Peter Davis

Peter has been HIV positive since he was 19 years old (since 1988). In 2008, Peter has decided to cease mainstream media. He is launching in March 2008 at radio 3CR in Melbourne a weekly program called ‘Radio for Kids’, which will present kids speaking about their world as they see it. Peter lives in a small town in Victoria; a place where he can walk a few minutes down the road and be in a bit of forest.

Peter Davis has been a freelance writer and radio documentary maker. He won the Community Broadcasting Association of Australia award in 1995 for best Information documentary for ‘The Joan Golding Story’. In 2006 he won the Judy Duffy award at RMIT given to one writer each year in the RMIT writing and editing course. He has produced regularly as a freelancer for ABC Radio National including Poetica, Radio Eye and Hindsight. He has written six feature articles for The Age.
when i die let my dog serenade me
thanks for your card from India: a lot of animal activity around Baba’s resting place
like many I am also somewhere in between drug addiction and a Ph.D perhaps
learning how to recognise the jewelled mystery that falls from the neck of self

my son told me he dreamt about a land of small noises and imagined Shiva yawning
he also saw how Buddha’s shadow continues to meditate with no body under the tree

I spit against the wind, a desire for afterlife, hands at the surface while the table tilts
yes I believe in life after death, of course I believe that life will continue without me

we can learn to support the sky with dust, singing of faith like crickets in chorus
death is a serenade by a dog licking a busker’s watch and leaving three whiskers

a journey for tranquil moments (lines written whilst hitch-hiking)
in my own private Idaho
standing or laying beside a sealed or unmade road
whilst eternity lays across my homeless soul
its thin blanket of dust

my skin slowly turning blue in the predawn
when the trees won’t speak above a whisper
just so the first birds can be clearly heard
and the orange glow of the sun beneath the horizon
reminds me of a glow from an orchestra pit

then curling-up on the road’s edge
shivering with my eyes closed and one thumb still out
in my other hand a cigarette lighter that hovers
like a firefly for the motorists to see

asleep after entering a car before the driver could ask three questions
his or her face floating upwards inside my first dream
asleep yet listening to the colours inside their voice
a yellowed or reddened or brown leaf
filled with fresh waste from the tree

I wake and a driver is smoking my joints and talking to my puppy dog
a dog that I dressed in a nappy in case he pisses or shits
“Just 120 clicks to we arrive at Goulbourn and the big sheep, little mate”

and the dog is ignoring the driver and mumbling in my ear again
its winter of meditations
a thick snow upon the past