Blood Brothers

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

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

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

- 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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To create a new style
select CREATE

Paranoia

I think
therefore I shrink

Drought

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

Tread softly
for you tread
on our graves

Rings of Saturn

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

(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

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

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

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

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

family tree

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

(question from my son Sylvan, 7)

haiku

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

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.