bodies a weary tangle at disaster's edge.
We had enough of being boat people, mạ!



The rising sun confirms the arrival of land
timid excitement hovers in empty stomachs
new hope floats up from a broken hull in the
early morning breeze — to be the new kid.
Does anyone want boat people, mạ?


Martha Landman writes in Tropical North Queensland, Australia. Her work has appeared in Every Day Poets, Eunoia Review, The Blue Hour Magazine, Poetry 24 and others.

PENITENTIAL SEASON OF LENT

by Martha Landman

"Police brutality alleged at Sydney Gay Mardi Gras: Outcry over video showing man being thrown to the ground during arrest." --The Guardian, March 6, 2013


                                "They just slammed his head. There's blood all over the ground."      


I had an epiphany the day before Ash Wednesday:
I drew my tourist card and earned $30m for the state

of New South Wales celebrating equal marriage rights
a thousand police officers proudly parading on my side

for this one day we’ll forfeit the right to see young revellers
manhandled and slammed to the ground, punched in the head

‘cause the cops told us so; during this time of penitence, and
for as long as you love me, we will not film the violence

the blood curdled cries: what have I done wrong?
For as long as we can breathe we’ll talk about

that sound of his head hitting the floor, Delta’s buzz
at the gay parade, the confessions still to be made.


Martha Landman is an Australian poet whose creativity feeds off the news.

A MATCHING WIN

by Martha Landman


            Such a deliberate sadist, the man thought.
                        -- Kailash Srinivasan

Image source: Anorak

15 tennis rackets, like swords,
at swift speed surpass compassion

30 experienced vampire-like feet
covertly manoeuvre winning stunts

40 long muscled arms murderously
shoot ball after ball towards triumph

Loveless desire battle-dance for hours
stealing advantage from the opponent

They volley they serve they net they score
spinning the deuced crowd for justice

in key moments their sweaty smiles
not letting up the sadism till the final score.
 

Martha Landman is a South African-born Australian poet and a psychologist residing in tropical Queensland.  She has published on- and off-line and loves everything reading and writing.

GHOST GUMS

by Martha Landman

Ghost Gum, Mount Sonder, MacDonnell Ranges 1953 by Aboriginal artist Albert Namatjira. Photograph: National Gallery of Australia, Canberra 2010.

“Australia's totemic 'ghost gum' trees burnt in suspected arson. Two trees made famous in Aboriginal artist Albert Namatjira's watercolours were due to be placed in national heritage register. “--The Guardian, 4 January 2013.

A didgeridoo weeps
pristine tears
in Albert Namatjira's grave

Evilly, a fire
belly laughs
Australian desert coloured in ash

twin ghost gums
topple in
smouldering mourn.


Martha Landman is a South African-born Australian poet residing in tropical North Queensland.  She has published on- and off-line.