*

Volume XI – Book III

Rocks and Leaves

Some Poems ‘On a Recent Visit to Canberra’

Noël Tointon

1.5.01

*

1.	
A long beach 
around the lake,
six inches wide,
half-under water
in the lapping tide.

Rocks of basalt 
as if dropped 
upon the grass
by a Zen monk,
completely unplanned.

I walk this way
to the museum,
a recent mushroom,
painted green, sits 
between pine-trees.

Gloomy walkways, 
dark images 
scattered inside,
closely celebrate 
one bleak, painful past.

Hey its Autumn,
gum trees hidden
‘mid molten fire,
even the cockatoos
don’t look like them 
     black fellows….

2.	Monuments everywhere,
commented upon by the birds
hidden in brilliant foliage,
long avenues tell a powerful story,
on the top of garden seats
blotches of white ink recount those 
avian reflections….

3.	Crossing damp lawns
all alone I wander
as if walking within
a Monet painting,
as fleeting as morning mist
the floating world
has a palette of colour
quietly fading,
framed by streets - leaf-free,
gray and guiltless,
quickly drying,
for the most part emptied
of human traffic….

4.	Hockney’s Grand Canyon
for fifteen seconds
looked interesting 
and colourful enough,

then, these panels for a canvas
went blank and lifeless,
drained of all emotion,
and this lasted 
thirty seconds,

then, feeling sick,
descended into 
his sculptured hell,
near the bottom, unseen,
taking wings like a bird
to reappear
intoxicated 
with each brush stroke.

Such verve, such vigour,
these glazes never
tasted before,
these textures
telling me
no need to see the real thing
for I have seen something (else)
   even better…!

5.	The air may be chilly
but a great place for a cold
what with the conifers,
the eucalypts, the mint-bushes,
the cheerful smell
from burning logs,
their thin, blue incense
welcoming you….

6.	I came to the Lady Capital, 
not called thank goodness
to stand before the throne,
that sight left unseen,
no august personages noted either,
remember they don’t have to live here,
but the traces of their power
are a presence printed on the landscape
whose vegetation is, I worry,
almost too perfectly manicured,
but, I forget, Lady Canberra
is no lady… she is a man…!

7.	In the University’s parkland
currawangs and cockatoos
seem to get along,
each in the shade of their own trees,
around the soccer oval,
screaming abuse at each other.
At least they drink 
from the same creek,
from the same water hole,
on the rocky corner at the bend,
whose bubbling brew is black
as a full-bodied beer….

8.	Gardens, gardens everywhere
and hardly a weed to be seen,
gardens, gardens everywhere
and the mafia must be very green…!

9.	In statue Canberra has grown,
the latest fashion -
thin metal slices 
cut out in silhouette,
boldly painted,
standing upright, 
on the ground casting a pale 
multidimensional shadow….

10.	All year round a golden road 
from the city to the airport…

The train finally made it towards the town,
but, no bus goes to the air-terminal…

…turning it into a licence to print money 
for the poor taxi-driver…

“grumble, grumble” curse the truck drivers
in the peak hour of congestion….

11.	(Crackle, snap, pop…)
A silvery carpet swaying,
rippling over the landscape,
an ocean of bubbles crackling,
fragile leaves falling throughout the night,
softly lapping underfoot,
talking to a midnight moon, 
washing rocks whose edges sharply feel
a keen frost only hinted at,
a lone grasshopper lamenting,
a long, drawn out  Summer drifting
as it ebbs… and fades away….
(click, click; click, click; click, click…
click, click….)

12.   Saturday night,
for a few hours
a slick young thing,
forsaking a techno rave,
becomes a disco queen,
warped in time,
re-lived though simulation,
wrapped in memories
from the eighties,
not old enough to remember,
merely manufactured.
He greets his friends
as they come and go,
with a handshake,
a backslap or a kiss,
sips his expensive drink
staying only tipsy,
has a good-time,
gets a few phone numbers,
promises to ring.
Dancing the time away
reminiscing what he’ll do,
the center of attention,
aware he is watched,
by one guy in particular,
waiting for that right time,
he says a few good-byes…
rocks… and leaves….
meets his dancing shadow
re-weaving the night
in the car-park 
of his dreams…
uplifted….

13.   Changing from green to amber to red,
these dew dipped Autumn leaves 
are transformed every few minutes 
beneath the blinking stare 
of the traffic lights….

14.   On Parliament Hill
making love late in the night –
nocturnal possoms….

15.   Four men sleeping together
in this small room,
an orgy of sighing,
endless snoring,
the floor bestrewn 
like a mother’s purse 
emptied out,
not there to tidy up
for these boys, alas,
on their one day 
away from home….

16.	  In the middle of the night
a blanket of cloud sails away
leaving Black Mountain
dark and cold against the sky
outlined by stars,
not seen in Sydney skies,
winking.

Underfoot,
from the foliage,
a coughing sound
reminds me
that tomorrow
I too fly away.

One by one 
home lights go out
leaving those threaded
along the streets
like fairy lights in a tree,
all guests invited
but they did not come,
forgot to party.

Hand in hand
the occasional gust 
dances with the leaves,
chattering among themselves,
in the next suburb
a distant dog tries
to form a choir
without success.

The weather is 
thirsty for a drink,
the ground hardly drunk,
silently snoring,
in the branches
brooding birds
await the first rays 
of a hard-boiled dawn….

17.	  Seen stranded in the middle of a park
a pair of pink panties that must have seen better days…
Obviously, in Canberra, there is 
a nightlife here after all….

18.	  At Belconnen 
you wouldn’t want to shop
and then catch the bus,
the architects it would seem
came by car,
and by night,
for they quite forgot
the pretty lake
at the bottom of the street
around the corner
hidden by thick concrete
dappled with cancer….

19.   A homeless guy shuffles past
collecting food and butts
from bin to bin,
in a way, making me feel 
quite at home
while I read 
a local paper….

20.   This week only,
burning like candles,
no pollution,
only the ashes
of sun-burnt parchment
beneath the branches….

21.	  The antique busker
wheezes with asthma,
plays his wooden recorder,
arthritic fingers gnarled 
like the coppiced branches 
of an ancient oak,
his nobbly knees beneath
his blue shorts
making him imitate
one music stand
not quite straightened up…

Ah, but this man 
has music in his soul…

transcending the spitting clay
that moves his singing pipe,
leaving me, 
from moment to moment,
suspended,
with one foot too
half-entered 
into heaven,
not knowing 
if I wanted 
to come or go…!

22.	  Steel, copper and brass,
bronze, silver, gold, platinum
even rusty tin….

23.   Across the lake hear
the chimes of the carillon;
must look at my watch….

24.   Downtown the birds
make so much noise
that common folk
cannot hear themselves think….

Downtown fallen leaves everywhere, 
even on the showroom floor,
there one minute… gone the next, 
blinking… seen again… in reflection….

Downtown, under the colonnades,
with smell of wonderful coffee,
cafés have gone al fresco,
reminding me of Italy….

One last, lingering cup, with my eyes shut,
amid the noise as if somewhere else….

*******