Poets speaking up to Adani – Siobhan Hodge

Mining Tax



Let’s blame it on the times:

scattering before headlights


from mining trucks. Swaying tracks

arrest both lanes, dinosaur pads


wait for them to pass

before we can move on,


but the road is getting lean.


Buy a pen and I’ll draw

where money is born:


hole in the ground, catheter

seep from sepsis, drips through every


layer. We stand on filter paper:

nothing gets through


that won’t be discarded.


Chapters thicken like burns

and we carry stanzas home


with 5pm fidelity. Budget

for bliss. We’ll laugh all the way


to something.


There isn’t enough to strain

this season of sameness,


grilled up north out of sight,

but we’re filtering the bigger picture


through stones and stubs and strikes.

You’re out. There is life here, and it is wrapped


in plastic. A miracle of hauntings


and we have forgotten nothing.

The lines still run underground


and in rivers raw with split fish.

Taxation is no limit, poetry has no queue.


Dug up and dried out, we know

the solemnity of being bought,


but celebrate being paid for.



Siobhan Hodge





Photos in collage from: CSIRO CC BY 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0) via Wikimedia Commons

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