Volume XII – Book VI

Upon a Busy Street

Poems Exploring Travel
And Our Sense of Identity 
Somewhere Between Town and Country
In A New World 
Somewhere Between East and West

N.K.Tointon

2008 - 2009

Dedication

I dedicate this book to
David, John, Marc and Matthew…
and those other kind souls who heard these poems
and assisted in their final appearance….

Preface

Another set of travel poems
inspired in my travels around the world,
a return to China
and a brief return to New Zealand…
Somewhere between and empty road and a busy street
In a virtual space somewhere between East and West….

Noël Tointon,
Sydney, 12.5.08.

Upon a Busy Street

Prologue

Flying Overseas

Racing up the motorway
To the Blue Mountains…
The dark shape of the plane
Glides over the landscape
Going westward… rising higher…

I could be there today…
But fixed intent has myself here
Strapped into this seat…
Helpless… letting fall 
What must fall into play…

In our fragile corporeal frame
Reside two shadows without name:
A first which seeks no change,
Taking enjoyment in all habits,
And, a second which likes 
To slip through cracks or turn about,
Seeks out that whiff of adventure,
Those paths that reek of shifts,
Sudden jumps in direction,
In search for diff’rent ends…

I, however, relax, sit back… 
Today these fighting forms
Have shaken hands, made-up;
For both have hopes of seeing out
An equal share in my new venture –
The novel routines of the trav’ller…

On two legs we must walk,
But with one tongue must talk;
Decide which side of street
We plonk down both our feet…

With choice a world is filled,
Even if but with a “yes” 
Or with a “no” be willed…
Still… we are called to answer…! (1)

China

Chinese Obsessions

The Chinaman is obsessed 
By walls: walls within walls, 
And more walls beyond…

So lengthy queues must form
To navigate this intended bar…
Swiftly approved… or no…

But to keep ‘within’ within 
And that ‘without’  
Truly outside
You need to build even more…

Inside the palace the Emperor
Soon knows his place,
But, should beware…

For what protects
Can prison be…
With newer wings
Should distant see
The need to build
Or quickly meet
The fate of kings
When kept in check…

So, one more palace 
They need to build
To outflank foes
Already within the fold…

“Move on, be bold,” I say,
“Don’t be pinned down,
Defy routine
From time to time,
Transcend the fort…
Sleep within the town…!”

So watch the queen
Yet know the pawn…. (2)

Only the Old Protest

    It seems to me, in looking back,
The old only protest in China –
Here I see an elder lady
Thow herself upon the street
In front of the huge headquarters
Of the Communist Party
In a new brand of Shanghai,
Some formula loudly repeated,
Said four times before
Being arrested, lifted to her feet…
A close photo resisted…
Got the feeling she 
Had done this all before,
Expected to be marched 
Through a side door,
And the uniformed men,
They too knew what to do
When, quite clearly, 
It all would seem
To be such waste of time…
And probably released 
A few hours later;
Told not to come back 
Again, that week… or else…
    Or, that old, down-trodden man 
At the provincial railway station
Protesting some injustice,
Screaming abuse, waving 
His arms around, finding complaint
With the cost of his ticket…
Though, a few moments later;
Having said what he had to say… 
Seen complying with the re-stated cost…
    But the young… they play a different game…
Not a wayward word is said…
Smartly sporting the latest trends…
In Western clothes and perfume sprayed,
In various haircuts dressed,
A bizzrre catalogue of styles,
Looking like bigtime spenders,
Would buy fancy cars, if they could,
Want to travel to the ends of the earth,
Take the Internet by storm or stealth…
Make a name for themselves…
   No longer just a number, but, 
To be numbered, to find your place
In a wide world without borders,
No more bounded by creed or race…. (3)
The Essential Chinese Garden

As a pilgrim to Suzhou
Saw seven classic gardens…

Made a circuit of each one…
Pondered upon their vision,
Admired well-placed Taihu stones;
Some rocks the size of houses…
Imitating wild dragons
Or playfulness of lions…

Questioned self as to what makes
Such distinctive landscapes live?
How does this distorted art, 
So misshapen, spring to life?

So, Friend, come on in, visit 
This vision of the ideal…
Enter… and see for yourself   
What breath moves such artful form…

As blood in circulation
We are made to move around…
Continual shifting of sight,
A movie reel unfolding,
A series of images
Seen afresh with each new step…
A novel world well-enclosed –
Rooms within rooms yet no walls
Between the house and garden…
Yang and yin in an echoed
Embrace… each bit by itself
An art-work, a sculptured shape…
Be it a tree or a rock,
A window or winding path…
Between mountains and water…
All as a living landscape
To be beheld as one realm…
From pictures on study walls
To scenes depicted as if 
Those same untrammelled pictures:

A painting of a garden,
Or, garden… as if painted…  

Into this we now enter 
With heads bowed and eyes open.… (4)

Like Chic White Trash

In old Suzhou, today,
In total disarray,
Ancient broken pavements 
Are ever torn apart,
Re-made amid the mud 
And quickly drying dust…
Without complaint they dodge,
Such stoic, city folk,
The mess and muck, and wait
For a more modern town…
Such is progress, they know…
They hope, will some day show…

No omelette’s made with yolk
Unless the eggs be broke…

And there in window bold
Obscenely stands to stare,
Blond boy with pouted lips
With backward looks… his hips
Suggestive, made to point
Through thinest fabric, pale,
And cut in butt so tight,
A partial suit, dressed down,
With t-shirt top and frown
As if this poster says,
“Make it big, make it big 
Big boy…you too can play
And ponce about the town
Like Armani boy”… like
Cheap, chic white trailer-trash…

With eggs no omelette’s made
Unless well-beaten, flayed..!

“No pain, no gain,” they say…
No easy path is found,
Neither menu nor chart,
Nor recipe to find
A simple route to claim…
The workers’ paradise…
Unless your name be called
In some real lucky lot,
By chance you meet such fate,
Find favour political,
Or steal that golden pot
Or rig the turning wheel…

Why eat omelette today…
When there’s perfect souflet…

Be Armani boy… and 
Become cheap tailored-trash…
But all so chic… so chic…
All surface… with an edge…
So place your bets… and play,
No rising stocks can crash..! 

But, be wisely warned…
As Confucius might say: 

Loose eggs in basket set
When dropped make poor omelette…. (5)

Strawberries to Die For

Sunlight has not been seen,
The days are dust-filled, grey,
A sepia, painted shade,
Thick tidal smudge on cloth,
No stain-free hour, just none,
And wonder how the ground
Can grow this food here found,
Displayed on market stands…

Strawberries to pray for…

Anemic, misshapen,
From small to big to round
Or pointed with a drop
Twisted or dinted in tip…

Strawberries to sigh for…

Melting in the moment
The tongue and teeth will meet,
Grip these treasured treats,
Factories of flavour,
Implosions of such sin
Knowing no bounds beyond…
So, now, I wonder how
Such fruits be grown so rich
In taste, so easily find
Near-perfection profound…
Should this sweet path be sought..?

Strawberries to die for…. (6)

More Strawberries Treats To Die For!

In smaller things…
Find the Divine…

In this old, garden town, 
On a mainstreet un-named
By self, in midst of crowd
You find a pastry treat
The locals gladly eat… 

So push your way forward
And wait your turn and hope
Housewife in front buys not
Two dozen more like last;
Alas, as that comes to pass…

On black iron girdle
The paste is dropped in balls
With strawberry pulp inside,
A crust soon forms, encased,
A flattened disc-like shape…

Now, how many to buy,
What numbers do I need…
To eaten be whilst hot,
To keep for supper had..?
And six sweet morsels bought…

On temple courtyard seat
Seek perfection, such joy…
And see all six appear,
To disappear each one…
Find self in queue once more…. (7)

Climbing Suzhou Pagoda and Wondering What It All Must Mean

Greeted 
at the gate 
by ticket collector,
It’s early in the morning and the first sight
To be seen… Suzhou Pagoda…
A solid construction repainted, repaired…
No doubt with many stories… to tell…

Down a long avenue, past the fat-bellied image,
The site seems more an amusement park…

Enter a ground floor door and clockwise walk,
Wander around this spacious gallery
With ceramic images made only yesterday…

Now ascend the staircase and work my way upwards,
Some walls whitewashed, others with the brick exposed,
Not all the niches with their resident deities…

Postpone taking in the city view through low arches,
Continue to circumambulate passageway,
Comparing the import of each inward shrine,
Till, to the sound of the wind, and bells, have reached the top…

The low town is spread about with high-rise towers
On its outskirts… well beyond this temple
Set in its jewel-like garden with staggered rocks
And mysterious central lake, and small pavilions –
Some open and some shut, some with images,
Others merely meant for enjoyment – to read or laugh,
Do those rhythmic exercises or meet for gossip,
Drink good green tea… and wonder what it all must mean…

At dusk return, enter by side gate, as the locals do,
Although no one now stands to take your ticket…
On a seat perceive a few souls coming and going,
The faint smell of incense and listen to the sounds
Of monks chanting in a hypnotic and calming tone,
Despite the slight distortion from electric amplification….

Soon, am thinking of food… always a pleasure in China…
And an adventure… sampling the shredded pig’s ear;
Delightfully served amidst the worries of the waitress
That this might be too much for the Western palate…
And sucking exotic berries grown and dried in far off Tibet
Whose edited turmoil on local tv could be seen for hours … 

Through rippling surf each beach will meet same wave-and-wake…. (8)
Waiting Rooms

We smarm in formation
Like myriad fish in sea,
With feet upon the land 
We all travellers be…

Hundreds of faces fixed,
Oft’ looking no further
Than their own seat, luggage;
A gap in busy life
Contrasting here… and there…
An inconvenience,
A wish to be onward
Moving, now travelling…

Upon the busy street
With home upheld on back
Or towed by heavy hand 
Forever migrant thus…

My face -  sometimes looked at,
Understandable, for sure,
Myself the only one 
Who here is non-Chinese
In one more waiting room;
For that reason alone 
Must seem the stranger soul…
A voyager unknown,
A venturer off where
I know they inward ask?
Answered, in part, when seen
To pour on through the bar
To meet that speeding train…
 
At what point do we drown;
Adrift in time between
An empty, absent past 
And vacant future scene…? (9)

To His Most Worthy Grave

Qufu is well-enwalled… 
In shape upon a square…
With partial moat… and gates
In towers with roofs of tile…

A city-scape laid down
In service held to one 
Ideal inwardly shown
Like a famous jewel:
Behold the temple grounds
Of Master Kung himself…

Courtyards after courtyards
With cypresses that seem 
As old as He might be
If still alive today…

Their avenues leading on
To a final temple 
With pillars perfect carved…
With dragons entwined
To be envied by kings…
And hid from emperors’ eyes...
In silken drapes… as books
Of history might have it….

Behind, and to the side,
A hugh palace complex
For the family of Kung –
An industry through time
That gives this town its name…
A font of moral power…
Complete with an inner
Garden locked in delight
Whose waters well-reflect
Upon wealthy merchants
From far away Suzhou…
And further to the north
One pious capital… 
Never too far away…

And through one more gate… 
Along this avenue 
I walk beyond its walls 
To his most worthy grave…

This site itself enwalled…
Long miles upon long miles
With entrance gate like town…

One vast cemetery…
All thus enclosed… a world
Of graves in tumuli,
As if giant moles had plied
A field of pits and holes 
With piles commemorating
One life of one more sage
In descent from that Man,
The Greatest Sage himself 
Whose tablet stands upright
Before a mound not much
Higher than all the rest…

With yellow cushions placed
Upon a low dais…
There, too, pay my respects…

Whether one should bow first 
Before the steps… then climb,
Or, climb those steps and bow
Would not concern the Sage… 
But that one should perform 
Such acts of deep respect 
With true and proper heart…

So with a simple bow 
I rose… then bowed again…
Not knowing how one should 
Descend… kept face to side…

Respectful Chinese too
Would seize these short moments
In between the tidal
Ebb and flow of tours
Whose operators must shout
Through modern megaphones
Like robots … without soul…

So disturbing the dead…
And, more, the living too… 
Sadly outnumbered here
By all those blinkered folk
Who merely came to stare…! (10)
Tai Shan

There were moments
I thought would not
Get to the top…

But made it there,
At last – that arch –
On final stretch,
More an entrance
To a temple
Courtyard… I make
This discovery…
And pass on through
To the hill-top
Off to the right…
Some more climbing 
Still left to do…

A theme-park lot
What with hotels
And restaurants
And sacred sites
From distant past
Much, much more real…

A monastery;
Where you must pay
To enter in…
A two-story 
Building on edge
With deep throated,
Resonant gong
More wrung by priest
Than prayerful folk
Who afterwards
Leave a few coins…
And temple shrines
With flights of steps…
A simple sign 
I see saying
1545
Metres… strangely 
Surrounded by
Scores of padlocks…

More texts on rocks,
Calligraphic,
Skilfully writ
Compositions…
Respectfully
Read by readers
With nodding heads,
Pointed fingers,
Finding agreement
Among themselves
On meanings meant…

And now… descent…

Espy short cut
Straight on downward 
On upper part
Of this mountain;
Perhaps half-hour
At most is saved..?

Pass by once more
An ancient monk,
A Taoist priest,
All dressed in black
With cowboy hat,
In laughter had
And brimming smile…
Calls me ‘old man’
In Chinese… thank
Him politely
For compliment…
A kindred soul…
Must be wondering
Why Western man
Walks up and down
When he could go
By bus or take
The gondolas
Swung out between 
Steep-sided peaks… 
Thin-clad in pines
Old and ancient…
Numbered and, some,
Thoughtfully propped…
Postponing a
More quick demise…

Now pass two folks
I recognized 
From our ascent:
An old father
And respectful
Son – few paces 
Behind… puffing
With asthma still…
Both in sombre
Dress… old fashioned…
Quite Confucian… 
Now pestered by
Trinket sellers
Pushing plastic 
Fakes… amulets… 
And walking-sticks…
Poking the boy,
Pestering him…
Until they see
My camera…
As I prepare 
My perfect shot…
Who, then, will like 
A puff of smoke –
Just disappear..!

And now the sun
Has set… replaced
By purple moon…
Through Gobi dust…
Shadows of shrines
Dark stretch across
The granite steps
Precisely cut…
In their thousands…
But not alone…
Tonight am passed
By silent throngs
Of souls clambering 
Upwards… in groups
In passage free…
As they will do
Each fortnight in 
The lunar month,
As read in guide, 
On copied sheets,
Pages that grace
My empty pack…

And to the trace,
Wafted about
Upon the streets,
Of evening meals,
Will find myself…
Now welcomed back…. (11)

My Favourite Temple

In a newer Beijing one can still see
An older Peking despite the change…

Each morning would cross that busy street,
Turn the corner, away from the inner city,
Miss the temptations of the sweet-cake seller
And enter my favourite Buddhist temple…

Avoid the stare of communist guard
At entrance gate… and walk on in…

Pass the bronze incense burners quite antique,
Undoubtedly a gift from the imperial government,
Just like the ones in the palaces I went to see…

Paying my silent respect to images in shiny gilt,
Marvelling at the craftsmanship, so ornate
And intensely numinous, quite monumental,
An intimation of benign and helpful forces 
Bubbling up within the well-springs of soul…

I had become a familiar face by the third day
And meet a smile on the fourth,
Happily ignored on the fifth when would introduce
A learned friend to this oasis of a living past…

“To treasure the best from antiquity
But discard the dross of inequity…”

This more or less was said, to that effect,
By Confucius, in a dictum that would prove
He, too, was a good friend of the Buddha…. (12)

The Summer Palace

Through the thin mist and dampened dust would see
An antique land outlined in shadow grey
As if a faded willow patterned plate
Had come to life in this surreal display…

A marble bridge with eighteen spans, ornate,
Connects an isle with dwellings lonely, lost…
Whilst rising steep through fog a holy shrine
Will stamp its seal of power… at what great cost..?

An Empress here held court, re-built this site
With pleasure domes and stately homes galore
And yet whilst all about distraction lay
She ruled despite those devils at the door…

When aged dragon died, deserved ill-fame, 
Now look upon her works and praise her name…? (13)

The Party Is Having One More Party

I heard it said:

With such great skill elected mass will clap… again… again…
On television each night like wax-work clowns,
All in need of make-up… although they know their lines…

How democratic is a school… teacher speaks and you listen…
In rectification of names know this class is locked in
Without the wine and laughter wry… we must wait for… that belated day…

Soon class is out and folks will shape their contoured fate,
Huddled in endless circles arguing… about some compromise…

So, what must happen behind the scenes long months before
When seated round tables debating dry forms becoming white papers 
One day let loose in bold black ink… such talk is never cheap…
A price to pay… for change is not far off when spoken about…

With such great skill elected mass will clap… again… again…
On television each night like wax-work clowns,
All in need of make-up… although they know their lines…

Read between the script… and feel the widening drift…! 

Already… they know their lines…. (14)

Into The Hutong

“Rolex, rolex, you want to see rolex…?”

Whilst walking along the street of antiques
Am asked by two young smiling boys who tout
“Would I like to buy some old ceramics..?”

Of course, from sheer habit,  would answer “yes…”

Into the hutong I’m quickly taken
Along a narrow path in clouds of dust…
A turn to the right, a turn to the left, 
Another corner’s turned,  then an alleyway
Even more narrow than the last, and think…
Am I to see again those antique shops..?

Upon a bed a table is prepared with plates
And bowls… with each unfaithful copy made…
Not one pott’ry piece its authentic self…
No sale’s to be had here, is sadly said…

Not defeated, am asked “like paintings too..?”

How could myelf say no, its time to go…
Intrigued to find a score of scrolls unwound…
And quickly see a sad array of fakes,
Not one painted scene its authentic self…
In a spectrum of skill from woeful splashed 
To merest hint how thing might once have been…

For triffle sum will buy two mountain views 
On silk… purporting to be more profound…

In all the markets of this busy land
Are copies, counterfeits, imposters, shams
And one must wonder well if this be fact:

That thy image of greatness has long fled
If through a poor mirror your soul be led..!

“Selling Rolex are we..?” “No, Omega…!” (15)
U.S. of A.

Hey, Brother…

Its cold on the streets
And the homeless 
Need to keep wandering…

“Hey, brother… 
I am down and out in Frisco…
Have you fifty dollars
For two night’s accom..?”

The folk in San Fransisco
Don’t like to call it that…
Cannot be from here…

I notice his yellow-stained fingers,
His track suit sleeves
Could be easily rolled up,
His dripping nose
And bloodshot eyes…
The skin on his face
As tough as the hide
On a wild rhino…
This fellow knows 
The elements…

Without letting on 
I properly heard him, say:

“Sorry, I don’t smoke.”

And quickly walk on…. (16)

Six Blocks Away

Instant recognition…

Six blocks away,
Down the hill
From my hostel,
Sitting in his glass case,
Sneers this sour, 
Old Cosmic Buddha,
Looking put out,
Recovered from the Tang…
A stole round his neck
Falling over his knees…
And on it carved in stone
A two-dimensional 
Representation of the world…
Such audacity..!

But the pages of a great novel 
Project a world…
Woven in the imagination,
All is the pure fabric of mind…
And a deft sculpture
Something as if living…
Can almost be heard speaking..?

Of course…an old friend… 
Seen in exhibition…
Must have been flown from overseas…
From this very museum…

In essence thus…
The nature of existence…
Instant enlightenment,
Every moment of the day,
True inspiration…
In the here and now…
To seize and be seized…
Without delay..!

To move onwards
Without being moved
By this fiction of ‘self’…

I mentally bow
And say goodbye:

Thank you, my friend…
Thank you…. (17)
A Gift from God

It’s all so cold, and feel the chill
Coming up from Hudson River…
Its all so cold, and feel the chill
Sweeping upwards, down and over
Stark canyon streets, electric lit,
So unfriendly seen, and would shiver
But for my hooded plastic cape
Within whose shape I sweat, and sweat…

Have to unzip, and meet again
The still frozen breath of winter…
Have to re-zip, and meet again
The dripping sweat in this sauna:
No halfway house, no halfway house
For frozen face and sticky chest
And must admire long-coated folk
Who tramp and traipse the dry pavement…

Upon sidewalk, espy a coat,
All thrown out upon the rubbish…
Upon sidewalk, espy grey coat
All thrown out upon the rubbish
And stop to look, but pass it by…
Have second thoughts, retrace my steps,
Thrown out for sure and wonder why,
A perfect fit, one button shy..?

Have been here now but one half hour
And find myself a gift from God…
Have been here now but one half hour
And proudly wear this gift from God;
It’s all so cold, but love the chill
And quickly feel like local lad,
Now to master a New York style,
And order meal from the counter…

New York, New York, all huddled here,
A land of dreams for dreamers too…
New York, New York, all huddled here,
With pot of gold in woven cloth
To the old world must soon venture,
But for moment like blending in 
And feel home-spun, all k(n)itted out … 
Enjoy my stay… and disappear…. (18)

New York, New York…

This hostel on Thirty-First Street
Looks quiet enough…
But deceptive are all appearances..!

My hopeful night of sleep…
On the first floor,
In bed at the corner,
Above the grill upon the street
From which can be forever heard
All the trains going through
Pennsylvania Station…
Just not deep enough underground…

Clickerty clack… thump, thump… thump, thump…
Clickerty clack… thump, thump… thump, thump…
Clickerty clack… thump, thump… 	thump, thump…

And all the street goers and touts
Yelling and shouting,
Having a party or selling their wares…

Yackerty yack… murmur… murmur… 
Yackerty yack… murmur… murmur…
Yackerty yack… murmur… 	all such noise bubbling over…

And all the taxis honking on the streets,
Picking up business, fighting their way
Through the thickening traffic…

Honkerty honk… beep, beep… beep, beep…
Honkerty honk… beep, beep… beep, beep…
Honkerty honk… beep, beep… 	beep…

All augmented by the sounds of trains still going without stop:

Clickerty clack… thump, thump… thump, thump…
Clickerty clack… thump, thump… 	thump, thump..! 

If only the world were an illusion…
An imagination of the mind…
Nothing more than emptiness of desire…
Disposed of… just as quick…
A fragment of a figment in ferment!
As fragile as a snowflake 
Falling upon… a burning fire…. (19)

An Ode to ‘Fast Food’

The modern tourist
Is ever alert,
On the look-out for 
The next toilet…

Well-signposted in China,
Those more prominent
Miracles of engineering.
But, here, in New York
Marvels of local knowledge –
Artfully planned
As monuments in concealment…

Or, you can pay a penny
At the nearest museum:
A few dollars on Sunday morning
At the Frick collection,
Fifteen at the Morgan,
Eighteen at Moma 
Or the Gugenheim,
Twenty is suggested
At the Metropolitan…

Central Park is 
Under rennovation,
And you wont find
A hidden tree or rock,
Not one out of sight…

Thank goodness
For faster food…
So try McDuckies
Of spend a dime or two
At Macys if can beat 
The lengthening queue…

So, my friend, be alert
But not yet alarmed…. (20)
 
Washington, D.C.

Does this city have a center, a heart,
Or does it twitch to ten thousand odd beats
That from the distance seem to act as one..?

A small man stands alone on White House roof
With gun in hand, his ears plugged into sounds
Of microphones, field glasses round his neck,
Like robo-cop he peers across the town;
Wrong sentinel to read those tell-tale signs…

Have sudden craving for some real fresh bread,
And search the shops for sustenance desired…
Directed to a supermarket store… 
In brutal act of demolition smashed:
This postmodern ville has a changing face…
The first twelve streets or so… thereafter seen
Another race, left back in time… and pace…
Ne’er found that sought-for loaf… rejected mean,
Pale sandwiches… croissants in plastic wrapped…

Admire the domes and columns, spires and roofs;
More monuments than you could poke a stick
At in thickness of Cherry Blossom Week…
Much reflected upon… near busy field
For an airport sending in planes to land
That seem to pass on through lone obelisk…
And dropping downward into rolling lawn 
Now pass beside that deep-black granite wall
With loving names soft rubbed by family friends 
And grieving folk too sad to clearly see… 
The shape of outlined letters there engraved…

Museums are more frequented here, school kids
Long queue outside the doors, and the adults
Return in droves mixed in with foreign blood –
The wider streets have bustling theme-park air…
Viewing treasures amassed by wealth and guile,
Displayed with skilful finesse, grand in style,
Befitting some magnificent prince or pope,
In blend of secular and sacred mixed,
Thought worthy of unorthodox worship…

Can silent hear the clap of wrinkled hands 
Within the Capitol, amidst grand halls…
And would relish these shrines ‘neath moon-lit beams,
List’ning to tidal sighs of river mouth
As water flows on past this filled in marsh…

So much to see, and so much left unseen…
Review the Court and Treasury, impressed 
By solid De-partments of State mapped out
In lenghty rows, the imprint of machines
To finally excrete decisions made
And moved within the bowels of committees;
With paper wipes that wipe out old-time laws… 
And lacunae… with dotted ‘i’s’, crossed ‘t’s’…
Details that frame and forge new ways and means…

For this city has no center, no heart,
And twitches to ten thousand diff’rent beats
That from the distance seem to act as one..
For so its seems to me to be alive
And simple dance to a more complex drum…. (21)

Wales

Quelle Différence...?

From Britain books
To Hay-on-Wye
Will go to die…
On dusty shelves
In empty shops
For so it seems…

Yet dealers wait
Behind large desks
Beside doorways
And ever hope
They soon will find
A better fate…

This crusty tome
Will see no tomb –
A pile of ash…
But cosmic dust!
And not much more…

And not much more…. (22)

England

Linguistic Abuse?

Had travelled well that day:-
Oxford to Worcester,
Then on to Hereford
And by bus to Hay-on-Wye,
To then by train again
Return the way I came…

Until that last trip got re-routed,
Still seated here on platform
Not knowing when I might see
My warm, quiet, hostel bunk...

Then, that Railway Company
Finally worked out what to do
And sent a train to move us on…

Had to feel compassion for
Our female ticket collector
Who went down the aisle
More than once to apologise…
Almost feared she would soon
Disport herself upon the carpet
And from the floor raise the pitch:

“I am sorry,” she said, “really sorry,
Really, really sorry…”

Handing out envelopes 
For a double refund…
Some taken with quite 
An embarrassed smile…

Now the world must really suspect
A simple plea as insincere…

No more than mere waves 
Upon the rippled air… (23)

Snapshots of a University Town

I have read at Oxford…
In a great, local bookshop… (24a)

Antiques bought in old towns
Seem to fetch a higher price,
On permanent display,
Waiting in windows… 
For ever and a day… (24b)

In heavy rain 
All things are blurred,
All buildings look the same,
Students and workers
All running for shelter… (24c)

Almost a theme park,
With thirty variations;
Courtyards and rooms,
Chapel and refectory…
Where fine folk seem to be
In a hurry to escape
This human zoo… (24d)

Along the road things have changed,
Along the lanes time stands still,
On the canal, boats never seen unmoored,
In the libraries, most books are never moved…! (24e)

Here students study by day
And disco by night,
Going home with the bats
Before the sounds of dawn… (24f)

Museums within museums,
Walls within walls,
Like Chinese boxes,
Or Russian dolls, 
The world is kept outside… (24g)

These males dressed in pink tutus
In this busy student pub
Are looking for another dress to take off… (24h)

Alas, it’s time to go, the clock has chimed, I say…
Must catch a train or bus… for few are meant to stay…. (24i)

York

I could wander into town along the river
Passed only by bikes or sporty jogging folk,
School kids playing soccer on somewhat distant field…

Today will take that busier road,
To walk on through its city gates… 
To the Minster… Sunday services within…

Before and after… one can traipse the aisles,
And pass the altars… admire the windows,
Some carving there… a memorial here…

A dignified sermon aptly writ… and not too long…
Hymns as if sung in some corner chapel…
Well meant if not well-intoned…

A slight, sudden shower of rain 
Has me running inside a shop filled with books,
Then dash next-door to price more antiques…

A small church on every corner… am told
“Your local parish”… your box bought by tithe…
Later ripped out for a less private pew…

Nowadays, those folk who go to church
Will have a choice – local chapel or Minster…
Or just take a walk, like me, if I lived here…
And worship the very breath of nature…. (25)

London

Would like to announce that there is an excellent service
On the London Underground today…

A tube for sure, so mind your head
On entering and exiting…
A tube for sure, so mind your bag,
Try not to look too odd or strange
Even though in this mad mix of humanity
A circus of clowns could pass unseen… 

Patrons should be informed that lines to…
Will be closed from nine pm…
And it is suggested that commuters 
Take alternative routes…

The morning rush, gated like sheep,
Must wait for next swing of the grill,
The morning rush, hemmed in like steers,
Must wait for one more swing of grill…

Customers are requested to report
All things suspicious and not to inspect
Unaccompanied property…

Passage ways are tight and narrow,
Almighty squeeze to pass on through…
Passage ways are tight and narrow,
Am pleased to find I have arrived…

Would like to announce that there is an excellent service
On the London Underground today…

O for the pure pleasure of a Parisian train,
A sedate box with style, yet functional… and plain…. (26)

The Victoria and Albert Museum

With measured steps got quickly lost
Searching for Round Instrument Room…

I’ll ask  a guard, that tall black man,
With fine uniform and a wry smile…

And mention my current concern,
The objective of my lost course…

He smart tells me “that room, today,
Be locked, the cause – a staff shortage…

But wait, I’ll ring and see if we
Could open up…” that moment phones…

“A desperate gentleman here,
To see the Round Instrument Room…”

Not been described as “desperate”,
Nor referred to as “gentleman”.

All said professionally…
Then, with a wink, insightful smile…

And lo, behold, a living room
Of instruments, like long lost friends….

Allowed to take a few pictures
Of each one there, such a pleasure…. 

As if had played their ancient keys…
And heard the sounds of strings well-tuned…. (27)

Scotland

Edinburgh

A bonnie town,
Sleeping beauty,
Shaped from hard stone,
Black basalt rock,
From castle top
Down Royal Mile
To palace park
With concrete shack
For Parliament…

The poor below,
Beneath bridges,
The rich shifting
To well laid out 
Brand new Newtown
With grand vistas
Along each street
From church steeples
To dour statues…

Then money fled
Out westward way
As brash Glasgow
Captured the trade:
Visitors beam,
Mindlessly gape
At frozen charm
No more asleep…
But… filled with dream…. (28)

Glasgow

It all seems familiar,
And all sounds the same…

For the life of me
They think me 
A wee Scot too…
Canny understand
Their brogue 
Rich and braided,
Near, foreign tongue…
Hope they soon see fit
To stand up, be seen,
Be counted Scotish…
Be a bonnie man, aye,
Take a greater pride 
In Glasgow town,
Restore its wealthy sheen,
And sweep away 
Its windswept look…

Took tea in Willow Rooms,
Felt at home in old style charm…. (29)

Europe

Mes Souvenirs de Paris

Took snapshots of the Louvre,
Inside and out, this time
Entered la Madeleine,
Climbed the hill to the Basilica,
But my best memory of Paris 
Is not digitally engraved 
On some memory chip or drive…

Waiting for the Guimet to open,
On a cooler day,
Taking perfect breakfast coffee 
With ideal croissants and jam,
With an hour to spend 
In reflection upon the news
In the daily papers read en français…

Down the road, above the trees,
Over the river rises the Eiffel Tower;
All around a distinctive architecture…

This one memory of Paris
Will be the first one found…
And the last one 
Brought back to mind…. (30)

Revocation…

All weather has two faces;
Felt grinning and sneering,
Imaged as gargoyles
High up on the butresses
Of Nante Cathedral;
Unable to be seen 
From under my umbrella
As I pass beyond
The moated chateau
To an uneven civil space
Before this church…

I rush for the side doorway,
Minimal shelter had.
Unfold my brolly,
Pass the inevitable beggar;
Trying hard to ignore
Her feable plea…

Inside I wander round;
Usually try to maintain
A clockwise direction
If not obstructed by 
Modern church authorities…
Admire the ancient organs
High above the front door,
Notice a second to the left
Of a more recent altar…
Discreetly taking pictures
With my small camera…

Almost about to leave,
Caught discerning the intent
Of the stained glass,
When the central organ
Is loud and proudly sounded…
With the polished outlines
Of a complex Bach chorale…

Take a seat to listen
Whilst sounds of storm
Augment the calm inside…

What ungodly man declares
Godly time undoes, rewrites…

And then to train I rush to trudge
Through downpour rain with that insight…. (31)
Mont St Michel

Without stop… the same wind…

From the Atlantic
Into the Channel
A westerly wheeze
Blows… and from bare breeze
Soon becomes wild gales
In storms that bucket
This outcrop of rock…

And always the same wind…

Before hands could write,
They came here to chant
And praise the Divine,
And beg, pray for luck,
Swift return of health,
The healing of wounds,
For some… that insight…

And ever the same wind…

Exposed boulders brought 
Up from beach below,
Raised as sacred stones,
Witnesses to rites
Of strange sacrifice,
Walled in with low roofs,
Scattered, built again…

Forever the same wind…

One such rock still stands,
Forlorn and alone,
In a walled garden
Beneath tow’ring church,
Dressed in thick lichen,
Still able to speak…
If you can listen…

And always the same wind…

Above, nuns and priests
Perform the Latin Mass
In ancient plainchant,
The sweet sounds threaded
Together by hiss
And long, sighing roar 
Of unseen tempest…

Eternal, the same wind…

Tourists chased inside,
Made to seek shelter,
Hold on to wet hats,
Run with umbrellas
Lowered, not opened,
Stand inside doorways…
To curse or complain…

Ever here the same wind…

Beneath dark-grey skies
Thick clouds are rung dry
In long sheets of rain,
A white sky descends,
Enshrouds the chapel
Above the walled town…
Its feet… washed by sand…

For all time the same wind…

For so it seems,
For so it seems…

All is anguish and pain,
Whispering at windows,
Wailing between arches,
Buffeting buttresses,
Testing angelic spire,
A thousand small sorrows
Relieved in tears of rain,
Hung out… and left to dry…

For so it seems,
For so is heard
In its rhythms
And in its rhyme…

Through all time – the same wind
This same wind… through all time…. (32)

Cologne

Two pointed, curtains tall of carved grey stone,
A mess of portent figures the Divine
Themselves… and birds… could see above the Rhine…
Enjoin a rock-enclosed rib-case of bone,
A holy cave whose roof is overgrown
With downward pylons from sinew design… 
- And heaven-lit windows that light a shrine: -
A famous mass that makes thy name “Cologne”.
And yet a dozen sites repaired proclaim
A Gothic past as proud and as profound,
A moving feast that sings to modern sound
Rebuilt in organ pipes whose voice exclaim:
“A king could only be more greater known
When they, beyond, are best about their throne…”

And here resides free-won an olden Köln….(33)
The City of the Dead

The Jewish Memorial in Berlin,
Memorable… and austere…
A city of the dead…
Oblong blocks on narrow streets 
Dipping steeply into the ground,
All intersections at right angles…

I look at this bleak landscape
And wonder if I should enter…

Without breaking into tears…

Hiding among its monoliths…
Hoping I don’t bump into others
Also lost within its emptiness…

Above, children irreverently
Jump from one stack to the next,
A couple of these concrete masses 
Undergoing repairs… for reasons unseen…

But, then, is not a real city to be found…

In its laughter and lamentation…
And everywhere else in between…? (34)

Walking along the Wilhelmstrasse

Walking along the Wilhelmstrasse,
Turning into the Unter den Linden,
Onward to the Pariser Platz…
Passing through the Brandenburger Tor;					(tor/gate)
Crossing two parallel lines on the pavement…
Near the Reichstag with its inspired double spiral
In its proud glass dome… twinkling…

Wait at the lights before crossing into the Tiergarten…

There, unbothered by the noise of the distant traffic,
Hear only the soft whoosh of cyclists 
Going in all directions, unhindered;
With the birds singing freely 
In the coolness of its dense leafage…

This poem composed on a park-bench,
Lost in its symbolic depths,
Beyond the inertia of history,
Committed to memory…
And only now placed… 
On the page before you… (35)
The Frauenkirche in Dresden

All war is war upon the greater land
When mindless men commend themselves to end
That labour blest of worker folk who tend
A built-up world where down-cast shadows stand.
As basement steps to gilded orb demand,
So nearby mosque and synagogue defend, 
Same testaments to insight inkless penned
That fruit once picked is ever plucked by hand.
Yet brick by brick they put you back once more,
Re-did that lofty dome, all else restore;
From organ case that roars above the screen
To gilded frescoes pale on ceiling seen…
That one moment in time inside could see,
Admire how great this remade site would be…. (36)

Munich

Much drunk in English Garden is strong beer
Beside the wooden Chinese pagoda;
A dozen, different shaped spires too compete
To give Munich an old, fantastic air…

With fountains free, museums to careful see
My Sunday will become a rich memory:
A masterpiece of inspiration had,
A panoramic field of ecstasy…

Yet also find the city-folk a joy
To close behold, a human zoo on view…
What great delight now paints that perfect boy…

Beneath, with beardless sun, upon the grass,
A sculpted work, today his day of rest,
Who reads a book while watching… they who pass…. (37)

Zurich Railway Station

To sounds of bells
A backward look…

See long rays of 
Late afternoon sun
Streaking downward
Through the smoke…

Time to more on…

With warnings on
The written wall…

As seen in hand…

Tempt not your fate,
Be slower sheep
To pass beyond
The farmer’s gate…! (38)

European Train Travel

    From slow and humble
To fast and nimble…
    The colour of the face of Europe
Has changed…
Fields of fluorescent yellow
Remake the texture 
And fabric of modern fields…
Encased in small seas of green,
Or up-ploughed soil a dusty brown,
With blackened charred remains
Of fires for what reasons unknown lit…
Canola is the choicest crop…
All the way to Turkey
For so am told…
    Much of my way is flatly set out;
A speeding train though farms
And to-me thin, foreign forests;
Streaking alongside streams,
Past reeds and sedges,
Shooting small bridges,
Watching cyclists on river paths,
A lone fisherman…
And forever… an absent farmer
Symbolic caught
In distant stacks of smoke
From occasional fires
In the midst of paddocks
Otherwise empty seen…
    Passing borders unsigned…
Discreetly watched…
Like the train from Amsterdam…
Anouncements made 
In an additional language…
Or an old one quietly dropped…
Almost always re-phrased
In accented English…
    A landscape now
More interwoven;
It’s hard to say where
One country starts…
And another stops…
But, sure, the locals show
In spectral art of dance
Upon which side
They once were born…
Despite, today,
What more they know,
Where else they go…. (39)
India

O India

O India…
All dust and dirt,
Forever poor,
Sweating before
The rising mass
Of next monsoon…

The sweepers sweep
Latest rubbish
Into potholes
Filled with rain
Whilst hopeful souls
Along the streets
Will tout their wares,
Such useless stock,
Touristic trash
In a market
Where that public
Has long time fled…
So desperate
The taxis seem…
On the sad faces 
Of their drivers;
Circling around,
Circulating,
Ne’er one coin had
Since morning rush…
How hot that sun
Unseen through silt
Now blown so far
Across the land
To fall like ash
From thousand fires
That burnt the cane…
With soil dried out,
A powder made,
It dusts the dogs
Washes the cows
Chewing their cud
Feeling so safe
Plonked down in midst 
Of street… knowing 
Well no soul would 
Dare to hit them,
Just no one, none…
Neither Moslem
Nor Hindu, not
A Sikh nor Jain
Nor foreigner…
They seem to be
Smiling, content
To wait for dusk
To head on home…
Be fed more hay
And scraps… to rest,
Locked indoors
And milked in morn…
This panting dog
In puddle stuck
Also’s going 
Nowhere too soon…
While others look
Profundly dead…
Are they ‘good’, or,
Are they ‘bad’… those
Not looked after,
Forced to fend
For themselves like
The monkey clans
Picking through scraps..?

O India…
All dust and dirt,
Forever poor,
Sweating before
The rising mass
Of next monsoon… (40)

Agra

Just off the plane,
From London town,
Via Munich,
To New Delhi;
Pre-paid taxi
Dishonest charged,
To train station…

No seat to find,
Go second class
And push your way 
Without a spot,
Just standing up,
On to Agra
Where hotel’s booked…

Soon see the need
To front-pocket
My old wallet,
A useless prize –
Some English coins,
Low rupee notes…
And credit cards…

A swami coughs,
TB perhaps,
Can sit on pack
Until in tide
An avalanche
Swiftly descends 
And corners me…

But hardest part
Was getting off,
And had to fight,
My way through crowd…
And all to see 
The Taj Mahal…
The Taj Mahal…

I say, I say…
“Love the tourists,
Build better trains,
Some folk prefer
To pay their way
And for a start
At least a seat
Is hard to beat…!” (41)

The Taj Mahal

It’s said “the most aesthetic monument”
But must wonder if there’s beauty in age,
Do wrinkles count and sagging flesh image
A true account of faded achievement?
Will find the courtyard walls do need cement,
Those parts not seen the less repair engage
And find the parkland grass as wise as sage
To dormant lie ’till monsoon rain is sent.
No lotus fountains’ spray is heard to splash,
See creek nearby well washed in soapy froth,
Despair the streets will freedom find from trash,
Or shrines a safety from fanatic wrath…
But with majestic gaze seen framed through gate 
Through distant sight perceive a diff’rent state…! (42)

Touting for Business

The main roadway’s  a bazaar,
With small shops stalls lining street
On either side, quite narrow
And obstructed by those cows,
Both bank accounts and sacred…

Dressed in white, a thin tout
Is out fishing lines of trade…

“You want real fine cannabis
Hydroponic quality…”

“No thanks…” surprised, quite surprised…

“You want a girl, underage,
Knows how to please, nice and clean…”

“No thanks…” quite shocked, quite shaken…

“You want a boy, don’t be shy,
Knows how to please, nice and clean…”

“No thanks…” more shocked, more alarmed…

What isn’t sold, I wonder..?

What do you need, be after,
Happy to help, aim to please…”

“Just lost my way, which laneway
To my hotel, bit confused…”

No problem, sir, third on left,
Towards the end, you turn right…

Without street-signs, down the lane
Past concrete toilet, a mere wall,
Where women go, I know not..?
And turning right, home at last…

Forgot to tip… grateful though…

Thin folk see little profit,
Those they work for, eat the fat,
Need take no tips, make the dough,
Butter their bread on both sides,
Can eat their wealth, and its shows…. (43)
Patna to Nalanda

Thank goodness for that guide book lent
Upon a bus leaving Agra
That from airport in Patna learnt
To catch a bus to Nalanda
So took taxi, and best pre-paid,
Through traffic to New Bus-Station –
Just another mud-filled paddock
And told to jump upon ‘that bus’
Already seen to be moving…

And place my trust in the kindness 
Of strangers met…so run… jump on…

Typical trip, a piece of sack
For window shade, loud video,
Rough, wornout seats, lots of luggage –
All sorts of bags and baggage borne…
We stop and start, and start again…
Arrive in town whose name I still
Do not yet know, just somewhere south…
And stand upon one more flat lot,
One muddy plain, with rubbish left,
And passing folk… while water pass…

And place my trust in the kindness 
Of strangers met… my bus… I ask..?

“Oh no” they say, more intimate,
Near walk me on by hand it seems
Along a track round foetid lake…
Another bus ’mong dozens there…
Still heading south, a sun not seen,
Faded by dust, before monsoon,
Feel hottest month in falling sweat…

And place my trust in the kindness 
Of strangers met…and hope… despair…

Will I arrive, or disappear,
After the sun has, not knowing where?
Then “Nalanda, Nalanda” said
And pointed out, down distant road,
Beneath an arch… the route is shown,
All washed in dirt and sun-lit dried,
A country drive all dressed in dust…

And place my trust in the kindness 
Of strangers met…walk on … walk on…. (44)
Nalanda

Ancient monastery, more town
With tanks and towers and holy hills
Deeply buried within psyche,
A fabled field of great learning
Opened up like learned volume,
One dusty page after the next,
Embedded down beneath the plain…
Exposed by hand of questing man…
Under an unforgiving sun,
With sweat and imminent sunstroke,
I traipse these lengthy passageways,
Enter small cells, wonder what texts
Were writ, re-writ  were read and taught
Below this water-proven roof,
Climb footworn steps to terraces
To promenade above courtyards…
Admire stupa with steep staircase
And temple shapes traced in friezes
With a thousand Buddhas who wave…
To bless pilgrims – today’s tourists…
Who laugh and smile, photos taken
Beside bilingual signposts…
Are led to wonder how much more
Is still interred, yet to be turned,
What rich treasures were underfoot,
Beneath the brick and hard-carved stone…
What unburnt book could stand this sand,
The monsoon rain… but then take heart
Ideas ne’er die nor fade away…
A famous site still famed today…? (45)

Nalanda to Bodhgaya

Decided to walk back
To the intersection,
Decline the rickshawman,
All bent and broken down…
Now accompanied by
Walking, talking cylist
Who returns here three months
Each year from market stall
Located in Delhi,
To be with wife and kids…
Am caught buying water –
The honking bus tells me
The passengers have told
The bus driver he still
Has one more customer…
A long haul, towards night,
Past Vulture Peak whose rock
Was bathed in golden glow;
Past a hundred hamlets,
Wee villages and towns;
Rivers that drank too deep,
Completely drying out…
A second bus is took,
A moving feast is had
With families on the roof
With bikes and bags and chooks...
And so on to Gaya.						(pronounced Gee-a)
See outhouse-sized temples 
Sponsored in vivid paint,
Large slogans on their sides,
Announced with trumpet horns
And met by waiting folk
Oft signalled by mobiles…
The long bus-trip ends now
In this poor dusty town,
Centered on some slow train…
I see no hotels here,
Need to continue on
To Boddhgaya thence						(pronounced Bod-gee-a)
A good day’s walk from here…
But have no need to fear…
All the passengers know 
Where I be heading so
For one quick thinking guy
Has called a shared taxi, 
Pleased to tell me “Cricket 
Is one great game,” happy 
To have me pay the fare…. (46)
Bodhgaya

Finally find hotel,
Like a Fawlty Towers
But run by ten year olds…
Its that odd time of year…
Before the rains, in heat,
When tourism dries up;
Here as proxies, ring-ins,
Ghost-workers, eyes and ears,
Family filling in…
To replace busy staff
Given a lengthy leave…

I am told the kitchen
Is closed, more ne’er opened…
So much for the breakfast
Included in booking…

In the full moonlit night
Now walk to temple site,
The tall tower spot-lit;
The evening air is still
And pleasantly heated,
Entering through archway,
Barefooted, move clockwise
On cool marble pavement
Finding myself inspired…
There meet a teenage monk
Soliciting for funds
For an education…
With hopeful smiles… and sighs…

The grounds have been reclaimed,
With Hindu tank behind
In part explained away 
Through an odd myth of snakes,
Cobra-hooded, sacred,
Embodied, enboldened 
Nagas out to protect
His meditating Self…
Beneath this descendant
Of  the original fig…
Behind its ornate fence…

So much for stories told,
Mixed in with daily wares,
Likewise found bought and sold…
As if incense and prayers
Could be cashed in for gold…. (47)
To Patna, Patna Bound

Hotel informs me “only a short walk
To intersection, can catch a bus there…”

But find “ten minutes” becomes forty-five,
And no buses stop, catch taxi instead…

A tiny put-put for mere twenty rupees,
Twice the rural rate, a tenth in city…

Shared with the locals, myself hanging on
To frail sides of frame, wear bumps and corners…

Until seated down beside the driver,
As farmers exit, more clambering on…

In Gaya am sold for some five rupees
Being taken now to the bus-station…

Empty muddy patch with a distant tout 
Whose loud cries I hear say “Patna, Patna…”

Find a vacant seat, and sit myself down…
But no… understand this seat is taken…

Find another seat, with my pack in lap
But no…. understand this seat’s taken too...!

This time do not shift and refuse to budge,
I could not long stand one hundred hot miles…

But a seat up front is reserved for me,
With window, shattered, cracked from side to side…

To left – farmers three, with carpets and bags,
Behind, back to back, an old Buddhist monk…

To right – a young boy with knobbed gear lever
‘Tween his spindly knees… singing latest hits…

Echoing driver confronting potholes,
Just calmly singing, unfazed by trouble…

Careful use of horn… turning all road-rules
On their skilful head, not one incident…

Singing in traffic, trapped the last two hours…
Think this simple soul’s a saintly fellow…. (48)

Patna

Boiling hot, bubbling along –
A mêlée of a market, 
Espy an empty taxi,
To the center of city
For two hundred and fifty…
Until stopped by two Police,
In brown Khaki, overfed…
For some reason or other…
The driver is interviewed…
Told to wait… but quickly leave…
Beside half-built motorway
All other taxis busy…
Then pursued by my driver,
Told “to jump in”… and do so…
And he hurtles off through crowd…
Seated behind him, can see 
This thin man nodding his head
In disbelief, no doubt fined…
Am fearful… will now witness 
A murder upon the road..?
Then find, at the last second,
That people… just melt away…. (49)

Just Booking In

Walk into my hotel…
Already booked on Internet…

But, no booking entailed…
Only Indians licensed to stay…

Alas, you have been fooled…
To the rightside must try your luck…

And find all inns quite full…
Even a doss-house is filled with mats…

A midday sun recoils
In boiling sunstroke heat of noon…

My sweat is full of salt
And quickly blinds my staggered sight…

In glare soon disabled,
With luck road leads to train station…

For a long hour am still,
Seated safely outside in shade…

Then, sight returns full well,
Espy small street with huge hotel…

No, we be not yet full…
A room with lock and simple bed…

Has me finding a smile…
Just booking in, just booking in…! (50)

On the Plane to Aurangabad

The middle class prefer to fly,
And feel no need to wonder why…
With express trains far, far too slow…
Buses potholed in traffic stuck,
So who would want to go by car?
Only way is to go by sky…

In their incessant chatter hear
Constant reports upon hardware,
Or latest in IT courses,
Upgrading this or that program,
Endless virtues of Internet
Interspersed with latest software…

Thankfully, on plane am belted up,
Would love to promote this insight,
With a firm poke and prod to chest,
To each of them would loudly yell:
“Infrastructure, infrastructure,
You fools, you first must get that right….!” (51)

Ajanta

A big cave you might think would be enough,
But no, a row of them, more must be built,
One after the other, all without stop..?
But that they did, then, were left quite forgot…
On walls and ceilings, paint resisted time,
Carved figures boldly stood beside a bloke
Called Buddha with fixed eyes that stare through dark
And past the sinful souls of simple man…
Out, back into brilliant sunlight I stand,
With naked feet that need to safely dance
In shoes or sandals worn since rock is lit
By one ungrateful sun in furnace blast:
Am quick to read through signs our grasp on life
At best is tenuous… and filled with strife…. (52)

Ellora

With one promoted town with holy caves
Others would follow suit and quickly dig
A bigger name for self around these parts…
And so it came to pass that monks were housed
In splendid fame while innovative hands
Would master carve a temple straight from rock –
A palace fit for Gods if we could see,
A paradise filled too with female flesh…

So trade a hovel for a home and here 
Reside in coolness deep of this dark cave,
And seek to have in paint a royal house,
In lamp-light sketched with precious jewels and jade:
For all is like a dream, without substance,
That must be seen in one insightful glance…! (53)

Epilogue

In Exultation

All life is like
A carousel…
Our bags put on
And taken off…
Recycled thoughts
With no real start
And no real end;
A journey told
Without trav’ller..!

Around potholes,
Through human traffic,
Passing cows and dogs
Finding relief
In dipping sun…
Expert driver
This taxi-man…
Passing through town
Like heated knife
Through hot butter,
Moses before
This reddened sea…
Arrive outside
Army guarded 
Airport entrance –
Simple structure
In confusion
Like the rest of 
Vibrant Delhi 
So congested,
Left churning through
Its ugly streets…
Soon ascertain
This be correct,
Right terminal,
With ticket held,
Made real in hand
In boarding pass…
In take-off made…

Exultation…

Touch-down is felt,
Anti-climax
Almost beheld,
But, then, sinks in
“Am home”… almost…
Such thoughts soon dulled
With unslept form,
Yet still, still feel…

Exultation…

My cleared way through
Customs revealed,
They let me pass –
This quite strange beast
With pack on back
And one to front…
With loads of drugs
Still on board with
Aspirin strips 
And vitamins,
Feeling more guilt
With each single
Anouncement made…
But what am I
To confess to,
I ask myself,
As I pass their
Blind stares well-paid
To right sort out
Dirt-tired tourists
From terrorists..?

Exultation…

I make it home,
Ring the doorbell
And turn the key
Unused for months…
A rush of tongues
And sleep postponed…
Then late shower
Finally had…
Bed beheld in…

Exultation…

And disbelief…
Merely arrived
From where I’d left;
No real journey 
Undertaken,
Be undertook…
Yet, still, to find…
In such dark thought…. (54)

China Revisited (Hong Kong and Xi’an)

China Revisited (Hong Kong and Xi’an)

The Open Door

The horse has left,
The lamp’s been rubbed
And genie’s fled,
That East is East
And West is West
Is just not true!
In Hong Kong here
Democracy
Is everywhere..!

People will vote
With their two feet,
In what they eat,
And wear, and how
They’ll cut their hair…
They know their need
And how the same
Will be achieved…

Money will speak
With the same voice,
In similar tongue…
And though they know
That fortune’s tide
In flow goes up, 
In ebb goes down…
Still see the wealth
That can be made
In a light show…
Turned on each night…
As skyscrapers
Are made to blink
And wink along
The harbourside…

Know your limits,
Praise the gods, yet,
Invoke the shades 
Of a rainbow,
An open door
Between the arch
To pots of gold
If all be bold,
Negotiate
A share in power
Right here… below…! (55)
An Industry in Death

The mighty Chin proclaimed their might
In tombs of clay-modeled serving folk,
An after-life, fantastic theme park,
With so much toil, meglomaniacs,
Aping the world they ground the realm down,
Orders dispatched, minister of death
Tried to copy the tired world above…
Sapped its vigour, and before anon
By the same hands both kingdoms were sacked

Regard their works… and duly despair…

And then the Han to be emperors too
Fell into line, made the same mistake,
Dug tombs in pits sealed beneath huge mounds
All capped in brick, finely fitted out 
In wares then had in fired clay…and gold,
In bronze or iron, in costly lacquers,
In small jades carved, goods in lowly wood:
In ways of world… tried to simulate
That realm above, as then understood…

Regard their works… and justly despair…

So golden Tang, an empire regained,
Into old ways too equally fell,
Conformed likewise to habitual fate…
And so were dug more tombs under mounds
With spirit ways in dramatic stone,
That lead on down to muralled homesteads
Mirrored mansions, palaces for dead 
Monarchs outdone by those gone before
Or later came, lived a longer time…

Regard their works… and deeply despair…

That more is less, that we be the same,
In mocking death, death will mock our name…. (56)

The Pottery Kilns (of Yao-Chou)

On the clay banks of this river
Old celadons were once potted,
Most famous wares, reflecting skies…
Did imitate archaic jades,
The stormy tops of wintry seas…
So expensive such luxuries…
For rich merchants, gifts from officials,
Finely carved bowls for tea or wine…
Thought worthy for an emperor’s grave…

The best bodies were leached in vats,
The palest grey, and careful turned,
Then fired with wood, and later coal,
Old recipes were well-followed,
Designed on wheels or pressed in moulds,
Or shaped with knife, slapped on with sprigs…
Perfect mistakes in happenstance
Simulating… palest moonlight…

Once more see smoke, and piles of pots,
Reborn in fire, centuries late,
So close in style, some sold as fakes,
Museum copies ‘round the corner
Stressed to look old… and who’s to say
This dish be right… that bowl be wrong..?
If you might think this be correct
Should that not make the collector
Ever happy, forever glad..?

But discomfit is long-time met
By connoisseurs, with suspicion
They intuit something is wrong,
Just not quite right… for although made
With the same clay… furrows of time
Write today’s date, and such a fact
Upon the skin of contrived art 
Should not be missed… just does not fade…! 

The moment of birth reflects the earth,
Like fingerprints from potter’s hand,
All works designed are ever signed,
Cannot escape their maker’s brand…. (57)

Madame Professor

Pleasantly plump,
Looked like a peasant
Who might have picked potatoes,
Could well have had to
During the Cultural Revolution…
But she knew the differences of soil –
Professor of Chinese pottery,
One of the very best,
Passionate in her pursuit of shards,
Worked out how to date them,
Sort them, mend them,
Perceive their development,
Moulded by influences
Mixed in one huge melting-pot…
Now over 80 years old,
A living treasure,
Instructing young seedlings
In the museum,
Hoping to infect students
Researching kilns
With a similar zeal,
Those searching for missing links,
Tying up loose ends,
Harvesting the soil
With intuitive understanding,
With an inner eye…
And special feel…. (58)

Through Cloudy Night

Back through the suburbs in our taxi-van
We speed on homeward to our hotel base,
(All gleaming new with gilt and silver sheen,
With fixtures held by feeble screws and glue,
And showers that flood before they slowly steam).
But, first, one more full banquet to partake
And so onward through half darkness we sail
Beyond the lengthy walls of ancient Xi’an town…
The sky’s a mixed-up moon-lit mix of mist 
And fog, part smoke and smog and Gobi dust 
Am told… along wide streets between tall blocks
Of soaring towers splashed with pixel dots…
And new-made concrete blobs with unlit light
Like ghostly ships that glide through cloudy Night…. (59)

Corn

This large province 
Around Xi’an 
Tis golden land…
In harvest corn;
Bedecked in piles
Upon the ground,
Or hanging down
In long bundles
Like bananas,
Wide streets reduced
To single lanes…
Between carpets
Of cobs or grains
Raked out for miles
And left to dry…
Or shelved on roofs
And ledges flat –
As if the scene
Were trimmed in gold
Or rinsed in gilt…

A land that must
Have seen the sun!

Here distilled to
A glowing rust
Amid the dust
And smoke and smog….
Sometimes lit up
With chilies hot,
A darker red,
Like dull embers
In clusters tied
Or left to dry
In smaller piles…

Between carpets
Of cobs or grains
Raked out for miles…. (60)

In the Darkness Singing

Beneath the walls one hears
The sounds of singing folk…
And in the parks there too
An ancient world through voice
Also comes back to life…
Small orchestras compete
And lift the narrator
Beyond a modern realm
Of plastic CD spin
To sing of love… or loss
That needs none to explain,
Needs no translation…
In the darkness singing
The soul upon this stage
Is much the more admired…. (61)

Women Waiting on the Side of the Street

Looking dejected,
Somewhat overlooked,
With a pink-tinged blush,
Plump in appearance,
Not perfect in shape,
With a few blemishes,
All seated on mats,
A fine coterie
Of naked ladies,
Hoping for right price,
Holding out for more…

Realize true worth…

But the day’s near done,
Decide we must buy,
Sample these sweet treats,
Looking slightly flushed,
Hot distillations 
Of now absent sun…

And know well they self…

Their kiss is dripping
With a sugared sap,
Crackling, crisp with each 
Savoured bite, the sound
Of each treasured snap
Reminds me swiftly
Of long lost childhood
And how stolen fruit
Could once taste so great…

Lusting after sin…

Naked pink ladies
On the side of street;
A peak moment… not
To be forgotten,
A simple pleasure,
Basic, down to earth…

In such little things…

I’m here made to sing…. (62)
Hua Shan (Flower Mountain)

   Steep-sided abyss,
Fragrant pines clinging
To weathered granite,
Five peaks to visit,
Narrow steps made smooth
By ten-thousand feet,
Day in and day out,
Slippery in rain,
Would be hard to see
In the depths of night
Under purple light
Of a watchful moon
Trying to see us
Through the mist and smog…
   Up and down the spines
Will traipse the pilgrims,
A dozen walk-ways
Are showered upon
By the golden leaves
In the bracing breeze, 
In swiftly cooling,
Cold Autumnal air,
A flying carpet
If not walked upon…
With infinite care…
   I see an old man 
In the void floating 
Across the bent tops
Of stunted pine-trees –
My own shadow cast 
By the setting sun…
   No more time to waste,
Must make careful haste
Helped by the dim lights
Of small lanterns strung
On thin fragile wire…
  Not one tiny bloom,
Not one orchid found,
Five mountainous tops
Themselves being seen 
As the huge petals
Of a landscaped flower …. (63)

On Hollywood Road

Along Hong Kong’s Hollywood Road
One treks narrow, bent, snake-like street,
A canyon ‘tween tall apartments
On the steep sides of island hill,
Famed magnet for antiques, old wares…
Objects set up to be seen bold
And proud on sale in shop windows,
Picture frames for goods on display
Where one finds folk here quick to smile,
Invite you in… “so please sit down…
Say what you think, a real nice buy,
Will make low price… just, just for you…”
The truthful soul of self’s set free 
In very act of simple smile
For all to see, for all to see…
But if the truth be truly said
Most things are not what they appear,
Mere suggestions to well digest:
This pot’s too new or looks too old,
This vase is right but price is not;
Asking far, far too much am told…
This dish screams “fake” so well we ask
Just what’s antique and what’s repro?
Well lit behind the polished glass
Artfully placed, skillfully laced
An assortment of precious things,
Ancient relics are seen to spin…
The truthful soul of self’s set free
In very act of simple smile
For all to see, for all to see…
Our human eyes are glassy voids…
So through…. or in… we might just find
What we now wish to here behold,
See what we seek, no more than sought…
But in a smirk or grin or smile
The movements of the lips reveal
A world of truth, naught denied,
In the fleet space of ‘fore and aft’
Things fall where they are meant to stand
And there I see humanity
In all its sad nakedness, lost…
Before re-clothed… in swift denial…
The truthful soul of self’s set free
In very act of simple smile
If one has eyes that deep perceive 
What stands on trial, what stands on trial… (64)

A Short  Sojourn in New Zealand 

A Short  Sojourn in New Zealand

Exotic Orchids

Exotic orchids
Bedeck old trees
In Auckland Domain.
Sun showers whilst rambling,
Softly whistling Bach.
Small verdant fingers
Beating time in breeze…

In Chief Post Office,
A modern edifice,
A thousand faces
Mostly oriental…
One Maori lady
Licking postage stamps,
Perplexed Pakehas
No where to be seen…
How the times have changed…

A Chinese woman
Greats me with wide smile:
“How c’n I h’lp you?”
In Kiwi accent,
Thus so contracted;
Sounds like my sister…
If  I were to blink
Long enough would think
It her on counter…
To my request says
“Yees…” and stamps my cards.
Just could not resist
Saying “Fabulous”…

Next day discover
Those rock-like orchids
Were mere native ferns…
With row-dotted spores
On their simple spears…
Look so happy here
Bearding Old World trees…. (65)

Gone to the Library

Going to the library here
Is quite a different experience…

Upstairs an exhibition –
First Folio on display,
Facsimile of the Sonnets,
Other old editions
Down through the centuries…

A section of old books
Antiquarian to touch and smell…

So many CDs to burn,
Here two dollars each,
And diverse DVDs by the meter;
Art-books on long shelves…

Obscure magazines
On Early Music and Arts of Asia,
Some in foreign tongues…

Young students everywhere,
Quietly studying, 
A few hushed voices;
Bring your computer,
Open till late…

Refresh yourselves with aromatic coffee,
Read a newspaper,
Partake a crisp croissant…
Or, a late-night chocolate…

Going to the library here
Is quite a different experience…. (66)

Eating Out On the Footpath!

Who would think I might return,
Have lunch in a gay pub,
Rainbow flag proudly flying,
Seated on footpath… in broad daylight!
That fish and chips could be served
With such great panache…
On next table a young couple,
Looking quite cosmopolitan,
Heard discussing different friends…
Two tables over a Maori woman sits,
A grand-mum with two girls 
To midday dine with glass of wine…
Only a few souls discreetly stare
And mentally stop to wonder so
Just who is what in world upside down,
Where no more things are what they seem…. (67)

Old Moses

The park sculpture looks mighty great –
Michaelangelo’s Moses… lifesize…
To his horns near three meters tall
In well-moulded marble resin…

Beneath, a weary soul, as black 
As jet, rests his heavy head… and stares
At scavenger gulls finding crumbs…
A beggar too, low in profile…

He waits for night to let him sleep
Under yonder bush higher up…
Against damp, woeful, wailing wall
With chic apartments lit above…
Much needed refreshment to hand
To take his two small, white tablets…

Dreaming of home across the waves…. (68)

Mt Eden

A new toy train now comes to town,
Will demand break its novelty down..?

Will take again that trip to Mt Eden,
Beyond that now locked-up prison,
This time to show my travelling friend 
The grassy lips of a real volcano…
Hopefully dead… no more alive…

We climb up through remnant bush
Then dodge the sheep and cows
Grazing on this urban farm…
Soon to be tossed out by native grass…

Once more admire the view…
And count the emerald cones picked out
By beams of light through patchwork cloud…

Alas, this spot’s now a tourist site
With coaches in the parking lot
Once only filled… on moonlit night…. (69)

Devonport

To naval Devonport did sail away,
Took token cruise across the waters grey…

We walked along a shrunken, sandy beach,
Soon climbed a micro-conical hill-top…
Part spent half-hour in second-hand book-shop;
Licked fancy icecream for afternoon tea;
In olden photos saw transplanted town…
It ever be that things are but copies…

It’s all been done before… and tomorrow…
Imagine the same stream of tired faces…
Same old actors let loose upon a stage;
Such folk all know their lines, or, more or less,
Know how to mumble, fudge a thought or two…
Surprise us so with something… nearly new…. (70)

One More Day – Another Storm

Hear how the high heavens burst asunder,
A seeping sky is shuttered up in grey and black;
Quick the lightening strike… stretched out by thunder,
Hits hard the modern man without umbrella…
But soon its smiles again, I know not why,
But brings out best in a nostalgic fellow..?

See how the high heavens burst asunder,
A weeping sky is locked up quite blue and grey;
Flash, the lightening strike with quick struck thunder
Hits hard an ancient man holding umbrella…
All blown inside out, why him, not me?
Still left to dance a drunken reel… one more day…

One more day – another storm to witness
Upon a timely sea of fitfulness…. (71)

Once Built in Wood

Wonderful old wooden homes,
Had quite forgot
Those white-washed timbered walls,
The filigree iron lace-work,
Steep roofs in corrugated tin
Replacing the time-battered slate…

And churches fearful of fire,
Ornate stained glass in burnt amber
And glowing colours like inked in prints
Thickly drawn in leaden black…

But most mansions long gone,
A few preserved as shops
That soon wore out their old world charm…
Made over in modern décor,
Am grateful though that not all be lost
In these mirrored halls of time…. (72)

The Gardens in Hamilton

A new city quickly grows from fragile roots –
Not much from the past here- a feeble art deco,
At most a few modern blocks, nondescript…

But an earthly garden of delight awaits
To show all things botanical… and oriental…

A Japanese lantern six-foot tall signals the next sight –
A dry garden in a swirl of white gravel, rock and moss,
A pavilion in between with a vista out upon a lake
With wriggling eels and carp… and sleeping ducks…
And twisted pines and flame-tipped maples hanging on…

An English garden in formal attire leads us through
To Chinese treat without too much ado… a bridge…
More rocks…. a thick bamboo avenue wends on upward
And in the darkened space hear old poets creak and croak…

A modern American garden with deckchairs beside the pool,
A Mughal palace and Renaissance masterpiece much clipped,
A scented garden, a farm, and native fort with kumara,
A pumpkin patch with fruit already signed by school-boy folk…

New towns have taken root and we should know
That from small things all larger things can grow…! (73)

Home?

Home is where the heart is, or so they say,
And happy to be back… nor split apart,
I feel at ease among the modern glass 
And the narrow streets and shambled lanes…

But know I need not stay, can still return,
Savour the quiet streets, fewer cars to hear,
A clean, order-shaped existence that some
Might think just dull… but now not so dismal 
As the recollected past… exotic food
And worthwhile coffee spoiling us for choice,
Upon the sidewalk too – straight from Europe…
A mix of urban sculptures play, imbue 
A landscape newly-made… yet still the same… 

The wide world is our home?… but I would say
We be truly homeless where e’er we stay…. 

The past is no country we return to…!(74)

Some Comments on my New Zealand Poems no.65-74

All my poems in this text are written between the text in non-italics and the section or sections in italics.

Poem 65: Exotic orchids = Asian migrants to NZ. But at end of poem recognized as natives. And if native ferns can thrive on Old World trees then, by implication, Pakehas can acclimatize to new comers?

Poem 66: Going to the library in NZ is quite a different experience from going to the  Library in Australia. Something we could learn from over here in Australia.

Poem 67: Times have changed – this poem being set in a psychic space between the 1970’s and the 2000’s.

Poem 68: Question – just who is old Moses? A loose sonnet without rhyme and with an additional line. 

Poem 69: Starts with a couplet on the theme of the new train in Auckland (how we travel to Mt Eden) and ends with buses in the parking lot by day (and cars in parking lot at night – being filled is meant ironically). The sheep and cattle will soon be replaced, according to a notice to this effect, by native grasses which will not need to be eaten to keep them down to a suitable size). Note the jail is now ‘locked-up’.

Poem 70: We came to Auckland for a cruise back to Sydney so the cruise across the harbour is meant with some degree of humour. The poem is a loose sonnet (14 lines split between the octave and the sestet) with an old style couplet to begin with and an embedded couplet at the end, all with minimal rhyme. It’s a mediation on things not being one hundred percent… hence the token ‘cruise’ on harbour, part half-hour in a bookshop, a shrunken beach, a small volcanic cone (like Mt Eden), icecream instead of tea or coffee for afternoon tea. The tourist usually know what it means to be tourists (as if copying). The final line suggesting that we can still be surprised despite the presence of innovation that can never be absolutely surprising. The allusion to Shakespeare should be obvious. The poem is also referring to the nature of poetry. The photo alluded to is an early shot in the 1870’s of Dunedin, bought by myself, but could be of any town in NZ (imitating the mother country)].

Poem 71: A very loose reflection of the form of a sonnet but with two sestets and a rhyming couplet. The first verse is minimally changed in second verse line by line – a form of minimalism. A poem that can be declaimed. 

Poem 72: There are very few houses preserved in the Auckland business district. A little further out we can find how building were first constructed, namely, in wood.

Poem 73: We travel to the Botanical Gardens in Hamilton. Chinese poets claimed they could be inspired by listening to the wind in the bamboo.

Poem 74: A meditation on what is home, nostalgia and similar, N.

The Traveller?

The Traveller

The Fated Day has Now Arrived

In sharpness of metallic dawn
The fated day has now arrived,
A plan unfolds, the die is cast,
He be a traveller at last,
Upon this stage a floating pawn…

A game is played, to distant lands
He treks with charts and guiding books,
With program fixed in line on map
And beds locked in where he will nap
Juggling the site with cost and brands…

In electronic trail is part paid
The cost of travel and inns of stay,
Or bought in full, a virtual tour,
Before one leaves the front door,
A ghostly sketch is caref’lly laid…

In armchair, on day before,
The morrow seemed but future dream,
With coffee and a creamy cake
Decorated with choc’late flake,
A leaden dread has him in store…

An item bought and fully sold, 
Locked in to plot already writ…
No traveller he… a tourist be,
His camera – those sites shall see,
Trapped upon a trail foretold…

The soul should laugh and inward see
That old armchair is swapped in trade
For one in bus or taxi seat,
Then train or jet or ship of fleet
And thence to one more station’ry…

O what a joke, O what a joke…
That we have danced into this dream
As explorers to antique land,
Aventurers to modern sand…
That most might think they’re trav’lling folk…
That most might think they’re trav’lling folk! (75)

Who Strays from Beaten Path

One should refuse to think one’s life is writ
As if in careful lines thought out on page…
That day by day we might artistic age
In form as if upon a novel sit
Or thickly plotted out in some fast skit
All filled with masterful suspense, or rage,
Or strangely pose as tails on tragic stage;
Perhaps as hero with ador’ble wit..?

But when we least suspect, no sounded bells,
Unravelled plans are meant to go awry,
Will quickly make the better bet to buy,
Remember, too, that scandal greatly sells:

Well might mistress who sweeps the family hearth
Prefer the bloke who strays from beaten path…. (76)

Just Who are We?

Just who are we who think they trav’llers be?
Found placing major bets, play games of risk,
Prefer to chance those forgotten byways
Or ply a wake across uncharted sea?

Such fleeting souls are filled with humming breath,
As rare as guest-like stars that beam in sky,
They stride the span of land like ships in sail,
Defy ennui as if a plague of death…

All so heroic set, the throw is cast,
A net is spun to catch insight unseen,
To truly tread on land untrod by folk,
No more mere creatures from a boring past…

And here they pass before our earthly eyes,
Remake the land a landscape well-thought out,
To find profound pleasure in things reborn,
Remade by hand, reclaimed in heaving sighs…

A vision of the world that has instilled 
Fresh meaning formed, re-fashioned, shaped anew,
Who take delight in deeper sights not seen,
Reveal the drinking glass forever filled…! (77)

Once A Bonnie Lad

I saw an antique man
Bubbling metaphysical,
Waxing all spiritual,
Waning in pow’rs physical,
To poke the street with stick…

From terrace to temple
Would daily stride, intent,
To prove himself unbent,
Not bound, but heaven sent,
To poke the street with stick…

With feeble voice would sing,
In kirk would praise the Lord,
Give pence he could afford,
Their pleas for cash ignored,
To poke the street with stick…

From temple to terrace
Rewinds his path down-hill,
A clock unwound until
That spring no more could will,
Repoke the street with stick…

With help, from bed he watched 
A world that passed him by…
Till wiser souls did sigh
“No more at home should die…”
He poked the sheet with stick…

“This is my home, my home…
In here was born and here
Shall die… no, not elsewhere…”
He waved his stick in air
And poked the nurse’s butt… 
“I’m travelling no elsewhere…
I’m travelling no elsewhere…!” (78)

No More See the World

No more see the world for the world sees us…

Backpackers galore, liners filled to the gills,
Jet loads of gawkers, buses choc-a-block,
Boats to the gunnels, crammed into ferries…
Trains packed with stalkers traipsing up the aisles…

Damn bloody tourists, tourists everywhere..!

Not just a café led financial fillip,
A traveller led counter to recession…

Damn bloody tourists, tourists everywhere,
Yet, may they come, keep coming forever..!

No need to see the world, the world sees us…

In shadows of the lane, in crossing streets,
In cups of coffee, on the corners of roads
A thousand different tongues are daily heard,
In restaurant-cuisines we instantly migrate…

Damn all those rednecks, with their flagging zeal..!

Prefer a world that likes to move about, 
Likes to eat out, enjoys the exotic,
Revels in the unusual, breaks the habit
Of all things sane and safe, rigid as steel…

Bend like bamboo, as subtle as the grass,
Be soft as water that wears things away
Yet do not weep, weep not, for things that pass…

No one sees the world for the world sees us…

As grains of sand all moved in one river…
All things reflected in the same held glass…

Hear the winter cough of ten thousand folk…

Damn this world all drinking from the same trough…! (79)

Return to Sender

Our undelivered mail 
Is returned to sender…

Some wander the wide world,
Check out Mona Lisa
From distant barrier
Not noticing his work
Outside that palace door…

Some come to stand and stare,
And do well to wonder 
If these folk see at all,
Have they the faintest clue,
This spot before their nose,
A fountain famed in verse
Made rich with hopeful change..?

Why would you watch through gates
When lowered flag tells you
She is not holding court
Within her counting house,
As the clocks strike the hours,
While the tuneful ones sound
More like bashful Big Ben…

Then with an open mouth
Those folk who silent wait 
Stand in long queues to see
How an emperor lived,
Wandering from room to room,
The smaller – the best to heat
In depths of winter’s ice…

Off here, off there, and back…
Worn out, buckled and bent,
Rubbed and scratched, worse for wear;
Returned like sacks of mail
Undelivered, they end
Their trip… as if unsent…
Wishing good health and cheer…. (80)

Keeping Still, Kept Unstill

Keeping still, kept unstill,
Beyond a wilful will…

The soul who perfect runs 
Just does not seem to move…

Paradox of motion,
Propelled by emotion,
Intent on getting there
When… our arrival ends
No faster nor slower
Since the tortoise or hare
Can only meet themselves
Equal with the shadow
Spread between their feet…
Or ‘tween the legs of chair
And there they rest or sit…
Unable to advance
Or make a wise retreat…
Unable too to keep still,
Divine the great mind
In whose sure appointment
There’s no meeting to keep…!

Keeping still, kept unstill,
A choice in good or ill…
Between the goats and sheep
The wide world bifurcates
Beyond a wilful will…! (81)

He Sounds His Horn

The hasty lad will drive with horn
While lusty lass sees self in glass,
And meet at this luck-filled crossroad 
He sounds his horn whilst she sees not…
He shouts “hello” and she signals
A small delight correctly read…
If only fate could intervene…

And leaning through window declares:
“Wonderful body you have,
Your bodywork’s superbly fine,
If it were to need an overhaul
Or need an expert inspection
I am the mechanic for you…”
And with a wink hands her his card…

Bon vivant extrodinaire… Monsieur….
Un professeur… des beaux art, sculpteur… (82)

 Just Half a Street

Last saw you two score years ago,
And now you come before myself,
For some unknown reason have found
This street in vision says “hello…”

Just half a street, once walked to class,
And cubs and scouts… on my sickbed
Has sprung to mind, through memories’ cracks,
The shapes and shades that night-time pass…

Was often late and could not wait,
Ran down the hill… but going home
Could leisurely take time to stroll,
Sedately watch somber streetscape…

And now retrace in slow recall
My progress up this crooked path,
First take the road on right-hand side,
In moonlight hear a distant owl…

If Den was left before it’s Nine
From corner shop could chose to buy,
Agonizing, frozen Mars Bar…
To save or spend, the choice was mine…

Somewhere, once here, did live shy lad 
Whose name so strange is rhymed with hope…
On sporting field we once would speak,
So cute… would suicide… so sad…

Past witches’ house seen down below…
Where ev’ry kid would throw on roof
Small stones… rumored would shriek and scream…
Deceased estate… shattered… hollow…

All the houses, but corner one,
Built to twenties’ taste, more or less,	
Still, three small floors did blend on in…
And fear what else has been begun…

How sweet untasted passion fruit
From high brick fence would be to pick,
Placed in the bowl on window sill
Where hard green would to gold transmute…

The rich folk had two floors to walk,
While those with one in brick looked down
‘Pon those in wood, a pain to paint,
Now treasured sight from the sidewalk…

Past rise the street would dip unseen,
Ne’er went on down that way, without 
Recall have quite forgot that stretch,
Unchanged in tone, same tidy scheme…

Before I take a left, delight
In larger front garden, drive-way
On either edge, a native wood,
The house a fragmentary sight…

And dread, despair that be no more,
So easily subdivided…
And deeply fear that much be lost,
In realm of dream… a fading ghost…. (83)

Tween House and Home

‘Tween house and home
A gulf appears,
Not quite the same,
Do not mistake
The One for Other…

Moved on, I see,
Like it or not,
You smell the piss
And see the shit,
Awful screaming…
Well-passed twelve bells..!

An old-man’s ‘home’, 
More house man-made
For ‘the’ insane…

Be traveling on…
Hostel… dosshouse…
Just not something
I would call ‘home’…

And feel the dust
Between the teeth,
And smell the smell
Of unwashed feet,
With underpants
Worn paper-thin…
Beneath their clothes
Not once removed…

Be grateful for
A house called “home”…
Not quite same thing…
Lest you find self
Drinking in thoughts
Of fowl faeces,
Seeing your face
In a parade
Of long-lost souls
Sweetly thinking 
Themselves to be
All kings and queens;
All such good folk
In mirrored sport
Subjected to…
The madness of
A midnight court…! (84)
Two Bright Young Things

Two bright and breezy young things, 
Two boys, fresh undergrads,
Conversing on the bus,
Obviously enjoying their company,
Both in jeans and black T-shirt tops,
Animated in gestures,
Ambling along in half-sentences
Finished by the other…
I am sure the passengers are thinking:

Brothers or buggers..?

No matter to these guys
What the world may think,
Happily absorbed in a universe
As if two binary star
Rotating about the other...
And am sure the passengers are thinking:

Which one is top, which one bottom..?

The one with a thin goatee beard
Stands up to leave,
A visible crack appears
About the beltless rim,
In between an unbranded band
Is crumbled into a strip of white…
His friend now stands tall,
At exactly the same height,
With the same lack of sartorial elegance…
Know the passengers are still confused.:

The young don’t go in for labels…

Or, so I’ve been led to believe,
Despair that fact and fiction 
Make for better bed-fellows…
Pour too much water into a cup
And its overflows…
Let it run away and you see it go…
And know the passengers feel…

Something has been lost… 
Lost in translation…! (85)

This Same Path Traipsed Throughout the Year

Last gasp of Winter…
On cold wet grass, purple snow!
From Jacarandas…

Each week I walk this way,
Up along Oxford  Street 
To the library at top,
See clock-tower with time,
Silent, without chimed hours…

On naked body
Heavy perfumed royal robe…
Soon toppled by green…!

Will take the right-hand side,
Along the walled Barracks,
Past the horse trough with flowers
And the disused water-pump,
And dogs that bark and run
Among the waiting trees…
Witness the massive roots
Of a distant rainforest
Found named in Moreton Bay…

In dappled sunlight
Million pixels dust the ground
Of dry gunpowder…

A thousand clouds drift past,
Portend a thousand shapes;
When all shopping is done,
With an oft’ emptied purse,
With a deep bag of books,
With some bought, some borrowed…
Down the same hill will go
Finding inspiration…
In a few lines of verse…

Between skeletons,
Falling in the ardent hail…
Dead fig-tree litter…. (86)

Where did You Go?

A Set of Experimental Sonnets

Where did You Go?

Must one a distant traveller become,
Found spending time to be on holiday?
So, the endless refrain “where did you go?”

I just went home and on a magic seat
Took deep delight to find some unknown place
Ne’er seen before… Timbuktu… Ulan Bator…
A serene lake in high Andes with arch
Symbolic of the sun… Greek temple porch
Wind-swept, traced out above a blue-edged shore…
The rough and tumble of a tiger-chase,
Swift shot through lens… with a palace retreat…

But knew the brochures wove a gilded glow…
Mentioned no malaria… nor sand-storm spray…
Head-aches…sun-burn… flies and elephant dung…! (87)

Due Deference

Defer to local knowledge is best bet,
That railway on the map’s no longer there,
Or, take left bank of Rhine, without compare,
A view, I was assured, would not forget…

And that way went by train, found from armchair
World history must clash on either side,
Confined above the bends on hills espied
Old castles keeps long lost to count… declare
The wealth of trade in tax once flourished here…
Saw steep vineyards and woods that downward stride
To meet small bays with tight townships that ride
Swift edge with steeples meant… to fall… I fear…
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   
As if to tread the grapes emboldened knights 
No doubt took human tolls through bitter fights…! (88)

Be Still…

“Be still” they say, those wise old men of yore,
But how can stillness be when change is law..?

O so sped, speeding fled, through time and space,
Around this feeble sun, upon faint arm
Far spun, on edge of Milky Way… past harm
From rays that would in daylight blast this place…

“Know self” they say, those wise old men of yore,
But can the self know self when self’s no more..?

O so sad, sadness, itself, witness find
To the wrong deeds misleading leaders played
Upon our human stage so deep engraved
In lingering miseries still left behind..! 

“So change” they say, those wise old men of yore,
But how can change be made once past death’s door…? (89)

Without a Beating Heart?

What clock would dare to strike a thirteenth hour,
Imagine midnight bells with twenty-four..?

All time needs time to see its unique place,
To meet distinctive flavours of that day,
Discern the moods and meanings thoughtful found,
See what intent was rendered in such space…

But, know all clocks can no more measure time,
Mere trace, record a beating heart, their own;
Not one thing felt, through sheer movement alone,
As one might say “reason without a rhyme”…
A shaky rhythm, in no way profound,
So, not much more that just a noisy sound..?

Yet, please, inquire more close within and find
Chaos must mirror too the subtle mind…? (90)

Admired the View

Together walked uphill, admired the view,
Although if truth be told, preferred to seek
Each other’s sight… On things mundane would speak
Whilst all the time desires… dissolved like dew.
Our thoughts could find no noise-filled avenue,
Anxious intentions that would seek to peek
Were kept well locked, left trapped in self-critique;
With silence heard, would sound more loud, we knew…

And guessed, on parting ways, true state of play;
In deference, reluctance too, our lips 
Would hold the other’s name as yet untold,
Must wait till next we met… and wait we did:
A moment left not seized remains unclaimed,
The forge must strike the iron whilst enflamed…! (91)

Before this Glass

At last we met once more, as if two twins,
We smiled and gently waved, before this glass,
No longer mirroring hesitant, pass
Before the sight of other soul; each grins,
And feels transparent made, with knowing look
We read each other now as if a book…

At last we talk once more, consign consent,
Happily speak about the weather’s heat,
And where we live, the work we keep, discreet
Enquire if evenings might be free, assent
To meet the morrow night and parting share
Our names with numbers that our phones declare…

Wondering if time did speed or drag on past,
Await the hour we could embrace at last…? (92)

In No-Man’s-Land

So, he be half my age yet aged soul
Whilst self now feels more young and there we meet 
In no-man’s-land as if two equals see,
Some wine, I know, is soon too old to sip
And yet some other drop, like good friendship,
Itself matures in time and finer be…
If only all engagements were replete
With timeless, joyous voice… happiness extol..!

But sadness too imprints its touch upon 
Our way, all passage through this world is fraught
With toil, troubles too numerous to count,
And so with weary heart with friend discount…
Your silent pain once shared could soon be naught,
Whilst simple pleasures grow in place ne’er gone…! (93)

With Cup of Tea

With beating heart we met but soon forgot
Our shyness had, in conversation found
A universe of meaning more profound
Than basic emotions that make our lot…
With cup of tea our course in life would plot
And laugh and joke upon a humorous ground
Where sadder things would take more serious sound
Consolement in held hands was soon begot…

No timed earthquake did rent the temple screen
Nor ornate curtain ripped from side to side,
No gentle made request would be denied
Nor simple heartfelt plea was left unseen..!

So, two more souls in mirror would embrace,
That image and a ghost meet face to face…. (94)

Coffee

A sudden day did dawn from deeper sleep,
By accident lovers in dreamt comfort
Just could not part and part did not entwined,
As boats are moored their knots meant not to break…

A sullen day did yawn from darker sleep,
Then a gold bolt of brilliant light did sport
Across this mirror to see selves aligned
As if to meet alone one soul awake…

A sodden day now spawned from stormy sweep
Of weather foul and with the thunder fought
Would laugh out loud no exit was designed
As if two logs on fire could leave the grate…

Then, when passions of rolling storm are spent,
They break their fast… and out for coffee went…. (95)

Dear Lunar Soul

Which face has more beauty, sweet yours or moon?
Since latter sight soft lends to you a glow
That smoothes the pits and bumps that pock the skin
That mark distinctive face, mere brands, like name,
Accumulate and sign your body’s frame;
Endear yourself to me as more divine,
That love should make of you such stellar show,
With crackling voice, in polished tone, in tune…

Forgive myself not thinking otherwise, 
Dear lunar soul, prefer what is to hand,
Ideals I’ll not desire, but seek the real,
Things as they are, in imperfect appeal
There make a home… and not upon the sand
Ship-wrecked with heartfelt cries and anguished sighs…! (96)

A Lazy Punt

Upon our lazy punt we slip from shore
To share an afternoon as if in dream…
As to where we go it matters no more,
Content to move on up… then float downstream…

At end of day return from whence we start…
“A pointless trip” a working soul might say
But we both knew that pleasure was an art,
A crafty ruse to spend a deeper day…

Where we would start, and, then, where we might end
Indeed may have no point, but rest assured
That values won along the way must blend
Two wayward wills within one sweet accord…

But lovers wise will truly laugh out-loud,
Their course is just a wider net endowed…! (97)

Today I Drown

Today I drown, am swept far out to sea,
In love of you my soul is drawn and shot
Towards the sickle moon, beyond the sky,
You who harvest myself like blades of grass…

Your shy, hypnotic smile has captured me,
Embracing lips have sealed my fated lot,
My death is dug right here where now I lie,
Yet, ‘tween the tides have found all things will pass…

So, stranded, find myself once more left ‘free’?
Now look upon your face, your chiseled plot,
And wondered why… bewildered, wonder why
Find future not deep etched upon this glass…

For love’s no promise nor grave tombstone made,
More empty coffin placed on view displayed…! (98)
 A Candle Waxen Weeps

Upon a table near our sleeping bed
A candle waxen weeps with dripping tears
Whilst all too soon the rushing dawn appears
To part ourselves once more… long months ahead…

A feeble sun shakes off a rumpled shirt,
Leaves far below a vale of linen mist
And sails the sky all seen throughout the day
Until the night reclaims this wandering soul…
Whilst town-hall bells from muted hills extol
A mere few absent hours, a time to stray,
No doubt all sober fare yet secret tryst 
By proxy seen beyond a moonlit skirt…

A faithful sol returns at break of dawn…
Once more we sadly part with weighted heart…
A soldier’s post is etched in times apart…
Long bent shadows that wait, and wait… forlorn… (99)

If Born in Fire

If born in fire by fire is fire soon spent,
If formed in air by air is air soon swept,
If bubbled up in froth liquid dissolves,
And made of earth such earth returns to ground…
Just what in weary world persists, is found
Transcendent, through mighty sacrament absolves
Us folk, who knows the greatest secret kept 
If treasure true could be from heaven sent..?

But must retort, “all love transforms all things,”
In its sure name the moving instant sings…
Far past a self kept knocking with request,
Throughout eternity that day is blest
When pure in heart the eyes shall see beyond,
Must meet such sole moments when souls respond…! (100)

					Noël Tointon, Sydney, 12.12.09.