Goldfish

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                                             

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… 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

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

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

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.