RETIREMENT OF AN EXPLORER

It was quite a thing to be home,
with the wind rapping promises
at window panes, and his mind
full of sails and horizons and
the great life that was stammered
through departure to return.
He had written books, as though
words could mirror oceans,
and his maps of foreign shores
were universally acclaimed.
But all he saw were lines 
and notations that were soundings
of mere measurable depths
and easy claimed domains.
And he knew it as deceipt made
to entertain those dreamers who
consumed adventure stories in
their safe and cosy rooms. But
beyond all publications, and those
warmly greeted speeches, was
the all he couldn't utter and the
distance that remained.

COMPOSITION

My old fat typewriter
held, in its belly, a silver
spindled chorus line
of letters. On late nights,
when everything felt lost
in that certain dark
of neatly ordered suburbs,
my fingers worked and
words were high kicked
onto pages. There was
hope in that midnight sound
and hope in the black
pressed pattern of the poems
and hope that I folded
neatly into daylight
and sent to the immense
and foreign world.

1960'S DECONSTRUCTED DAFFODIL

Unconvinced by solid regularity,
my lonely cloud breaks up, rains
down on golden daffodils; their
paisley spinning petals tongue
my mind; so trippy happy pretty
pretty cool; everything constructed
- meaningless: the way you walk
and talk and act so wired; why
not just unplug your robot mind;
meaning comes when ego just
lets go; take off your noose tie
and expand your life; feel the way
the air is breathing you; my fingers
peace like branches in a tree,
settle your bird frame, come,
land on me; everything is merging
into one; everything is heavy
as a cloud; everything is rising
like the sun; our mind blissed
life shines gold as daffodils.

HOWLIN' WOLF

Six foot six and bull muscle
fierce: the stage is barely big enough
for that man, who looms over
the mike like the genesis angel
over water. He peers out, takes
a measure of the room, brings
the harp up to his lips to start
the murmuring:

Something coming
right out of the night,
the sound his Mamma
labelled Devil's Music.

He stretches lungs and sounds
out a long dark yowl; soul trouble
shaken down, low as thunder;
all that lonely never left behind,
homeless boy now singing
in a man: oh don't you hear
me crying.

CROSSING OVER

I had an intimation of this loss
when I was a schoolboy
catching ferries, and I would
watch the crewman coil
the rope that had secured us:
solid shore adrift and all
that churning thrust from
engines firing just below
the deck; pushed out beyond
to drift and turn and make
our river crossing.

We were a murmuring island
wrapt in mist, estranged
from shoreline certainties,
and Charon's presence was
a broken bridge, skeletal
in the white air. The river
kept no memory: our
trail dissolved in all that
moving deep and we lost
sight of every place we'd been;
shrouded by our journey.

SONGLINE

Sometimes, at night,
the Belgrave Lilydale line
sang a dark commuting lullaby;

soft metal murmuring
from Box Hill to Laburnum,
amplifying through the cemetery,
looking to be heard;

awake in the sleeping house,
not naming the consolation I felt,
my first taste of the blues:

the ordinary music of departure.

ENGAGING DARK MATTER

Why should conservatives be
the stalwarts of mythology?
Who gave them the right to choose
who plays the boogeyman?
And who says liberal should be
so insipidly reasonable?
So much spin, no imagination,
no visionary plan.

Straight jacket facades
and not a whisper of a gargoyle;
girdlocked existence with
no dark alleys to escape;
market projections and
scientific extrapolations;
who carves the monster
waiting at our gate?

COLONIAL ASPIRATION

We make our almost motherland
in the image of what we've known;
we drive all the foreign to the edge of our sight,
plant roses and make ourselves home.

We build our almost motherland
with smooth arches and cobblestones
and hope that its strength will give us our worth
at this crumbling edge of the world.

WATCHORN'S EMPORIUM 1845

For a time, at least in her mind,
she slips beyond the tyranny of place,
her fingers trace over elegant satins;
she inspects fine shoes and parasols,
children's beaver hats and Valentia boots,
Cheshire cheese and Westphalia hams
and currents and candied peels
and she dreams of a world far away.

THE COMPANY MAN 1828

The Royal Chartered Company arrives;
the despot of the North takes up his residence.
If they kill my sheep, I swear to Christ, they'll die.
Nomenclature still holds that memory:
Slaughter Hill, Suicide Bay, Cape Grim.

HOBART 1818

The crowd roars at the scent of sport and profit;
manic eyes and taut faces are desperate for a win.
A voice screams, "Show some fucking balls, get into it!"
He's answered by the opposition's jeers.
Ticket of leave men stand beside their former gaolers
but now their hate is focused on the scene.
Then someone grabs the skinnier combatant, 
yanks his head back and doses him with rum.
"My money's on a clean kill you black bastard
so take that blade and give your brother some."
Then the skinny man is shoved towards the other
and the crowd cheers as the knife is driven home. 

______________________________________________________________

That most shameful, cruel, and barbarous custom of encouraging the Black people to murder or mangle one another for the sport of the learned, the polite, and the refined Europeans: for the amusement and gratification of those who are denominated Christians, has, for some time, required a more effectual prohibition than the Letter of the Law. Last Sunday afternoon, on my way from Church homewards, I was much grieved and distressed, to hear and to see that the public peace of the Town, and the holy rest of the Sabbath, were most impiously violated by the blows and cries of the Blacks, excited to uproar and outrage by the Whites who take pleasure in the sufferings of their fellow men, and, who will propose and give a reward, that the unoffending may be slain, or injured, merely to gratify or indulge the diabolical passions of a base mind, yea "their feet are swift to shed" or to cause to be shed, the "innocent blood".  

The Hobart Town Gazette and Southern Reporter, Saturday 26 December 1818

THE CHANNEL

They come down here somedays, from Hobart Town,
sight-seeing on their jolly little boats.
They welcome me on board and call me Queen
and make a fuss with curtsying and bows.

I do those things that always make them laugh
as we drift lazy down past Birch's Bay.
I knew two boys whose bodies were tossed there.
I quiet whisper Paraweena's name.

Behind my eyes I drift through memory
as far as Partridge Island, further south:
that knife, my mother's blood, my father's grief.
I keep the knowledge quiet to myself.

Then some gentleman comes and takes my hand
and places silver firmly in my palm,
then leads the crowd in giving me three cheers.
I smile and wave to them as gracious Queen.

_____________________________________________________________


On the journey down the praises of the fairy-like coves and bays that were passed, were mingled with anecdotes about Mrs. Cole, of Green Island, and her brave husband and daughter, and surmises about the appearance and manners of Queen Lidgiwdge Trucaninni, to the promised introduction to whom, strangers and young Tasmanians looked forward with some curiosity. About midday Green Island was reached, when a boat was seen pulling off for the steamer. Though she would have been greatly welcomed, Mrs. Cole did not leave her island home. The boat contained Mrs. Cole's man servant, in fact, the only other human inhabitant of the island, an aged servitor, and certainly not of a very impressive appearance. He, with another man who had accompanied the royal party to the island, helped to row the boat, which, besides the oarsmen, contained Mr. Dandridge, for a long period the watchful guardian of the aboriginals, and her sable Majesty, who sat in the stern, steering the boat with a dignity and a skill that did her credit. Arrived at the steamer, Trucaninni was the first to step from the boat on board the steamer, on which she was helped by the kindly hand of the Mayor, Mr. Crisp, who, so soon as his gallantry had placed her safely on the deck of the steamer, shook hands with her, and loyally proposed three cheers for Queen Trucaninni - he wisely abstained from tempting to utter "Lidgewdge" - and the cheers were heartily given, evidently as much to the astonishment as the pleasure of the royal personage, who, however, smiled complacently on all. But when the Mayor added the more substantial guesdon of a piece of money, she better understood the compliment, and grinned from ear to ear; was in fact so delighted, that it was with some regret we noticed that so few followed the Mayor's example. The welcome over, Her Majesty was speedily quite at home, and felt perhaps all the more confidence that she had in her possession several silver impressions of the likeness of her sister of England. Trucaninni's dress was neither costly nor elaborate. A coloured handkerchief, principally red, bound her head, certainly not turban fashion, but as might be seen in the harvest field; another handkerchief of the same pattern incased Her Majesty's neck, her shoulders were covered with a black cotton velvet jacket that was wonderfully suggestive of a pea jacket but for the gaudy bit of silk ribbon which fastened it at the throat. The rest of her raiment consisted of a cotton print dress. She wore no chignon, fall, or other fashionable headdress, and her thick dumpy feet were as guileless of covering as were her hands. Loyalty having in so far exhausted itself, the steamer passed over to Snake Island within sight of Green Island, where anchor was cast to allow those on board the opportunity of enjoying "the picnic and fishing " held out as inducements to the excursion. The fishing was, however, a lamentable failure. With the exception of 3 or 4 flatheads and twice as many small sharks and dogfish not a nibble was to be got, and picnicing was not to be thought of when there was provided on board the steamer one of the amplest and most excellent dinners we have ever sat down to on any similar excursion. The Providore deserved praise, and had he heard all the good things said of his catering, his cars would have tingled. After dinner a considerable number of the passengers went ashore and strolled over the island to gather shells and sea week and pause over many "a flower grown wild." Trucaninni also visited Sable Island, and there gave Mr. Baily, the photographer of Liverpool-street, the honour of two sittings, which were hardly over when the whistle and bell called all on board. The return to Green Island was occupied in getting up a subscription for Mrs. Cole which Mr. Dandridge took on shore and handed her. He was accompanied by a gentleman from Melbourne whose name we regret we did not ascertain, as after seeing the old lady, he very materially supplemented the ship's gratuity. During the passage to Oyster Cove, the Queen enjoyed herself much, imitating some boys in whistling, and trying to teach them some of the call cries in the aboriginal language. When nearing her destination she said she had been very happy, and pointed to her home with apparent pride as "my Oyster Cove." A boat was waiting to take her ashore, and before descending she had to return many a kindly shake of the band. A cheer, which she re-echoed, was the parting salute; and thus in regard to most on board passed from the sight for the last time the last of Tasmania's aboriginals.

The Mercury, Thursday 13 February 1873
____________________________________________________________________________________________________

FLINDER'S ISLAND CURSE

Their bones were broken in that island trap;
busted ribs clawed their breathing flesh.
Desolation overshadowed dreams:
four walls, a catechism, civilizing imprisonment.

They turned on her, that one, Robinson's bait:
 "Look what you brought us to," they said,
"You're cursed to live to see your people dead.
You're cursed to be alone, remembering."

_________________________________________________________
Through the courtesy of Mrs Dandridge we are placed in possession of an outline of poor Trucanini's career. When a young woman she was instrumental in aiding Mr Robinson to collect the natives after the "Black War." and she, with them, was sent to Flinders Island, where so many of them fell under Death's scythe. In connection with this matter she often repeated the upbraiding she received from the poor natives for persuading them to give themselves up, and further stated that they had told her she would be the last of them as a punishment for that action. Since the death of her husband, William Lanny, the last male representative of the race, she would add to this story, "See it has come true," and she was right.

Launceston Examiner, 13 May 1876
__________________________________________________________________________________________________

HIGH TEA WITH TRUCANINI

We sipped our tea from fine china cups,
in the imported confines of our decorous world
and we spoke of the latest American news:
the gold rich Black Hills and the problem of the Sioux.

Then someone said, "Thank God we're past all that."
and we quietly agreed, with a nod and a sigh,
then we moved on to fashion and theatrical news
as she sat there, as black and quiet as death,
in her red velvet jacket and her cotton print dress.

MIND MAP

Things to include in a map of the mind:
prodigal avenues populated by fictive ghosts that claim to offer truth;
strange forests and murmured world words that declare a deep allegiance;
the grave of gods and other self-created expectations;
the roadside clutter of spent ideas and eras that have faded;
a library of vivid, well remembered words;
the banquet hall, foundation stoned on breath and sense connection.

RESIGNATION

I will not go down the mine today,
those rocks are all too heavy.
I'm tired of my eyes knowing so much dark;
they're forever blind in the daylight.

I will not go to war with the hammer and roar
of chisel hard chipping at midnight.
I've never found gold in those desperate holes
and I've known no peace in those confines.

REAL COMMUNION

Today, bread will just be bread,
nothing more, no symbolic flight;
there will be texture on  the tongue,
the hard edge of a bite
and the brief, convulsive claim
of swallowing.

Today, wine will just be wine,
nothing more, no hint of a liquid
sacrificial force; there will be rich
fruit notes and languid subtle warmth;
surrender realized
physically.

LOOKING FOR RHYTHM / FINDING SPEED

I walked around all day
looking for the rhythm;
tossed up old memories,
like dust heavy rugs,
but there was only
small change underneath.
I ate lunch early.
There was bugger all to eat.
The tomatoes didn't help.
The toast offered
that subtle consolation
of perfect melted butter
on the tongue.
Greasy pleased, but uninspired,
I exercised,
hoping the rhythm of feet
pumping pedals to a height
might excite some creativity.
There was none of that
so I free-wheeled down
the other side
like a drunken lunatic:
forty four years old
and fuck the consequences.

MIDNIGHT MASS

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.

RACHMANINOV'S VESPERS

My soul grazed
longing soaring.

My sacred hearing
dispossessing.

My heart's door
reverberating.

My banquet hall
all ready now.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. 

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.

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.

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.

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.