…-*o*-…

Volume XI

Book I

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Songs of the City (Out Singing to Itself)

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Noël Tointon

2000

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Songs of the City (Out Singing to Itself)

is dedicated to

David, Marc, Marita and Francesco.

Volume XI - Book I

Songs of the City (Out Singing to Itself)

…here are some poems 
that should not be just read out,
nor scanned by eyesight alone, 
but acted, acted up, acted out,
best out of sight, out of range,
thought about, 
as if second hand,
to be abused, used
with a patina in sound
like the dry breath of
a hot desert wind
moulded to reflect
an echo of this city,
a town singing to itself through song
in a chorus line
near four million strong ….

	……-*o*-…...

…today spectacles of birth and death
are carefully sanitized…

…on Crown Street
the sound of babies 
is now no longer so often heard,
instead, odd families 
are seen walking with their dogs;
noisy puppies straining on the leash,
older pets plodding along behind,…

…owners looking like 
their charges -
this old chappie in leather
is stalking a striking alsatian;
that slim, sleek, bright-eyed young thing
still dancing with his greyhound;
a near-bald couple taking their time
with a pair of clipped poodles;
holding hands, a trendy boy and girl 
cat-walk with their expensive, designer pooch
in a star studded collar,
a bright pink ribbon 
and a rainbow coloured lead…

…the world’s nothing but
a great wide mirror
where all things 
reflect each other,
a simulation 
of reality…

…and such is fashion….

	……-*o*-…...

…school children these days
no longer chant their tables aloud…

…2 x 2 is 4, 2 x 3 is 6…

…is seen upon the same screen
multiplied by the number of desks
whilst computer animated sounds,
passing as a male voice, speak,
dry as city dust,
through cheap, dull headphones
with a Californian accent
correcting their sums…

…2 + 2 is 4, 2 + 3 is 5…

…each child given personal attention…

…Jason, 2 subtracted from 4 is not 1,
please try again one last time…

…the smart ones learning to cheat
with a hand calculator,
discovering that…

…one divided by zero 
does not compute…

…hopefully not like 
this population of kids.!?

…my guess is 
that the almighty dollar
will teach them
how to count….

	……-*o*-…...

…two young teens
staying overnight for the first time
in this backpacker hostel 
belonging to one of them…

…cult heroes
decorating his bedroom;
planes and rockets and planets
dangling down from the ceiling…

…told to be quiet..!

…such an impossible task,
lying beside each other
in their sleeping bags
on a double mattress on the floor
as if out under the stars…

…heard guessing titles 
of songs softly hummed,
naming bands, 
swapping ribald jokes
with bawdy build-ups,
with whispered punch-lines
awash with nervous laughter,
late into the night…

…older folk retire…

…in the adjacent bathroom
the running of the screeching taps
just manages to censure,
mute the overtones 
of these two young boys 
discov’ring how meaning’s found 
through the soul of another…

…oh yes, to be young at heart again…!

…so evocative this sound, 
mem’ries flooding back…

…among the well-seasoned travellers
you can almost hear the guests thinking…

…if I had known then what I know now,
things would have been done differently…

…almosts an old man’s refrain,
forever thought by an older man
when they find out one more time
‘that the jewel of opportunity 
escapes an imperfect clasp…’

…for such is the stuff of life,
that dreams are made of….

	……-*o*-…...

…the sweet tones of an inner city temple
drowned, knocked down, dissolved
in the continual stream of traffic…

…madness rampant on the roads;
depressed workers power storming to work
from the bus or train listening to walkman,
becoming manic
in the same old rush homeward,
by-passing buskers more seen than heard…

…dole bludgers enjoying life
washed up on the beach in waves of sound…

…homeless having lost the plot
forgetting to queue at the Talbott,
on the street find a prominent place 
to be seen by Mission Beat,
screaming here she comes, 
here she comes…

…with a drink and drinking song
a few drunks echo in a doorway,
singing moving on, just moving on…

…now show me a sane person 
and you will find a human 
with no music in their soul…

…just singing in the rain….

	……-*o*-…...	

…waiting for the train
on a platform open to the air,
in the middle of summer,
sits a genteel lady dressed in black
sipping from a paper cup piss-weak coffee
whilst nibbling a cinnamon doughnut…

…the sweated breath of a constipated wind
scattered by a screaming jet…

…suddenly, on the seat beside her, 
lands an overweight woman
accomp’nied with crying child
in a brown jumpsuit 
concealing ‘padded’ nappies,
the exhausted mum 
lighting an eternal cigarette,
blowing blue rings of pale smoke 
like an old asthmatic volcano
about to erupt
on to the pavement…

…on the platform scorched red-hot 
the fallen chips are fought for 
by squadrons of squawking gulls,
the filled rubbish bins dive-bombed 
by the buzzing of blowflies,
school boys accidentally squeezing 
off-white, liquid mince from pastry pies,
besotted school girls
blowing bubbles in fluorescent gum…

…entertaining recent migrant souls
a drunk digger sings old songs 
they’re never likely to hear again…

…just who is a real ‘(Au)stralian..?

…could there be one day
a common culture
beyond our patient waiting, 
waiting for the coming train..?

…but then don’t they say-
fabric is woven
from ten-thousand threads…

…or is it the case-
one omelette is made
when eggs are broken…?

	……-*o*-…...

…the raw landscape of the face
is subjected to the tamed forces
of a civilized fashion…

…the Italian barber clips the hair singing…

…click go the shears boys, 
click, click, click…

…in the evening he showers 
to the strains of opera

…o sole mio…

…with a touch of expensive perfume
under each arm and behind the ears,
repeated three times,
in manner quite Neapolitan…

…funiculi, funicula,
funiculi…

…his hair parted with a grand flourish
as if it needed to be redirected…

…yeah, yeah, yeah…

…O, I’d better shave, he thinks…

…oops, bugger Hitler’s mother..!

…I look like a bleedin’ Chrissy tree
all bandaged big-time,
what would my customers say..?!

…in reality
our negotiating surfaces,
always found with depth…

…all spaces public,
never completely private,
our perceptions shared,
and then shared again….

	……-*o*-…...	

…this noisy bookshop methinks
is intoxicated with
the fumes of its own coffee…

…a fine book with a decent cover,
hardly a treasure,
out it goes…

…just twenty-seven fifty…

…a mighty tome in its day,
looking a little bit outdated,
what’s its price...?

…just twenty-seven fifty…

…with that bloody g.s.t.
even this precious pamphlet 
I bet is…

…just twenty-seven fifty…

…at this rate no need to price the books,
just interrupt that same, incessant sound track
and whisper

…just twenty-seven fifty…!

	……-*o*-…...	

…a slick, high-tech city on steroids
out turning music into Muzak,
each supermarket screaming
it’s not yet Xmas its only Father’s Day,
turning posters into an artform,
a town out advertising itself,
becoming so very post-modern,
going for gold, your gold card,
not interested in coins,
not interested in change…!

	……-*o*-…...	

…staying on the cheap,
a few dollars ev’ry day,
a fortune in time…

…from halfway around the world
come the English backpackers
tasting real Devonshire teas
in small cafés at the Rocks…

…every city
is a mirror of the world
out seeing itself…

…from the Northern Hemisphere
come the busloads of tourists
sampling Aussie beers,
singing karaoke
in small rooms full of stale smoke…

…Japanese laughter
sounding like raucous thunder,
then flashing a smile.…

	……-*o*-…...	

…in the weekend a whole city goes dancin’…

…pubs and discos pulsing out of time…

…in this restaurant the singer croons
to a delightful band out of tune…

…sporting a big, brand new barbecue
useless for cooking…

…o well they say the food’s good,
the comp’ny could be better,
it’s not paying for this spread,
very impressive
even if inedible,
final bill found almost indigestible…

…time to rave about the meal,
now too drunk to remember,
when one’s more sober…

…after this mad, mad month of 
September..!

…when all the costs are tabled…

…in the Parliament…

…on the hill…!

	……-*o*-…...	

…life is so scary these days,
what with all these codes,
and conspiracies
on television…

…to turn the burglar alarm off the number’s…

…help..!

…will my old computer speak to me..?

…after the love bug..?

…and what secret characters 
will deliver my email..?

…an old person at the bank
before the automatic teller
now feeling senile without the dementia…

…you can almost hear the sighs
of a compassionate impatience…

…relax, it happens to all of us,
sooner or later….

	……-*o*-…...	

…the lonely clatter of two old feet,
in new tight-bound leather shoes,
one echoing the other, 
squeak, squeaking slightly,
scuffing the sandy pavement
never quite blown clean…

…all around the near-hypnotic hum
of the not too distant traffic sound,
as if waves falling upon a beach
those few miles away as the crow flies
were transported behind each corner,
as if every street did mirror the other…

…bats flutter past the poor, old fellow,
silhouetted ‘gainst the ruddy sky
the complexion of a drunkard’s skin,
but he’s only had a few,
downed in the local tavern,
his vocal cords struck out by a stroke,
happy to have recovered,
to have been with friends these last few hours
singing a song without words…

…singing one more song of the city…

…one last song sung just outside Auburn -
taken by a car that didn’t stop,
given one last lift in one that did…

…songs of the city out singing to itself
here dedicated to this Aussie battler…

…a sad statistic given a touch of flesh 
and almost a face
but no name,
only a number,
added to one long inventory,
where your dear name too, 
O reader,………………….,
will, anon, be found listed…

…in fact here already embedded,
buried in the plot
that courses through this poem,
as if by proxy,
more symbolic in design,
a signed coffin before the viewer
whose hollow confines are filled
with the sounds of shallow words 
heavy with an emptiness,
lightly with a lid,
although concluded left
open-ended….

	……-*o*-…...

…a set of poems without the absolute dimension of a beginning or ending; occupying an experimental space somewhere between performance, formal and prose poetry; exploring lines of odd syllables (with only the occasional insert and the ‘conclusion’ in an even number)….					
         Noël Tointon, Sydney, 27.8.00.