Coode Is

Where the river meets the bay, where the water returns to the sea,
the cycle of rain and sun fecund in mud, stone and tree,
birds swing on a forgetful breeze, oysters cling, fish slip in the fresh fold of water.
People.  A gathering place.
Stories of what has been,  what is,  and what has been lost.

frankinea pausiflora – southern sea heath
disphyma crassifolium – noon flower
selliera radicans – swamp weed
juncus palladus – pale rush

This island is manmade, and not an island.
This harvestland wasted,
marsh scoured and filled for the shipping of desires,
for white houses of gas.

benzene
butanol
methyl methacylate monomer

We are standing in a burning house,
our bodies blackening, our tongues dry.
We ask questions of the other side.  Stand before the door.

halosarcia pergranulata – glasswort
atriplex suberecta – lagoon saltbush
avicennia marina – white mangrove
atriplex cinerea – coast salt bush

White purity,
circle white,
crescents of dreams,
silos contain, contain
orbitals complex,
relationships of colour, class and structure.

benzene
butanol
methyl methacylate monomer

Your apparent calm reserves a bitter anger,
waiting noxious in a contained white,
so contained that the slow silence breeds disquiet.

All is appearance, surface.
The river laps detritus, the forgotten,
as broken memories layer.

Clouds. Staggered. Eclipse. Staggered.
Traces of noxious gases released.

Remember the fish, the reeds, the quiet breath.
Sun on a Sunday with play.
This surface breaks, smoketwisted,
with the silence of snow.  The slow stealth of gases inhaled.

juncus krausii – sea rush
sclerostegia arbuscula – shrubby glasswort
atriplex paludosa – marsh salt bush

We are standing in a burning house. Our bodies blackening, our tongues dry.
We ask questions of the other side. Stand before the door.
Our tongues blackening. Our eyes squint smoke, tears.
We are burning in a burning house, the door is open. We talk and do not move.
The door is open, the house burning. We talk of the other side.
Our tongues float smokey words

ethylene
propylene
butylene polypropylene nitrobenzene
diethylene glycol
epichlorohydrin

Alarm grinds mechanically nightmare.

Aware.

The river travels stories, dulled, turgid, brackish.
We sip stories of hope and survival,
of other lands chemically contained.
Of fire, smoke, violence, we breathe.
We breathe this colonised air.

All is appearance. All is surface.
The white surface pure, reflecting.
Monuments of science.
Tabernacles of distress.
This is a secret.
Silos contain
particles

methane ethane propane
1 bromopropane chloromethane

Below the surface,
the river a flow of neglected dream.
Do you remember, the fish, a Sunday in the sun, our family,
the conversations suspended in the cry of gulls, in the cross of cloud, adrift with laughter.
This apparent serenity laments, echoes with destruction. Smoke, chemicals, fire, shout,
the grey shroud of smoke, our skin, lungs, memories inhales.

Below the surface of white, memories, clouds of memory.

benzene
butanol
methyl methacylate monomer

This is an equation.
What lies beneath the surface.
What lies.
What lies beneath the words.
The smooth surface rendered white.

sarcocornia quiqueflora – beaded glasswort
atriplex semibaccata – creeping salt bush
suaeda australis – austral sea blight

Tomorrow and four generations hence,
we breathe. We breathe.
We are oxygen dependent.

juncus krausii – sea rush
juncus palladus – pale rush
distichlis distichophylla – Australian salt grass
avicenna marina – white mangrove

Silos contain
particles.
Broken memories layer traces
of noxious gases,
released clouds. Staggered. Eclipse. Staggered.
The city staggers in cloud. Lungs heave. Stutter acrid.

dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane
isopropyl fluoride
benzene hexachloride aldrin deildrin endrin
diethyl-4-nitrophenyl phosphorothionate

We are standing in a burning house. The door open.
We are talking. We are burning. Suffocating in white desire.

The river whispers stories,
sluggish slurrings,
of work, hunger, exploitation,
of laughter, tears, connecting
the sea of despair, of hope, of
the journeys lives have travelled
upon its moving waters, always absorbing
the passage of lives, speaking to us,
of the past and future as our present.
The river flows in us.

berni m janssen

Created in response to Coode Island, for Coode Contained, Maribyrnong Arts Festival, 1997
Created and performed by berni m janssen writer/performer and Sue Jones, composer/performer.

First published in Heat 12.