I went to the Cathedral
half hoping for a Damascus Road flash.
All I found was a graceless barnyard space,
pressed full; a sweaty, heaving mass;
no baby to be found there.
The incense was a rich nostalgic lick:
sweet nothing like the tale end of dreams.
The carols were a playlist
put together to impress
some carol loathing musical sophisticate.
At least they had We Three Kings on the list.
I sang until my ghostly tonsils ached;
there was joy in that, and my partner's casual touch,
but nothing else.
We left before the Eucharistic prayer
and drank the fresh air outside the church.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
RACHMANINOV'S VESPERS
My soul grazed
longing soaring.
My sacred hearing
dispossessing.
My heart's door
reverberating.
My banquet hall
all ready now.
longing soaring.
My sacred hearing
dispossessing.
My heart's door
reverberating.
My banquet hall
all ready now.
Monday, November 28, 2011
MANHATTAN
To first see Manhattan go to Staten Island even if your Russian taxi driver groans with gulag desperation.Tell him you want to catch a ferry and when he says,"What! I take you to city direct!" Give the bastard as good as you get: New York style, blunt non-negotiation.
First sight from St. George across the water: a distant urban mound; a city that seems dense pressed on little ground; the south port metal curtain to a deep spread town.
ALL ABOARD! ALL ABOARD!
Sound of commuters; sound of crowd surge past camouflaged soldiers; sniffer dogs; flury of newspapers; the chant of an umbrella wielding street vendor, "if you pass me by, you won't stay dry;" moving stuff; looking to trade; looking to make a buck; looking to move up, upwards;
crossing water: vertical emergence.
Close closer now and all the crowd bristled in response; a sideways glance: that outstretched arm; that flame; those Ellis Island huddled masses yearning to breathe free; the clamouring cacophony of myth and hope and industry piled high and all above your head.
ALL ASHORE! ALL ASHORE!
To first see Manhattan use your feet; take a hike along the slow reveal of canyon streets; see light bathed glories framed by dishevelled nights; the shuffle of the nowhere; dark spaces that bite; take accidental corners that reveal street vendors, pocket cultures, negotiators making deals; that rich real that surpases all the myths.
To first see Manhattan is to see what a city is.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
OCCUPY POETRY
It's time to occupy poetry,
out in the streets, under canvas;
words could be bread baked
and free broke and gnawed
at a raggedy feast.
It's time to liberate poetry
from obscure, self-serving
elites, so it can spill out into
street chants through the fuse
of the ordinary.
It's time to reclaim poetry
as common wealth sounded
in heart beat; life given over
to word dance and the rhythm
of marching feet.
out in the streets, under canvas;
words could be bread baked
and free broke and gnawed
at a raggedy feast.
It's time to liberate poetry
from obscure, self-serving
elites, so it can spill out into
street chants through the fuse
of the ordinary.
It's time to reclaim poetry
as common wealth sounded
in heart beat; life given over
to word dance and the rhythm
of marching feet.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
ON BEING A MAN
Thin lines hold that hairline fractured thing,
so tentative, so far from the man-up roar,
broken before and held together now,
stitch stretched and questionably convincing.
To be a man, to be fallen from the myths,
to be broken, not invincibly whole,
to be deep bruised far from expectations,
secretly lost in a bewildering world.
To be a man, to be a channel of tears,
worn raw to strange sympathetic symphonies,
moved as much by beauty as by pain:
stitch stretched, breaking, impossibly reaching.
so tentative, so far from the man-up roar,
broken before and held together now,
stitch stretched and questionably convincing.
To be a man, to be fallen from the myths,
to be broken, not invincibly whole,
to be deep bruised far from expectations,
secretly lost in a bewildering world.
To be a man, to be a channel of tears,
worn raw to strange sympathetic symphonies,
moved as much by beauty as by pain:
stitch stretched, breaking, impossibly reaching.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
VAN DIEMEN'S LAND
Country, my country,
you tidal claim me and I am not alone;
earth leached into bones,
my soil heart sings you. I am all rock
because of you, all wave tug rugged lost in you;
far from you, never apart from you,
country my country.
I see flame light across the waters, flickering
grief across the waters: black sentinel all still;
wife killed by a butcher's knife; tribe bled
close to nothing. What have we done,
o what have we done,
country, my country?
Mountain speaks, river speaks, highlands
murmur down through valleys deep;
the crest fall wonder beckons still
and years cannot beat gravity,
country, my country.
Sing islands, sing rivers, sing choir gums,
rain splattered crowd of watchers sing
the wisdom claim that stakes your full possession.
Country, my country,
still in the deep root heart of me,
the south wind brings the fury of the world
and I am lost without you.
you tidal claim me and I am not alone;
earth leached into bones,
my soil heart sings you. I am all rock
because of you, all wave tug rugged lost in you;
far from you, never apart from you,
country my country.
I see flame light across the waters, flickering
grief across the waters: black sentinel all still;
wife killed by a butcher's knife; tribe bled
close to nothing. What have we done,
o what have we done,
country, my country?
Mountain speaks, river speaks, highlands
murmur down through valleys deep;
the crest fall wonder beckons still
and years cannot beat gravity,
country, my country.
Sing islands, sing rivers, sing choir gums,
rain splattered crowd of watchers sing
the wisdom claim that stakes your full possession.
Country, my country,
still in the deep root heart of me,
the south wind brings the fury of the world
and I am lost without you.
Monday, November 7, 2011
TWO DEPARTED MEN
The two men met their maker
somewhere close to Gundagai
on a misty stretch of highway.
I arrived home to hear the news
from a boggle eyed, vague Irishman
who delivered it like a joke without a punch-line.
I drank straight whisky
to reassure myself that I was alive
but it didn't beat the chill inside me.
The younger man would have read
theological themes in the mangled wreck
and the gritty particularity of his dying.
The older man would have just sighed
and muttered some melancholy phrase
with his tremorous voice crackling.
The funeral was a clamorous affair
that would have caused the younger man
to lay down with a migraine.
The old man would have gathered it all in
and squeezed it into a tiny declaration
that it was nice and the people were good.
They are buried under dewy grass,
on the outskirts of the city,
brothers in the shadow of a chapel.
somewhere close to Gundagai
on a misty stretch of highway.
I arrived home to hear the news
from a boggle eyed, vague Irishman
who delivered it like a joke without a punch-line.
I drank straight whisky
to reassure myself that I was alive
but it didn't beat the chill inside me.
The younger man would have read
theological themes in the mangled wreck
and the gritty particularity of his dying.
The older man would have just sighed
and muttered some melancholy phrase
with his tremorous voice crackling.
The funeral was a clamorous affair
that would have caused the younger man
to lay down with a migraine.
The old man would have gathered it all in
and squeezed it into a tiny declaration
that it was nice and the people were good.
They are buried under dewy grass,
on the outskirts of the city,
brothers in the shadow of a chapel.
Saturday, November 5, 2011
PROPHECY
I dance with the beast I do not name
of meat and bones and righteous rage;
a mean eyed, angry stamping thing
that shakes the floor and makes ears ring;
that stares down mediocraties
and rages for ascendancy;
a herd stampede through all my frame
that leaves me weak and near insane;
a force that gathers up its words
to pound those flimsy dubious worlds
where I have tried to take a seat,
contained, while others dumbly speak
their flimsy surface rhetoric
that sets me dancing with my beast.
of meat and bones and righteous rage;
a mean eyed, angry stamping thing
that shakes the floor and makes ears ring;
that stares down mediocraties
and rages for ascendancy;
a herd stampede through all my frame
that leaves me weak and near insane;
a force that gathers up its words
to pound those flimsy dubious worlds
where I have tried to take a seat,
contained, while others dumbly speak
their flimsy surface rhetoric
that sets me dancing with my beast.
Monday, October 31, 2011
THE OLD MENDICANT
You need to mix molasses with the straw
even when the paddocks are bone dry;
dark into water clear; a heavy stick to mix;
rattle truck cacophony; bails stacked sky high.
He grunts and mutters dark and light:
loves salt and earth and curses holy goats.
His world: rope tug births, markets, herds,
the stuff of shit stench, dust clouds, heavy loads.
His other world is long remembering:
the virtue vice of old Manila Streets and begging,
the vice virtue of old school monasteries.
Up in the hills he's bellowing his call;
a bucket of molasses and liberal scattered straw;
the drought wise man of practicalities
knows how to keep beasts alive with poor feed.
even when the paddocks are bone dry;
dark into water clear; a heavy stick to mix;
rattle truck cacophony; bails stacked sky high.
He grunts and mutters dark and light:
loves salt and earth and curses holy goats.
His world: rope tug births, markets, herds,
the stuff of shit stench, dust clouds, heavy loads.
His other world is long remembering:
the virtue vice of old Manila Streets and begging,
the vice virtue of old school monasteries.
Up in the hills he's bellowing his call;
a bucket of molasses and liberal scattered straw;
the drought wise man of practicalities
knows how to keep beasts alive with poor feed.
Saturday, October 29, 2011
PADDY
Those sighs measured
his distance from the Shannon;
they were long sighs,
miles and years long,
and full of young departure
and strange exile.
He wore his careworn state
with a battered beanie;
walked with a meandering gait;
his cock-eyed grin
signed off with
arch browed wonder.
He groaned and sighed
his ancient prayers,
sometimes to a chainsaw
harsh crescendo:
soul vigorous
to splinter heaven's door.
Seeing now, not seeing then,
a man like him carved deep
by river memories and distance;
voice long gone,
his exile song runs true.
Now he is river. Now he is home.
his distance from the Shannon;
they were long sighs,
miles and years long,
and full of young departure
and strange exile.
He wore his careworn state
with a battered beanie;
walked with a meandering gait;
his cock-eyed grin
signed off with
arch browed wonder.
He groaned and sighed
his ancient prayers,
sometimes to a chainsaw
harsh crescendo:
soul vigorous
to splinter heaven's door.
Seeing now, not seeing then,
a man like him carved deep
by river memories and distance;
voice long gone,
his exile song runs true.
Now he is river. Now he is home.
Monday, October 24, 2011
SEEING WHOLE
Strange tremorous need to grasp
as though shards could be pressed whole again,
as though pain was counter-intuitive healing.
Vice ideas make bleeding fingers, palms;
hard wired language fuels the rigamortis grasp:
broken, whole, redemptive suffering.
Someday other words and gentle palms,
eyes that see the fragment scattered whole,
unpierced to live this glitter kingdom world.
as though shards could be pressed whole again,
as though pain was counter-intuitive healing.
Vice ideas make bleeding fingers, palms;
hard wired language fuels the rigamortis grasp:
broken, whole, redemptive suffering.
Someday other words and gentle palms,
eyes that see the fragment scattered whole,
unpierced to live this glitter kingdom world.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
ANGELUS
Brother cut his wrists
on an island far away.
Gotta ring the angelus:
make a noise and pray.
Letter in the mail;
Tear stains with the ink.
Gotta keep the schedule
so the church don’t sink.
Brother cut his wrists
on an island far away.
Gotta ring the angelus:
make a noise and pray.
All the friars gather,
voting black and white.
Gotta wait to find out
if I'm deemed alright.
Brother cut his wrists
on an island far away.
Gotta ring the angelus:
make a noise and pray.
Friday, October 21, 2011
INSOMNIA
Catastrophic dream flash; cardiac jolt;
now wide awake, dog paddling
the long hours, wanting to stop, to
descend, to drown in a liquid glove.
The tremulous treachery of limbs
resisting, dull dim witted resistance,
back stroking, breast stroking, heat
stroking past midnight; the resignation
of dark open eyes. A sigh of options:
the internet, coffee; yes coffee:
ultimate resignation to be a wake to
the death of slumber. Too far from the
consolation of the sea: the cool to
sooth the fireflash and lightning fork
of neurons. Remembering sounds:
a night like this is made for such
rememberance: river waves
in childhood; the surge sound
of trains just beyond the graves
in Melbourne; the bellow of cattle
on that farm outside Sydney;
years of whispered love
to loveless nights. All these
sound chapters echo years,
making the dark a biographic
thing. Nights waiting for birth,
waiting for death. The weight
of waiting dragging eyes to show
their age. Remembering to
a fictive stretch: some ancestor
staring out at night cold eucalypts,
awake with bogside memories and
chain scars. And I'm wondering
if genes hold memories of
ancestral dislocation.
All fiction, the night is full of fiction
and conjured ghosts, pretending
company as the whole world
snores and salivates on pillows.
now wide awake, dog paddling
the long hours, wanting to stop, to
descend, to drown in a liquid glove.
The tremulous treachery of limbs
resisting, dull dim witted resistance,
back stroking, breast stroking, heat
stroking past midnight; the resignation
of dark open eyes. A sigh of options:
the internet, coffee; yes coffee:
ultimate resignation to be a wake to
the death of slumber. Too far from the
consolation of the sea: the cool to
sooth the fireflash and lightning fork
of neurons. Remembering sounds:
a night like this is made for such
rememberance: river waves
in childhood; the surge sound
of trains just beyond the graves
in Melbourne; the bellow of cattle
on that farm outside Sydney;
years of whispered love
to loveless nights. All these
sound chapters echo years,
making the dark a biographic
thing. Nights waiting for birth,
waiting for death. The weight
of waiting dragging eyes to show
their age. Remembering to
a fictive stretch: some ancestor
staring out at night cold eucalypts,
awake with bogside memories and
chain scars. And I'm wondering
if genes hold memories of
ancestral dislocation.
All fiction, the night is full of fiction
and conjured ghosts, pretending
company as the whole world
snores and salivates on pillows.
Monday, October 17, 2011
JUST NOT CRICKET
Camp lesson number one:
never underestimate
the cunning pedagogy of a snake;
beguiling, curled to strike,
out on the long grass boundary.
Resist the inclination boy,
let it go for six and don't look back,
that long grass bites like shadows in a crack.
Tears after bedtime in a game like that:
it's just not cricket and it never was.
never underestimate
the cunning pedagogy of a snake;
beguiling, curled to strike,
out on the long grass boundary.
Resist the inclination boy,
let it go for six and don't look back,
that long grass bites like shadows in a crack.
Tears after bedtime in a game like that:
it's just not cricket and it never was.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
HOME BODY
Safe strong, safe spent,
safe close to face the dark.
Soft thigh openned:
acquiescent, languorous.
Home, my home,
you are my home to me.
Welcome grip that
holds my marrow creed.
All words folded, quiet;
wordlessly
our skin, breath, heat,
now sing a litany.
safe close to face the dark.
Soft thigh openned:
acquiescent, languorous.
Home, my home,
you are my home to me.
Welcome grip that
holds my marrow creed.
All words folded, quiet;
wordlessly
our skin, breath, heat,
now sing a litany.
Saturday, October 15, 2011
FORGIVENESS
Forgiveness
is not by-pass surgery;
is not an alternative route;
is not discomfort circumvented.
Forgiveness
is rock slow ground to earth;
earth deep fired to brick;
brick carved slow with story;
story strong arched to bridge.
Forgiveness
is bridge broke down to story;
story worn back to brick;
brick slow ground to earth;
earth made bed to seed.
is not by-pass surgery;
is not an alternative route;
is not discomfort circumvented.
Forgiveness
is rock slow ground to earth;
earth deep fired to brick;
brick carved slow with story;
story strong arched to bridge.
Forgiveness
is bridge broke down to story;
story worn back to brick;
brick slow ground to earth;
earth made bed to seed.
CARMELITE
Just read evening prayer
he screams, lead foot
and in the driver's seat:
accelerating piety
swerving through the traffic.
The time bomb ticks;
his twitching boney cheeks,
grim lined, hard wired prick;
Geelong to Melbourne,
his gun acceleration
now near up a bus's arse.
Read the fucking prayers
he pleads, white knuckle
gripping hard the wheel,
his murderous speed
now making real
his all boys' catholic jihad.
Yet I refuse, my heart beat
drumming: this is how I die;
numb beyond all knowing,
now car coffined fast,
without a prayer to answer.
he screams, lead foot
and in the driver's seat:
accelerating piety
swerving through the traffic.
The time bomb ticks;
his twitching boney cheeks,
grim lined, hard wired prick;
Geelong to Melbourne,
his gun acceleration
now near up a bus's arse.
Read the fucking prayers
he pleads, white knuckle
gripping hard the wheel,
his murderous speed
now making real
his all boys' catholic jihad.
Yet I refuse, my heart beat
drumming: this is how I die;
numb beyond all knowing,
now car coffined fast,
without a prayer to answer.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
CHRONIC MIDDLE AGE
Middle ages man mourns,
in the depths of vague expectation,
the non-arrival of a mythic something;
some world confounding declaration;
some messianic consummation;
some something pinnacle unconquered.
He grieves over broken endings
and rages at ghostly silence.
Bruised by could have been's defiance,
he's saved by the tug of the ordinary
that brings him to here and now.
in the depths of vague expectation,
the non-arrival of a mythic something;
some world confounding declaration;
some messianic consummation;
some something pinnacle unconquered.
He grieves over broken endings
and rages at ghostly silence.
Bruised by could have been's defiance,
he's saved by the tug of the ordinary
that brings him to here and now.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
PTSD
Blood red buds, in an unexpected spring,
driven hard through all the clotted earth,
broken and beguiling with that ancient scent:
resurrection currents through grave dirt.
Brute cut betrayed by soft gathering hands
arranging spring patterns to be shown.
Closed doors trap that age old pungency;
heart beat drums rememberance chorus.
driven hard through all the clotted earth,
broken and beguiling with that ancient scent:
resurrection currents through grave dirt.
Brute cut betrayed by soft gathering hands
arranging spring patterns to be shown.
Closed doors trap that age old pungency;
heart beat drums rememberance chorus.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
SLAP STICK BANANA PEEL MEMORY
You put it
behind
but it still trips you up:
slap stick
banana peel
memory.
How the hell
did it get
back in front:
slap stick
banana peel
memory.
The soul monkey
laughs and then
calls you a schmuck:
slap stick
banana peel
memory.
You clownish
claim that
you've had quite enough:
slap stick
banana peel
memory.
behind
but it still trips you up:
slap stick
banana peel
memory.
How the hell
did it get
back in front:
slap stick
banana peel
memory.
The soul monkey
laughs and then
calls you a schmuck:
slap stick
banana peel
memory.
You clownish
claim that
you've had quite enough:
slap stick
banana peel
memory.
FRIDAY
Eyes press up
through sky cracking trees;
all those leaves
looking to take flight
from brittle slender threads.
Friday convulsions
press my newborn day;
I sip coffee in a place
full of african rhythms
and dream across oceans.
all those leaves
looking to take flight
from brittle slender threads.
Friday convulsions
press my newborn day;
I sip coffee in a place
full of african rhythms
and dream across oceans.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
372
Busting at the seams on the 372
a thousand tagged rollerdoors rush by
a girl arranges her face into a sly smile
a businessman shifts discontentedly behind
bare bone streets with middle eastern flourishes
a bag lady dives into yesterday's garbage
a lad paces the corner with a long bay shuffle
early morning light hangs broken in the air
crowds surge to the bus door to be freed
in the tunnel buskers soft strum the crowd
the steady thunderclap of ticket machines
the steady sound of a city breathing
hands rustle and shake newspaper headlines
pigeons gather at crumbs then erupt in flight
burnt toast and coffee scent the air
a lady studiously fingers her mobile phone
monday morning questions hang unanswered
instance by instance dissolves in the flow.
a girl arranges her face into a sly smile
a businessman shifts discontentedly behind
bare bone streets with middle eastern flourishes
a bag lady dives into yesterday's garbage
a lad paces the corner with a long bay shuffle
early morning light hangs broken in the air
crowds surge to the bus door to be freed
in the tunnel buskers soft strum the crowd
the steady thunderclap of ticket machines
the steady sound of a city breathing
hands rustle and shake newspaper headlines
pigeons gather at crumbs then erupt in flight
burnt toast and coffee scent the air
a lady studiously fingers her mobile phone
monday morning questions hang unanswered
instance by instance dissolves in the flow.
BLACK COCKATOOS
Enter the claw and feather brigade;
a black crack cawing at the sky;
the fierce descent on all things eucalypt;
audio anarchists; night dark to bright light.
the fierce descent on all things eucalypt;
audio anarchists; night dark to bright light.
CONTEMPLATIVE FIRE
I burnt down the church
to be buried with the ashes;
pressed to diamond, light hardened
in subterranean depths.
I burnt down the church
for the unforseen emergence;
mother, child, dark signature of fire,
an intimate dark night.
I burnt down the church
to be black as an apocalypse,
resilient as a charred and tested job
laughing in the ruins.
I burnt down the church
to end resistance to endings;
breath the highest dome of heaven
here and now.
pressed to diamond, light hardened
in subterranean depths.
I burnt down the church
for the unforseen emergence;
mother, child, dark signature of fire,
an intimate dark night.
I burnt down the church
to be black as an apocalypse,
resilient as a charred and tested job
laughing in the ruins.
I burnt down the church
to end resistance to endings;
breath the highest dome of heaven
here and now.
GOLEM
You were the golem
that I made;my monstrous inquisitor;
the desperate clamour
at my door
demanding everything.
And I was half-baked
kingdom maker;
sower of future failure;
melancholic in the wings
impaled
by my choosing.
We were each and all
the bell and incense
brigade;
moaners of psalms
and divine serenades
at eventide.
Friday, September 30, 2011
PATCHWORK ECONOMY
rip rip thread bare stitch
dirty frayed stitch fringe
overlaid ragged bottom
stitch heavy gold brocade
worn torn ragged sew sew
shiney shiney silver clean
metal button stitch stitch
stressed worn torn mean
thin red desperate patch
sew winter worn cool
sheer pin stripe front
worn torn arse bare ragged
hessian hard paper thin
last thread near stretched
heavy denim dirty stained
sun bleached country worn
black white rough strained
satin soft coarse grade
off cut shredded fabric
ugly pattern mismatch
stitch rip stitch rip slash
heavy grey blanket poor
gaudy whore bright floral
shoddy sad patchwork thing.
dirty frayed stitch fringe
overlaid ragged bottom
stitch heavy gold brocade
worn torn ragged sew sew
shiney shiney silver clean
metal button stitch stitch
stressed worn torn mean
thin red desperate patch
sew winter worn cool
sheer pin stripe front
worn torn arse bare ragged
hessian hard paper thin
last thread near stretched
heavy denim dirty stained
sun bleached country worn
black white rough strained
satin soft coarse grade
off cut shredded fabric
ugly pattern mismatch
stitch rip stitch rip slash
heavy grey blanket poor
gaudy whore bright floral
shoddy sad patchwork thing.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
MOUNTAIN AND RIVER
Mother broods, dark pieta blue,
and cradles the thin river town;
river runs to a broad sparse night;
south wind brings a rugged storm around.
Upfold country story sings this way:
water rock squeeze tight on narrow ground;
beauty budges loose for river tide;
swift departure plays in water sound.
and cradles the thin river town;
river runs to a broad sparse night;
south wind brings a rugged storm around.
Upfold country story sings this way:
water rock squeeze tight on narrow ground;
beauty budges loose for river tide;
swift departure plays in water sound.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
ON VISITING THE FRED WILLIAMS EXHIBITION
In the gallery, girls with wishbone legs
crack past a brief apostrophe of passion
captured in a thick impasto swirl;
lost in a vast, red nothing landscape.
Everyman squints, bewildered by it all,
can't see what the fuss is all about,
peers close in hope of microscopic truth,
falls loose to the reign of painted space.
A guard wanders, disconsolate, beside
the triptych row of needle waterfalls,
punctured through a cave of abstract black
where ideas try to thick line plant a grasp.
Country falls through finger cracks:
the conquering descent of all that is,
makes desert plains and long coastal lines,
marks dark nights with a signature of flame.
crack past a brief apostrophe of passion
captured in a thick impasto swirl;
lost in a vast, red nothing landscape.
Everyman squints, bewildered by it all,
can't see what the fuss is all about,
peers close in hope of microscopic truth,
falls loose to the reign of painted space.
A guard wanders, disconsolate, beside
the triptych row of needle waterfalls,
punctured through a cave of abstract black
where ideas try to thick line plant a grasp.
Country falls through finger cracks:
the conquering descent of all that is,
makes desert plains and long coastal lines,
marks dark nights with a signature of flame.
Monday, September 26, 2011
REVELATION
(In memory of Bryon Molloy)
My stonemason ancestor
uncovered reverence in marble;
teased song from granite;
chipped breath from sandstone.
My stonemason ancestor
played tectonic symphonies;
felt presence in density;
worked calloused hands gently.
My stonemason ancestor
uncovered reverence in marble;
teased song from granite;
chipped breath from sandstone.
My stonemason ancestor
played tectonic symphonies;
felt presence in density;
worked calloused hands gently.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
MYSTIC COLD TURKEY
Hey ancient brother! How's it going? How's tricks?
Are you still creeping in the shadows
waiting for your incandescent deliverance?
Man I can't believe you're still down here
selling your dark night lines:
a little eros ground and cut
and metaphysically inhaled. How divine!
Don't think that I've forgotten that old time buzz
of whispered sweet nothings
and redemption ready, lucky faults;
O sweet to death baby, sweet to death;
O flourishing hook, O slow burn in veins:
O product of a dealer, fronting as a saint.
Sure, sunshine, they'd say
I got you all wrong yet again:
misinterpreting, misappropriating, misdemeanoring.
But baby we both know, beyond that tiresome joke,
it's not about the text play but the long soak,
it's not about awareness but the barely conscious undertow.
You know I went cold turkey when I left.
Remember you and me, down in that deep,
in our no holds barred slugfest.
O shadow, my shadow, my shadowy soul;
we bust each other up
and we bleed each other whole
and we know out misconceptions
when they break
and we take our sordid fragments and we make
a new day's sounding.
Are you still creeping in the shadows
waiting for your incandescent deliverance?
Man I can't believe you're still down here
selling your dark night lines:
a little eros ground and cut
and metaphysically inhaled. How divine!
Don't think that I've forgotten that old time buzz
of whispered sweet nothings
and redemption ready, lucky faults;
O sweet to death baby, sweet to death;
O flourishing hook, O slow burn in veins:
O product of a dealer, fronting as a saint.
Sure, sunshine, they'd say
I got you all wrong yet again:
misinterpreting, misappropriating, misdemeanoring.
But baby we both know, beyond that tiresome joke,
it's not about the text play but the long soak,
it's not about awareness but the barely conscious undertow.
You know I went cold turkey when I left.
Remember you and me, down in that deep,
in our no holds barred slugfest.
O shadow, my shadow, my shadowy soul;
we bust each other up
and we bleed each other whole
and we know out misconceptions
when they break
and we take our sordid fragments and we make
a new day's sounding.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
DEEP SEA DIVING
Our elemental composition knows
pressure and the memory of stars;
the seductive break from oxygen,
the light chill kiss that lingers up above.
We are part earth, part sea,
a choreography of moments passing;
deep sea diving towards finality,
returning to the surface where the light is.
pressure and the memory of stars;
the seductive break from oxygen,
the light chill kiss that lingers up above.
We are part earth, part sea,
a choreography of moments passing;
deep sea diving towards finality,
returning to the surface where the light is.
DISPLACED
I wear Sydney
like an old jumper.
It fits more easily
than I care to admit.
I always wanted
something more or less
than all these crowded bricks
pressed against the harbour.
At night I read books
about Rome and Venice.
I did the same with New York
and when I landed there
I could give locals directions.
My mind is insatiable
for ever new territories.
I've lived a thousand and one
lifestyles, places, situations
yet I envy those
who stayed in their hometown,
deep rooting their lives
into something solid as oak.
One day I will.. what?
Cast off the threads
of this hometown of the homeless,
and make a pilgrim journey
to my place of origin,
or move some place else
and add another shard
to my kaleidescope.
It fits more easily
than I care to admit.
I always wanted
something more or less
than all these crowded bricks
pressed against the harbour.
At night I read books
about Rome and Venice.
I did the same with New York
and when I landed there
I could give locals directions.
My mind is insatiable
for ever new territories.
I've lived a thousand and one
lifestyles, places, situations
yet I envy those
who stayed in their hometown,
deep rooting their lives
into something solid as oak.
One day I will.. what?
Cast off the threads
of this hometown of the homeless,
and make a pilgrim journey
to my place of origin,
or move some place else
and add another shard
to my kaleidescope.
OZ
How long ago
was the hurricane?
How far away
is Kansas now?
I need to find
the right shoes.
There's no place
like home.
How far away
is Kansas now?
I need to find
the right shoes.
There's no place
like home.
AUTISM
Something in me knew
the common ground they walked on
the tilt and shake from overload
the rocking singularity
lost in some transfixing glow
brought home by a steady voice
making patterns in the air
staring into middle space
diamonds polished in the sun
life played to a steady rhythm
no world beyond this now.
the tilt and shake from overload
the rocking singularity
lost in some transfixing glow
brought home by a steady voice
making patterns in the air
staring into middle space
diamonds polished in the sun
life played to a steady rhythm
no world beyond this now.
SUMMERTIME
Summertime
dissolving rainbows
easy living
lethargy in bones
ocean binds
somersaulting bodies
salt water
sand and wave foam
drifting fine
into deeper water
surface shine
tugging undertow.
easy living
lethargy in bones
ocean binds
somersaulting bodies
salt water
sand and wave foam
drifting fine
into deeper water
surface shine
tugging undertow.
REVISITING CLOUDSTREET
The Lambs and the Pickles
thick pressed together
through words fired down
like the hoof strike
of a lucky horse
racing to the finish line.
New breath takes up
the old vernacular
in the style of a yarn
with a question at its heart.
How do you stand
before the hairy hand of god?
Set up shop with a proddy work ethic
despite the agnostic fog in your head,
sell fruit and veg and icecreams
as your Fish boy bubbles and coos
for the water, the water.
Or knock back piss, next door,
and ponder the vast mysteries,
sniffing fortune on the breeze
with your ghost fingers itching
despite their long ago mangling.
And the light, oh that glorious light,
that luminous promised land,
isn't shining in the clear sky above.
It's deep down in the water
and on the other side of a final gasp.
There it all is, side by side,
the melancholic bite of the past
and the making do of the present,
age and light filled promise
and the exotic flourish
of an obstinant talking pig.
There it all is revisited:
strange and familiar and resonant,
the suburban myth called Cloudstreet
that we all want to purchase.
Onya Tim.
through words fired down
like the hoof strike
of a lucky horse
racing to the finish line.
New breath takes up
the old vernacular
in the style of a yarn
with a question at its heart.
How do you stand
before the hairy hand of god?
Set up shop with a proddy work ethic
despite the agnostic fog in your head,
sell fruit and veg and icecreams
as your Fish boy bubbles and coos
for the water, the water.
Or knock back piss, next door,
and ponder the vast mysteries,
sniffing fortune on the breeze
with your ghost fingers itching
despite their long ago mangling.
And the light, oh that glorious light,
that luminous promised land,
isn't shining in the clear sky above.
It's deep down in the water
and on the other side of a final gasp.
There it all is, side by side,
the melancholic bite of the past
and the making do of the present,
age and light filled promise
and the exotic flourish
of an obstinant talking pig.
There it all is revisited:
strange and familiar and resonant,
the suburban myth called Cloudstreet
that we all want to purchase.
Onya Tim.
MEMORY OF PLACE
These four cradling walls of mine
this geometry of memories
space once filled by birth pains
windows brushed by observations
the wedding cake ceiling above
blotched bare boards underfoot
ocean breeze in the afternoons
the ghosts of long gone neighbours
brief intimacies and long affairs
sanctuary through all seasons
holding the memory of place
carrying the memory of place.
space once filled by birth pains
windows brushed by observations
the wedding cake ceiling above
blotched bare boards underfoot
ocean breeze in the afternoons
the ghosts of long gone neighbours
brief intimacies and long affairs
sanctuary through all seasons
holding the memory of place
carrying the memory of place.
WILL AND TESTAMENT
Ex-catholic me
still imbues
divine expectations
in wafer thin realities;
takes flesh
on my tongue
and tastes
for sacraments;
drops incredulously
as paradise curls
and dissolves
to mere nothing;
and I go falling
into devouring depths,
and I am consumed
by passing days;
this is my body,
well salted now
by everywhere I've been
everyone I've been;
when I curl to nothing
take me up the mountain
and set me drifting
on a fresh sea breeze.
divine expectations
in wafer thin realities;
takes flesh
on my tongue
and tastes
for sacraments;
drops incredulously
as paradise curls
and dissolves
to mere nothing;
and I go falling
into devouring depths,
and I am consumed
by passing days;
this is my body,
well salted now
by everywhere I've been
everyone I've been;
when I curl to nothing
take me up the mountain
and set me drifting
on a fresh sea breeze.
COUNTRY MORNING
Clean cold country morning
and peace in the body land;
muscle soft eased to bone
and everything new as birth
and breath distilled in early light.
Passing through the barely
murmuring riverside town;
casual rhyhms lie true here,
glide on slow currents, slow,
and make a claim like this.
muscle soft eased to bone
and everything new as birth
and breath distilled in early light.
Passing through the barely
murmuring riverside town;
casual rhyhms lie true here,
glide on slow currents, slow,
and make a claim like this.
SOUTHERN MEMORY
Staring at familal blooded maps:
Waratah, Leprena, Ida Bay;
breathing in the footfall of ancestors.
Tracing lines, convict chains
Belfast to Van Diemen's Land.
Southern frontier homesteads
and ever pregnant women;
timber dragged by bullocks,
searching for prosperity in rocks.
Mud and strain, oar and axe,
rhythms of a former life.
Three unblinking generations
tell a camera who they are:
Sunday best on a verandah.
Homes now faint remnants
in unconquered wilderness.
breathing in the footfall of ancestors.
Tracing lines, convict chains
Belfast to Van Diemen's Land.
Southern frontier homesteads
and ever pregnant women;
timber dragged by bullocks,
searching for prosperity in rocks.
Mud and strain, oar and axe,
rhythms of a former life.
Three unblinking generations
tell a camera who they are:
Sunday best on a verandah.
Homes now faint remnants
in unconquered wilderness.
HOBART
(to those who made an early departure)
Wandering the streets
in a city south of anywhere
and feeling my toes hanging
over the edge, and feeling
the free fall possibility of escape;
fate and the mad spin of gravity.
There are names down there
long writ on the river surface.
I remember them, do you remember them too?
Memory comes shimmering from the deep,
dark light ribbons, liquid calligraphy.
In every hometown song I try to make
beauty runs with earth bound mortality.
Wandering the streets
in a city south of anywhere
and feeling my toes hanging
over the edge, and feeling
the free fall possibility of escape;
fate and the mad spin of gravity.
There are names down there
long writ on the river surface.
I remember them, do you remember them too?
Memory comes shimmering from the deep,
dark light ribbons, liquid calligraphy.
In every hometown song I try to make
beauty runs with earth bound mortality.
THE FALLING MEN
A crop of leaves
let go their ghost again
and burn surrender
in a thousand shades
then prove to be
a crowd of falling men
melancholic spinning
in descent without shame.
let go their ghost again
and burn surrender
in a thousand shades
then prove to be
a crowd of falling men
melancholic spinning
in descent without shame.
MIGRATION
Migration in a gene strand
stretched to a soaring arc
between two points called home.
Majesty invisibly wrought
in a thin dissolving line of flight
forever going to another place.
between two points called home.
Majesty invisibly wrought
in a thin dissolving line of flight
forever going to another place.
Monday, September 19, 2011
PRESENT
So quiet I'm having
a Thomas Merton moment;
a retro monastic event
contained to flourish
inside these garden walls;
inside the quiet, post departure
of my partner and kids.
My house being now all still
in the after glow of the daily
domestic clash of civilizations:
tangential wonder versus
hard wired timetabling.
Now so quiet I can almost
taste the mystic still again:
all things past, still, again;
not needing to cut or break
or reconstruct or mend;
present to the ripple light of trees,
sunlight on my skin.
a Thomas Merton moment;
a retro monastic event
contained to flourish
inside these garden walls;
inside the quiet, post departure
of my partner and kids.
My house being now all still
in the after glow of the daily
domestic clash of civilizations:
tangential wonder versus
hard wired timetabling.
Now so quiet I can almost
taste the mystic still again:
all things past, still, again;
not needing to cut or break
or reconstruct or mend;
present to the ripple light of trees,
sunlight on my skin.
Monday, September 12, 2011
the long march
And the sad eyed men trudge forth
on their withered and grimacing feet;
trans-substantiating wine to vinegar
with unassailable orthodoxy.
Entrenched, immovably wretched,
child egos in weathered skin,
they march through the dread sludge, heavy,
in the hope it will lead to their end.
on their withered and grimacing feet;
trans-substantiating wine to vinegar
with unassailable orthodoxy.
Entrenched, immovably wretched,
child egos in weathered skin,
they march through the dread sludge, heavy,
in the hope it will lead to their end.
Monday, September 5, 2011
CASE 3081
There is a case number and a file
and a history of extractions;
occasional storm fronts looking
to exorcise the tawdry past
have brought these yellowing fragments
to light and plunder.
Attachment points, buckled and calcified,
are testament to a fierce muscled life.
Swift hooved bush flight
is frozen in pressed vertebrae.
Bones, hard silent things,
story breaking, story making things,
shout through wound holes
and the web thread signs of mending.
And we all gather around,
forensically impelled to read
these long hard, age bleached lines
we will become.
and a history of extractions;
occasional storm fronts looking
to exorcise the tawdry past
have brought these yellowing fragments
to light and plunder.
Attachment points, buckled and calcified,
are testament to a fierce muscled life.
Swift hooved bush flight
is frozen in pressed vertebrae.
Bones, hard silent things,
story breaking, story making things,
shout through wound holes
and the web thread signs of mending.
And we all gather around,
forensically impelled to read
these long hard, age bleached lines
we will become.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
RECAPITULATION
In the end
everything
comes home.
So home
must have
no walls
to limit the return,
nor roof
to block
the upward
gaze of wonder.
Home must
be as particular
as the memory
of rain
on a certain
window
on a certain
day
in childhood.
Home must
be as empty
as a monk
waiting
for a god.
Home must
be as spacious
as a desert plane
full to bursting.
Home must
be the thoughtful
space
where
pieces fall
together
though may not
ever fit;
belonging
without
contrivance;
as tender
as the fall.
when the universe
expands
to its limit.
In the end
everything
comes home.
everything
comes home.
So home
must have
no walls
to limit the return,
nor roof
to block
the upward
gaze of wonder.
Home must
be as particular
as the memory
of rain
on a certain
window
on a certain
day
in childhood.
Home must
be as empty
as a monk
waiting
for a god.
Home must
be as spacious
as a desert plane
full to bursting.
Home must
be the thoughtful
space
where
pieces fall
together
though may not
ever fit;
belonging
without
contrivance;
as tender
as the fall.
when the universe
expands
to its limit.
In the end
everything
comes home.
Monday, August 29, 2011
OUT OF AFRICA
Remember when we all
pushed out of Africa
on our first road trip:
clubbing our enemies
and hunting great beasts
like there was no tomorrow.
A man could chow down
on a mighty big steak then
with no need for excuses.
Remember those nights
filled with thunderous rhythms:
one part tribal foreplay,
two parts fear making music.
And the women, oh man,
teeth and claws and ferocity,
sweaty species making,
scarifying intensity.
We had mighty times
tracking down that road.
The world smelt different
when there were places
we were yet to see.
pushed out of Africa
on our first road trip:
clubbing our enemies
and hunting great beasts
like there was no tomorrow.
A man could chow down
on a mighty big steak then
with no need for excuses.
Remember those nights
filled with thunderous rhythms:
one part tribal foreplay,
two parts fear making music.
And the women, oh man,
teeth and claws and ferocity,
sweaty species making,
scarifying intensity.
We had mighty times
tracking down that road.
The world smelt different
when there were places
we were yet to see.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
ASYLUM SEEKING TEXT
Tumbled down hungry words laid out on a page;
a procession of ink lined refugees
desperate busted around, from here to where they started,
looking for a home. And what does that make me?
A desperate word smuggling bandito
trying to steal a stanza in between the seen
and what you don't, before some beady bastard reason
shuts the door and calls words uttered treason.
Yet they are only words looking to find a home,
a thousand shades of life in black and white;
sure, sometimes sore, bedraggled, foreign things,
clattered out and scribbled down;
a scrap of overcrowded paper sure to sink;
sometimes sounding with a jarring ring beyond your recognition.
But maybe you need your borders breached this way,
with words like these, seeds in cracks,
hope breaking through dismay, too pregnant
to do anything but undermine
your fused jaw not enough that cannot breath.
a procession of ink lined refugees
desperate busted around, from here to where they started,
looking for a home. And what does that make me?
A desperate word smuggling bandito
trying to steal a stanza in between the seen
and what you don't, before some beady bastard reason
shuts the door and calls words uttered treason.
Yet they are only words looking to find a home,
a thousand shades of life in black and white;
sure, sometimes sore, bedraggled, foreign things,
clattered out and scribbled down;
a scrap of overcrowded paper sure to sink;
sometimes sounding with a jarring ring beyond your recognition.
But maybe you need your borders breached this way,
with words like these, seeds in cracks,
hope breaking through dismay, too pregnant
to do anything but undermine
your fused jaw not enough that cannot breath.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
SILENCE
He sat there, all mammalian,
a neurologically alternative Buddha:
chin buried to chest, eyes dribbling;
a full stop in a mad rambling world.
I sat with him as excuse, being with,
a refugee from the chaos outside.
I spoke words because I felt I should:
desperate hammered utterances;
all nothing trying to be something.
Time and silence, a sinking down to depths,
Contact and a rocking emergence;
delight through the dance of fingertips.
He speaks like a universe finding words.
Wait beyond conquer or be conquered,
that’s where you might hear him still.
chin buried to chest, eyes dribbling;
a full stop in a mad rambling world.
I sat with him as excuse, being with,
a refugee from the chaos outside.
I spoke words because I felt I should:
desperate hammered utterances;
all nothing trying to be something.
Time and silence, a sinking down to depths,
Contact and a rocking emergence;
delight through the dance of fingertips.
He speaks like a universe finding words.
Wait beyond conquer or be conquered,
that’s where you might hear him still.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
BEHOLD
Behold the man who carries
his history writ through breakages,
on his own too vulnerable feet.
Behold the clay hard shaped
by disconnect mistaken as strength,
manning up to the past ache murmuring.
Behold the man consoled
by impossibly lasting tenderness;
light soft on his broken ground.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
HOME BEYOND THE BREAK
She swam beyond the break and turned to watch the rolling beasts heading back to shore. She'd been wanting this moment all day: to be beyond it all with only the slight sound of crowds carried on the breeze, a whole world of clamor turned delicate to nothing, and nothing else but the cold depths below and the liquid blue of the sky above.
It had taken a few consecutive summers for her to discover that it was possible to swim beyond the grip of life, if only for the space of a single breath, and simply be movement, as fluid as a school of fish, as electrified as sunlight on water.
There were moments when she felt a jolting awareness of work preoccupations, the undertow of friendships, old loves and the weedy entanglement of memory. She'd learnt to swim through it all and stretch beyond the heavy business of the land.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
THE FINAL ACT
He takes in hand and elevates high:
the end of the world with all the dross burnt away,
the old dispensation now dust at his feet,
the untainted smooth of a chalice rim,
the red rolling orb of wine contained,
the rhythm, pouring in, pouring out,
still present like a murmur in the heart.
Grand ancient utterances soft in his mouth,
the cradling shape of lines on the page,
old craven powers are silenced at last,
tall edifices long ago crumbled to dust;
the earth groans in his parable hands
scented by mud and sex and life,
the elemental word spills over what is seen.
He does this thing, completes this act:
a lost voice whispered through a barely noticed crack.
the old dispensation now dust at his feet,
the untainted smooth of a chalice rim,
the red rolling orb of wine contained,
the rhythm, pouring in, pouring out,
still present like a murmur in the heart.
Grand ancient utterances soft in his mouth,
the cradling shape of lines on the page,
old craven powers are silenced at last,
tall edifices long ago crumbled to dust;
the earth groans in his parable hands
scented by mud and sex and life,
the elemental word spills over what is seen.
He does this thing, completes this act:
a lost voice whispered through a barely noticed crack.
THE CITY EATS ITS OWN
She lived up the raggedy end
of a Surry Hills street;
the city held her in its dark embrace,
surrounded by the electric current
of inner urban life
that spluttered and stuttered
disconnected bright;
the sun struck beaches
bustling light;
her days were measured
in shadows and dust,
near the fashion district
with its hustle and bluff;
and the footfall folly
down Central Station halls
to the writhing underground,
and the overcrowded malls,
where the city grew high
and the people grew small
and the torrent of days
made her nothing at all
but a body now breathless
and still on the floor
for year after year
in a place, dark and poor.
the city held her in its dark embrace,
surrounded by the electric current
of inner urban life
that spluttered and stuttered
disconnected bright;
the sun struck beaches
bustling light;
her days were measured
in shadows and dust,
near the fashion district
with its hustle and bluff;
and the footfall folly
down Central Station halls
to the writhing underground,
and the overcrowded malls,
where the city grew high
and the people grew small
and the torrent of days
made her nothing at all
but a body now breathless
and still on the floor
for year after year
in a place, dark and poor.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)