Poetry

Nana Ollerenshaw: Two Poems

Butcherbird   How can such a name sing heaven? Tuxedo dressed, the soloist throws flute-like notes, arpeggios and yodelling so rich in tone and cheerfulness people stop and rest, surprised by simple pleasure. Air is liquid with his sound. He tumbles octaves up and down. The bird’s a Jekyll/Mr Hyde who hangs his prey in tree forks and while he’s piping golden notes, murders on the side.  Nana Ollerenshaw     The Sausage Tree   An ordinary tree disguised until long hanging stems with flower chains that bloom at night drop down to mess the ground. Then phalluses descend like…

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