Meeting Benches World art in all forms
Her first collection signalled the arrival of a new voice on the Australian poetry. Her ability to convey the heat of passion is a first secret of her repertoire. Dorothy Porter reminded us that poetry could handle many, many sensations and emotions, as quiet intimacy orjealousy, seduction, wild sex and obsession, that suggest love in its various phases. Always, she was committed to stoicism and commitment to the earth and beauty. She was born in Sydney on an March day, graduating with a Bachelor of Arts degree, she completed a Diploma of Education. For her, poetry can attract readers, also combining a detective story plot with poetic verse. She died in a December day, leaving us her ability to transmit the heat of passion, inside her books. https://www.amazon.com/Love-Poems-Dorothy-Porter/dp/1459605624
PLEASURE – Poetry by Dorothy Porter
Is it the bite of a sighing crocodile? All your voluptuous bleeding incense, come at once? I have traveled its Silk Road with my curtains drawn, hearing its lurching mirages, shiver among the stones and nettles of its gorgeous desert.
NUMBERS – Poetry by Dorothy Porter
I get magic sometimes, I get more than I bargain for, but I don’t get numbers. Numbers do worse, than humiliate or elude me, they don’t add up. I am no algebra tart ravished by the meretricious music of the spheres. My eyes and nose never streamed with incontinent ecstasy, through geometry classes, as my disastrous triangles collapsed in a cacophony, around me. Perhaps it’s a failing to grasp, or even want the utterly perfect number burning through my retina, like the utterly perfect morning. Instead I peer with nauseating vertigo, into the deep dark pitch of numbers, like an exhausted mammoth, dangerously tottering on the edge of a bottomless mystery.
TROUBLE – Poetry by Dorothy Porter
I challenge the mirror, how much guts have you got? I like my courage physical, I like my courage with a dash of danger. In between insurance jobs, I’ve been watching rock climbers, like game little spiders on my local cliff. I’ve got no head for heights, but plenty of stomach for trouble. Trouble deep other folks trouble, to spark my engine and pay my mortgage, and private trouble. Oh, pretty trouble to tidal-wave my bed. I’m waiting. I want you, trouble, on the rocks.
