Sonic Poetry Festival Supplement Contents

Angela Costi: Artistic Statement

As part of Sustain:
The Good Citizens of Melbourne

Sound:                            

Tram bell recording

 A British reporter:              

Trams are the good citizens of Melbourne. There are nearly 700 trams on Melbourne streets. Looking after them takes a lot of men: cleaners, overhaulers, tradesmen of all sorts.

Angela:                            

From ‘Citizen Tram’, a 1960s film by The Melbourne and Metropolitan Tramways Board

Sound:                           

Tram bell recording

Angela:             

Sitting next to my young mother is Deena, her sister
with eyes men fall into.
She’s older and focused on
getting them to work,
making sure they don’t miss
stop 20. Facing her
but almost falling into her lap is Thelema, her cousin
with arms and legs that don’t stop talking

Thelema:             

Did you hear about Effie? Yes, you know her
she’s the one with the glass eye
the one that works the zipper machine
she’s fifteen, younger than me – she looks fifty.
She has a proxenia,
he’s at least thirty,
her parents want to get rid of her
because of the zeemia
with the gelato shop boy.

Angela:            

With a slight lean of her head
away from the window
Deena intervenes

Deena:             

Effie shouldn’t be forced,
it’s criminal, her parents are varvaroi!

Angela:             

Then my mother, who is a mere fifteen herself says

Maybe she’s better off,
who wants to be sklavos
for the rich man
and his needle and thread machine?

Deena, Thelema, Young Mum are
a trio of handbags, lunch boxes,
orange, apricot, lavender skirts,
shirts with wide, white collars
showing neck bones, smiles
of modest pink lipstick,
earrings that clasp the ear tight,
knees protruding with pent up
bursts of freedom as they speak
in a flurry of Cypriot-Greek
on a busy tram
heading to a factory
where young women
make fashion
for others

Clarinet intercepts

The tram
halts
before stop 20,
the Driver
turns his mouth into a fist.

Tram Conductor:             

On this tram we speak English
if you keep up with your gibberish
you can get off at the next stop!

 Angela:            

The language hovers over their heads
like a thought cloud of orexee,
dark spiralling,
sending them down into a well
where there are no windows to see
plum trees, magpies, milk bars

Each day they caught that tram
they renewed their vow
of silence.

**

Frontline            

Some stories remain like bruises………………………and their mothers’ mothers’
others are bullets, those told…………………………….their words are carefully placed
with fear pounding the phone.………………………….between each
There is the breath you listen for……………………..and every breath
as well as the word,…………..……………..……………….they have fought
each one counts, the breath,..………………….……….to possess
……….Chorus: the word, the breath………………………..for so long.
Allow the story to battle itself into existence.
The woman is all ages, she is all colours,………...The line is attacked
both rich and poor, able to dodge grenades……..during times families are told
run, hide, implode with the word,…………………….to expect gifts and joy,
……….Chorus: the breath, the word……………………….children’s voices raise the alarm
Erin, Poppy, Franka, Nivy whisper, sob, scream….Girl: Mum get off the phone,
reliving their trigger into the phone………………………he’s in the garage!
…..Nivy:…..his eyes get that way……………………………entrenched,
………………the smell of his sick mouth…………………..pores on the alert they throw a flare
………..……Charlie crying and crying………………………….Mum: Will anyone, please pick up?
……………..for a feed
……………..me unable to get up……………………………….Many abandon the queue,
………….….my blouse a mess of milk and blood………willing to go missing in action,
where is their breath?…………..…………………………….fifteen seconds is always too late.

There is history………………………….…………….……It’s getting dark, the phone is ringing
compounding their words,…………………………..the woman is saying, sorry,
I hear their mothers……………………………………………….Chorus: sorry, sorry, sorry

Franka:……………..There is no one to tell,
…………………………I want to talk but I can’t.

We can breathe together, I say, and we do.
When she is ready, she will tell me her story.
At the end, she will hang up.
I will gather her story, gently in my arms, sing to it
the song of honour and courage,
wrap it in a shroud and place it alongside
the rows
………….Chorus: and rows and rows and rows–––––––

**……….**

As part of Cherry Poets: Prayers for the Wicked

soundscape: train moving, older Greek Cypriot man speaking, crows cawing

The Blood Rose and the Artichoke Heart
(for my Grandfather, Pappou Angeli)

Epping: 20 stations too far from the city,
where trains screech, The end of the line!
(passengers prefer not to get off )
where factory workers starve,
where paddocks harvest wild thistles, horned weeds
(daisy-fed cows are extinct)
snakes graze, skinks bask, flies pester in gangs,
where I scramble in towering, tough grass
straggling behind Pappou’s haste
behind his will to capture the hearts and limbs
of every artichoke daring to raise its head
above his scraggy-pup, whining granddaughter.

Pappou th-e boro, Pappou I’m tired
my body fixes on excuses
Pappou toiletta, Pappou
knotting my legs tighter than shoelaces
Pappou teleeoresee, Pappou!
I’ll miss Neighbours with Charlene
and her easy way with English
but grass turns to blue as I slump into sobs
wishing artichokes would go back
to Pappou’s foreign land.

Pappou is swishing and swerving
dancing the wind
dropping his jaw he sings
Etsee een ee-zoee, kai pos na teen alaxees
pos na teen xerapsees me moleevee kai hartee
hacking air with a chicken knife
ghosts fall at his feet\
allee klaine, kai allee yellane thilathee

Spiky flowers line up
not daring to jig
they’ve been waiting patiently
anginares moo, my artichokes,
holding them like a lost beloved,
their prickles are his delight.
I hold two buckets and he a third
while he performs a murderous embrace
with one arm and a sharpened blade
he croons unswerving love.

Mia fora kai yio, eeba na feeyo
abo toos kaeimoos, yia na xefeeyo
in my village of sweetness and light
there was a girl not that much older than you
krata moo to hairee, krata to barabono moo
one day you’ll learn
carobs she plucked from trees
squeezing their juice
the sweet smell of blood rose
the savoury trail of artichoke heart
our honey and salt
krata teen karthia soo os boo nartee to broee

I have no hanky for his eyes,
I have no words to soothe.
Pappou has no time to linger
there are crowns to be guillotined
there’s one bucket empty of heads
Pappou continues this easy war
he’s now cornered the big one
the crown of all thorns
the most sorrowful hearted
anginara moo, my artichoke,
saliva running as hungry as memory.
I packed my yearnings, left my regrets,
she stood at the doorway refusing to wave…
when his Mama tucked him into her warmth
feeding him the growth of her land
butterfly kissing his stabs of hunger.

For its biggest blessing
he raises his knife to the heavens,
I wait for blinding light, electric storm, rain
but a scream drenches all weeds,
like a plane, he crashes,
red roses spread over his arms,
the knife his embattled betrayer,
anginara moo, my artichoke
Pappou’s song hobbling into prayer
on his knees, ankle to stem, blood mingling
Pappou Pappou
his eyes my mirrors
my hand grasps for the strong fingers
lighter than petals in the wind.

** 

Calliope’s Final Story
(for my paternal and maternal grandmothers)

Long ago, we grew babies like markets stock fruit
so many, splendid, ripe, bruised.
A mother nursed her garden from bed,
five cots, if lucky, for eight or nine.
One bosom became the village well
a wandering creek or waterfall
suddenly escaped our flesh,
a steady river gushed into a suckling mouth
to silence twelve cries, and then more
when the neighbour’s wife went missing.

We named them after patron saints
to please eternal life and stop it from snatching
until their bodies were ringed like trees
so ready to sigh away.
We knew the story before it was told
from grandma to mother to us
of one, two, so unfair, if more
wrapped in dark night’s blanket
taken by sleep traveller to its side of the moon.

If traveller was an angel,
my baby was blessed.
If traveller was the vampire,
baby’s baptism dress was buried
under a cross twice its size.
If traveller wore gypsy clothes,
I would pray baby a better life.

My grandma lost three,
mother streamed luck, only the one,
little sister dream-kissed our cheeks
then flew into her angel’s wings.
My seven grew into five,
the two curves of my heart are missing –
some memories, like some babies, clutch stronger than others.