readithearit

In the circus of my mind, the soft
sawdust bears the scuffs marks
of activity, from where the bear
stood tall on the small podium, as
ring master bidden the leather whip
whistled near its twitching ears and
white horses trotted in tightly formed
circles, lightly clad women stood bare
backed on their wide hind quarters,
balanced it seemed, held on with an
impression of invisible reins, clown
magicians with Goofy booted feet made
magic that was too quick to be seen,
my mind full of action that never ceased
nor can be explained in rational ways,
always the next act in what my aunts
who took me on these wild excursions
called widdershins, and I still cannot
remove from my mind’s eye the sight
of the trapeze artist missing her
partner’s hand, the crowd’s oohs and
aahs as her body tore through the safety
net, as heavily as a misplaced thought is
manifest in words thrown into the public
domain where their reception is as
deafening as a body hitting saw dust
from a great height, no way of doing it
all again as a reverse replay, pretending
it never happened, blood on sawdust is
not so easily swept away by smiling
clowns with big noses red spotted shirts
playing illusory charades that frightened
us who were wide-eyed sponge soaking
innocents, playing with our first experience
of fear beyond imagination, something like
mouths washed with soap for rude word
utterances imprints the words forever, the
smell of horse dung mixed with sawdust in
my daughter’s stables hauls in the same
old memories, cantering back with muffled,
unwelcome, unexpected hoof-beats.

Ever since early consciousness it had been
the urge to swim like a fish, as a fish, in deep
water, deeper than a bath tub, with finned 
and scaled sleekness cutting through water
seamlessly without resistance, breath coming
without effort, the magic of gills exchanging
oxygen at depth and without exertion. There
was a sense of a return to an existence, as in
immersion in the womb, of protection and being
held in suspension, as in flying, at one with the
elements and an ease of movement with some
quality of magic, but this would not be wings
lifted by draughts and heat cones, taking off
and landing, this would be ceaseless motion,
energy forces on demand, perpetual motion

in a swirling current of forever. It never reached

the level of choice of colour and size and shape,

tropical, or cold waters, gulf stream, bowl
shark or minnow, or captive goldfish, it was just
a concept of a different freedom, without the
burden of food chain, pecking order, for birds and
terrestrials, more the sense of the other, a
sense of return to a familiar world connected
to the first world of consciousness, reaching to
forbears who had left a world of fluidity for one
of adventure, a surprise yearning for what they
lost when they left the certainty of submarining,

security of swimming in ignorance of

wide open jaws cruising the dark waters behind.

It is like a clenched fist, this mind

of mine, wanting to beat someone

with these ideas of anger and, could

I say, mistrust, as I watch men and

women in dark suits, elected on our

behalf, develop snouts like wild

slavering pigs at some trough that

seems to be an artifice without ends

and deep, and filled with goodies, that

bring on salivation, and salvation as

the nurturing money makes their snouts

quiver, and their false smiles widen

like Scrooge McDuck’s beak, as he used

to swim in his loose change, his little

twitching tail leaving a gentle track of

his passage through his millions. It seems

almost unnoticeable, the passage from

politician, minister of the crown, to an

executive position on some committee

made up of mates and cronies, where

sounds of chomping combine with the

crunching of virtual folded stuff that is

transferred from the big trough to a less

obtrusive one, hidden in the shadows of

public affairs, out of sight, out of mind,

where the goodies flow just as well

as they bobbed along in the public sphere.

It is convenient that it all tastes the same

and it still provides the same level of

satiation. Oh I would love to get the

pig prod into action and herd these fat

sows and bores along the slippery wet

concrete walkway en route to the place

where the end is designated as humane

by the minister of agriculture and their

associated swillers, and deny them a

final suck into that which has given them

much more pleasure, than fulfilling the

role for which they were originally bred

and chosen. These long snouted beasts

have the same presumptive airs as the

Houyhnhnms which looked down on

the Yahoos, and Dean Swift got it right,

even though those fictional creatures

could not recognize their own reflections,

the reality denied them by their watery

eyes, they were recognizable to those

who watched them, clothed or otherwise,

from outside the trough hidden by wide

arses, all tails a twitching in exultation.   

Deep satisfaction comes from the sleek
wooden prow emerging smoothly up
through white soughing water set in
lines parallel with the coast you left
behind at first light, now laid out to
the horizon that stretches infinite. A
pleasure it is to see the planed planks
sibling set, in the shed of sweet sawn
wood and shavings, the dream factory
of vessels to conquer the oceans in good
and foul, spilling off water and cutting a
course through the deep, invisible soon
after you pass through, only the pencil
line on the chart below, all just an illusion
like after the race at the yacht club, sail
furling, belying sheets full to bursting on
the last reach for the finish. Such freedom
under canvas or even oars brings to mind
Telemachus having set sail after his men
loaded up the stores in well ribbed holds,
hoisted pine-wood masts after a start with
crewmen singing, swinging the oarlocks into
wine dark seas, canvas bellying out as the
wind hit full and they could go plunging all
night long into the dawn. As a boy I lay on
my bed, a print on the wall, apparently Drake
telling stories to two boys in the sand, fingers
pointing seawards, weaving wild dreams into
life charging stories for boys hungry for some
adventure. How many have set sail towards
distant horizons, unsure if the finger pressed

caulking will fill in the gaps, protect holds are

well-stocked with food and frightened livestock
and whether the compass and the chart and

the incomprehensible stars, will point, lead
them, in the correct direction across lumpy
oceans, bays, straits and channels. So much
reliance on timber selection, straight edging,
strength and flexibility, true lines, and tongue
and groove to be dependent on, bunking down
for broken sleep leaning against the groaning
planks, the hull surfing underwater, its lines of
displacement integral to safe passage. I sailed
once with a global circumnavigator, crusty faced,
gimlet eyes always on the horizon, reading both
ocean and winds, sleeping like a horse in short
shifts on his feet, hand free from the tiller,
self steering, but he always holding gently with his
subconscious, trusting in his own company, like
I was an illusion come in from across the water, and
ours was only a skirting of the continent, delivery
for money, his bread and butter, but it was high
seas, and his risk aversion survival was my salvation,

still treasure the gifted hand written chart, his stub pencil
scratchings, calculations of invisible pathways,
an insight into ancient mariners coursing the
ceaseless creeping of the ocean covered globe,
always the promise of going somewhere else

always a sanctuary beyond the visible horizon.

Getting tired am I, not old man tired, though there

is cause for it, no – white Wadjela tired, tired of my

words just being cast to the wind, no longer paper

tied, just out there on whatever breezes, a world

of verse populated by writers seated at the base of

empty flagpoles.

These days poetry editors are still wrapped in figurative

nappies, no sense of literary traditions, largely unread,

brought up with lie back entertainment from first

consciousness, multi coloured Fisher Price plastic mobiles,

shapes that twirl and make noises when touched, prodded,

experiential nightmares that are suspended above them,

in their cots, no time for human contact, laughing and

giggling, word formation, same as the poems that arrive

on-line, no art to find the mind’s construction in careful

calligraphy, these are not crafted, grafted, just formed as

interesting typography, emblematic designs, with no real

connection with forbears of literature, poems just drift

across their screens, disassociations that pass for poesy.

Words, phrases and images that carry with them links,

associations and reference to Joyce, Eliot, Plath, Dylan

boozing Thomas et al, crafted connections for the

aficionados to revel in, note, be entertained by, simply

pass them by in their sheltered cocoons, and so the

pomes come and go the way of heaped soft plastic, once

something with a purpose when it could be recycled, now

with the surfeit of modern poems en route to landfills,

no-one reaching into the heap to save or resurrect some

poetic insights.

I am tired of editors who cannot distinguish between

graceful imagery and stirring rhythms, between the Waste

Land and this wasted land, the latter being pushed heap

on heap above the Yamuna, near Delhi. The river drowning

in its new layers of detritus. Competitions spawn poetry

submissions from all and sundry, those with Masters [mastery]

and Doctorates [doctoring] come bearing writing learned and

crafted in academia, no sturm und drang here, just formulaic

poesy shaped and shunted to pass creative writing degrees.

Sonnet [5:7:5]

five syllables here

created as literature

but meaningless stuff      You have mastered the rubric, now for your doctorate

Is life’s struggle no longer the motivation, something

from Romanticism, Paris ghetto, bar, café, poverty,

breaking baguettes with those who had tasted bitterness,

smelt the bent and broken tubes of paint, the wolf at

the door, fingers too cold to press the keys of the old

Remington, writers guiding ships that would pass in

the night or in smoke filled rooms exchanging life’s

forces.

I am too old to live with these disconnected

five finger fantasies on keyboard and screen,

prefer watching clouds pass on the sky above

the cliffs, those poems bearing blood and grime,

shadows of lived experience, not these works that,

like unwanted presents, stuff from Aldi, creeping towards

the tip of dead bones of would-be poetry, being forgotten,

adding nothing to the corpus of those who brought

language to life, Middle English, Greek and Latin, Norman

imagery, traditions bearing rhythm, rhyme, echoing

speech patterns woven with subtle understanding.

We began by telling stories to each other,
penny each, too easy adding bits to make
punch lines, like simply adding a few more
broken biscuits into the brown paper bag,
each chip an ironic twist or funny ending,
precious crumbs to add piquancy, taste of
luxury chocolate coating, sense of luxury,
and always the up the duff pause, drama
emerging, truths untruths unfolding enfolding,
partners in the crime of complicity, gang of
thieves, someone else’s narrative purloined
shamelessly, ownership nine tenths of bush
law and who would be so bold as to speak out
and break the unspoken rule of brotherhood,
‘tell us about the turkey Joe’, scars of adventure
laid bare those swollen river days, fish boating,
Murray cod Redfin, snakes swimming across the
border, Barmah forest roos coursing through
flood plains out of reach of rifles, bouncing in
between river red gums home of shadows, of
storyline people we could never see, just smoke
from their fires where their narratives drifted
skywards with authenticity we could never
dream of in our fantasy world, fuelled by beer
and unrealities we were moulding with our late
adolescent hands, clay that would one day dry
cracked, unable to hold water, pass the test of time,
testament to wasted youth in which we had
found and lost a chance to have found insights
to pass on in the relay of generations, we who
might have hunted down something for warmth,
sustenance, if we had shot or speared respected
fauna, wrapped ourselves in furred clothing, slept
the sleep of authentic narratives, strong enough
to hand down in the theatre of winking stars and
crackling fires, down the ages across country.

Story book strange this light
full moon grey silver wash
subtle features like part formed
images in the fixing tank in days
when pics emerged underwater
their shapes and hints of form
dancing reaching out to your
pre-determined archetypal view
a world as you thought it should
be even before it became
reality. Out there in strange land
in dogwatch time surely there are
rabbits nibbling and scratching
was that a whiff of fox breeze,
quanda must be nosing into
lately manicured raked lawn in
oblivion to outside worlds full of
overblown egos like blimps all
tugging at their ropes waiting to
be pierced or shown in the cold
misty light of morning as figments
like these words composed in hope
rekindled fire might burst into flame
casting a new light yellow flickers
a different light breaking silence
sticks crackling transformed into
smoke carbon chimney rising
questions balance being changed
new illusions of discourse frogs
silenced in surprise the quiet
symphony coming to a close.

Oh these days I am lost in recurring memories as if my ancestors are dragging at me from afar and they are pulling at my clothes , my loose garments that trail in the breeze of my descent of unknown hills, where footfall seems almost untouching like floating feet from a weightless body and my mind spins, widdershins and the mountains unfolding beneath me give me a sense of untouchability and languages unknown to me chatter at me, these burdened fleet of foot women like scrub birds on the run of escape, low to the ground laughing as I chase the illusion of their guidance, is it the insane root I have eaten, am I captive without being in irons, this country that holds me and then lets me loose, grasps me in Brobdignagian fists and squeezes the grey matter out of me and I am lettuce limp, seeking footholds in alien slopes rolling down into unfriendly terrain, the smoke of wood fires, dung smouldering, the hand patties prised from walls when dried in the sun, patterns of rounded scars splattered on smooth painted rendered walls, dried hand marks in the brown dung like the blown ochre images in the northern caves of the country from whence I have just arrived. Lingering images that bespeak of different times slowly fading but lingering long enough to be rediscovered by those who follow them.

Often the image re-appears,
comes inopportunely, brought by
sounds of breezes around corners,
leaves scurrying on pathways,
shadows creeping across sun light
in our courtyard, taking me to a
private corner of the pink room,
where I was bidden to comb your
tresses down your long back, bare
sometimes when sun intruded in
wide lines across the patterned
carpet, power and authority of
being summoned, expected to be
a listening silent companion, point
of view irrelevant, point of view more
a place of mute watching, firm skin
shoulders sometimes touched by
accident of rhythmical process,
sense of repetition, whilst those
below going about their business
oblivious of your mental note taking, 

building up your arsenal for
future battles and conflagrations,
me in my ignorance, my growing
awareness when you knew that
my wish was to part your hair to
hang down across each of your
breasts, and to have curiosity of
touch and feel satiated, reverie
broken by request for a softer
combing motion, or what was I
to be doing hereafter, other than
being lost in dreaming about silken
hair that stretched out adolescent
fantasies that knew no limits, lost
in the infinity of unreality that had
no boundaries, imagination without
edges until my own crimped curly 

hidden hirsute life began to insinuate 

itself in my dark folds and crevices.

[a wild south coast story without
the music that should attend it]

Earth rim seas from up here,
saucer edge from which to fall,
ships slowly creeping along
day and night, white in the sun
bright in the night star, like in
their passage, slow ponderous
satellites marking the limit of
safety known world, imagination,
fearful, unknown, forgotten bloody
memories of lost First Nation peoples
who knew better, things in their
place no need to test limits hold
fast to cliffs and caves and caverns
storied land lines, shipwrecks and
wailing, beached men women spars
floating, clothed survivors shivering,
no place for angry invaders who
somehow came in from the edge,
bitter salt-mouthed looking for
nirvana, angry with dour seas grey
skies no sign of apparent life, bright
starry nights offer temporary safety
blanket, hide memory of country
stolen and pieced out in revenge,
first inhabitants pushed over earth
edge into an abyss whilst somehow
holding on to what they knew,
looking in from the outside, the cold
of alienation, bewilderment, the people
of knowledge whose stories were lost
when their country was stolen by blind
white skinned devil devils, who brought
their big book, heavy armaments,
emptiness of soul, stories of lostness.