Thursday 15 October 2015

Love Conquers All



Achilles, it seems,
is deemed
the greatest of us all—
especially when compared with Paris.

Even Hector the valiant brother who fought
against both man and God (and having thought
he had already done so once
and vanquished the legend— what joy
that radiant evening when he retuned home),
Hector whose mind accepted that Achilles still lived
and then
whose heart confronted the truth
that he must lose—the knowledge
blossoming with every thrust and parry...
because what must it have felt like
to have your sword hit the flesh
and rebound...(did it match the beat
of his own thudding heart?)
to witness
the absence of blood...the lack of a wound…
(Achilles, the sacred virgin never to be pierced)
the story
of his foe’s plunge into the sacred river unbound?

Imagine then Hector in that final battle
swinging, knowing he was the greater swordsman,
believing his skill was surpassingly better as he fought
the Grecian Hero (after all
what did Achilles need of skill) and that
because of a mother’s love,
it would not be enough…
all the practise—the hot hours
sweating under the sun, the relentless hours
away from his beloved—meaningless
opposed to the Styx-dipped Achilles anointed by his mother, Thetis,
and then anointed again by history.

What thoughts flicked through Hector’s mind as his arm
grew ever more tired...
the steel once friend shifting into foe
and the lips of his treasured Andromache moving ever more further away.

Is that the kiss of death then?
That remembered
soft collide of lips
between the about-to-die and their beloved?

And as the killing stroke drew closer,
unbeknown
so too did his final humiliation.
Urged on by Achilles’ grief,
a grief born out of love, a grief that fed the rage
and was expressed in Hector’s ignoble chariot ride
around and around his city,
the dust rising as his carcass was dragged
like any slaughtered animal
or easily purchased bride.

And Hector’s father, Priam,
the father of Paris too but at this point not moot,
standing there on the walls…watching
the greater of the two ridiculed in death,
What thoughts did he have?
Did he think back to Hector’s birth?
Or further back to the time he saw Hecuba in the fields
the soft swell of her belly confirming
the seed planted? Or further back still,
back the to first time when she,
Unaware of his eyes
Walked, innocent then, through the city?

But in losing to Achilles
did Hector — rather than flee…
even as his mind reeled  (not a thought to yield
but always to fight on)—
conquer fear (though not death
even Achilles despite the deeming,
failed at that — we all fail at that)?

So Achilles then
the greatest of us all

yet

when the moon breaks through...
the sky cloudy... the night still after the rain…
and the moon is full,
its soft light capturing the mind

and she stands there on the bridge
a slight wind
blowing
her hair so that her right hand removes three strands
from her lips

It is Paris we think of
for she becomes our Helen
and eternal Achilles slips (As all heroes must)
into the shadows of things before
the moon
the wind
and her
standing on that bridge
removing those three strands and,
you hope,
turning to return your look.


Thursday 8 October 2015

an edit of seaside pastoral


Seaside Pastoral
(the last day of the holidays)

Jack stares at the small wooden fishing boat
secured by a weathered and salt-caked rope
(I never did have a ride in it, though I did catch
a fish off the pier with Dad one morning). Cat-like,
the little boat rubs against the sea-stained post.

Mary sings (“she sells sea-shells by the seashore”),
her footprints, like soft kisses, litter the sand, are yet to fade
beneath the waves, show signs of her meandering walk
to reach the pier. Once there, she stands, listens to the water
hitting the mussel-crusted poles with persistent liquid thumps.

The shore is littered with drying seaweed in rolled-up tresses,
discarded like hair on the floor of the local Hairdresser’s.
Above, a seagull, pirate of the sky, buffeted by wind, stays aloft.
Its feathers ruffled, its wings stretched taut, the gull’s cry,
mimics the sadness the seaside children feel in their hearts.

Mary stands at the edge of the world, her feet,
feel the earth beat as they sink into the world beneath
the sand: She is lost in sea-spray and the world’s rumble
while in the distance voices of other exploring children
explode like firecrackers, let loose fiery cries of discovery.

An early morning jogger runs along the shore
While Jack’s wet hand pats the sand into a mound
the size of a mountain. The strengthening wind sprays sand,
whispers secrets about the world. Jack sniffs salt-heavy air,
senses the rain approaching from the Antarctic south.

Mary and Jack look out to where the rain already falls,
far out beyond the largest waves, out where whales swim.
Silently they clasp hands and wonder — will minor spirits
consent, convey their flesh to a fantastic shore? Could they
fly on the wind or sail upon the waves to some undimmed land?

The spell is broken by their mother’s re-appearance
and she leads them away from the shore and into shelter.
Through the windows, Mary and Jack’s eyes are drawn back
to the horizon, while their ears still ring to the ocean’s song,
the beach they love may soon be gone but never forgotten.

Wednesday 7 October 2015

Seaside Pastoral


A small wooden boat, moored, secured
by a weathered and salt-encrusted, trusted rope,
like a cat, scratches, scrapes against the sea-stained post.
The boat is moved by the waves moved by the hidden moon
forgotten by eyes but not by the water
that shifts in the vessel, the vassal we call our body.

Footprints in stages of disappearance, like soft kisses,
or voices fading into the distance, litter the sand;
show signs of the meandering walk to reach the pier.
Along the shore, drying, crying seaweed tangled
or rolled up in long tresses, discarded like hair
on the floor of the local Hairdresser’s.

A stick stuck into the damp sand shouts aloud
a single unbroken plea to connect, combine
through a thin shifting shadow, the sun with the ground.
A seagull, pirate bird of the sky, buffeted by Antarctic winds,
stays aloft, balanced by wings stretched taut, feathers ruffled,
hungry eyes glued into the deep green of fishing choices.

Mary stands at the edge of the world, her feet,
feel the earth beat, sink into the world beneath the sand:
She is lost in spray and the world’s rumble of ocean
while in the distance voices of children, explore,
explode like firecrackers on Guy Fawkes night,
let loose bright squeals and fiery cries of discovery.

To the rhythm of his happy heart, an early morning jogger
runs along the shore while Jack’s wet hand pats the sand
into a mound the size of a mountain. Grey clouds are gathered
by the strengthening wind so that sand is sprayed, the wind whispers
secrets about the world’s making and the Jack pauses, his nose
sniffs salt, he feels the rain approaching from the south.

Mary, and Jack, together, look out to where the rain falls,
far out beyond the largest waves, out where whales swim.
Silently they clasp hands and wonder — will minor spirits
consent, cart their flesh to fantastic shores?
Could the two of them fly on the wind or sail upon the waves,
find themselves on an island where Elves come out to play?

The spell is broken by their mother’s re-appearance;
she leads them away from the shore and into the shelter of the house.
Mary and Jack eat lunch, devour each grain of their sandwiches,
drink orange juice, listen to the parents talk, their eyes
drawn back to the edge of sand and water, back to the distant horizon,
back to the possibility of that fantastical land just beyond.

Sunday 27 September 2015

Poems on the fly:


I wish I could
conquer the page the way
the bird conquers the sky…

unseen effort
because the construction evolved
without conscious being.

Perhaps the poet should lay down the pen
spill the ink and sit
waiting for time to catch up?

Instead we string things along…our poems
having more in common with beads
than the act of flying.

After the final punctuation we then
stand back and hope for an ovation as loud
as any explosion.

Like ancient tracks, we should lay
down all synaptic moments of pride…
ski downhill with gravity

so that when the end comes
it comes clean — art
as a knife and ego the aorta cut to bleed:

Finally the body of work
spread-eagled and flying far ahead
into the future’s past.

Thursday 24 September 2015

'Draw no more,' sage advice to my old self.




When I was seven my teacher sat
me next to Sean McCann
and as she squatted beside my desk
she pointed at Sean’s drawing
and ask me to draw “just like that,”

but Miss missed the effect her administration
had upon me. I laid down my pens
and never drew again (or if I did it was drawing
or be kept in) the fun sucked out of it the same
as when I ran in races and came last, hateful
of each and every plodded step,
but alone in the streets when no one was watching
I would run and run and laugh and think
with the wind in the right orientation
I might all but disappear.

Truth is, before Miss misinterpreted me,
I excelled at drawing for release,
like a wild beast, I scratched and swatted
and spat and hissed and with the pens as claws
went everywhichway across the page and the desk –
the way I drew reminded me of life
and the way I felt when my dad came home
drunk or when Peter McAuliffe
sought me out just so he could paint
my face with his fists

but Miss did not like the explosion.
She wanted everything smooth and calm
all the lines heading in the same direction
like serene dolphin
when I preferred the shark’s attack.

'Draw no more,' sage advice to my old self.


When I was seven my teacher sat
me next to Sean McCann
and as she squatted beside my desk
she pointed at his drawing
and ask me to draw like that

but Miss missed the effect her direction
had upon me. She did not see
that I laid down my pens
and never drew again (or if I did
it was drawing or be kept in)
the fun sucked out of it the same
as when I ran in races and came last, hateful
of each and every plodded step,
but alone in the streets when no one was watching
I would run and run and laugh and think
with the wind in the right direction
I might all but disappear.

Truth is, before Miss misinterpreted,
I liked the way I drew,
like that I scratched and with the pens
went everywhichway
across the page and the desk -
it reminded me of life
and the way I felt when my dad came home drunk
or when Peter McAuliffe sought me out
just so he could paint my face with his fists

but Miss
did not like the explosion
she wanted everything smooth and calm
all the lines heading in the same direction
like serene dolphin
but I preferred the shark’s attack.


Monday 21 September 2015

Regret:


Sometimes my children are distant,
their voices sound like the departing honks
of geese flying to lands unknown,
and in their eyes I see clouds and skies
moving across oceans I have never travelled.

My hand then shimmers and I can see
my skin flaking, falling like snow
or manna to unknown uplifted faces
and my feet fall through their shoes,
enter the earth, and deeper still,
until I reside in the caverns of memory.

And I hear a thousand unlatched gates
closing, harsh as teeth gnashing, I smell
the sadness in a million flowers fading—
their petals falling like all the words
I meant to say and never got around to.

Saturday 19 September 2015

The unseen novel cries like a nightingale


I dreamed last night my novel
was published—released into the world
like a storm or a pebble
and it was colorful (when it should not have been)
and was read by the blind
and heard by the deaf
and when I told my wife (in my dream)
that the novel was released she held me
like I was a puppy or a tree
just beginning to bear fruit
and in the dream I knew it was odd
that she should hold me like that and Sigmund Freud
started to speak with me
but the dream rolled on like pages
flickering through fingers too impatient
to pause at any one page or maybe
as if the book
was held by someone unseen who stood in a bookshop
and could not stop to read
but must browse
in case they missed the really good book
which was mine
sitting there on the shelf
unseen.

some things



Some things feel so close you know
that if you could just close your hand
you’d hold them forever
but the only forever
is that when you close your hand
the thing vanishes.

Some things whisper into your ears
in the dark night as your head
rests upon the pillow
and you think, ‘if I stay awake
I’ll remember’ and then you wake
six hours later.

Some things reappear
when she looks at you and you think
you might remember why you first loved her
but then she looks away
and you’re left with a hole
where your heart should be.

Some things are like smells that linger long after the moment has passed
and some things are like sunshine, brush your cheek
and makes red speckles flash upon your eyes
and some things haunt…creep up and down your spine
or grow feet that kick the walls
to the womb of who you really are

and some things are lost before you think
to remember them and then when you do
it’s an ache…a concrete reminder
of that thing that is gone, a sadness
that stays with you and cannot be held or kissed
or cared for in any way whatsoever

and some things should be left unsaid
while other things need to be spoken
and some things when heard change everything
and some poems contains things that stay with your
to come and go like seasons or tides
or people.

Tuesday 15 September 2015

Drowning (II) (for Grace Paley)





this is how the camel I am drowned

first
under a vast sky with the hand 
of an artist painted so blue
the heart’s red earth shatters
escapes
in clouds of words

second
a vista of rolling waves
that capture the wind
curve first this way and then
that
in the waves, footprints turn first this way and then
that
and distance is measured in tears shed

third
drunk at night
a treasure discovered in the depths
of the hidden cave
then the words and glory
turn to sand
fill the throat and mind

fourth
the tongue
flounders
a trout landed
and drowning in air.

Drowning (1) ... an edit


Drowning (I)

If sand could be swallowed
would that empty place within
curve back into a solid
and home, that recedes at dusk,
be finally re-found?

If the night, that hollow we step between
to hide all the damage
we have done, could be devoured
and made to turn again into light
would we feel the sun run
free in the tired rivers of our veins?

And if my hand could hold the right pen,
if the ink ran into all the proper places
and the lines between remained balanced and sober,
would I finally find all the images and sounds
might fall still         
the way a leaf tumbles down to the floor
and creates a sea of silence
for the many lives of the creatures that burrow
and scurry beneath the ocean of tree?

Might I, if I found my inside
had been turned out and drowning then
in the sight of what should be hidden,
be set free?

Friday 11 September 2015

I saw a video today


of eyes
that look into the darkness where promises
percolate into strife
and in the background I heard
a sound not dissimilar 
to a baby's gurgle - except
behind the mindless intent
there is not a search for language
rather
it is the abandonment of words -
a disregard for connection,
a wanton destruction for the sake
of constructed revenge  -

and the headless bodies they collect
and the blood they drink like milk from the breast
and the fear they seek to instill


is reminiscent of the horde of locust ferocious
as it feasts upon its own green infancy
towards oblivion

or the rabbit that breeds itself into destruction
and leaves behind wretched soil blown
into despair.

Thursday 10 September 2015

Miracles found and lost again... (an edit)

The dormant tree sleeps, branches stretched out
As if into night's rumpled satin bed linen.
Below, the ice-laden field waits for the nightmares
To yield when the thaw finally declares itself.

An aching stillness replaces song, 'Farwell sweet friend,
The birds have fled, farewell and be gone!'
In swirling mist, wet with memories, sadness
Takes a fancy to the damp eyes of winter’s children.

Sodden red stars squelch beneath wandering boots
As the days march into the remorse of yesteryears.
In the paused hearts of trees there waits a promise,
Silent as a bloodied victim on the ground, unconscious.

In the golden light ice cracks and surrenders;
forgiveness is the act of closing a door on stored pain.
In lengthening darkness ice resets, a body
Reacquaints itself with the weight of a bitter aspect.

the swing

Each spring, under golden light,
a miracle occurs.
Every winter, in swirling grey,
it is utterly forgotten.

Wednesday 9 September 2015

Miracles found and lost again...

The dormant tree sleeps, branches stretched out
As if into the rumpled bed linen of the night.
Below, the ice-laden field waits for the nightmares
To yield when the thaw finally declares itself.

An aching stillness replaces song, 'Farwell sweet friend,
The birds have fled, farewell and be gone!'
In swirling mist, wet with memories, sadness
Takes a fancy to the damp eyes of winter’s children.

Sodden red stars squelch beneath wandering boots
As the days march into the remorse of yesteryears.
In the paused hearts of trees there waits a promise,
Silent as a bloodied victim on the ground, unconscious.

In the golden light ice cracks and surrenders;
forgiveness is the act of closing a door on stored pain.
In lengthening darkness ice resets, a body
Reacquaints itself with the weight of a bitter aspect.

Each spring, under golden light,
a miracle occurs.
Every winter, in swirling grey,
it is utterly forgotten.

Drowning (1)


If sand could be swallowed
would that empty place within
find itself curving back into a solid
and home, that recedes in the light of day,
be finally re-found?

If the night, that hollow we step within
and try to hide all the damage
we have done, could be devoured and made  
to turn again
into light would we feel the sun run
free in the tired rivers of our veins?

And if my hand could hold the right pen,
if the ink ran into all the proper places
and the lines between remained balanced and sober,
would I finally find all the images and sounds
might fall still       
the way a leaf tumbles down to the floor
and creates a sea of silence for the many lives
of the creatures that burrow and scurry beneath
the ocean of tree?

Might I, finally finding my inside had been turned    
Out and drowning then in the sight
of what should be hidden, be set free?

Tuesday 8 September 2015

It might as well be


The question is incorrectly posed as should we
Instead of why don’t we

Send our airplanes, empty, not loaded,
Ready to lift and rescue
Not drop and rend?

On a smaller scale
Why don’t we change so that the bee
And the flower can continue to brighten each day?

Who decided
A person’s worth depended upon
The god they believe or do not believe
In?

Why don’t we applaud all choices
Instead of only those we agree with?

And if he wishes to hold a man’s hand and place a ring upon it,
Or she chooses to hold a woman’s instead,
Why don’t we smile at the gestures instead
Of forcing the round pegs
Into our square holes?

Why don’t we
Save the coal by leaving it alone
So that future generations might
Do the same?

Why don’t we accept
That someone must make good choices
And it might as well
Be us?


Monday 7 September 2015

Battered Orange

 
Holding the orange, peeled and whole,
out towards her nose, close but not touching,
his eyes peeled also, dead like the rind,
his lips round with hate, with spite, with contempt.

The juice runs between his fingers,
the pulp oozes, the sound below the capability of ears
but present nevertheless like death
residing in the first thumps of being.

He wipes his hands on her clothes,
her face and in her hair, ruining the look
she had sought that morning and he turns,
leaving without closing the door.

There is no blood, just juice,
the ruin of an orange on the floor,
the rind curling like the discarded skin
of grown snake around her bare feet.

He will return
and she will let him
the way the orange has no choice
but hangs from the branch
lost in a deception
innocence and fear have no account for.


Sunday 6 September 2015

In words we trust



Steel never worked
except for the collectors of blood
providing carcasses
over which wealthy hounds gathered
to howl,
their front feet resting on skulls
while worms burrow into the guts of everything.

Hiding never helped;
someone always found them
or the steel did
or the hounds and worms
or blackest coal lit the way
exposing them
and fear
finds everything, has a nose
large as an ocean,
ears and wide as the sky.


Pleading only makes dust
of the future,
makes forests fall and leaves
into graves for what may have been
if time was shared equally
between failure and hope
and we know that is never the case;
misery is the best poker player there is.

But words
written on paper, on walls,
spoken into the ears, into the streets -

words defeat steel because words
unlike the flesh
cannot be pierced, cannot be blooded
cannot be stopped by force.

Words have no heart
and so carry the hearts of us all.

so this is what a poet does



what does a painter do
when not weeping a palette of oils
down whiskered chin
and that man in the cart, broken in
by circumstance,
with the white brush
painting lines all day and into the loud night
so  women in bright floral 
are able to turn their vehicle
left
or right or drive straight
on into the café and serve latté coffees
with cake and a swish of décor
designed in a room with a large glass window overlooking a bluestone laneway
where suited and scarved people stumble as they hustle
just like words
and rhythm and
where to break from happenstance, where to leave one’s hat when dancing
and when to stop and watch feet
boarding trains to anywhere;
figures receding into memories and possibilities such as
when I put the pen down once but now I stop
touching the keys and hope the mind and heart
fall at ease.

Saturday 22 August 2015

Fishing with my son:


My son and I dived for that slippery witch changed into a fish
To escape the meanderings we shared as we sat on the bank
Of the moving river and tried to connect — but our words
Are not framed in each other’s history and the silvery witch,
Bloated as she is with misunderstandings, did not wish
To let us understand each other. She fled the scene of that fallen idyll
When we stopped by the river’s bank, cast words with fishing lines
And found the snags and tangles too much: The fish did not bite

So we two took up the chase instead for that shimmer of salmon gold,
Went after the tail, fin and the legend that a salmon caught would
Make the two of us wise enough be back again at that moment when
My son’s eyes looked up at me and I smiled, his smell still bright
As sunshine and my hand had its first chance to caress him and I had

Not stumbled nor had we shared the least moment of generational difficulty.

Friday 21 August 2015

The Accumulation of me


The accumulation of me


Hanging from life's scaffold, drifting back…
To the tree and then from tree to seed. The seed
Takes me to the warm, wet earth; to ferns
Chomped by the powerful jaws of giant reptiles
And eventually to the mother, the sea...

When they cut me down they wanted me to believe
The blue fairy had saved me. I stood firm -
Felt my feet in the earth of a million years ago,
The remains of the sea in the tears that welled -

I am not a product of the waved magical wand
But of the complex artistry of the double helix.

Life did not come cheaply, not for the seed
Nor the tree, not for the plankton
Nor the first pulse of the original single cell.

All steps on the evolutionary journey
To the point where I am able to maintain the place I am
By standing proud on my own two feet.