No prize, but still a win

Late last year, on a whim, I entered a poetry competition. I submitted a short poem to Overland, a fancy-schmancy upper crust literary journal, and though I figured I had basically no chance of winning, I emailed my little poem anyway.

It didn't win but I it makes me happy to think that at least it got out there in the world; at least one person read it and to me that is what writing is all about.

Words, phrases, stories - they take on a life of their own when they are set loose into the wild; they morph and change and become parts of other people's life story lines.

Here's what I sent in. It's a bit odd, not the kind of thing I'd usually write, but I liked it.

The back story: there's a guy that parks outside Bunnings at Minchinbury every weekend with a plain, unassuming trailer full of fresh Italian crusty bread, baked that morning near Lidcombe and sold at a slew of markets and little spots around Sydney. By some stroke of genius, the baker identified a Bunnings car park as a likely spot to set up shop, and lo and behold people flocked from all around to the irresistible scent of fresh crusty pane di casa, little calzone-like things filled with ricotta and spinach, sourdough knot rolls - he even tried diversifying one week and had some cupcakes for sale. The cupcakes sold out super fast but I'm glad he decided to stick with the basics from then on - beautiful, crusty, hard, egg-brown, bubble-holed, flour-dusted Italian loaves.

Perhaps I might leave this by his trailer when he's not looking, so it can again venture into the world.



Bread van

When you nip down to Bunnings on a Saturday morning
You don’t expect to have
An out of body experience

Craning your neck around the corner – 
Thank God, it’s there – 
A plain white box trailer, blinding in the January sun

Like a neon Virgin
Demeter, goddess of grain
Our Lady of Toast

I’m out of the car without taking my eyes off her
Rounding the corner, hoping there’s some left

A little cabinet slides open, tongs gape wide and flimsy
And then a dusty slap as bricks of bread smack together
The bloke’s hand dwarfed by the size of the thing

Pure risen perfection
(He is risen!)

Pane di bloody huge
Into a paper sack it goes
Three bucks and a smile

Now you can finally bury your teeth in that heavenly loaf
No fishes required
Just a bit of butter if you can wait that long