Volume XII - Book II

Black Death:

The Demise of the Postmodern…?

Noël Tointon

2003

This book
is dedicated to
my following friends:

David,
Marc,
Robert,
Michael,
Tom
and 
John…

who 
patiently
helped it reach
the form it has
although I alone
bear all responsibility
for its many imperfections….

Preface in the Form of a Postscript

	I would like this opportunity to individually comment on each of these poems rather than write a formal preface for this book of poems. The reader, should they wish, need not refer to these miscellaneous notes on my understanding of the various intentions operating in these miniature visions of our universe. If a particular poem should puzzle them in some manner or other then they might like to refer back to this set of comments essentially written as a postscript. 

	This book is written without titles. By this strategy I am suggesting their interconnection – as fragmentary visions of the life-world. Lest I be thought a person who does not like a title let me say that I love a good title. A good title is a mis-representation of that work titled by that address whose irony, once perceived, can add a delightful dimension to that literary work. In the same manner the introduction of a poem, even the body of that poem, does the same thing, i.e., essentially mis-represent it, which, when seen through, ‘shows’ you the essential nature of that work of literature. In the same vein a literary text must be more than just the mere text of that text. A good poem, e.g., can never be a pure description, purely a narrative piece of history, merely an imaginary tale, etc. In effect, the real poem is found between the lines as a reflection of the skill of the writer of that text, and, also, I should add, as a poem discovered through the skill of its reader. Without an audience a poem could not speak regardless of whether what is both said and not said is charming, inelegant, subtle or prosaic…

	I have numbered the poems at the end of each work (in the same fashion Sanskrit poems are numbered).

1.	The first poem is an oscillation between the personification of an animal and its refrain-like commentary.

2.	An exercise in writing a regular sonnet. Note the suppression of rhythm in the words ‘sweetly unblinking’. The third last line plays with synaesthesia, a motif taken up in a number of other poems in this volume. 

3.	An erotic poem where nothing is explicitly said but which in its ‘silence’ says more than enough for us to know what is going on. This poem was generated from the comment mentioned in the third verse-section. Note the tension between silence and sound, naked and clothed, etc.

4.	Just what is being talked about – babies or mobiles or…?

5.	A poem constructed between a large set of different voices.

6.	A long poem looking at the interpretation of the texture of the world….

7.	A haiku whose month is set in Spring. Used as a page filler, and the first of four haiku on the four seasons.

8.	A bush-fire poem (echoing the bush-fire poem in the previous volume) written with five syllables per line.

9.	Another exercise in writing a regular sonnet. Note the play on words written in italics. The theme of cheating is explored – just who is being cheated when the world of others is involved…?

10.	A love poem written between two separated lines exploring nihilistic images.

11.	A very sad haiku set in Summer… a simple puzzle?

12.	A poem generated between two lines that sound the same with different meanings. An erotic poem with interesting symmetries and asymmetries.

13.	A light, humorous poem whose last line echoes the last line of the first poem in this book with the addition of a visual component.

14.	A poem in two halves on the subject of writer's block and the nature of poetry.

15.	A haiku set in Autumn – this time the leaves are not just falling but returning to the trees!

16.	A set of eight meditations on food.

17.	A haiku set in Winter… with allusions to the nature of poetry, gifts, self and death…

18.	A satire on philosophy in three sonnets constructed out of couplets.

19.	A love sonnet dealing with a vast variety of parallelisms. The final couplet being a pseudo textual-like citation with at least three narrative interpretations… A pun on ‘scented’ reinforcing the tantric subtext of this poem.

20.	A poem in four syllables per line echoing poem no. 5.

21.	A haiku making a reference to the recent Iraqi war.

22.	A love sonnet (as if there could be any other?).

23.	An urban poem with an overlapping mixing of images.

24.	An overlapping mixture of images in four syllables per line on the themes of SARS, flying, disease and death.

25.	Light-hearted, wishful autobiography playing on my original accent.

26.	Some observations on the night-life (seen before and after doing nightshift).

27.	A sonnet that looks at the space between music, food, drink and love.

28.	In each of my sonnet cycles, and most of these current sonnets in this volume now seem to be destined to be so gathered, I always have one that enters a depressed mood seemingly without hope of salvation. Note the theme of wine is linked before and after this particular sonnet. But this sonnet is not without some small degree of hope… is the lover savoured by the beloved, is there a succession of rebirth?

29.	Another catalogue sonnet with a repetition of themes between octet and sestet but from a different angle and in a more vague, surreal style. The paradox of the orgasm, first three words of the last line, is looked at phenomenologically. The last line could be interpreted as being said from three points of view – from the point of view of the lover, the beloved and the relationship itself.

30.	Once more I have echoed (through misprision) one of my favourite poem by Walt Whitman, When I Heard at the Close of Day.

31.	A set of seven haiku in an ironic mode with more of the qualities of a haiku outside them, as a set, than will be found within.

32.	A sonnet with a stellar flavour.

33.	Is the beloved a poet or not a poet? A sonnet that introduces the theme of suffering.

34.	A humorous haiku filler.

35.	A self-referential poem about books and poems… authors and poor poets.

36.	A completely depressed sonnet (the stage having been set by the sonnet “The juice of wine within this crystal glass” and explicitly hinted at in the last sonnet’s last line “Only in life’s workshop, suffering, learns….”). The last line is ambiguous – hinting at suicidal ideation? But, overall, the total effect could equally be comical?

37.	We are told why the lover suffers. The sestet plays upon the theme of moonbeams as taken up in poem no. 30, itself a play on a poem by Walt Whitman, a theme addressed one more time in the twelfth sonnet, poem no. 39.

38.	A sonnet that tries to undo the disappearance of the beloved in sonnets numbered 36. and 37.

39.	The final sonnet in the sequence of thirteen (a baker’s dozen because I cannot count) – but is it a real situation or only a dream? It is also a play on poem no. 37, itself a play on poem no. 30 itself a parody, in sonnet form, of a poem by Walt Whitman as noted above.

40.	Twelve urban haiku set in winter. Each one trying to capture an insight into modern life through playing with the ‘form’ itself.

41.	An experimental sequence of seven poems operating within and between the ‘space’ of the haiku and the sonnet set in a time frame straddling the depths of winter. Note the three ‘framing’ haiku represent, first, Autumn (with ironic notes on the word ‘cool’), Winter (obviously) and breezy Spring (with a period of time left before ‘the Fall’, namely, an implicit Summer still left to be seen out and thereby involving all four seasons and the year itself).

42.	A set of haiku on plum blossom. They can be read as a set, as two separate dozens, four sets of six, or, at random. They are loosely set within the time span of one day.

43.	An ironic text on the theme of shopping.

44.	A litany of praise for the common man… by default.

45.	A fourth set of variations on an unstated theme, namely, who in this psychiatric ward (previously named as Gardenia Grove) is more mad - patients, staff or the institution?

46.	A free poem on the poetry of life.

47.	A free poem on the colours of politics.

48.	A poem, or psalm, suggesting one thing but intending something else, vaguely echoing the form of a sonnet.

49.	One more poem on the words that form the main title to this book. Two verses with reversed rhyme, a summary line, and, a three line complaint or lament.

50.	Three free poems alluding to the Modern, Postmodern and the Contemporary eras involving a mix of many emotions and various other allusions.

						   Noël Tointon, Sydney, 6.11.03.

Note: The title theme of “black death” is found alluded to in various senses in poems no. 1, 20, 21 and 49.

Portly panda - 
Short-sighted prince
In his erstwhile kingdom 
Nibbling bamboo shoots;
On display in his green palace
Watched by all and sundry;
An exhibit in a park
Whose existence 
Will now depend 
On a cash flow
From the tourists…

…the right to self-exist
Is no more granted… alas…
In fashion one sun-filled day…
Gone the next…

A wise old owl
Rimmed with spectacles
Reading parchment bark
Writ with droppings 
Of mice and men,
No more he's paid 
Expertly to reflect
Upon the ways 
Of a tired world
Reduced… to bartering,
Placing a price
On the bald head 
Of  things-to-hand…

…the right to knowledge
Must now be done
In your own time,
At your expense…

In the séance
The scene was set,
Ghostly sheep would fleece
The litigant, 
“Be warned” we said,
“Beware bewigged mumblings
Costed by the quarter hour…”

…the right to unswayed justice
Is not bought here
For a paltry pittance,
Be read in lore -
Re-count fair tales
Of fairy-folk
Working for sacks of coins 
Beneath old, crooked trees
In your garden planted…

Preaching dignity
Old saintly crows
Retired "early to bed"
Said the gossips;
Loosing feathers
In wakeful sleep;
Need forgiveness -
Yet given none;
An empty plate
Drained of charity…

…the right to believe
Or disbelieve
Reduced to an 
Outstretched hand…

In sweet contrast
Prides of proud lions
No more disport themselves,
Upon the hillock hilltop,
Instead, we hear 
Packs of well-travelled hyenas
Sounding like parrots
Screeching, screaming 
"Polly wants a cracker",
Taking in lieu
A paid holiday… or two…
Or working trip…
Thank goodness… gone…

…the right to be represented
Won by the highest bidder -
A company man
In a grey suit sporting… 
A flashy school tie
Beneath the sheen of silk…

So athletic the swimming seal
Splashed across the billboards
That ornament the highway,
So cute and cuddly,
A smile like liquid sunshine
Well-reimbursed, 
The packaging 
Redolent with sense,
The smell of image stamped 
On each purchase…

…the right to win 
The commercial race
Sealed in winks and nods,
And blind handshakes…

Even black death 
Makes business,
Looking mournful
That Winter's warm…
And sneezing polar bears
Are only dying 
For a stiff drink
Whilst out picnicking…

…the right to create 
Is now long lost, 
Nothing’s home-made -
Forever bought… and sold…
In fine wrappings laid,
Placed in a box
In cardboard soft;
Painted like ancient mummies…
Meant to be disposed of…

So… so martial
The camouflaged tiger
No more selling prowess
To the underbidder,
The downtrodden,
Huddled on rafts
Of legislation…

…in the right to live or die
There now can be 
No gallantry,
No award well-won,
Only a fee
For the act done
Like your paying 
The grinning whore
By inserting…
Pale pieces of plastic..!

Alas… alas… what have we done,
We would even sell
Our own grandmum
If she would but sign…

"Here… on the dotted line…!" (1)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

      Skilfully brushed upon this fair forehead
Did dance most perfect locks of golden hair,
And eyes so sweetly unblinking that dare 
I look would fill my fearful thoughts with dread,
A painted picture pained with anguish bled,
A soul so proud of heart yet lost in prayer,
In deepest trance such looks engraved on air…
Bereft of love they seek a lover’s bed…
      I sigh… an aging page designed by one 
Great hand, the corner signed in smallest print 
"Edmund Dulac" - le maître de couleur
Whose silent shapes have caught in echoed fun
Such sad thoughts felt too deep to speak… yet hint
A world on fire still lit this very hour…. (2)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

The poetic body
Disarms with silent charm…

Waiting naked
Between the sheets
Or set adrift
Like a sole leaf 
Upon the ground
When attended to
What can poems
Tell you about themselves,
Their kith and kin..?

In formal suit or dress,
I guess, Modern poesy
Describes something
Filled with light and colour
In fancy, singing language
And sometimes says…
Something else..?

A suggestive dance of seven veils,
A shimmering body ne’er quite revealed…

While in tattered threads
A Postmodern poetry
Fractures the text,
Intends, hopefully,
Something other,
Often sounding bleak and dark, 
Confused… and lost…
Yet self-aware?

Open mouthed with astonishment,
Nakedness undresses you with its intent…

Whilst the brand New
In colourful garb,
In Contemporary speech,
With zest for experience,
Lives out the same
Replete with audience…

Through collusion, collision of images 
And words…  and noisy silences…

Ah…!

A friend once said
“Even the peeling of an apple
Could be turned into poetry…
By the real artist…”

…and remembered 
That hot Summer’s day
When still a student…
Taking my lunch
In a patch of forest
Not too far from 
the University…
reading Plato…

A dark skinned student
With Yankee accent
Wandered past and asked
“If he could sit there too…’’

I smiled and signalled 
My swift assent…

He was well-armed 
With a slim book of verse
And one bright red apple
For his dessert…

Seated he took 
A pocket knife
In his big skilful hands
And peeled that piece of fruit
In one long concentric strip
Which coming off the apple
Lengthened to such extent
That I could not 
But help admire
His handicraft…

“Hey,” he said, with a grin,
“You like the taste
of sweet white flesh...?

How could I say yes…
And how could I say no…
As a big chunk
Was proffer’d so,
Dripping… upon 
the end of his 
Out-pointed knife…

“Flesh tastes so much sweeter 
When shared,” he said,
Whilst I nodded
With my mouth full,
Quite embarrassed…
In hue as dark as that 
Freshly peeled skin…

Like cups of tea 
Well made by friend…
Relish that blend,
Seek that unsaid
Simplicity…

Ah..!

…the real poem,
What ever its garment,
Undresses itself
When it touches us.
True depths of style
Find full embodiment,
Re-enchantment, 
With an aura charged 
With dulcet whisperings
That see us beheld
By the soft embrace
Of tacit loves…

Would that we could always,
As if a book,
Read each other,
Be seduced by contents
And not misled 
By mere titles
Left lying spent 
Upon the flash ink or dye
That so impress
A dusty jacket-cover..!

…naked, fully clothed… who cares
When from the cornucopia 
The sweet nectar of ecstasy… 
overflows…. 

Ah…! (3)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

See how they twitch
And shudder…
When they call out
And mournful wail,
So out of tune,
Demand instant attendance,
Will wake you up
What ever the time
Of day or night;
Waiting parents
So devoted
To their charge,
Needing maintenance,
Such costly bills –
Bloody mobiles!
Damn telephones!
Better to raise 
A real child…
Send out one more
Gentleperson
To tread the boards
Of this stage lit
By sun and moon.
And when you call –
Truly listen -
Will want to say
They’ll see you soon.
But, such is fate
My children be
These unkempt poems
Screaming out.
So, instead, will settle
For a few good friends
Who, hopefully,
With their cell-phones,
Are still switched on…! (4)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

…the right to mirth
Must be paid for,
On the ledgers
Nought must be free…

In our sad state,
In crying out
Who will, once more,
Be made the jovial monkey,
In taking a stand
Will have their hairy butt smacked
In our media savvy society…

Each serious soul
Re-packaged,
Down-played as clown…
Then, turned full circle –
Behold - the stand-up comic
Made to ride piggy-back,
A laughing joke,
Atop their eponymous backers
In one, long infotainment break…

…their half-finished sentences
Mere invitations
For argument,
To butt on in
With warped comment, 
Ridicule, and bias
So sensational…
Which all sells so well..!

“Should marriage licences 
Be stamped by the year?
Children granted by permit?
Families insured for divorce?
We are bringing you 
The real issues
That face us today…
For your careful analysis…
And now a message 
From our sponsors…”

[Insert here one string of ads…
For booze, and fancy cars,
Detergents, shampoos, or bras,
White goods for good white folk,
Ephemera for teens,
Sweets and chips for nagging kids,
Trends in fashion therapy,
Designer gear to challenge 
Sporty spectators,
Then endless promos..!]

{O how I hate the ads.,
He often thinks to self,
“But who am I”
To bite the hands that feed
This gilded bird-cage – moi?!}

“In our constitutional monarchy,
Or rather, our ersatz republic,
Today, do we have a need
For philosophers,
By that I mean  –
Have a real need,
What do they produce? –
Nothing but madness 
And mayhem I say!
If you have an opinion
On this topic,
Feel you would like to share it,
Then please ring this number…
And our phones will be waiting for you…”

Instant reflection –
Just add fizzy water, 
Fluffed up with debate
And half-bake
On heated..!

So sad the land
That only feeds
The paying hand…!

In such a state,
In such a state
People would even watch 
The sunset
On their television…
With text, fast forward 
And instant replay…
In the middle of the night…
Or over breakfast 
Crunching through a serial…
Doing the washing up
With their favourite soap…

[And don’t forget
To keep on repeating 
The name and praise
Of your sponsor -
That hand paying 
For this poetic time…
Which snugly sits inside 
Your back pocket…
This fact forgotten, 
Conveniently…
Unmentioned…]

Your mind out-shouted 
By the box…!
Your mind already read
By newspapers…
Your mind thought aloud
On the wireless,
Even movies
Pulling strings like puppets,
Tugging your feelings,
Shifting emotions,
Transforming us 
Into a sick joke,
Moulding us into dummies
Singing for our supper,
Dancing to the mighty dollar…

‘Which one, which one?’
You might ask…
As if you didn’t know…!

All humour has a point,
A butt about to be smacked,
In time - soon yours,
A mere rehearsal…
Before that last curtain call,
Before they note your absence
As if nothing had happened…
Of course… made real 
On television…
When repeated ten thousand times…
With a nod and a yawn…
A blink in time,
A wrinkled ripple in
The endless circling 
Of infinity:
Causes without cause,
Effects without effect,
Mere consequences
Like the twinkling
Of sprinkled glitter…
As if echoing 
A stellar fate
Stalking each star…

…Blind and blinding
That flash of light
From so afar…

…a hollow laugh,
Pure satire,
Immensely popular,
Repeated just for fun,
Will wipe you out
But not your karmic score…

…I hear you laugh…

…the right to mirth
Must be paid for,
On the ledgers
Nought must be free…

Ha, ha… 

I hear you laugh..?

He, he...

No more..!? (5)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

One Sunday morning
Out singing to itself…
A hot Summer's sun,
One more art gallery…
In a near empty room
Feel relief to find 
A working telescope 
Offering its services free…

Looking out across the harbour,
Beyond the white bluffs of 
The Opera House,
Contemplate that other shore…

As a god hovering
Above the silent licking
Of the lapping waves,
My feet suspended
Firmly on nothing
Walk out across the void…

Espy a world 
Of miniature figures
Caught so unaware,
Can not perceive
This observer
Has them closely watched…

A sweat-soaked jogger
Removes his damp T-shirt,
Torso winking
In the glistening morn…
Racing home for lunch,
A weekend shaper
Shifting gears with 
The slightest shudder…
 Remnant-limping,
An aging kangaroo 
With new tail and 
Pouch filled with keys,
And twenty-dollar note,
Should he need
A taxi home…

An old lady hobbles
From a car-park
To the front door
Of a block of flats 
Accompanied 
By two young lads,
Her proud grandsons…
In khakhi shorts,
Close-clipped blond hair,
Boy scouts 
In all but name…

On a balcony above, 
Red as a lobster,
A man was trying 
To read a book…
Now fast asleep…

Ferry flashes into view,
Eager travellers
Keen to disembark
Cluster around
The waiting gangplank…

Young boy with wavy hair
Sets his small yacht
In a zig-zag pattern
Lost in his art…

Essential snap-shots
Of the city
Still replayed,
Perfectly framed
Through a round lens…
Reproduced on paper…

Some passengers met
By friends with hugs
And kisses, laughter
Almost heard from here…

Today our meetings 
and partings imitate
The passing clouds above;
Alas, one more thunder storm
Running out of steam…
Will mighty rumble…
Then… soon fade away…

In the mist
Unfolded on a scroll
Scholars in China
Once bade fond farewell
To same-thinking friends
With wine and tears…
These servants scattered
About the Empire -
Flocks of birds
Instructed to land
Without each other…
Only a few summoned
To the capital,
Such a calling
Not without danger…
Exchanging letters
A few times each year…

But the mind wanders…
Hard as we look
We find no facts…
Only interpretations…
Smirking speculation,
Mental edifices
Grounded in 'reality'
Kicked into being
As if pulled up 
By their bootlaces…

Our runner once
Was a champion of the field,
Springing forth then day by day,
Now echoed only in injuries…
Our grandmother -
But a friend of the man 
On the balcony
Laid out like a corpse 
Dreaming that the door bell-rang…
Dropping his book
And his sun glasses
In waking up…
Her grandsons -
Mere neighbours
Helping out…
No-one the traveller,
Only the illusion 
Of a wandering moment
In the present…
Our teenager thinks
He is sailing,
Just blown by winds of chance,
Clutching phantom straws,
A lone hand
Upon the tiller…

Our thoughts 
a mere commentary
Upon the texture 
Of the world…
All sense of self
As drunk as a vacant dream
Unsteady on its feet…
An elusive elixir…
Bane of philosophers…
Deadly hemlock
Drunk by visionaries…
Bitter-sweet nectar
Of the novelist…
Premium wine beyond 
The impossible reach
Of the realist
Whose embroidered fantasy
Never finds
The fine fabric
Beneath the design…

Appearances are so deceptive:
Bubbles floating
Into deeper space…
Cumulus congregating
On the horizon…
Mere icing upon 
An unseen cake…
Traces of a trace
Scratched out…
A flicker of light
Flashing between
Frames of film 
In a universal camera… 
A cosmic hologram… 
Smile… 
You are having 
Your picture taken..!

Always, always
Your picture 
is being taken…
Moment by moment
Your sweet smile
Should endure
Without effort,
Without thinking…

Fixed in the rain,
Hung out to dry,
Flapping in the breeze…
An echo in the sky…
Nameless,
Without title,
Reverberating in the wind
As animated as
A lover's sigh…
Filled with deep desire,
Burning bright…
An empty house…
On fire…. (6)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

Walking on hots coals:
Lizards cross orange gravel…
Into life springing…. (7)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

Off to the Ballroom, 
No where else to go
At the Medlow Bath…

Should we have some tea,
Should we have a dance..?

Re-read the papers…
Not yet delivered…

Look out the windows,
Watch the bush fire stain
The glass bright crimson,
Or trace the shadows
Across the ceiling
Swirling in a waltz,
See the seeping smoke
From under the doors
Do a slow tango,
Smell the burnt odour
Of vaporised wood;
This passing pavan
Troubled by hiss of 
Escalating flames 
Just licking the roof,
Shaken by rumbling
Helicopters caught
In a drunken reel
Dumping huge buckets
Dwarfed by white hot flames
Feeding choking plumes, 
Charred leafy litter 
Spiralling into 
A smoke-filled heaven
Drained of all colour,
An ashen, shrouded
Shade portending death..!

Save the last dance, please,
Save that one for me,
By your pretty side
Let’s forever glide
As free as the breeze,
As free as the waves
That sweep up the shore…
And sweep back once more…

Save the last dance, please,
Save that one for me,
By your pretty side
Let’s forever glide
Like companion stars,
As free as the sky,
Like faithful love birds…
‘Til the day we die…. (8) 

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

In simple gestures shown you made it known
Your love is mine to dig… or deeply reap
The sweet reward in signs that I should keep
In whose embrace his kiss could I now own;
All said without the trace of words on loan,
Their clear intent from longing face did seep
With subtle silent cries up bubbling, leap
With promise hinted at in haunting tone?
But sadness so be mine to harvest too
For in this hardened heart I here must lie,
Ignore his suit with eyes that cannot meet
And yet give no offence, enjoy the view,
Like the tourist he be, although I sigh 
And say to self "it would be me… to cheat…." (9) 

[‘Cheat’ -With respect to whom?
At least three simultaneous readings here?]
      * * * * * * * * * * * 
…laughter in the hall…

in the magic of the moment
like damp dreams we met,
and in that passage
bumped into each other
substantial as one atom
waltzing with its partner
even though we were but
transcendental illusions -
monumental egos…
all smoke and mirrors…
reified, distorted, projected
into a world that does not exist,
fleshed out with desires of attachment 
dancing like puppets…
rejected when your eyes  
then looked the other way…
wanted - then ignored, 
dismissed…
such is life…
such is death…
such bitter parting
yet how could something die
when there’s nought that could…
an empty cypher…
one zero,
one persona
shattered on the floor,
its self a mirage
beckoning…
through an open door…
but none can leave 
since none can enter…
a passing shadow
in reflection given back
upon the water,
a bird call in the mist
disembodied, 
fleeting…
lingering…
only as an echo,
in ferment…
like trace of scent
upon the heated breeze…
rekindled…

every second…. (10)

* * * * * * * * * * * *
Out courting sunlight
Two black butterflies alight…
Then… away flies one…. 11)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

O hot, sweaty night…

Doesn’t sound so nice in Latin…

In through the door
My mind’s eye wanders
Into a singles-bar
Awash with reddened glow…

While the bus waits
For a change of lights…

She sits on a high stool
Beside the barman’s bench
Rehearsing the next cigarette,
Legs crossed, 
Trying to look nonchalant…

Overhead the fans turn 
Without too much hurry…

No talent here yet
Is read on her disappointed face,
Maybe later…
In that last minute rush..?

She re-crosses her legs…

Sip… puff…

Is She dreaming of an Arab
Wandering from one oasis 
To the next…
A debonair Italian…
A Maltese fellow with his gold…
An English lord…
Even Irish...?

No prospective husband,
Not yet…

Prefers to shop 
In second hand boutiques,
You never know
What you might meet
Unexpected…

The bus shaking me
From this reverie…

Seated, facing opposite,
A young waiter watching
Then caught my eye…
His black bow-tie 
Peeping from his top pocket,
Shirt undone three notches,
Dark hair glistening…

Sharing a nervous smile,
He feeling shy
In this intimate moment
Fiddling with his
Slippery mobile…

"' A penny for your thoughts'
As they used to say…"

O hot, sweaty knight…. (12)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

(The) pretentious cake-shop
Now has a fly…
A big, black blowie…
Quite content in the window
To walk its icy continent,
Savour the savouries,
Lick, lick the cream…
With heavy footprints sign
These works of art
Along… the dotted line…. (13)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

Why does my pen
Refuse to move,
Be moved…
When we bump into 
A world of poems
All the time..?
So many…
Unread…
Unnoticed…
You just have to look –
And there they are…
Slipping silently past,
Fabulous creatures
Of the day and night,
Creeping up 
In the dawn,
Fading in the set,
Waiting for moonlight,
Wishing upon a star,
Dreams of the soul
Glimpsed… 
From afar…

Images seen…
On the television screen
Of the mind…
In review…
Felt translated 
To spilt ink,
Written down
In reflected words,
Crafted in a package -
A gift, self-appointed
To fall and sing
Before you…
Be moved to dance…
In the swirling space
In between, anon,
Declaim with vivid voice..!
With true eyes hear..!
With true ears see..!
With true heart… now…
Compose yourself…
Break through in words…
Write on…! (14)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

Scattered in the breeze, 
Loose poems from a folder 
Ornament the trees…. (15)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

When the coffee shop shuts at ten,
And its exclusive cliental go night-clubbing,
The homeless take to sitting on its doorstep
Eating pizza or pie, drinking beer or wine…
Strange… I thought these premises had no license… 
Without a hurry, with no dead-lines to die for,
Its faithful patrons appear more civilised…! (16a)

Even the rich eat olives… today they just pay more…. (16b)

Smell of croissants reminds me of Paris…
First mouthful brings me back to Sydney…! (16c)

Every café should have a hint of mystery,
How they calculated the bill left me mystified…! (16d)

Having a machine for coffee
Is not quite the real thing
Unless I sip my cup
Seated upon the balcony…. (16e)

So much choice, so much choice,
But, alas, cannot find
Those cakes for a few pence
Bought when I was a child…. (16f)

On a diet…
And even the stale fragrance
Of the old, damp corner store
Smells good…! (16g)

O for a restaurant that might curry the tripe, 
Bake a bacon and egg pie unlike quiche,
Produce a macaroni and cheese dish
Set in a white sauce without wine
Or the blood of a single tomato, 
Make a mean salad with curled parsley
Dolloped with thick home-made mayonnaise,
Serve stewed quince with fresh whipped cream,
Bring a pot of tea floating with residual tea-leaves
And a buttered plate hot with pikelets, raspberry jam…
Ah, such simple pleasures of my youth…
Gladly would I trade French cuisine,
Italian pasta, Thai and Vietnamese
For the mere scent of a past still remembered…! (16h)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

Lone haiku present…
Condom packet on the street…
Waiting… fully wrapped…. (17)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

Plato(n) hated poetry - worldly imagery
Twice removed from heaven-sent reality;
Such hypocrisy - the old man would use
Mythology to teach truth steeped in lies….
"Bring back the poets", I say, pay them well,
Buy up their books and have them eager tell
The stories of a kind that make us men
And proud women too, and simple children…
Happy to run across a wild landscape
Awash with water draped with verdant shape,
Before, with burrowed brow, we find old books
And old books find us enthralled in their looks
Of sheer deceit, that musty leaves should see
Hoary white men talking so pointlessly…!

Must Aristotle meet his Prime Mover?
Have you worked through Plotin's entire oeuvre,
Discoursed on The Nature of Things, discussed
Locke's simple thoughts, shut the book with disgust,
Read Kant's categorical imperative
Whilst sipping an expensive aperitif,
Debated Husserl's and Heidigger's 'world’
Or be by the design of dasein hurled…
Into death-bound projects not quite your own,
Entombed in a body felt left alone,
Or, found yourself deranged by Derrida
When doing your deconstructions thought far
Too difficult to do without computer
Or Cartesian robot of the future…?

Why do philosophy when it does you!
Is there no better way this world review,
A thousand books to read just to begin,
With enough paper to wrap a mountain,
Though a thoughtful present, a gold one too,
With enough disputes to melt an igloo,
And don't forget, in translation, cultures
From exotic East to Western ventures…
All poking fun at people's lack of wit,
Will make monkeys of us slow bit by bit - 
Laugh, know it's all a joke, a twisted plot,
A squeaky tool with purpose quite forgot:
A rusty lamp, behold its ornate handle,
In gloomy cave, admired by foolish candle..?! (18)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

My tantric master-mistress of my heart;
Whose Cheshire smile alone has staked his claim;
Whose lips and ivory teeth completely tame
This soul as his, has secret signs that chart
One course, one love, one pact to never part…
With innate promises that sweet proclaim
In letters sealed that Night may sing his name
Within his holy courts… till death depart…
A rosy Sun will soon be borne aloft
While jasmine Moon has sailed o’er edges soft 
Of clouded world below where hand in hand
Our love divides on sleep's deep dreaming sand…
To wake, and walk, and watch, now arm and arm,
As breezy heaven sighs one scented psalm…. (19)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

He, he; ha, ha..!

Rude fellow Death
Is a rough mate,
Will sometimes keep
An appointment,
Yet other times
Will just turn up…

Unexpected
Expectedness,
That ultimate
Consultation…

Die death dark black,
Black death, dark death,
That death of light,
That death of life,
The gate crasher
Who’ll party not
Today… tonight…
Nor tomorrow…

Here’s the riddle:
What's born shall die,
What has no birth 
Shall have no death,
Has no life too,
So death shall die,
And life shall live,
Long live this view..!

Living, dying,
What difference, 
Since naught is born
Thence naught shall die
And in laughter
Find my echo
Just as funny..?

He, he; ha, ha…!

Still, loss is felt,
No more my friend
Shall lie beside
Me in full truth,
Meeting, meeting
Unexpected
Expectedness…

A comic clown
Still cries when down,
So have pity
For his fun face
In mirror seen
Is also yours…

And now a pause
For a message
From your sponsor…

He, he; ha, ha..!

Would have to be
Some trickster guy…

Without sense nor
Trace of humour…! (20)

* * * * * * * * * * * *

During recent war
The corner shop every night
Burnt like a candle…. (21)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

By fated die am I no star of screen,
Nor wealthy magnate seated on ten boards,
Nor mentioned noble in a House of Lords,
Not once on wireless aired, nor tv been,
No photo shot in press or magazine,
No tragic actor pricked by paper swords,
Only a poet, winning no awards,
A part-time scribbler still unheard, unseen…
Yet you have found in me a worthy star,
A man to share your fortunate estate,
In your sweet looks you see a princely sight,
Announce your love, and your constant delight,
Prefer to meet me in the flesh innate,
Without pretence inspire my pen… so far…! (22)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

While walking the dog,
Through the rush of people
Night-sweat turns to rain
As showers dance
Upon the footpath.
For some, Friday night
Is like no other,
Except Saturday, sometimes…
At finish of work,
By Six, the city beats
To a different pulse,
Disports itself in gear
As worn to work
Or just put on…
Out on display –
Like the tails of lyrebirds:
Modern here or
Bare postmodern black,
Ethnic there or just laid back,
Or squalid… blue jeans 
Sadly in need of wash
All worn so seriously
As playful badges that say:
Here I am, this is me,
Available, still searching, 
Wanted – one good home;
Neatly clipped, or rather hairy,
Quite sleek, or pretty,
Or just a stray
In need of a drink…
So very thirsty…
So very thirsty…! (23)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

High anxiety…
Simply sweating…
A need to piss…

Take your ticket,
This lottery,
“Now boarding soon
Through gate 13.”

Your number’s up
On flashing screen 
As death still stalks
By day and night!

Wear paper mask
When you fly in
As terminal
Emptiness screams
welcome headline:
“Still more cases…”
On tabloid page.

Severe Acute
Respiratory
Syndrome mystery…
A modern plague
Ready waiting,
No mice this time,
Nor fleas of rat,
Just passengers
On nervous air
Like flies dropping
In dead of night…

In hot water
Slowly drowning,
No sea in sight
Nor lake nor pond;
Two plastic sacks
Overflowing,
Without a tap…! (24)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

I am a fucked-up pussy cat
Hooked on books,
Trinkets and baubles make me smile,
Feed me chips… and cheese 
And dark black chocolate,
Give me Armani suits 
Second hand still fresh 
With owner…
Take me on your travels,
Will gladly carry those bags
If not too heavy, 
Ride with you on a camel
With arms around your waist
Across the desert
Watching shooting stars,
Or, just settle in for the night
With a few videos
Escaping all heavy thought…
And mindless chatter…
I am - Agent sixty-six,
Still on Her Majesty’s Service…
Between the sheets…
And under cover…
Purr…
Yeesss…! (25)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

Creatures of the night
Will rarely catch sight
Of wondrous heavens,
Tiny jewels twinkling
In unseen millions…
Just caught in glare 
Of spot-lit city 
Everyone's a star
Too busy chasing
Drifting clouds dreaming
About rainbow snakes
Discoing across 
The thumping dance floor…
All things live and wired
Must keep, keep moving,
Meeting old stranger,
New friends without name,
Too mixed up to greet 
Them with fresh sentences, 
Too stirred to head home, 
Seek sweet peace of sleep 
Embraced arm and arm…
Lone sun soon stakes out
Its patch of cosmos
Painting a picture
Of pale, blotchy skin
And complexions ringed
With orbits sallow, 
Sunken and hollow,
Clipped conversations
Sounding so shallow…
Our partying folk
Wander on as if
On a beach washed up,
Some lads bare-chested,
Moving through a sea
Of hurried workers,
Strung out milky-ways
Of chiselled faces 
Collapsing into
The central locus
Of the CBD…. 
From different planet 
Denizens of day
Still wanting to play…
Beyond recovery…. (26) 

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

If music be the food of love play on…
But now know not if I should be that score,
Or player too, or if played on as more
Mere instrument, in ecstasy, anon,
Banged drum or harpsichord reborn in bon
Ravalement or soft blown flute, implore
A deft angelic harp with pedals for
Those needed notes within a newer tone.
But, so confused am I that, thankfully,
My skilful Love knows well to wise conduct
The pure perfection of our symphony,
A wine to be long savoured without waste,
A bouquet full of tunes from ether plucked,
An instant banquet blessed with constant taste…. (27)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

The juice of wine within this crystal glass
Has fled as from the shattered bottle bought,
As from the wooden cask in hewn oak sought
To catch the grapes no longer made to pass
Beneath those feet in vats well stomped en masse,
Then through mesh sieve and tank and channelled caught
To wait its time, ferment, till patient brought
To perfection and, packaged, wine shop past.
Congealed in dregs my life like clotted blood 
It seems is same way aged and treated so,
Upon this skin is stamped a branded name
Then drunk one day beneath his lips aglow,
Savoured, I think, and noticed with small fame
Till took no more except by fire and mud…! (28)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

Charmer of snakes, a sculptor of desire;
Scientist thou art and alchemist too;
Sure rider of wild horses, marksman true;
Spirited sage ascending silver wire;
Deep searching shaman dreaming he’s on fire;
A yogin wise with wisdom through and through;
Though now no more mere boy, yet in review
The whole world sees a soul they must admire.
Manly serpent, mere mask in dying throes;
The eyes near shut, with mouth and magic lips
Decanting spells that he no longer hears;
Heated the sigh now shot from heaving hips;
Entranced his self descends, and disappears…
Alone, yet one… till kissed by welcome nose…. (29)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

In darkened room no moon-light beams to see,
To shine upon his finely chiselled face,
In depths of night no flood of tidal race
To lap the shore where city traffic flee,
With distant sound of dogs no crickets be
In song this late on leafy frosted lace,
While drunken louts and broken glass in chase
The sky has bolted thunder clapping me…
I stretch and take a bow as he awakes
From gentle sleep, without desire for fame,
I only seek in his good grace my name
On his full lips, all else no difference makes…
As we embrace he whispers soft to me
“Its time to kiss… declaim real poetry….” (30)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

Waiting for green light
Native sang a tribal song
With the window down….

Sleeping on the street
The dark fellow dreamt of home
Just before he died….

In pub, after work,
Buying rounds black man forgot
His mates were all white….

On circle of crates
They talked in the cold of night
Of black death, land rights….

The circle replaced
By coffee shop on concrete…
Until winter came…!

Sacred corner site:
A pub, bottle-store, pokies,
And one TAB…. 

In his dark-black suit
The aboriginal man
Gave the drunk a smoke…. (31)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

The winking stars still hold their mystery,
Thick books may number them as they appear,
Old tomes declare the gods be dancing there;
With partners some whilst others single be,
Yet more trace out the shapes of destiny;
Each twinkling light in tints and tones will bear
A spectral semblance spread throughout the year
To woven rugs hand-made with mastery…
And born beneath these signs like grains of sand
Have found each blinking soul a living land
Of charm soon lost or won by luck or trial,
Once laid quick worn away to weakened pile,
Unravelled, all with story, yet ‘tis true
Though each unique who’s more divine than you..?! (32)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

I sing to you fine praises, you sing mine,
But now before your holy haloed frame 
Must beg and borrow my poor verse from same,
To twist syntax betwixt semantic line
And steal and drink your rarest, literal wine,
To bask within your moonlit bardic fame
A poorer sun am I, ought you to shame
My meagre fruits retold in your design…
Without one word on whispered breath be said
Now know your poetry cannot be heard
With earthly ears, nor read, for ‘tis absurd
That soul on sound could secretly be fed
And yet what taste the connoisseur discerns
Only in life's workshop, suffering, learns…! (33)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

Books are dangerous!
Whilst crossing the street reading
The scholar was killed…. (34)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *
I have as yet to find
The perfect book…
In playful prose,
Layer upon layer,
Illustrated, illumined,
A text rich with depth and colour
Signed by the well-known author,
Addressed to one 
Equally famous…
With signatures and seals
In a succession 
Of more well-known names… 
The name-dropper that I am…

I have as yet to find
That perfect book…
As elusive 
As my perfect poem…
One said with feeling,
Real emotion,
Thick with meaning
And irony…
Visual and fresh…

As one long last kiss
From the parting beloved 
On a dying Summer’s 
Windswept beach
As roaring surf
And tugging tidal bay
Grip the tumbling pale white sand 
Left stranded on the edge,
So helpless there,
Forever slipping,
Torn away…

Perfected verse 
In book well-bound,
Paid for and owned, 
Passed on through deed or gift,
Sighted by more than he -
The same self-read author…

Sighing…
Delighted knowing
That that no longer
Be me…! (35)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *
Damp, darkest depths of winter see a deep
Silence still-born between the storms each week
That wrack this wreck of coast denuded bleak
Re-soaking rock-faced lichens left to seep,
While trees, dismal, leave-less grey… shivering reap 
The rain and morning dew from each pale cheek
Of twig, rough branch and rounded trunk to leak
On rooted mud this flood of tears to weep.
I pace the pavement cold of inner court
With mindless broom to hand to while away
Those thoughts of loss with heavy head bent down
And know the scented camellias crown
Each bush with blooming reds and pinks in play
Since sweep of brush reveals their death now sought…. (36)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

To South so cold my bird of love had flown,
Then, North, on long vacation overseas
To warmer climes on heated winds he flees
Without one wave goodbye… my luck has blown
Away like salted spray on oceans sown
By wicked winds of fate that wedded seize
This fickle soul afloat upon a breeze
In storms unseen in turmoil deep within.
I wake and think my love asleep once more
Upon the vacant pillow caught by rays
Of falling moonlight beams but, blinking, spy
Him not, no more; mere dreaming habit plays
Upon the heart and naught upon the eye,
An absent love too hard to long ignore…. (37)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

Today, a postcard in the mail I find:
"Please forgive me," it said, in printed score,
And sealed in envelop my name it bore -
"I love you still" writ boldly underlined,
“I had no wish to be so quite unkind,
Then had no heart to tell what plans in store
For me arranged in destined marriage saw…”
And ended where his magic name was signed…
“Mere pawns are most whilst others, great, be kings
Or queens, or frocked bishops, rooks, wild knights free;
Alas, my hand was sold behind my back,
My country suffers still such ancient things
But now with family, first son named for thee,
Re-seek your rail to set my life on track….” (38)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

In shaded glade we walked and talked entwined,
Embraced by fated rays of dusty light
Sent streaming down betwixt the flapping flight
Of fan-tailed birds in chorus sharp, notes signed
Above the bass of bubbling brook we find
To slake our fevered thirst for speech… and sight,
And still the years between did seem but night…
Two forms astride a log yet one in mind.
A darkness fell upon the ground re-set
By brilliant shafts of lunar majesty;
Through shaken tops of trees this diamond net -
A moving scene, a dream, a fantasy..?
As if in sleep we wake, who knows, but wise
Who sees that there lies truth where real truth lies..?! (39)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

The new coffee shop
Chose a minimalist look.
Sadly, succeeded….

Cold, depressed priest found
Spiritual consolation
In church cellar….

At the bottle shop 
Came the aborigine
Each morning… to work….

Café society,
In Winter, came back like moths
Beneath the burners….

Off his ghostly face
The wired dancer thought street lights
Were great disco balls…. 

Infotainment prose:
Some advertizements in the
Suburban papers…. 

Why close down the Cross…
Discarded needles are found
On our muddy streets…! 

The lonely vicar
Got his former choirboys drunk
Whilst singing carols…. 

Wet pedestrians 
Noticed city noise only
When their mobiles rang…. 

Dark clouds in full sail…
The hurrying crowds trampled 
On the daffodils…. 
 
A medley of tunes 
Educating the masses
On this dull, packed bus…. 

Old-time movie stars…
On sets filmed in black and white…
Hidden cameras…. (40)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

Composing cool poems
Whilst waiting at traffic lights…
Which way should I go…? (41a)

Pity the poor poet, no true palette have they,
No pictures cast in paint, in truthful colours slick,
At best re-thought ideas are imaged as your guest,
Dull words stumbling in streams, vague twitterings like birds…

So hale the sound of wind in Winter’s whining tale,
Insane the well-hurled slings, arrows of whistling rain,
Thunder in bolts from blue, black rumblings of wonder,
Still feel those hands on neck in flight like strips of steel…

In sun for one short burst, then quickly cloaked in fun
By clouds regathering - lost, sombre tinted crowds,
Remoulded, made abstract, in mono-tonal folds…

Mere sounds left cascading, invoking the profound,
Sweet mumblings surely soured, sad bumblings without sum,
Demand to feel the pain without a brush in hand…

Rewriting heartfelt aches that need no painter's sight…! (41b)

Drip, drips the tap that never stops, 
To sap her leaking spirit so,
Wayward singing its own sad song,
With wasted tears it cannot grieve,
A mad music it cannot hear,
A dance of death to end despair…
Sip, sip, a wee bird comes to drink,
She thinks the world can still be home…. (41c)

Frail, snow-haired spinster
Felt safe with her new black dog…
Until… it kissed her…! (41d)

In bed all covered up,
Drinking a thin pea soup 
Through a bent, thick white straw
Hoping the sun would out
Which it did when she napped…
Smiling… at little things…. (41e)

Caress the breast that beats with thoughts of gloom…
In mirror see my face as not much more
Than shape and form; a sick, ghostly pallor
To grace the glass surface in freezing room,
As shy and awkward as a fragile bloom
Left losing petals in the wind at war
Shaking this dull root to its very core,
Slow peeled away beneath a weeping moon…
Now revel in the fact "I don't exist,"
The self no more a self, a mere shadow,
A puppet prancing missing its master,
No strings to see yet pulled so fast, faster,
Dancing to an old tune that must persist
Till that record, once more, gets… turned over…. (41f)

In the faintest breeze
Old pine creaked with wheezy chest,
Failing in the Fall…. (41g)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

1.	After morning wash…
Fresh, pinkly-tinged plum blossom
Powder nose and face….

2.    Didn’t snow this year
Until the plum blossoms bloomed
Beneath a blue sky….

3.    Old, leaning tree-fern
Had overnight growth of beard
Shaved in the sharp breeze….

4.     In the dawning light
The plum trees - a sea of clouds…
Sun-light streaming through….

5.	  Patiently I wait
To drink tea with them but they 
Never wait for me….

6.    Such perfect timing…
Brilliant  blossom in full bloom…
Is best left unplanned…!

7.    Just before my nose
That magic point scented plum
And tea now converse….

8.    Poetry on paper…
Frail petals whispering a
Silent en-chantment….

9.    Sipping scented tea
Ten thousand insects join in
The conversation….

10.   How do poems arise?
Why do plums blossom each year?
That je ne sais quoi…!

11.   The potted pansy
Beside open tea-house door
Was also admired….

12.  Ten thousand insects
Hide among petals in flight…
But web catches all…!

13.	These midday actors
Cast no shadow… till dark clouds,
With loud laughter, clapped….

14.	  Heavenly moments
Should not be treasured… just wait…
Till the plums ripen…!

15.   Forever surprised
That old, rough-barked, gnarled plum trees
Could look fresh and young….

16.   Boiling the water,
Stirring tea, forget the cold
Watching whirling flakes….

17.   A sprig of blossom
In the vase mirrors the scroll
Frozen in full bloom…!

18.   In deep discussion
Forget to view opening buds…
Finding real beauty…!

19.   At its very peak
Fleeting flowers looks like they have 
A touch of green-fly….

20.   The dancing petals
Ne’er die… only fade away
On the sighing breeze….

21.   Chameleon plum trees:
Black, pale-white, green, blood-red, gold…
Rusting back to dust…!

22.  Pink tissues faded…
Fragile, fleeting… with cold rain…
Drink a last, lone cup….

23.   The lacy branches
Take one more bow, all night long
Dance beneath the moon…. 

24.   Frosted window pane…
Petals swirling like spilt milk…
Lost between the stars…. (42)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *
O  how I love to shop at David Jones…
Today sampled delightful paté on
A delectable piece of herbal rye,
Hoping free wine might be round corner though,
Then went upstairs to try a cute tester - 
One Dolce Gabana, on each wrist, and,
Fondle the ties… no doubt recycled soon
Through my local St. Vinnie's boutique store;
Oft dropped into an elegantly branded
Black and white plastic bag - but not impressed…
The fashion once more is all stripes and spots;
We must be still in recession - waiting
For that shopping-led recovery, finding
Therapy spending our way to heaven…! (43)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

A litany of praise for common man…

Upon the streets I walk and see the town
In painful passage to and fro, find life
A book well-writ in deeds and silent words…

Through windows wide perceive playful commerce
And know in rooms with only walls and doors
The world will waste its work through routine ways…

A homeless man with sign will bide his time,
Smoking, sleeping on a begging pavement;
Young yuppie off his frosted face on ice
And sure his friendly dealer’s only out 
To poison him… far too busy to dine;
Old fellow fifing his way to fortune;
The expert bureaucrat in fulsome flood
Arranging appointments some other day;
The lunatic demanding with menace;
The panel beater beating insurance;
Names big in business making big your loss;
Nameless in law busy trimming profit;
The creative accountant courting costs;
Lecturers slow reading their texts on hand-outs,
Fast marking essays lifted from the Net;
Bitchy Sanskritologists in debate
On points far too subtle to save a soul;
Small minded mud-rakers in great complaint
Out twisting fact and cultivating plots,
In woeful boredom depressed pd’s 
Try suicide once more… in deep despair…
Whilst some sign off upon a desperate note;
Others, alas, in heated anger take life,
Or, in cool, cold forethought act out the same…

So sad, need I say more… yet glad to sound
A litany of praise for common man
Whose virtues and merits remain unsung…! (44)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

A Fourth Set of Variations on an Unstated Theme

1.    Admission

At the green gates bedraggled gardenias
Greet you in prayer for a “peaceful stay"… 

…from out of darkness the fire alarm 
Wails… echoed by duress system soft sounded…
Upon the street a car signals a break-in
Above the scrunching sound of smashing glass…
Inside, and unattended, a page demands 
Your instant attention… drowned out by phones 
In a chorus with distant fire-brigades
As edgy security rush to the scene 
Ringing a carillon of clanking keys… 

To find… this cold, dark day at 3 am…

A miscreant smoker surprised… blushing
Beneath the vigilant detector… its wee, red light 
Mirroring the guilty still-lit cigarette..!

…while sleepy heads, tight-rolled between white sheets,
In misty smoke, mere dream “the world's on fire…!”

2.    Re-Admission

This is the same room,
Same bed as last time!
And, hey, would you believe it -
That same door is still unhinged..!

Nurse, I have a cardiac condition,
Either this door goes or I go,
For if this door goes "bang" I'm gone!

No problem, a towel is kept over the door…

What else hasn’t changed?

The eternal light that cannot be switched off,
The curtain-less windows,
The forever leaking taps,
A cornucopia of pears
That still need two more weeks to ripen…

And a paper trail leading to oblivion..!

Must be filed somewhere..?

In that bottomless bin marked:
Perpetual Deferment..!

Merely stamped:

Elective maintenance -
of no important consequence..!

Bang…!

3.    Revolution

The more things change 
The more they stay the same..!

A new broom, a new brush
To wear away the dust of past practice…

Making mere waves to wash a wake
Disturbing habits that still make sense
Swirling aside both baby and bathwater
In a madness beyond the desk…

Long live the revolution
For it shall die..!
Long live sweet evolution
That house well-built on rocks…
Long live Queen Antoinette
Who came to grief
Like all the rest…!

On tides of time one name more soon forgot
As if by hand inscribed on shifting sand…!

4.	Insight

"O Doctor, O Doctor, 
I'm now so much better…
You gave me a new voice,
Have made me a new man,
Magically implanted 
Me with that super ear;
Organic, bionic…
That lets me loudly hear…
Those vengeful thoughts of God
All so perfectly clear…!"

5.	Celebration 

It's end of year,
A brand new start,
Let's celebrate,
It’s no mean feat
To see out same…

Alas, patients
Just could not wait
To see fireworks
After nocte drinks 
Did knock them out…

Have one more glass…
Please, please… insist
You drink champagne
And dance away
Those needless cares…

For there will be
Just more of same…
Difficulties
Soon dissolved
In the right drink…

A toast, I say,
So raise your glass,
Troubles soon pass,
So gloss the past,
Forget those tears…

It's end of year,
A brand new start,
Let's celebrate,
And dance away
Those needless fears…

Dance, dance, perchance
To dream… and see
There’s nowt diff’rence 
Between one’s life…
And happenstance…!

6.	Sanity

Just walking on that thin white line…

"Hey, hey, fine lady of my dreams,
They think me mad, but have them fooled,
You see must be in court real soon,
Have read DSM-III and found
That perfect illness made for me:
"Yes, I hear voices which command…"
Must believe the strangest of things,
And even tell them "I'm not mad..!"
So they think me quite psychotic,
Correctly make their diagnosis;
O fine lady, can feel their fear,
For they don't know I read their minds…
As you my wee, naked goddess
Keep dictating to my third ear…"

Just walking on that thin white line, 
Just walking on that thin white line….

7.	Beware

Beware the madness beyond the desk
As Toby stomps his feet
And with a threatening gesture
Fasts stabs the air
While Satan's dog, salivating,
Digs her savage teeth into flesh,
Long tasted by proxy,
Then, Mandy, crying, spills 
Some coke over toilet floor
As bitchy Becky refuses
To speak to loud Borris
Who should learn to sing
For his supper somewhere else
And not see concrete Cleopatra
Whose laughter is a joke
While all-seeing Horus
Unblinking stares away the hours
Unsettling sore Osiris
Too long ignored upstairs…
I say, I say…
"Beware the madness beyond the desk..!"
And well I mean
From where you stand…!

8.	Records

Let me sketch this cartoon:
A failed filing clerk am I,
As traces forever in transit
I cannot keep them standing still,
Them records from the past,
No longer to hand when needed…
So send me into cyberspace
To quick divine what easily moves 
Beyond this no-man's land…!
This tragic theatre filled with mirth
Whose empty stage… is laughter….

9.	Quality

"We are committed to quality outcomes":
"Assurance" and "indicators" are the in-words,
Buzzing around like bees without a hive…
For when it rains it still will leak,
As it has for half a century,
So threatening to electrocute
Some poor, careless, illiterate soul…
At least we will have left 
One case-study outcome              
To seriously considered
Transposed to paper… retrospectively…
For endless short-sighted discussion…!

10.	Assessment

The patient entered
The Interview Room
And sat himself down
In the doctor's chair.
Asking the intern 
What 'his' problem was,
Said he should relax,
Learn to have less cares…
Needless to say… would
Fail 'his' assessment…!

11.	Forms 

The new forms worked a treat…

Triage trialed by telephone…

Name..? What is your preferred language..?
Are you dishevelled..?
How much money do you have?
Are you depressed… anxious… irritable…
Disoriented… thought-disordered… violent..?
What help have you sought before..?
Can you list all your medications..?
Is your problem delirium… 
Or somatoform in character?
Do you want help or are you ambivalent..?

Look, Nurse, I'm suicidal… and… err… you see…
I have this large bottle of pills in front of me…

O! Right… then just your name and address…
And phone number… (and next of kin..?)

In practice the new forms worked a treat…!

12.    Escape

A new record..!

Fence is then raised 
Half a metre.…

A new record..!

Fence is then raised 
Two further feet.…

A new record!

If only we
Could dig a trench
And then mine it..!

No use… no use…
These athletes
Would pole vault it..! 

But why bother..?!

A fall from fence
Would soon see you
Stretchered past go..!

So why not then,
Unseen, fake it…

Or, in denial,
Merely mention 
A painful chest…

And leave in style...!

 13.    Discharge

"And you too can be effluent,
Because, you are effluent…!
A sore discharge on the body-politic..!"

Said the patient to his visiting dealer…

Overheard by the New Aussie cleaner 
Whilst unplugging a blocked toilet…

Then this involuntary social critic, having 
Recovered from his drug induced mania,
Puts his jacket back on and combed his hair,
Went to the window above the nurse's desk
And, smiling, thanked the new graduate
"For looking after my mum so well"
And inquiring about visiting hours
On the morrow was then let out, anon,
To slip through those sliding gates alone….

Those bolted doors and locks can imprison 
No one person whose 'sight' sees left open…! (45)

		      Noël Tointon, Sydney, 3.10.03.

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

Wow! I found out
That I've made it!
Some poems of mine
Now remaindered
In a volume
With a hundred
Other poets…
I laugh… only
A state of mind…
Those circuit hacks
Out selling self…
Would I be seen 
Reading poems
With an old bunch
Of tired, wanking
Sad-sack losers..?
I laugh… only 
A state of mind,
A state of mind…
That, finally,
I have made it..!
Now remaindered…
The only theme
To thread and stitch
Poetic life
That seems so long
And yet so fleet…
Swept by one taste 
So bitter-sweet…! (46)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

“What's the colour of y' politics?”
Be it purple or bloody red,
The palest pink or deepest puce,
An unseen black
Or unstated off-white,
A noisy green,
A multi-coloured rainbow
Of unearthly delight..?
Or something so, so bland
That it made no diff'rence
That one more hand
Did vote for beige
In this wide land 
Without a cloud
And tinder dry…
In thoughtfulness
We should think out aloud
And find a pride
In where we stand
In this picture palace 
A sound spectrum
Of hues and shades
That blend and bend
Tad left or right
Through right or wrong
To make our mark
In one square box
And sign above
Or far below that line…
With shoulders shrugged,
Resigned…! (47)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

O how I have envied the perfect sweep
Of a well-shaped line steeped in fine beauty,
Admire the rising and falling cadence
Dulcet in tone, subtle in wit and dash
Or stumbling in the rough and tumbling wash
Of long tirades whipped white with frothy sighs,
With poetic commotion clamouring 
To be so heard, yet, not bothered if left
Alone to sound its simple psalm, this paean 
Of praise to him whose pen cannot be seen,
O skilful one, whose death is rumoured still
Yet seems alive in surf that edges sea
That rings an ocean of resounding verse
Whose wavering choir with measured voice will sing
What earthly hand to life could never bring…! (48)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

The Chief of Police had a restless night
As one more ghost of a black death did coast
Across his desk that dreadful day before,
"O such a mess" he cried, "So much to do
In paper work, and know so well will end 
With me left hung and drawn and quartered so
Whilst hands are tied betwixt all documents 
From Royal Commission to Minister…!"

Damn it, there’s nothing here so sinister
To suggest we intend such sad events,
Such desperate misadventure, and know
Not how these broken fences we can mend,
So many caught committing crime, so few
In race and yet we round them up by law
As if in habit stuck, set out to boast 
Of numbers took that might we take delight…

Once more before dark death in depths of night!

…Each unstrung soul the same song sung with tears
While folk with sadness wonder why all laws
Are fixed in black and white despite our prayers…!" (49)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

I.    Grandmother stole
Some twenty pounds,
Or some round sum
In old bank notes
Put to the side,
Left waiting for 
That rainy day…

And for her sins
The son and wife
No more to her
Would speak nor see, 
Not once, ‘til day
She passed away
In depths of sleep…

Deep mired in debt,
Near penniless,
In shop each week
To sell ice-cream,
Hot pies and sweets
To working men
And teenage boys…

Harsh punishment 
Could never fit 
Her crime, now know,
All left unsaid…
We wondered why
One door opened,
Another shut..?

Forgiveness is
So very sweet,
More than any
Chocolate treat
And went about
This silent field…
As messengers…. (50a)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

II.    The man in black daily would wear pale white,
Soon subtle tones so insipidly grey 
Followed by bold brown tinged with leafy-green
Highlighted with handkerchief in weak blue
With a thin chain, golden, about the neck… 
“Ah!” He screamed out loud "too, too much colour…
The Contemp’rary world will think me quite mad…
Brilliantly no more so Postmodern clad!" 
…And, recov’ring, then took to mottled shades 
Of textured chalk worn so insightfully
Unaware his flushed complexion would see
A green apple blush… sunburnt with envy! (50b)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *

III.    Once we were worriers…
Now no more say I: -
All existential angst
And weltsmerz 
Is for birds that fly…
Let rain-clouds come and go,
Am pleased to sip each sec
That drips and slips away… 
As naught to naught we die,
There before you stand
As if on television,
Know not nor wonder why,
Sublimely wrapped within
To the music dancing,
Just he and I,
Until all seated chairs
Upon the deck
Be taken here… 
In this mistake…. (50c)

	* * * * * * * * * * * *