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 silent chimes.

Arm-thick and pendulous they sag,

unsought by children or by birds

but marvelled at by passers by

who snicker at their fruit,

at African surprise,

a comic tree

whose obvious absurdity

destroys the hope

a tree might have

of being taken seriously.

Nana Ollerenshaw