{"id":707,"date":"2010-01-01T23:47:28","date_gmt":"2010-01-02T04:47:28","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/?p=707"},"modified":"2010-01-01T23:47:28","modified_gmt":"2010-01-02T04:47:28","slug":"ian-c-smith","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/2010\/01\/ian-c-smith\/","title":{"rendered":"Ian C Smith"},"content":{"rendered":"

Crayfish<\/strong><\/p>\n

We stripped, exposed, wet white flesh.
\nThe primitive sea littered full plates
\ndribbled tasty through my beard
\nsalt & pepper, glistening
\nNeptune randy eyeing the ripe moon\u2019s
\nglitter on water, its allure
\nlike your succulence.<\/p>\n

Later, wave-riders of satiation
\nwe lolled abed, spilt, drained
\nlistening to the ocean\u2019s pull & suck.
\nI thought of fathoms-deep creatures
\ntheir primaeval urges, like those crayfish
\nbefore we shucked, violated them
\npleasured our tongues, licked them raw.<\/p>\n

Echidna<\/strong><\/p>\n

Burn-off fires smoulder, a war zone scene
\nwhere he parks above the hazy harbour.
\nThe door blows open when he releases it
\nlike a terrified creature escaping.
\nHe climbs out stiffly with the album
\nreviewing his daughter\u2019s visit, things said.
\nA song from the C.D. echoes in his mind
\n..lying down on a cold black table..<\/p>\n

An echidna waddles away from him
\nburrows urgently, spines quivering.
\nHe sits with his thoughts in smoky sea air.
\nShe had tapped her fingers, watching him.
\nYou turn away from the living.
\nEmotion and memory drain him
\nthe faded pages he begins to turn, clues.
\nWe were a family, once.\u00a0 You were our hero.<\/p>\n

His daughter twice said, guilt trip
\nand, she adored you, three times
\nmasking her accusations with smiles.
\nHe peers closely, sniffing the past<\/p>\n

the scents of youth filled with light
\na time as unreachable as the horizon.
\nThe echidna has almost buried itself
\nbut its spines are still exposed.<\/p>\n

Robert Rauschenberg is dead<\/strong><\/p>\n

Consumer glut glints in possibility
\neconomy in his blood, fabric scraps
\nsewn to make his boyhood shirts.<\/p>\n

Sculpture\u2019s massive make-over
\na stuffed eagle, goat, stop signs
\nred paint-soaked bed sheets, rocks, rope.<\/p>\n

He feels sorry for those who can\u2019t see.
\nBeauty glows right there in a Coke bottle
\ntrash skips double as art suppliers.<\/p>\n

John Cage and Jasper Johns admire him.
\nThese artists link Pollock, de Kooning
\nwith the rush of imagination in their wake.<\/p>\n

This complex part-Cherokee Texan Steptoe
\ndrinks heavily, thinks before he speaks
\nwary of his own subversive wit.<\/p>\n

Audaciously combining mediums
\nhe also gives away millions of dollars
\nrecalling his first ready-made shirt.<\/p>\n

The 1\/4 mile or 2 Furlong Piece grows
\neven longer than its title, another chapter
\nin art\u2019s what\u2019s next? narrative.<\/p>\n

A prolific renegade chevalier
\nsuccumbs to his old heart.
\nThat former junk\u2019s value appreciates.<\/p>\n

Extant abstract-expressionists
\ntheir gallery dominance now past
\nfeebly toss paint-stained berets aloft.<\/p>\n

Ian C Smith\u2019s work has appeared in Best Australian Poetry, Descant, Heat, Magma, The Malahat Review, &, Meanjin<\/em>.\u00a0 His latest book is Memory Like Hunger <\/em>(Ginninderra).\u00a0 He lives with his wife and their four sons in Victoria, Australia.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Crayfish We stripped, exposed, wet white flesh. The primitive sea littered full plates dribbled tasty through my beard salt & pepper, glistening Neptune randy eyeing the ripe moon\u2019s glitter on water, its allure like your succulence. Later, wave-riders of satiation we lolled abed, spilt, drained listening to the ocean\u2019s pull & suck. I thought of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-707","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-january-2010"],"yoast_head":"\nIan C Smith - Full Of Crow: Poetry (Archives)<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.fullofcrow.com\/poetry\/2010\/01\/ian-c-smith\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Ian C Smith - Full Of Crow: Poetry (Archives)\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Crayfish We stripped, exposed, wet white flesh. The primitive sea littered full plates dribbled tasty through my beard salt & pepper, glistening Neptune randy eyeing the ripe moon\u2019s glitter on water, its allure like your succulence. Later, wave-riders of satiation we lolled abed, spilt, drained listening to the ocean\u2019s pull & suck. 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