Roots Down

The big fig trees which line Oxford Street by the Memorial Park in Bulimba have these funky sleeves to protect them. Prop roots spring from the branches like scaffolding and grow downwards to support the huge weight of the tree and as a consequence they can grow over a vast area. Here's a closer view:

It reminds me of a poem by Brisbane's newly elected Greens councillor who recited it as part of an unprecedented maiden speech in council last month. A poem in council!? The rest of the councillors probably thought he was mad; a bit out-there for Brisbane! But you don't get more Brisbane than this:

Roots down
roots down
roots down
roots down
my heart's buried deep under Brisbane town
creekbeds, hilltops, riding around
cracking macadamias and putting roots down
I am of this city
its history is my history
my scraped knee and my favourite tree
and swimming lessons in the pool at Craigslea Primary
and Oxley's expedition back in 1823
and our Year 4 excursion to Saint Helena Island
and those weather-worn tennis balls that we were always finding
and the floods of 1974
and the invasion of 1788
and the park on the north side where I rode without training wheels for the first time
and the frog pond of drowning Christmas beetles
and Joh Bjelke-Pietersen
and hunting Easter eggs in the backyard
and hunting kangaroos by Breakfast Creek
and the roller coaster at the top of the Myer Centre that looked like a dragon and screamed at the madness beneath
Roots down
roots down
this town
roots down
My roots are tendrils, tentacles
reaching down below
splitting concrete and bitumen digging in
The soil is soft after summer storms
and the roots grow quickly, thickly
but Brisbane's burbs're built on clay
so once they're down they're down to stay
Roots down roots down brushtail growl hear that sound
But now and then in this circus I encounter a clown
who thinks that because he's got his roots in the ground
he somehow gains the right to define this town
and decide who else gets to put roots down
See the surface seems sufficiently serene
but if you peel back the bandaid you'll see the gangrene
And now I see you've forgotten
I see your roots are rotten
but this garden has no gardener
that's how we got to where we've gotten
The question on my mind is where we going?
This city is growing
sauropod construction cranes on every horizon
jackhammer clattering drowns out the cicadas
the relentless march of apartment towers makes suburbanites nervous
so they build higher fences
and mow their lawns weekly
Roots down, stolen ground
dead trees, river brown
I know something's awry in this city
but I can't quite put my finger on it
It's like we've outgrown the garden bed
roots in a twist
slumbering suburbs
silence those who resist
Vision blurring
but now I hear them stirring
climb Mt Cootha at midnight
see them lighting candles and switching off TVs
Flying foxes in the trees
stench of rotten mangoes
gives way to a cool south-easterly
Pumpkin vines wither and die but the passionfruit keeps growing
skyscrapers sprouting up from the bedrock
Wivenhoe overflowing
activists invade city hall and the clocktower falls silent in anticipation
Change is coming to Brisbane town
we feel it in the soil
while we cracking macadamias and putting roots down

(by Jonathan Sri)

Kate Tempest at Avid Reader last night.

Australia is being treated to a book tour by London rapper, poet and novelist Kate Tempest. Last night she was being interviewed at my local bookshop, Avid Reader. She's promoting her novel, some of which she performed from memory with the same rhythm and intensity that she gives her poetry. It gets you deep down.

Through The Window

Oblivious I was
Despite my many, contemplative visits
To the forces of nature
Present in the room

To the webbing and vining
And careful intertwining
To the sweet and slow surrender
Of this window to the elements

I was always in such a rush, you see
To leave and get back to my friends
That when I noticed it first
I was half way out the door

I stopped in my tracks
And sighed to myself.
You only get the vista
If you are a mista.

Through The Window

through the window
through the passionfruit vine curtain
the early morning eastern sun
peeps over our building
warming the tops of the trees
green with a hint of orange

through the boughs of the scant jacaranda
the african tulip is exploding with flowers
crows find something to shout about
then lose interest and mutter under their breath instead
rainbow lorikeets chatter excitedly like kids in a playground
except noisier

time to wake up
the distant sound of the Citycat on the river
and the buses at the terminus
purring and chugging
in readiness for the day
and those other, more muted, early birds