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.