Poems by Brendan Doyle

Forecast

2012-02-13T21:26:00.001+11:00

Mothers keep churning us out

like there’s no tomorrow

and maybe there isn’t

for us

I see mammoth cockroaches

picking over the rubble

nonchalant

waiting to evolve into something

more photogenic

Call me cynical but

this radioactive dust

they’re putting in warheads these days

couldn’t be playing up with the weather,

could it?

Memorial at Kuta

2012-02-13T21:20:00.002+11:00

Gaudy flags

draped over flowers

and in the background

a pile of burnt shoes

shoes that will not dance

nor be flung off in abandon

or slipped under the bed,

will not wear down on one side,

be left to dry on the verandah

or spattered with rain

from running

through a summer storm

Talkback

2012-02-13T21:11:00.001+11:00

a riot broke out

at the radio station

police were called in

to quell the listener response

nursing home residents

addicted to their man’s

frenzied fricatives

voluble vowels

garrulous glottal stops

dubious diphthongs

nagging nasals

and crazed consonants

surged out of their recliner chairs

and headed there in mini-buses

when a stand-in for their man

dared to let a caller ask

why

I wipe my arse on the flag

2012-02-13T20:51:00.002+11:00

Iwipe my arse on the flag

becauseit’s just an ocker rag,

asymbol of arse-licking

andbrown-nosing dictators

andthe colours are wrong,

thecolours of empire and subservience.

Iwipe my arse on the flag

becauseit was wrapped around Pauline

andit’s always over Howard’s shoulder,

because350 people who drowned trying to get here

weredeemed unworthy of its protection.

Iwipe my arse on the flag

becauseit flutters over desert concentration camps

andprisons full of young black men

andcorporate towers exalting cold hard capital.

Iwipe my arse on the flag

becauseI like the feel

ofthe union jack in my crack.

Good Friday II

2012-01-24T21:31:00.001+11:00

I’mnot religious but

itdidn’t feel like a day to call anyone

orgo to Darling Harbour to see

theFlying Fruit Fly circus

underthe freeway.

SoI got on the bus

andwent to the Museum of Sydney

inthe rain. I should have known.

ClosedGood Friday.

Revengeof the Christians.

Showers,trickles of grey tourists

inMartin Place looking stupidly at hoardings.

Iwasn’t the only fool.

Stillin my head,

thebanal faces of suffering

insome TV Kosovo.

Eightdied on the roads today

tryingto escape this watery, grey,

autumnallysad as a cinema queue in the rain

trappedin coffee shops

dismaltaxi riding

terminallytriste

Sydneyday.

Flight out of Timor

2012-01-24T21:24:00.002+11:00

How many Hercules will it take

to evacuate the promises we made,

the lies we told,

the hopes we gave

and then denied?

How many Hercules will it take

to lift the despair of a generation,

the dreams of a proud people,

to transport the bodies of the children

and the blood of the martyrs?

How many Hercules will it take

to rescue a single shred

of Australia’s honour?

Fire sale

2012-01-24T21:06:00.001+11:00

A question not, as youmay think,

of Shakespeare andshow-ponies,

but more fundamentalculinary matters

such as who eats whom,and at what price,

here in late industrialsuburbs

threatened by longevity

and bored indifference.

People dream their wayinto tomorrow,

screened off from theinstitutions of yesterday -

church, family,decency-

consuming tackily gluedemotions

on current affairsprograms,

black or white it's allthe same

between the ad breaks.

Don't you wondersometimes, fit to burst,

by what algebraicjourney we reached

this end of millenniumfire sale,

how the disaster corpsmanaged to avert

a show-stopper of smokynightmares?

Aliens

2012-01-24T21:03:00.000+11:00

Seeour forced dance,

ourwobbly gait,

treadingon stones with pink feet,

feedingkangaroos by hand,

importingfish in cans.

Theylaugh at us,

thedark ones,

butwe know about poison

andreal estate

andthe force of gun and laws.

Listento their keening,

faintnow,

forall the generations lost,

aweak corroboree of old men

infront of the white parliament.

Diana

2012-01-24T20:52:00.001+11:00

Likeinstant noodles

ourfreeze-dried hearts melt

forthe dead princess

(justadd television)

Nursesthrow teddybears;

teddyboys,more confused, just stare

atthe cameras whirring,

whirlwindsof emotion

whippingup historical trifles

fromre-enacted slow turnoffs,

runawaycars,

wreckedand flattened tinsel crown.

Thestockmarket of souls

advertisesour inadequacy

todeal with ordinary death.

"Butthe people want it", someone says.

I'mbamboozled too

bythe pomp and circumstance,

theglue of glitterazzi

holdingthe set pieces together,

thestupid flags on the Edgecliff Centre

stillat half-mast ten days later.

Primo Levi at Thredbo

2012-01-24T11:55:00.002+11:00

-after thelandslide in July 1997 that killed eighteen people

They’ve closed the Alpine Way.

The death site looks neat

as the museum at Auschwitz.

Why did I bring you here, Primo Levi?

When the Germans buried you alive

you weren’t handsome and strong

like the young Australian.

And when you walked out of the grave

you were wasted away

like some creeping Jesus.

Forty years later

you hurled yourself down the slope to death.

You’d written your evidence in blood

and now had to join

the only true witnesses.

Progress

2012-01-16T21:26:00.001+11:00

Walkingin the bush this morning

Idid not come across

asingle convenience store

orvideo game arcade.

Nointegrated alarm system

orcurrent affairs programme

orhigh-security low-risk user-friendly multimedia freedom tellers.

Therewere no frozen stir-fried yogurt-dipped posturepedic bagels,

nofluorescent ergonomic integrated rollover kitchenettes

orsingle grandparent tupperware modems,

noKFC, BHP, FID, TAB or after-sales no-obligation deals,

ormicrowave snap-on set-and-forget condom dispensers.

Notone low-joule frost-free heat-seeking self-adhesive wrap-

aroundcarbon-dated rust-proofed sandwich-maker

orinfra-red poly-unsaturated take-away four-stroke closed-

circuitrecycled tar-reduced deodorised seat-covers.

Justbirdsong

andsmells of eucalypt.

Writer's blot

2012-01-04T18:42:00.003+11:00

Withoutlooking at a line

this(suspended) spring morning (it is the city)

wonderingwhat I'm still doing here,

whatthis land means

beyondthe flag and the flatulence.

Mediamissiles cruise into the living room

-search and destroy thought -

tellingus over and over everything's okay.

Help! Helicopter lifesavers, snatch us

fromthis flooded island mini-series

ofdenied yearning

forsomersaults of death and beauty,

kamikazecomedians.

Itis no time for levity,

notime for introspection either

asrelentless sparrows announce sunny Saturday

(nohaiku please) in Sydney,

namedafter the maggot-headed politician

asRuth Park said.

Blacked-outcomputer screens, invisible icons,

editme, quick!

Poweringthrough, am I still powering through?

Rational

2012-01-04T18:22:00.003+11:00

When the judge cried “Euthanasia”

all the people loudly cheered

at the Rest-Ezy nursing home.

They didn’t want to hang around

and be a burden on the budget.

Give me liberty and give me death

shout the new patriots

(Stop needling me, I’ll go quietly)

After all, we have to bring down the deficit

somehow.

autumn, north sydney

2012-01-02T15:21:00.002+11:00

last night after the movies

in the high decibel bar

I wanted to touch my heart

then yours as a sign

but instead we sat smoking

watching the rain

and the taxis

in the blue street below

Union

2012-01-02T14:58:00.001+11:00

My lanky son sprints down the field,

blond mane streaming behind,

but when the ball comes to him

he gets rid of it quickly.

I know that feeling.

The field overlooks wild ocean,

the wind salt-charged and blustery.

Now a downpour drenches the striped boys

scattering through melting hail.

I walk to the cliff,

a rush of blue air and emptiness

above flecked waves,

follow the escarpment down

and swim in the sea

among brown boys.

My son joins me after the game.

In late afternoon sun

we cavort like dolphins

in the spiced, foamy delight

of the buffeting ocean.

hungry head

2012-01-02T14:51:00.002+11:00

inurunga we bought leatherjacket and chips

thenon to the golf club

dressregulations after 7pm fri sat sun no thongs

damn

wecame back on the sat night

sweatingin shoes especially for the occasion

walkedin to the pokies you felt cheated

lookat that fat guy he’s in thongs

halfway between sydney and brisbane

readingdazai’s no longer human

Iknow why some of them up here

turnto christianity

To a Japanese interpreter

2012-01-01T22:42:00.002+11:00

Keiko is dying.

I can see it in your eyes.

A working holiday

and she went for a swim

at a sunny beach.

Dragged from the water

four minutes too late

she lies now

in sea-induced sleep.

Her family came from Japan

wanting to take her home

but you explained to them

the doctor’s hesitations.

Keiko died this morning

in a sunny beachside hospital

without seeing the brother

or weary parents

who watched
ten long days

the closed eyes.

You too were relieved

when her heart finally accepted

death in a strange land.

Now Keiko can go home.

Pregnancy

2012-01-01T22:34:00.002+11:00

flying to melbourne in a cessna

the large woman handed me

a foetus occasionally

slippery and fragile

I dropped it twice

she wasn’t perturbed

in melbourne we landed

on a college lawn

following boys in costumes and speeches

I got lost sometimes

back on the plane

juggling the foetus again

it fell onto the tarmac

the pieces were retrieved

and we took off again

still unruffled

the collarbone is missing

she said

Return from the island

2012-01-01T22:26:00.003+11:00

Hovering around the airport phone booths

hesitating, playing for time

the wall clock ruthlessly correct

my father dead

and the next bus south in an hour

fumbling a suitcase for coins

getting the wrong number

you were there, patient

letting my confusion settle

until I was ready

to let the taxi
take us home

Looking after Uncle Bill's house

2011-12-21T22:03:00.002+11:00

Dear Uncle Bill,

How is your holiday in Italy?

Things have been pretty normal here atyour place.

Nothing to worry about really.

Fifi ate two lizards

and got bitten by a redback

after she dug up the neighbour’sstrawberries.

She’s okay though.

Only a week at the vet’s.

Lightning struck the TV antenna

and shorted the computer, the DVD andthe TV,

but the toaster wasn’t affected at all.

The floods (you heard about those?)

ruined the carpet

but Mum rescued most of the furniture

except the lounge suite.

Oh, and that big gum tree

that Mr Ross kept asking you to have cutdown,

well, it finally gave way.

So much for the garage.

I almost forgot to mention your car

- it’s been off the road for so long now–

the motor finally decided to pack it in

just as Mum was reversing up the drive

and didn’t see the fish pond.

Otherwise things are pretty boring here.

I guess Europeis much more exciting,

although the bushfires are gettingcloser to the house now.

By the way, you did pay the insurancebefore you left,

didn’t you?

from the night beach

2011-12-21T22:01:00.002+11:00

from the night beach we walked

up onto the moon-bright headland

stood on the cliff echoing surf

your black hair whipped my eyes

we held each other against the wind

and the storm blowing up from the south

back at the wharf

the black sky cracked open

huddling under pines

my body ached for you

in the downpour a car

had caught fire at traffic lights

and blazed furiously

Australia Day

2011-12-21T21:51:00.002+11:00

We are the no soul people

in the not our land

Old stones in Galway

hide my once heart

and a curragh on an Aran beach

waits still to transport me

A day was all I spent there

and didn’t hear the Gaelic at all

I was born and bred in Sydney

closer to Kakadu than Connemarra

We are the ghosts

who gave them trinkets on the sand,

chased them from La Perouse

to oblivion and back again

I’ve been to Uluru

in a bus full of tourists

and call this my country

Divorce

2011-12-20T21:11:00.001+11:00

night you drivearound this bend

that is strangely familiar

sea on the right

big hotels on the left

you look at the sea

moonlight on the water

you round the bend

and you’re high above it all

you hear a woman scream

a body shoots down at an angle

like a meteorite

crashing to earth

someone rushes over to her

you see her shape in the ground

you hesitate

then decide not to go over

Denial

2011-12-20T20:46:00.001+11:00

Srebrenica did not fall.
The soldiers, being Christians,
saw the light,
chose not to rape and kill
but instead turned on their commanders
who worked as part-time butchers.

The men and boys
were only hiding in the forest
for a laugh
and now are gathering
for a game of football.

Acrobat

2011-09-20T21:23:00.000+10:00

Stuck in a plastic chair
here, in the grey room, grounded.
Why are you here, Minh?
He frowns. "CES send me.
I been unemploy two year."
What did you do in your country?
"In Viet Nam I was in circus."

Now I see him. The acrobat.
Muscular arms and chest
narrowing to a slender waist.
Strong legs.
"I used to do tight-rope.
But because communist, I come here."

How many walls did he vault, I wonder,
how many somersaults
before he asked himself:
the tight-rope or the net?

In Cathar country

2011-09-20T21:15:00.000+10:00

searchlights on night clouds
play like swallows
on the warm air falling
over the walls of Carcassonne

like rituals of love
like cells dividing
at the bottom of the sea

raindrops on my hat
and the moon's sudden glow

poems that come from nowhere

Goldfish

2011-08-29T21:25:00.002+10:00

In their glass cage

all day long

waiting for bubbles

or manna from above.

They touch occasionally

more my accident than design,

a nibble here,

a flick of the tail there.

What’s that light?

That sound?

That vibration?

Suddenly one puts on a turn of speed.

No reason.

The others pretend not to notice.

Rushcutters Bay during the bushfires

2011-08-29T21:19:00.002+10:00

In the salt-smoke summer evening,

gleaming hulls lift and fall

with each respiration of the black water.

Masts tinkle and clank.

The last gulls cry.

Over the city tombstones

a bloodshot sun dies

in a brown sky.

Somewhere, people are crying among the embers

of the house they built with love,

or dying in the pool

where they thought they’d be safe.

Under fire-tormented clouds

blowing in from the west,

the oily water heaves a sigh

of restrained, sad fury.

Nielsen Park

2011-08-29T21:16:00.002+10:00

My picnic basket full

of honourable intentions,

we strolled down through the Moreton Bays

into a salty autumn afternoon

and accents from Vienna,

Prague and Paddington.

You emerged from your European pavilion

and I from behind a rock

into a world of yellow light and blue.

The water tempted even you.

We caressed and were caressed,

peeled off layers of defence,

succumbed to sun and wine

until, late sun mellowing

the sandstone cradle of the bay,

we made our reluctant way back

under the sombre canopy of leaves.

I turned, as the burnt sun

caught your hair,

my basket empty

of honourable intentions.

Statistics

2011-08-29T21:09:00.000+10:00

Figures released today reveal that 74% of people

are suffering chronic unenjoyment.

Prospects for enjoyment among school leavers

are at an all-time low.

The Minister for Enjoyment said

special schemes are being targeted

at the long-term unenjoyed.

TAFE colleges are running enjoyment-related courses

for people unenjoyed for over six months.

However, as the recession bites deeper,

full-time enjoyment may be a long way off for many.

People should try to create their own enjoyment,

the Minister said.

Self-enjoyment is often a viable alternative, she added.

Screened off

2011-08-22T19:13:00.002+10:00

Watching the news on TV

my sister almost wept to see the farmer

shooting newborn lambs.

It’s not worth feeding them, he said.

She started asking deep questions

about the economy

and why things can’t get better,

but the relentless babble

pushed them into the background.

After the evening’s TV, her thoughts

a porridge of vague imaginings

and edited ideas, she announced:

I’m only interested in news about animals

and went to bed.

southerly

2011-08-22T19:10:00.002+10:00

Long withered years

and dead lambs strewing the paddocks,

plants that were not attended to,

the dead grass of dry feeling,

that crying out for rain.

Now the storm shook the windows

till they cracked.

Sitting on furrowed church steps

I breathe in huge hot splashes

on the broken footpath

till they merge with my tears.

The southerly raged and blew
the whole empty night
and I ran out

into the raining dark.

reasonable access

2011-08-22T19:09:00.002+10:00

I’ll sleep in the bed

where my son has slept

and smell the pillow

where he laid his head

feeling the shape

of his nightmares and his dreams

and in the morning I’ll remember

his bright cascade

of sunrise laughter

Ten dollar note

2011-08-22T19:03:00.000+10:00

At first, just two young blokes

following me from the station

on a moonlit street

that had never seemed so dark.

Then there was only one.

Hey, poofter, he called out

as if to justify

whatever might happen.

Running away from him

down my own street.

No, don’t lead him to my front door.

I stopped. What do you want?

I need food, he said,

and I saw scars and scratches

around his wild eyes.

He could have been my son.

For ten dollars

he ran off into the night

and left me

gasping for courage.

Haiku

2011-08-22T19:01:00.000+10:00

weathering

a summer shower

and in my fifty-fourth year

I’m getting thinner

Cambodia

ghosts stalk pagodas

in their hunger crying out

children, please feed us

dying

water on a leaf

and I want to cry out for mum

who no more feels pain

cliff edge, Blackheath

the white cloud’s rising

I’m in it, like it or not

then all disappears

after fire

tree bones stick out black

through the pearly skin of mist

begging for green

Ode to Tony

2011-08-14T20:59:00.003+10:00

O Tony of TLC Auto Repairs,

may your business flourish ever more,

may the tooth fairy replace your top plate

with metallic finish white pearls.

O Tony, my heart stalled, I swear,

when the bloke at Waitara said

“I can see a thousand bucks there

just for the rust” and sent me

to the old Hungarian at Betta Batteries

who quoted me six hundred

for windscreen scratches,

welding and a brake pedal rubber.

But you, Tony, whom I had not seen for almost a summer,

welcomed me with your almost shiny smile:

“Is that door lock still working?”

and I knew your friendship had not wavered.

O Tony, when you handed over that pink slip

and said “Eighteen dollars”

I wanted to win the lottery and give you half,

I wanted to replace all the seals on your Datsun ZX

and personally blacken the tyres,

but I just reached into my pocket

and gave you ten bucks “for a beer”.

You’d made my day, my month, my year!

To a thin woman

2011-08-14T20:50:00.002+10:00

You stood in the rain at Clyde station,

a doll streaming make-up

but the blue under your eyes

was bruising.

You sat against a window,

a painted smile cracking your face

pretending to read a newspaper,

vomited on the floor,

didn’t want to make a scene.

You seem to be going somewhere

probably hung over

you smell

you’re dirty and battered

it’s your life

I won’t speak

You got off at my station

I asked if you were OK.

My keys, locked in, the agent, no money,

could you lend me five dollars

for my methadone?

as you hobbled down the steps

and were sick again.

It’s the tablets.

I followed you to the clinic

but somewhere on the way

you became very small

and disappeared down a crack

in a wet side street

Lies and secrets

2011-08-14T20:43:00.001+10:00

Australia is at war

and nothing any more

can be the same.

We sit for hours hypnotized

by men in business suits

telling us how big their weapons are,

and fireworks in the desert sky.

Now fourth of july euphoria

on every channel has passed

and with each day the information

hides more from us,

a new world order dissolving already

into fragmented, tiny bodies

we will not be allowed to see

until the generals and politicians

have retired.

Rhineland drought

2011-08-14T20:41:00.002+10:00

The scaly forest crouches

under high tension wires.

In the roaring train, windows open,

we flap in a scorching gale.

They’re windsurfing on a dam

under a slagheap.

A crazed pigeon flops

in the thick air.

Flabby Germans down beer

next to the Turks and gypsies

on the steps of Essen Station.

Hot taxi drivers shout obscenities

at girls in the car park.

We escape to the Naturpark

where bratwurst smells drift

over piles of packaging.

From the top of a firetower

I look down on the smoky pall

wishing for fire.

Gulf War patriot

2011-08-14T20:39:00.003+10:00

Yes, we need you in the Gulf, boys.

Too right we do.

You think petrol flows from gum trees?

And what about the oil heater?

It’s bloody cold here in July,

or maybe you’ve forgotten already,

sunbaking in the desert somewhere.

Think of the poor Kuwaitis.

They need democracy too.

Well, the ones who vote do, anyway.

Men, I mean.

Yes, we need you in the Gulf, boys,

but I’m glad it’s you

and not me, boys.

Leura

2011-08-14T20:35:00.000+10:00

Whistling through the hanging swamp

the west wind whips

bunches of silver leaves

like grass skirts

on slender native girls

into a dervish dance.

I sit among the banksias,

roots and trunks knobbly-gnarled,

bonsaid by time.

Crusty ancestors, unburied,

lie at their feet,

driftwood of the west wind.

Housing estate, Besançon

2011-08-14T20:17:00.003+10:00

It’s not just the smell of piss
or the melted buttons in the lift,
the stairs that have never been swept,
the graffiti grime at eye level
or even the sad multicultural mural
in the Rue Pablo Picasso.
Something’s gone wrong
in this ville nouvelle.

The grey hillocks used to be a rubbish tip,
you can tell,
and the quiet grey mall
is all cracked windows and empty shops.
We stand dazzled
by relentless concrete spaces,
looked down upon
by all those architects and town planners.

Au revoir apartment 89, block 24.
With our bags and baskets
we walk away, for good.
Vous allez faire un pique-nique?
says a tousle-headed child who cannot.

Refugee

2011-08-14T18:56:00.001+10:00

I kneel before the boat-man.
The price is far too high.

I kneel before the pirate.
Not my daughter! Not my wife!

I kneel before the aid man.
The land’s no longer mine.

I kneel before the soldier.
Will you spare a father’s life?

I kneel before the policeman.
A permit, to buy some rice.

I kneel before the altar
and pray for an end to strife.

I kneel before the embassy,
its heavy doors shut tight.

Tour de France

2011-08-14T18:54:00.001+10:00

Gendarmes at attention on the village square,
kids practise waving plastic flags,
the doughnut man gets ready,
swearing about council rules,
and we’re all eating ice creams.

Down on the quay with an hour to go
a squadron of men in blue
riding backwards on motorbikes
and don’t the people cheer!
Trucks from Paris sell tricolour caps.

Media cars zip by.
Out of the way! This is important!
Cafés spill out onto the streets.
Oui, c’est la fête!

There’s a hush.
Helicopters swoop over the hill,
and a cavalcade of official cars
at a ripping pace.
Sirens warn kids off the street.
Ne touchez pas aux cyclistes!

We hold our breath.
Hundreds of legs and wheels in a tight bunch
whirring round the bend,
a blur of shirts, grim faces, sweat flying,
they’re gone!
We all breathe out again.

Holiday road

2011-08-14T18:53:00.001+10:00

We will beat the traffic
We will get there before dark

We will not get tired
and will not slow down

We will gain a few seconds
on this section of road

We will overtake now
We will not skid
nor fail to take the bend

The oncoming semi
will not hurtle
into our windscreen

We will beat the traffic
We will get there
before
dark

Autumn blue

2011-08-14T18:51:00.001+10:00

The old coal smell
of Katoomba
and currawong calls
piercing grey mist.

Early garbage trucks
snort and stumble,
lids clattering to a stop
in pools on pavements.

Up Lurline Street rolls a cloud.
An autumn tree trembles at its passing
and shivers off
a few more yellow leaves.

In room seventeen
Madame Rimski-Korsakov
in a fake gilt frame says
No, I am not the muse
and turns away.

Letter from Australia, 1990

2011-08-14T18:47:00.000+10:00

… Meanwhile back here
things are pretty much as usual.
You know, open day at the crematorium…
Joan sang her swan song at Bennelong.
Lawrence shot his little brother
with his father’s shotgun.
It was an accident, his father said.
On the Gold Coast goats were disembowelled
by a satanic cult.
Police are investigating.
At Mootwingee they had twice the annual rainfall
in one afternoon.
Teenagers up the Top End have forsaken metho.
Now petrol and ant poison’s all the rage.
A man escaped from Vietnam
to a life sentence in Long Bay.
Another man jumped on a five-metre crocodile
and poked it in the eye.
It was trying to eat his mother.
Came into their tent
just like that dingo.

I suppose things are pretty exciting in Europe.

PS Nineteen chickens were disembowelled as well,
also on the Gold Coast.

Third century

2011-08-14T18:45:00.001+10:00

Old red rattler
lurching down to the city,
late-running, defective,
tired and rusty.
Passengers on platform one are advised…
but will it be good advice?

Descending into greyer layers
we pass that black water,
that brown sky.
We did it,
transposed the northern grime,
remade it all in the image
of distant forgotten towns.

Two hundred years on,
the old red rattler
staggers and curses
like a drunk
in a suburban back lane.

Laundromats

2011-08-14T18:40:00.001+10:00

It’s not just the drab piles
or the queues for the dryer
or the woman with ratty eyes
who keeps pretending
that the fifteen bags of washing
really all belong to her,
or the aloof brunette
who watches her man’s socks
like a daytime serial.

It’s the architecture
that puts you in a floodlit cell
of mutual interrogation
for people who can no longer hide
their dirty washing.

Blackheath

2011-08-12T09:44:00.000+10:00

My wild desolate soul
circles with the hawk,
trudges the stony track
that crunches underfoot,
casts an inky shadow
on the cliff face,
shares the black cockatoo’s raucous nostalgia,
bursts out like the spiky bush washed clean
in last night’s rain,
tough as the heath
on this spare plateau.

How to paint a portrait of a bird

2011-01-18T08:02:00.005+11:00

by Jacques Prévert, translated by Brendan Doyle

First, paint a cage
with an open door
then paint
something pretty
something simple
something beautiful
something useful
for the bird
then place the canvas against a tree
in a garden
in a wood
or in a forest
hide behind the tree
without speaking
without moving…
Sometimes the bird comes along quickly
but it can just as easily take many long years
before deciding
Don’t get discouraged
wait
wait if necessary for years
the speed or slowness of the bird’s arrival
bearing no relation
to the success of the painting
When the bird arrives
if it arrives
observe the most profound silence
wait for the bird to enter the cage
and when it has entered
gently close the door with the brush
then
erase one by one all the bars
taking care not to touch any of the bird’s feathers
Next, do a portrait of the tree
choosing the loveliest of its branches
for the bird
paint also the green foliage and the wind’s coolness
sunbeams
and the noise of insects in the grass in the heat of summer
and then wait for the bird to decide to sing
If the bird doesn’t sing
it’s a bad sign
a sign that the painting is bad
but if it sings it’s a good sign
a sign that you can sign it
So you gently pluck out
one of the bird’s feathers
and write your name in a corner of the painting.

asylum

2010-06-09T22:41:00.002+10:00

no regrets
says the comfortable canberra man
watching the crazed refugees
on closed circuit tv
yawning at his looming superannuated
years in adelaide

people like that, he sneers,
exploit our compassion
sipping champagne with a paid entertainer
waiting for the next flight home
to family and dogs
fawning at his wiped feet

My Boy

2010-06-09T22:36:00.000+10:00

I’d bought the best brie
and real French baguette
for my son’s lunch.
I see him rarely these days.

He stood tall and smiling in the doorway
orthodontically perfect
but otherwise with some of my imperfections.

We sat at the window in the winter sun
and he showed me his latest designs
proudly – he’d taken all the photos himself,
written the business plan
and wants to launch himself into the world.

He ate with relish and a man’s appetite
and asked if he could borrow the laptop.
I’d have gladly given him all I own.

Declined a wine.
Unlike me,
he doesn’t drink in the middle of the day.

Gare du Nord

2010-06-09T22:32:00.002+10:00

Random lights of night’s end
tattoo the dawn people
in the bar at the Gare du Nord,
crackling with neon wit,
last night’s conquests and
Salut les gars!
Putting a fine face on the unborn day,
Bonne nuit says the barman with a wink.

Twenty metres below
the people of the metro snort and stir
in the plastic light.
Is the night not yet consumed
among the butts and bottles?
A lanky black gives his babe a cuddle
while the Arab looks sideways
and wipes his greasy mouth
wondering if the murky dawn above
will beat him home
to his sleeping wife.

Denfenella

2010-06-09T22:24:00.000+10:00

in memory of Denis Kevans, 1939-2005

When the gangs of politicians are forgotten
and their names covered over with slime
and their tasteful caskets are rotten,
O poet, it will still be your time.

When Labor and Liberal have joined
to defeat the red-green coalition,
your verses will still be recited
by all who believe in your mission.

When the ocean is lapping round Penrith
and horses and buggies are back,
the pilgrimage to Denfenella
will become a well-worn mountain track.

Your heart was as big as your belly,
your mind was as big as the plain,
your dreams were the dreams of the people.
Will one such come this way again?

As I walk with galah and rosella
under deep blue mountain heavens
I like to think Denfenella
was named after you, Denis Kevans.

Downhill Run

2010-06-09T22:18:00.001+10:00

Feeling the lack of you, my son
at the year’s turning

you on some blinding slope
streaking through a white world

your awayness wearing me down
I should never have let you go

but that’s not how it goes

young men ski away to open fields
leaving dads stranded on beginners’ runs

and if you’re lucky they send
what used to be a postcard

Elephant ride, Phnom Penh

2010-06-09T22:10:00.001+10:00

The children are riding an elephant.
They look fretful at first
for the elephant is huge and lumbering,
stronger than ten men
and could easily turn nasty.
Hard to tell from its blinkered eyes
what its intentions are.
Better to expect the worst.

One child, who doesn’t really want to be up there
is crying now. Others force a smile.
The elephant plods on, head down,
ears flapping furiously,
leading Sihanouk’s children to a destination
they did not choose
nor could ever imagine.

Blood Brothers

2009-09-07T21:51:00.000+10:00

for Les Thompson

Born on the wrong side of the tracks
Or was it the wrong side of the world?
Under the Fish and the Southern Cross
Their destiny unfurled.

A dozen summers passed them by
In suburbs stark and still
Till Education lit their way
To Taverners Hill.

Servus servum servi servo
They chanted the hours away.
Algebra, parsing and chemistry
Kept them from play.

Five years nailed to grimy desks,
Their ties and blazers damning,
Honours French was their reward
For years of cramming.

Sons of unlettered working men,
Their fortunes then looked puny,
But the Commonwealth, bestowing grace,
Sent them to uni.

Rabelais, Proust and Molière,
Phonetics, translations by the ream,
Distracted them from female flesh
And made them dream.

Racine declaimed by candle-light
In a crowded, noisy garret,
Filled many soirées in grotty Glebe
Washed down with claret.

The Liberals ran a lottery to find
Defenders of the nation.
Our heroes won the major prize
But declined the invitation.

One went to France and there began
To undermine the République.
The other went to Canberra,
Stuck up a creek.

At millennium’s dawn, the boys
Are now world-weary, wiser men,
Separated by hemispheres but
Blood brothers to the end!

Putting the pieces together

2009-09-07T21:46:00.001+10:00

in memory of Mark Ellerman

the door he opened
the chair he sat in
the cat he stroked
the fruit he peeled
the letter he read
the lamp he broke
the note he left
the car he drove
the brother he caused to weep

Aquarelle

2009-09-07T21:37:00.000+10:00

A delicacy of touch is needed
but how delicate?
a sureness, a lightness
transparency
but how transparent?

you don’t need your glasses, says the teacher
fuzzy is better
Turner was almost blind in the end

my watercolours today were disasters
rubbing too hard
even scratching the subtle surface
you can wash it all off
and start again, says the teacher
but the paper’s distressed
and the colours don’t flow any more

when we said goodbye the other day
feeling the softness of your lips
the smooth round of your shoulder
I didn’t want to leave

a question of technique, surely
but not only that
letting things flow
see what happens
develop a finer sense of touch
take risks
let all the colours soak into my soul
(2008)

Bamboo Cutters

2009-07-05T15:24:00.002+10:00

- Kanchanaburi, Thailand

Burning bamboo cracks and pops
like military exercises
sending echoes and smoke
up the burnt-out valley of the Kwae.

The bamboo cutters laugh
as grey clouds mass
for the storm that will not come
until the end of the dry season.

All day I have watched them
toiling their loads of cane across the river.
Now they smile
as the bamboo guns crack again.

Dusk settles like smoke along the valley.
The cutters have gone.
In the darkening still
unseen bells tinkle along the shore.

A boy and his buffaloes
wander home.

Monastery, Bangkok

2009-06-21T20:24:00.001+10:00

On the banks of the grey-water klong
a girl is playing with her long hair.
Evening. The temple.
A saffron monk watches her
from a safe indifference.

Three boys jump on and off a bamboo raft
laughing, ferried from side to side.
On the little curve of a bridge
a mangy dog sniffs
at a boy dumping chicken guts.
Emerging from the murk
a giant carp burps them down.

Turtles stretch their necks at you
waiting for scraps.
A bloated cat floats by
like a white beachball.
The boys have abandoned the raft to a frog
and the staring turtles.

letter from inside

2009-06-21T20:16:00.001+10:00

dearest name deleted

I’m not good, as a matter of fact
I’m hanging out like a dog

as you know I took off
and first thing I done was got a shot

it’s so hard being locked away
from someone you love

there are so many things I want to say

you think once you’re out life is easy

all I can say is I want to get my life
into some kind of perspective

ever since I’ve been back inside
I’ve wanted to take off again

I just rang mum and she is really upset
I can’t help myself
it’s like a magnet dragging me back
I want to go straight for you

it’s a bit hard to think
when you’re crying over life

I’m still hanging out
but it’s in its last stages

freedom is the most important thing
but we have to do time for the crime
that I wish we never done

anyway I’ll look after myself

forever yours
name deleted

The Kangaloon

2009-06-19T10:37:00.002+10:00

One evening down by Glow-Worm Glen
we noticed, in the dark,
the glow-worms with their bags all packed
leaving the national park!

“The Kangaloon”, said one of them
as they passed us on the track,
“it’s terrified us half to death
with all its thump and thwack.”

We were a little frightened
as we went on down the glen,
and soon there was this thumping noise.
Wait! There it goes again.

The full moon now was rising
and then an awful “Screek!”
came from behind a tree-fern
just past Bong-Bong Creek.

“The Kangaloon!”, we said at once
and there, in moonlight’s glow,
the strangest thing you ever saw
was putting on a show.

With legs and tail of kangaroo
it bounced with leaps so wide.
Its top half, like an emu,
swayed from side to side.

“It’s so bizarre”, we heard it say,
“when full moon comes around
I get into a crazy mood
and thump along the ground.”

“Don’t go away”, we pleaded,
“we want to see some more.
Your dance is really quite unique.
What else have you in store?”

This cheered the Kangaloon a lot.
It flapped and squawked and twirled,
making all the bush around
into a magic world.

And one by one, little green lights
were flashing now and then.
The glow-worms, hearing all the fun
had come back to the glen.

So now the happy Kangaloon
performs each full moon night,
with lighting by the glow-worms
who add to the delight.

Doldrums

2009-06-15T22:01:00.000+10:00

Sometimes the evening ends
in sombre squalls
then dead calm falls
upon the chopped-up waters
and like a sailor becalmed
I wait on a sea of lead
for a new wind
to lift my sails
dreaming of Atlantic gales
and the voyage
to my Aran Islands

Cozzie

2009-06-15T21:52:00.001+10:00

sunrise, black cozzie
in a heap
on the surf club steps

women’s one-piece
‘Rival’ size 12
Made in Australia

sand-ridden, abandoned
well-worn
forlorn

but enough perhaps
to inspire an opera
by a sun-bleached Mozart

Distracted Muse

2009-06-15T07:35:00.002+10:00

Isn't it amazing, poets,
what comes between us and
poetry?
That privet root I didn't notice
till I was hanging out the washing.
And the car registration -
Gods! they'll never give me another pink slip.
No, I am not going to do another load of washing
or pick up that piece of old spaghetti
- even the lizards are trying to hypnotize me -
or think about the dog's fleas
or the two mice
that went walking in the kitchen last night.
Only a strong coffee can get me started now.
If I could just track down that green folder
or is it the blue one?
No, lizards, you will not have your way
for I must needs reflect upon
my poet's epitaph.

Tantaloup

2009-06-15T07:29:00.000+10:00

A Tantaloup went skooning by
one fol and finxal day.
Its wibble troot was all a-snoot
as it gimpled me away.

“What sooth?” said I, quite queasly,
while shangling down its mane,
but when the mauxite tindled,
it peavesly shimmed again.

O wimsful night so kloozy,
with all the polps a-twink.
The Tantaloup now chintzled up
and snued me with a wink.

It swelt so grood beside me,
I furbled with it there,
we smailed away the hours,
I tweened its loxum hair.

“O bloomsy Tantaloup”, I said,
all quevelling and queet,
“Please stay, I’ll gloon without you”,
but it just pobbled down the street.

So if you see a Tantaloup
a-skooning by the sea,
please take a photo of it
and post it off to me.

Computer age

2009-06-15T07:02:00.002+10:00

To create a new style
select CREATE

Paranoia

2009-06-15T07:02:00.001+10:00

I think
therefore I shrink

Drought

2009-06-15T07:00:00.002+10:00

They prayed at St Mary's Cathedral
for the farmers and the drought.
It rained on St Marys Cathedral

On the lifting of the US embargo on Vietnam

2009-06-15T06:58:00.000+10:00

Tread softly
for you tread
on our graves

Rings of Saturn

2009-06-12T14:45:00.001+10:00

A cold night in September.
No moon.
We searched the heavens, you and I,
and found together
the rings of Saturn.

Other things weren’t so clear.
We turned our telescope
onto love and loss,
loathing and leaving,
focussed our sorrows,
tried on different lenses.

Mars was bright but milky,
and as for the nameless cloud
somewhere beyond Antares,
we’d have to consult the charts.

From too much peering into the black
our vision frosted over.
Your pain and fear,
remembered grief,
long slow orbits
of luminous and dark planets.

We packed up the telescope,
finished our muscat,
and felt a little closer,
went back to our separate universe.

Etched on my memory’s glass
the stately, unmoved
rings of Saturn.

(1988)

Runner in the Sea

2009-06-12T13:17:00.000+10:00

(for my father)

I helped the old runner today.
I swept his kitchen floor.
A survivor and a hero
though he never went to war.

When the call came for volunteers
the runner was on crutches.
A motorcycle accident
had saved him from the trenches.

One day I found the medals
he was much too shy to show.
Long distance champ of New South Wales,
but that was long ago.

Seventy-eight not out
and both his hips are gone.
Crutches are his best mates now,
they keep him out of a home.

And every morning, if pain allows,
he gets down to the bay,
hangs his stick along the net
and wades out and away.

Then drags himself up the beach
of his own Gallipoli.
Too proud, he asks no pity,
just freedom and the sea.

Paris

2009-06-12T11:32:00.000+10:00

I have opened up to the rain
and the cool damp air of night.
White cockies squawk in the dark
complaining about the weather change
after a day of blue autumn.
The house is silent.
All gone to bed.
And it's not just the coffee
that's keeping me awake I swear
in my suburban forties
but thinking: Paris
and why anyone would want to go there
in the middle of winter.

(1989)

Empress Falls, Blue Mountains

2009-06-12T11:27:00.000+10:00

At first you worry about
your shoes getting wet
then you realise
you are walking on poetry.

You think
I'd better go and open the shop
but the falling streams hold you
in their crystal veils
as in a syren's tresses.

Let them wait
to drink their cups of tea
for I am intoxicated
by nectar draughts
drawn down steps
hewn of brute stone
by poets

creativity

2009-06-12T11:22:00.000+10:00

now that the kids play tennis on Saturdays
now that the grass won't stop growing
now that the mortgage went up half a percent
now that there are programs to be recorded
now that I work three nights a week
now that the back door needs painting
now that we want another room
now that my father's back on the grog
now that I've just remembered Mother's day
there can be no excuse
for not writing
a poem

Turning 40

2009-06-12T11:20:00.000+10:00

Hey, I'm in the Top 40
I said to my kids.
Yeah, Dad, said Julian,
but you're number 40.

family tree

2009-06-12T11:14:00.000+10:00

on a family tree
is it true that there's a leaf
for every person?

(question from my son Sylvan, 7)

haiku

2009-06-12T11:04:00.000+10:00

Cambodia
ghosts stalk pagodas
in their hunger crying out
children, please feed us

Blackheath
The white cloud's rising
I'm in it, like it or not
then all disappears

After fire
tree bones stick out black
through the pearly skin of mist
begging for green

Newtown Boy

2009-06-12T09:34:00.002+10:00

Sittin' on the gasbox, waitin' for me dad.
He's at the pub. Fridays he celebrates
and puts on a funny voice.

Joy Pithers across the street, she's in kindergarten too.
I'll bet her dad is home. Never seen him but.
Dawn Keeler's father, the funeral man, he's rich.
They're gunna get a television
soon as they switch it on from America.
First thing will be Mickey Mouse.
I'll be seven then.

Joy Pithers kissed me, sittin' on the gasbox,
but I love Christine Parker
cause she's got long brown hair down to her bottom.
When she sits on the scripture mat
I make plaits for her and play with her red ribbons.

On Fridays Dad gets drunk and wobbles his bike down the side
but he always brings us fish and scallops,
fruit tingles, steam rollers, choo choo bars and cherry ripes.
I fight my sister for the green fruit tingles.

Other days, Dad puts me on his handlebars
- he made a seat for me -
and rides me up to the very end of Station Street
across the big road
and we watch the trains go past.
I wave to the guards and they wave back.

Sittin' on the gasbox I can see into Salmon Park
where the Dutch boy who called me a bloody basket
threw a rock and split my head open.
I didn't have to go to hospital but.
I shouldn't have called him a dago.

The street light just came on.
Now those big flying ants
will bump against the globe until they're fried.
Yesterday my tortoise died
after Mr Morris ran over it in his semi-trailer.

Here's my last green one.
I've been saving it for a week.
Fizzing in my mouth, tickling under my tongue.
I wish a car would come past.

Hey, I can smell fish and scallops.
I'm standing on the gasbox, waving.
It's my dad, on the old green bike.