Giles Watson's poetry and prose
War-Re-Taw
War-Re-Taw
There are no roses in this land
where birds screech and jeer
and spiders lurk in boots.
There is nothing but horizon
and the crunch of stones,
yet he thinks to scratch
our livings from this scatter
of ribcaged, craze-eyed sheep.
He strains to build our home
out of everything that’s strange;
I toil faithless, vacant, barely sane.
A wattlebird flaps from it,
cackling: chest-high, bracts
red as petals. The flower
is fist-thick, a sanguine clump
of spider-palps. My half-blunt
knife makes thick work
of its browning stem; sweat
pricks my face, and I hack
as though the work will turn
her. I clamber, bearing
the inflorescence. Beetles
crawl from it. Stones clatter.
My heart takes a parching.
He’s on the threshold,
proffering this thing
the stone fostered,
his face all burns
and dust and faint
undying hope.
My eyes blur.
There are no
roses. A magpie
melts his voice,
begins at last
to sing.
Poem by Giles Watson, 2014. Picture: NPM, Volume 2. War-re-taw was the rendering of Waratah (Telopea speciosissima) used by “the most intelligent residents in New South Wales…as better according with the pronunciation of the natives.” Widely recognised, as the NPM already affirmed, as “the most superb flower of New South Wales”, the Waratah has a large, red inflorescence, and grows best in stony soil.
War-Re-Taw
War-Re-Taw
There are no roses in this land
where birds screech and jeer
and spiders lurk in boots.
There is nothing but horizon
and the crunch of stones,
yet he thinks to scratch
our livings from this scatter
of ribcaged, craze-eyed sheep.
He strains to build our home
out of everything that’s strange;
I toil faithless, vacant, barely sane.
A wattlebird flaps from it,
cackling: chest-high, bracts
red as petals. The flower
is fist-thick, a sanguine clump
of spider-palps. My half-blunt
knife makes thick work
of its browning stem; sweat
pricks my face, and I hack
as though the work will turn
her. I clamber, bearing
the inflorescence. Beetles
crawl from it. Stones clatter.
My heart takes a parching.
He’s on the threshold,
proffering this thing
the stone fostered,
his face all burns
and dust and faint
undying hope.
My eyes blur.
There are no
roses. A magpie
melts his voice,
begins at last
to sing.
Poem by Giles Watson, 2014. Picture: NPM, Volume 2. War-re-taw was the rendering of Waratah (Telopea speciosissima) used by “the most intelligent residents in New South Wales…as better according with the pronunciation of the natives.” Widely recognised, as the NPM already affirmed, as “the most superb flower of New South Wales”, the Waratah has a large, red inflorescence, and grows best in stony soil.