David Brooks, The Balcony
She is
writing a message
with her tongue on my neck
in a language I don’t understand,
there are birds
nesting in my hair,
my skin
is singing
a wild, untranslatable jubilate.
From the snowy balconies of Central Europe to the white-hot suburbs of Sydney, these poems surface from the depths of a life learning to live to the fullest. Affirming that erotic love is one of the highest forms of contemplation, Brooks raises all that is beautiful in this world – and much that is not – so that it may be transformed into the body of the sacred. A stunning new collection by one of the quiet masters of Australian poetry.
Bronwyn Lea 