John and Lyn Tranter are spending the week in New York City. In addition to being one of Australia's leading poets, John has edited Jacket, the superb on-line magazine, for a record number of years; Lyn is a top literary agent in Sydney. To welcome them to our territory, we'd like to post a characteristically clever poem by John. You'll notice that the end-words duplicate those of Keats's "On Melancholy." The title is an anagram of "John Keats." — DL
Thanks, Joe
Thanks, Joe, I'll have a martini with a twist.
I can drink spirits, but I can't take wine.
I lost my taste for it, the first time I was kissed.
I met this woman, down from Proserpine,
she'd been out at Wagga picking boysenberries,
came up to Sydney, wanted to be
a model. She liked sherry. She had this owl,
and a ferret that bit me. Life's full of mysteries.
We drank – what a night. I woke drowsily
the next day, and looked at her naked body. My soul
shrivelled, my blood froze, I thought I'd fall
flat on my face, it was like a cloud
had hidden the sun. What she'd told me, that was
bullshit. She was a bloke! The sheet was a shroud,
the bed a grave for my self-respect. She rose,
put on some makeup, dressed and was gone with a wave
of her pretty hand. I stared at the bowl of peonies
I'd bought her – they cost a packet, and quality shows.
I couldn't remember much – she'd been on some rave
about disordering the senses, how you could fantasise
a new life for yourself. I wanted to die.
I remembered her filthy kisses, her lying lips –
she'd said she was a student, name of 'Gayleen Nye',
a virgin! And I fell for it! As for drink, three sips
and she was a slut. Barman, turn up the light,
will you? This place is like the bloody Shrine
of Remembrance. Do you know the Latin tongue?
They have a motto: 'Love's like a river – clear
one day, dirty the next.' You know, I might
have another. Damn, she was well hung.
— John Tranter