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Fiona Hile [by Thomas Moody]

Fiona Hile is an award winning Australian poet whose poems move fast through unexpected turns of language and imagery. Take this line from "Snakebite with Anecdote": "In the corridor we listen to the sounds our babies make when they cry." The slight distinction the speaker makes between listening to babies cry, and listening to the "sounds" babies make when they cry, creates a deceptively large separation between the two. It is a distinction made travelling at such speeds that it is easy to miss, as is much in Hile's breakneck poetry which deserves an equally alert attention.


"Forget the Stars" is such a poem, which opens with the image of "taxidermied light" and breaks down into near fragmentary utterances.


Forget the Stars

Focus on the taxidermied light,
the quarked vehemence of splayed negation,
to rags, your britches, seeping glib intent,
sight catastrophic, given to seizures.
The curlicue scent has not the mother in it.
The fall of romance, the hold of the tender new,
programs aloft, every nerve to shudder:
ghosting monitions of the incomplete.
Either will the aching swells, apart from bliss.
Coordinates of favor, hip neath fiber strip follicle
sheath of slip chord parent display. Sensitized gift wagon
fern entrenched, the halo of the nation is the caul-throated
blood of hench, rosella'd of the peak of taxonomied childless.
Where your mottled hologram, the feathered monstor of the throttled.
Quizzical with the world, am to console, the hope for saplings
entrees the ingredient of dining undertaken. Your teeth the grinder,
your lips the sensitive house. The beds' laments' the reindeers'
horses' dreams' in halves' comeo'd sighs.


July 07, 2021

June 23, 2021

June 09, 2021

May 26, 2021

May 13, 2021

May 12, 2021

October 06, 2018

January 17, 2018

January 23, 2015

January 22, 2015

January 20, 2015

January 19, 2015

May 18, 2014

April 28, 2014

January 01, 2014

December 29, 2013

December 22, 2013

December 15, 2013

December 08, 2013

December 01, 2013

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"Lively and affectionate" Publishers Weekly


I left it
on when I
left the house
for the pleasure
of coming back
ten hours later
to the greatness
of Teddy Wilson
"After You've Gone"
on the piano
in the corner
of the bedroom
as I enter
in the dark

from New and Selected Poems by David Lehman

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