…-*o*-…

Volume XI

Book II

……-*o*-…...

Songs of the City Revisited

……-*o*-…...

Noël Tointon

2001

…-*o*-…

Songs of the City Revisited

is dedicated to

David, Marc, Marita, Russell and Gary.

Volume XI - Book II

Songs of the City Revisited

…death!
…death?
…death…

…one full stop,
a period in time,
a comma in cosmic space,
one final
   transcendental suspension..?

…a sentence
in the book of life
rubbed out as it is written…

…the only fact of our existence…

…not gone yet..,
I hear you laughing…

…come dance, dance with me 
and sing songs of the city revisited,
for in the moment
we can defy fickle fate
and meet the maker of our own destiny…

…mirror, mirror on the wall
look at thine own reflection,
sharing this mis’rable face,
with each new second beyond recall…

…an empty glass should be filled,
drunk in ecstasy..!

…so cheer up,
be jolly,
we have a wake to attend,
our own full-planned 
in vivid detail,
ev’ry second lived
   upon this merry-go-round….

	……-*o*-……
…Old Jack the Jester 
has now passed over,
his will made public 
to all his friends, hangers on,
to those in the know 
and cognoscenti…

…to those who are invited,
with a friend,
are here summoned to attend,
the full dispersal of my fine wine -
the entire contents of this cellar,
all my bottles of vintage Hermitage, Grange,
to be drunken there that day
and all of the rest 
to be then divided equally 
guest by guest…

…what a wake,
what a day, 
in this fine city 
not yet forgotten
when rich and poor could partake
what the investment banker 
is more inclined to keep in his safe…

…fine drink, and fine food,
the company could be better, 
thought his lover there
smiling in this crowded room,
observing the hoi polloi 
forgetting to sample the beer…

…old Jack sure has the last laugh,
he quietly chuckled to himself,
still greeting a soon swaying sea of faces…

…for Jack had drunk his Grange Hermitage
with the best of friends 
oft’ unknowing his largesse,
and had each bottle replaced 
from the same vineyard 
with a less good wine 
of lesser harvest 
but still finest fare
even before the palate 
of these seasoned souls
now sounding so wise,
and so unwitting…

…then critical Leopold 
from the Herald came across
to say how sad his long friend
and mutual critic
had taken his pen elsewhere…

…murmuring, he said 
into the ear of his host; 
for the noise of the rabble 
was so exceedingly loud,
old Jack ever the Jester,
long live Jack,
almost had me fooled,
a great teacher, almost a god
for here he’s made 
a fine something out of nothing,
and who would I be
to dispel the pleasure
of all these good folk
gathered here…

…raising his glass with a wink
and a censored laugh…

…so Old Jack was there that day,
self-invited, could be heard laughing
somewhere out there in this throng
among the unsuspecting…
 
…in his inner sadness
his life-long lover thinking…

…so old wine in new bottles,
or new wine in old bottles, 
what does it matter,
we shouldn’t be taken in by the label,
be grateful for the contents,
and forget the packaging….

	……-*o*-…...

…play that same song again Sam,
the old folk in this nursing home
lined up in wheel chairs 
around the dance floor 
where Millie was doing a number 
thinking she was young again…

…it soon would be time for lunch
signalled by the sound of a loud gong…

…hi there, bought you the papers,
I said to my oldest friend,
recovering from a fall…

…I am grateful to have a room to myself,
he said, there’s sometimes six to a dorm, 
and most of them don’t even know why
they are here,
full of senile dementia,
all wetting their beds,
climbing in with each other 
by mistake,
and getting lost in the dark…

…it’s so easy to get lost in here,
having trouble myself all the time,
now what day is it, 
it’s Sunday I think..?

…no, no, a Thursday, I said…

…was only joking, only joking…

…better not play that one on the nurse,
might not send me home next week,
or let me wander out the front door 
to find lunch on the main street…

…as they say…

…humour forever has a fine edge
that can well cut either way,
a joke’s always at someone’s expense….

	……-*o*-…...
…life’s a game,
like a soccer match,
lived out ‘tween two goals
on a soiled field of players
chasing a ball some souls have 
more possession of…

(…ending in that convivial cheer
celebrated, commiserated,
in the local hall or pub;
so full of sound and fury,
signifying not much, not much more…)

…would the defendant please rise…

…and wearing such a nice suit,
just hired, I can see,
for the occasion…

…now Harold Baker, 
you have admitted 
assaulting Percy Miller
newly arrived from Melbourne.
One would have wished at the time 
that you had realized
life’s a game 
that’s played out within the rule of law
like a soccer match
where, without recourse to using fists,
all matters should be settled
peacefully…

…lived out ‘tween two goals of 
Queen and Country, God willing…

…now it was true this frightful fracas
was played out 
on a soiled field of players
who took this dispute of a recounted score
of the local match
one step too many.
True, his two friends were
chasing a ball, belonging 
to your club,
signed by Liverpool,
but it seems that some souls have 
more possession of their wits,
than you yourself, and your friends, 
no better than yourself, 
being the one arrested;
arrested by the constable here
outside the premises 
where he must conduct his business, 
ending this riot in the High Street…

…however in the light of your honesty
and having made amends with Mr. Miller
I’ll not note a conviction 
now ending this case in court 
and request that convivial cheer
celebrated, commiserated,
in the local hall or pub
might not be revisited 
in a display ever again
so full of sound and fury,
signifying not that much…
not that much more than 
passions gone awry..!

…now the defendant can sit…

…he, now looking much the happier 
in his borrowed suit…

…life’s a game,
like a soccer match,
lived out ‘tween two goals
on a soiled field of players
chasing a ball some souls have 
more possession of,
ending in that convivial cheer
celebrated, commiserated,
in the local hall or pub;
so full of sound and fury,
signifying not that much…

…not that much more than ego, 
that sad fool that struts upon this stage
and ‘tis heard of no more
thankfully, no more..!

…I should stop parodying Shakespeare
thinks the old judge to himself;
and more joust with details still to hand…

…out, out brief scandal,
the scandal of this brief brief
is still too much for the best of us,
now why must the pacings of this petty court
creep this way 
till all our yesterdays, mmh…
light fools the way to a musty death.?!

…one more day of this, methinks, 
I won’t stop laughing..!

…or dropping off in the middle of a case
and eternally sleeping…

…and then, perhaps, may be doing both..!

…then, then I should die laughing,
if boredom itself should kill…

…now no more of this, be gone..!

…case dismissed..!

…O! The accused has 
left the dock…

…no matter, it matters not…!

	……-*o*-…...

…a fine wine
when matured
seems even younger…

…the newlyweds were 
taking it all in their stride,
both now remarried three time,
still looked nervous though;
with all this practice
both thinking 
what might lie in store
but more of the same..?

…life’s like a lottery,
those tickets not purchased 
cannot win…

…wedding gifts 
looking a little thin 
on the ground this time…

…without illusions our path 
can only be paved with gold and bliss…

…thinking of the tax we’ll save,
cheating the taxman, 
that real grim reaper
whose hand is ever present,
only divorced by they
who be truly rich..!

…an old delusion that still
makes the capitalist world go round…

…and we’ll drink to that..!

…fortunately, a wine cannot drink itself
while drunken death only postpones its own potion 
giving this ongoing life,
at best, a fickle reputation….

	……-*o*-…...

…God’s no longer a Republican,
now a Democrat…

…stiffly standing up in the Staff-Room
the old headmaster,
just recently transferred here, 
on the second day of the school year,
stood whilst he addressed his ‘class’…

…this is a wonderful school
and it is my intention 
to make it a better one…
…but, but standards must improve..!

…Mr Itchalopoulos, 
you must stop teasing your testicles
whilst in class..!

…Miss Boulangerie,
the first period in the morning 
is not the time for breakfast..!

…Mr Altovoce, please
no shouting, singing, dancing, swearing
or wildly gesticulating when you teach..!

…Miss Wong, it’s not right
to discuss one’s religion when teaching, teaching art,
please cease this talk of ‘sacred spaces’..!

…and Mr Peetie no touching the kiddies,
you have your reputation
to keep… keep without rumour..!

…now, I have to meet the accountant
and a dozen other waiting souls…

…the teachers stunned by this reprimand…

…how did he know I scratched my balls so..?

…a pretty safe bet 
said the Italian drama teacher…

…its cult’ral, like shaking hands…

…I wouldn’t mind shaking hands with you 
joked Mr Peetie, 
the physical education instructor,
who spoke in a clipped Kiwi accent…

…get away,
we Greeks not into that sort of thing…

…said to general laughter…

…the kids all know about me,
what with mi’ gold ring in the right ear,
they all asked me the first day 
I taught here,
and, how can I not touch the ‘kiddies’,
y’ mean the monsters, 
when I teach them exercises, sport…

…I am always having to rush to get here,
said the French teacher,
and I need my coffee and croissant…

…the only ‘religious space’
in my class 
is where the students display 
one beautiful art object each day 
and give a talk about it…

…this guy must have eyes and ears 
that see and hear through these walls…

…or he is using a cam..?

…the holy bastard,
we’ve all been wired up!
With pin-hole cameras 
embedded in the back wall,
even here too, look..!

…that is disgusting,
an invasion of our privacy…

…no, no, we are in public,
just illegal when without a sign…

…and there is no advertisement of this fact..!

…the Minister of Education 
wouldn’t want to hear of this scandal,
now would he?
Hey, I have a plan..!

…the next day the teachers decided
the day’s temperature should rise a little…

…Mr Itchalopoulos 
organized some free scratchies
when all students would 
yawn and scratch themselves…

…Miss Boulangerie 
had them all bringing
 coffee and croissants to class 
when she taught them
The Parisian Café:
…après quelques jours
le garçon vous dit
“votre café…”, vous savez
que vous êtes arrivés à Paris…

…while Mr Altovoce
had his class intoning their Shakespeare
standing on top of their chairs
on one foot
with many gentle gestures;
alas, Julius Caesar 
looking ready to decline
before due time 
had called him 
to make his exit…

…Miss Wong boldly suggested
that a large Spanish Crucifixion,
borrowed from the Public Library,
all nicely framed in old-fashioned gilt,
would well make the perfect objet d’art 
for this particular day…

…whilst Mr Peetie
had them dancing some Balkan dances
in long same sex lines 
going faster and faster…

…all too, too much for the poor, poor Headmaster,
with more, more to come…

…soon blackmailed into surrendering his throne...!

…with all due deference, Sir, 
we, the Committee,
will now make all decisions
effecting this school 
with your participation.
We too want higher standards, 
to rise in the local scheme of things..!

…and so hear us out…

…these cameras will still be used -
one in your office,
    to watch you working,
    sometimes disciplining those beasties;
the one here in the Staff-Room can stay,
one in the Assembly Hall,
    to watch us play being actors all;
one each outside the two main toilets,
    to ‘see’ in this way who lingers there to smoke;
one in the bike sheds,
    to see what drug pushers were pushing;
one in the main locker area,
    to look for future weapons,
all connected to the world wide Internet,
    and the security firm just down the street…

…with ‘notice to this effect’ on the Main Gate…

…so by these means in this age
of democracy,
god them self was watched,
‘long with the rest of the world,
and standards did indeed rise,
the school trading infamy for fame,
although, if the truth be known,
watching the grass grow 
was now infinitely more interesting….

	……-*o*-…...

…I’m in the big city now,
looking for my love, 
looking for a friend,
feeling all alone,
just arrived,
just got here,
want to feel at home,
hoping for a smile,
waiting for that first ‘hello’,
someone who’ll look out for me,
   who wants to hear my 
      simple ‘hi’…

…an amorphous town can sense 
when you’re passing through,
just the tourist visiting,
so happy to book you in,
not wanting you to remain,
prefer you to see the sights
and not stray 
off the beaten track,
too many migrating souls,
with wings folded back,
   felt stealing 
      their birthright…

…a sea of faces 
flowing on past you,
never game to catch your eye,
let you scan 
the fine fabric of their life,
let you feel 
the fiber 
of their sweet delight
and their sadness too,
dancing past 
   like a cloud of fish
      missing you…

…but some folk 
wait to bid you well,
seek your cigarette
or curse your
lack of change,
want to sell you something more,
give you a flyer,
save your soul
when cornered on the main street
by a smiling Mormon wond’ring why 
   he must meet strangers 
      strange as I..?

…but take heart,
you’ve been seen by fated folk,
in the weight
of temp’ral shadows, 
bide their luck heavy with hope,
want to meet as if by chance,
so be prepared to say ‘hi’
and smile too
when they sound their name,
intimate that tomorrow, anon,
   you’ld  like ‘hello’ to
      echo soon…. 

	……-*o*-…...

…in reverie taste 
the flavours of the dreamtime,
listen to the growl of the didgeridoo,
see creatures that never were,
drawn from the never-never…

…a theatre for ev’ryone
in the street,
and totally free,
paid for by the festival…

…so unpretentious,
without the political, 
without points to score,
‘without a message’
and that’s the message
so profound,
so postmodern too… 

…and all so absolutely untrue…

…all drama 
enters the psyche,
alters the way of the world,
the way the world is seen in our sleep,
how we act upon the street…

…actors moving behind masks 
slowly walk along the ground,
some on stilts
aspiring for the heavens,
scaffolding lifting them up,
smoke and flares
with heavy music too loud to hear
drowned out by fireworks…

…boom… bang… hiss..,
shit..,
that was close..!

…the city as a backdrop,
a view oft’ seen by itself 
that still awakes wonderment,
too oft’ seen lit up
by the cheap flash of pyrotechnics;
but the crowd
enters into the spirit 
of the occasion –
a spectacle of the land
out seeing itself
without being aware how 
interwoven strands
of disparate mythologies find 
a reconciliation,
without each string unravelling…

…welcoming all white children 
to the dreamtime, adults too,
and ev’ryone else
what ever colour 
under a rainbow serpent;
still felt snaking in and out 
above the dark crowd,
evaporating into the night,
even though now dismantled,
   folded away, out of view…

…dreaming as its next venture
in a large box, black and square,
the lid now re-locked
and labeled by thick white chalk,
   not signed with a name, 
      merely given a number….

	……-*o*-…...

… I feel like a smoke…

…husband and wife look over
their half-burnt out house
in the harsh light of the early morn…

…it’s moments like these you need Minties…

…(and I must inform you this poem
has not been sponsored by the above product
which I cannot stand)…

…he hands his wife Rosemary
and unwrapped mintie…

…then Jeremy pushes the front door open,
its federation art-glass cracked and shattered,
the smell of burnt wood
greeting them
with the heavy fact
that now they have no warm house 
to go on home to…

… I feel like a smoke…

…the husband did think
as he went inside,
from habit…

…the blackened hallway 
looked like the insides
of a crematorium chimney,
the dull, melted glass 
of the once brilliant watercolours
took on the appearance of 
a cancerous growth
where each incinerated picture
did once grace these walls
like sunlit windows 
‘pon a world of yesteryear,
now long gone, 
and vanished…

…and I was sharing your fag
when I put Puss Puss 
in the garden shed,
it was blowing a right royal gale
so left it on the bread board
beside the toaster,
and forgot to give it back to you,
said the husband reflecting,
feeling guilty, miserable…

…and it’s my fault too, she sighed,
I saw it just sitting there 
and forgot to reclaim it…

…what have we got left,
said Jeremy as he put his arms
around his wife of five years..?

…each other,
our two wee kiddies, 
and Puss Puss 
still locked in the shed,
our health, and our jobs…

…the house is insured,
in a year might be up and running,
and you wanted a tasteful kitchen…

…and me the tin roof redone in tiles,
perhaps even good, old slate…

…we have the clothes on the washing line,
our dressing gowns
and this half-empty packet of smokes…

…guess we look a real mess without
our morning showers…

…and I’ll miss those summer baths
after work just trying to stay cool
in that wonderful bathroom…

…hey, it’s time to take the kids,
and grandparents too,
to old McDonald’s,
to have a big lunch
to celebrate the fact that
we were not on the menu last night…

…(and I must inform you this poem
has not been sponsored by the above outfit
which I only partake when necessary,
a bit like the corner shop,
when we lived in the inner city)…

… I feel like a smoke…

…sitting all alone in a filled up ashtray…

…yeah, guess it’s time to give up..!

…before time tells us
we have lost
all the wonderful riches 
we have been left with..!

…ok dear..!

…Jeremy breaking the cigs in half 
over the stone kitchen floor
and stubbing them out,
as if lit,
with his heel…

…as a symbolic gesture of atonement…

…(and I must inform you this poem 
has not been sponsored  
by the kind patronage of
   the Tobacco Industry)….

	……-*o*-…...

…today, you can now go anywhere…
because the world is virtual…

…trav’lling to Turkey,
with my Turkish love,
on a hot, humid, mid-summer’s night,
taking the train from Central
to a suburban Auburn;
to sample the East
not yet Oriental…

…sitting upstairs in the intimate café
beside the opened window
in the darkened corner of the room
we could hold hands under the table.
While savouring pastries long and thin
to drink we shared a spicy sherbet,
later sipping short coffees
with an assortment of minute cakes
some dripping thick with honey…

…looking towards the city
we could see the sky 
was an inky black 
tinged with an orange
deep in tone
with blue clouds
like the fresh shorn fleece of sheep
playing hide and seek
with a quarter moon
sailing high above 
the grand mosque
shimmering…

…as if just then painted by
the dead hand 
of Edmund Dulac…

…whose plates are ripped out;
from old, antique books,
that sell well Downtown 
for the small sum of 
one hundred and sixty bucks;
expertly mounted on bare cardboard
guaranteed as acid free…

…ah… dream on…!

	……-*o*-…...

…ev’rything reflects ev’rything else…

…forever escaping from 
the conveniently local loony bin
the mad patient always found
a shopping trolley to hand
to wheel around and pick up
those specials 
piled in heaps upon the street…

…a small tv, a large radio,
books and crockery,
an old computer, clothing,
silk ties to delight the collector,
magazines and newspapers
in a dozen tongues,
last season’s brochures 
from pretentious stores,
and, discarded things
seen pictured therein…

…and ev’ryday a new collection
trotted back and forth 
and left at the gate
beside the gardenias
letting his choice of objects 
give him his identity,
taking on the bitter-sweet flavour 
of a commercial display
as a paid up member of society, 
and,
a scent with a delicate perfume,
along with the look of an installation…

…alas, he’s so thin,
and so young,
and so off his street-blackened, 
sunburnt face;
on pure crystal speed, they say,
alternated with an uncut smack;
whilst talking to each
of his four pet rocks,
one in each pocket,
all at the same time…

…the inner person 
having fallen from his perch,
echoing, imitating 
an over wound-up parrot,
reflecting 
the ways of the world,
only taken to extreme,
a cult’ral mirror
where with luck
we might see ourselves
seeking some meaning 
without knowing how…

…seeking an identity
from an empty life
pregnant with value…?

…and its time to go shopping, 
time to go shop, shop, shopping, 
go shopping, shopping,
go shop, shop, shopping…
go shopping, shopping…

…looking for something in my basket…

…and someone to carry it…

…and anything else found in between…!

	……-*o*-…...

…looking so wistful
with his burnt, blond hair,
being kept parted 
by his agile hand…

…and so fresh from school,
all that drudgery 
of the teachers, left behind…

…the young boy leafed through
the thick Saturday papers
looking, looking for a job…

…here a specialist – 
there a slave..!

…and just who are you 
without work,
if not a student
or a pensioner,
or someone 
who is someone 
with their private means..?

…hello, anyone at home,
he kept on asking himself..?

…just feeling balanced 
on a loosening tight-rope,
so easy to fall, fall off…

…life’s a struggle and a war,
a vicious competition,
just one mug played off 
against another,
now how to find a good job,
one that might pay well,
with a future too,
without a thousand people
already waiting
at the door..?

…don’t they see 
we have it so tough,
this delusion we must work, work hard, 
accepting no part-time job
for that’s women’s work,
not fitting for your hero,
this captain of the sports team,
our top cricket eleven..!

…hey I’m truly fit,
and know how 
to get a smooth date…

…now I’m just one more number
parcelled out
to some anonymous agency
trying to make their money 
out of me..!

…and there’s Dad,
laughing in his corner chair,
wanting to read my paper…

…hey there, sonny boy, 
shouldn’t tell you this,
all the ads come out 
on the internet
six hours before the papers 
hit the street,
why don’t you look them up there,
all for free,
anytime through out 
the long working week…

…and thinks that would be 
a jump ahead of his mates…

…and just who are you 
without work,
if not a student 
or a pensioner,
or someone 
who is someone 
with their private means..?

…just one more human being,
just one more human being
like ev’ryone else..!

…defining self with a smile
or worn down 
with a worried frown,
laughing at oneself as if a joke,
taking a fearful delight
that naught can be found,
happy that we all start from zero,
free to be a clown,
or just a man about town,
so branded by no label,
no number then catch me…

…just free to be, to be free,
so absolutely 
free..!

…so…

…screw you guys,
that’s a full-time job…
that’s always available..!

…school doesn’t teach you
how to live and how to be,
may be university
is the place
to find out for me
the meaning of life..?

…hey, might go on down and do myself 
some good, old phi-lo-so-phy…

…I am going home, 
going home…

…so…

…screw you guys,
   I am staying home…!

	……-*o*-…...

…hey, hey, hey, I’m so happy..!

…I am having a baby,
well, not me -
my brother,
I mean, his 
de facto…

…hey, hey, hey, I’m so happy..!

…cannot wait
to see his sweet smile
or it could be hers…

…cannot wait
to hear its cute cry,
better not give it a sex,
just happy to have
a healthy bundle of joy…

…to welcome the wee fellow,
baby-sit from time to time…

…hey, hey, hey, I’m so happy..!

…cannot wait
to hear its first words,
see it crawl,
punctuate
its first full sentence,
see it name all the members
of its family,
find it’s not alone,
has here two more friends,
making three beaming fathers in all,
and so many, many pairs 
of uncles, aunties …

…hey, hey, hey, I’m so happy..!

…each and ev’ry moment of the day…!

	……-*o*-…...

	These songs of the city revisited, ‘more songs of the city out singing to itself’, might be better seen as tales, or short stories in a condensed form. Then, again, in a more post-modern form, perhaps even something more contemporary, single lines and the occasional verse might be seen as lyrical enough to set to music, something perhaps as rarefied as leider, or, as simple as a nursery tune! I have much admired the latter, often a very free verse form with odd numbers of syllables, with wonderful rhythms, often  defying historical conventions. 
In these experimental poems, somewhere between verse and prose, somewhere between a text merely read to one’s self and a poem that must be performed, I hope the reader, in every sense, will be patient enough to seek ways of performing them if even only before their own company. In this know that ‘iambic pentameter’ is a thing of the past, not to be dismissed, but to be gone beyond! In this Contemporary Era language must be more free, as ‘an immediate speech’ with a variety of rhythms overlaying a past re-encapsulated, re-interpreted, with a ‘vibrant voice’ for today! 
With syllables of odd numbers iambic meters can still be heard, but, more often than not broken up, or, smoothed out in patterns of intonation that stress the weight and length of more important words, hinting at concepts being played around with within the fabric of the poem itself. Properly interpreted, when found comfortable by the reader, you should find and feel and be able to chant these more natural patterns of stress. In this, often, the first syllable of the line is given an added weight, or the last, or, patterns with both sometimes oscillating between the lines almost imitating something more regular. Moreover, some lines can be felt split with semi-caesura or with full caesura, with partial pauses sometimes between some lines often towards the end of a poem (and sometimes indicated with an indentation). 
I have tried to make my lines both readable and enjoyable, the rest of the work is up to you…my reader… who, as the poet, will hear… a conversation or a song… as if overheard… thought about… perhaps found giving us an insight into the nature of this great city of Sydney… and, perhaps, giving us insight into the inner nature of our own selves too..?!

Noël Tointon, in Sydney, 
          Started New Year’s Eve and finished on Saturday the 27th of January, 2001.