Day of the Sun
written in response to ‘Now and Then’ (Sumo, EastWest/Warner, 1998) by The Superjesus
After my phone alarm,
I open dimmed eyes
rise with violin & cello strings
then walk
to the beat of another’s drums
to the rhythm of others’ guitars.
Sarah McLeod’s vocalisations
quell memories of nightmares
by sweetening the morning air
like the birdsong—
those towering tinkering trills—
of the superb fairywren.
As I take my first sip
of milky, morning coffee,
I wonder: does that band name
The Superjesus
actually mean above Jesus?
As Sarah sings about another dawn,
I taste toasted muesli
and decide the answer doesn’t matter
because, either way, hearing
her alt-rock band play
‘Now and Then’
is a religious experience.
After the diminuendo,
the crescendo
compels me out the front door
into gathering daylight,
the vocalist, band
and Adelaide Symphony Orchestra
forming an ensemble of fiery seraphim.
Feeling transient yet transcendent,
I surrender my skin & my sins
to the radiance of sunlight.
Dolphins
I was half-listening to some CD
on my Discman during year 11
English class
when one of my two genuine classmates
slid a CD out of his wallet
and said I should give it a spin.
I asked him what it was called.
He said The Distance to Here
by +LIVE+.
I asked him which tracks were good.
He said they all were.
After pressing that disc in & pressing play,
I intently listened to the music & lyrics
during each English class,
learning language on multiple levels.
While I agreed with my mate’s review,
I found myself coming back to one track
repeatedly—
‘The Dolphin’s Cry’.
Its slow verses & bridge
created a liquid atmosphere—
formed a saltwater lake of sound
from which the chorus emerged like the cry of dolphins.
Ten
years
later
I was half-listening to the fadeout
of Regina Spektor’s ‘Laughing With’
on Triple J
during a stats study sess
when one of my two fave presenters
suggested listeners listen
to Spektor’s new album
Far.
I refrained from calling in
to ask her which tracks were good.
After opening a media player & pressing play,
I intently listened to the music & lyrics
during the rest of my stats degree,
learning language on multiple levels
& maths on multiple planes.
While I enjoyed the whole album,
I found myself coming back to one track
repeatedly—
‘Folding Chair’.
Its bubbly verses, bridge & chorus
created a liquid atmosphere—
formed a saltwater lake of sound
from which Spektor’s dolphin-esque cries emerged.
Pre-Reformation Tea Party
Dja Dja Wurrung Country, Australia, late 2000s
This backyard party might as well be a ’90s party,
I think to myself as I listen to The Tea Party.
Someone hands me a compact disc containing all six tracks
on the ’90s EP Alhambra by The Tea Party.
The name of this Ontarian band keeps making me think
of protestors who threw tea at the Boston Tea Party.
I’ve never done drugs but now I smell weed in the warm air.
From my spot, I cannot make out the (un)guilty party.
I’ve long felt like a member of the Australian Greens
whose voice means little to the parliamentary party.
I wish Jeff would get his prog rock band back together stat.,
I think out soft-loud as I listen to The Tea Party.
Michael J. Leach is an Australian poet, critic and academic who lives and works on unceded Dja Dja Wurrung Country. Michael’s poems have appeared in journals such as Rabbit: a journal for nonfiction poetry, websites such as Stereo Stories, exhibitions such as the Antarctic Poetry Exhibition, anthologies such as Poetry d’Amour 2022 (WA Poets Inc., 2022), and his two poetry books: Chronicity (Melbourne Poets Union, 2020) and Natural Philosophies (Recent Work Press, 2022). Michael has performed his poetry at functions, events, conferences and festivals, including the Stereo Stories Concert at Bendigo Writers Festival 2021. In 2022, Michael jointly won the poetry category of the inaugural Minds Shine Bright Confidence Writing Competition.
