Volume V

BENEATH THE SURFACE OF REASON

Miscellaneous Poems Including Examples Utilizing 
Chinese And Japanese Forms In Adaptation

Noël Tointon

(1991)

Volume V

Beneath The Surface Of Reason - Miscellaneous Poems

Index

Part I

1.	1.   Six Haiku On The Subject Of Plum Blossom.
	2.   Two Poems - From Melbourne By Train.
2.	3.   21 Meditations On Time, Change, Suffering And 										Their Transcendence.
5.	4.   Two Haiku.
6.	5.   Miscellaneous Haiku As A Set.
	6.   The Visitation.
8.	7.   The Power Of Religious Traditions.
9.	8.   Tears Of Rain.
10.	8.   On The Bus Of Modernity.
	10.  In The Mountains.
11.	11.  Thinking Of The Poet-Painter Wang Wei.
	12.  Petromaniac Or Petrophiliac?
	13.  A Summer Day.
	14.  The Sacred Waterfall.
     15.  The Relationship Between Environment And Culture.
12.	16.  On The Discovery Of An Orchid.
	17.  Resignation.
13.	18.  The Pornography Of Existence.
	19.  Happy The Person That Can Speak Their Mind?
	20.  Country Lanes.
	21.  One Waterfall Seen On A Bush Walk.
14.	22.  Another Waterfall.
	23.  The Many Faces Of The Life-World.
	24.  A Voyage Through The Solar System.
15.	25.  Two Brown Foxes (Interpretation of 25).
	26.  Con The Greeks, Bash The Poofters.
16.	27.  Each Sweet Bloom.
	28.  Jolly Gold Digger.
17.	29.  I'm Looking Down.
	30.  Midnight.
	31.  Daybreak.
18.	32.  A Naughty, Naughty Poem.
19. 	33.  When Will We Stand Up.
20.	34.  Has The End Of Time Now Come?
	35.  Friendship Is Never Feigned.
	36.  The Graceful Landing?
21.	37.  Transcendental Delights.
	38.  Our Evolution Or Extinction?
22.	39.  The Cockroach And The Cripple.
	40.  The Workers' Clock.
	41.  Please Tread Quietly With Care!
24.	42.  A Flat Palette Of Moving Cliches.
	43.  Ten Minutes To Midnight.
	44.  Should Life have Meaning?
25.	45.  Could Life Have Meaning?
	46.  The Treasured Relics.
	47.  My More Earthly Lover.
26.	48.  The Value Of Culture.
	49.  The Value Of The Other.
	50.  The Perfect Poem.

Part II

27.	51.  Near The Square.
28.	52.  On The Beach.
30.	53.  Shih Written For A St. Valentine's Day.
31.	54a. Haiku, Some Composed Whilst Hiking.
34.	54b. Miscellaneous Haiku Arranged By Season.
36.	55.  One Shih Written For Peace.
37.	56.  Dinky Di, True Aussie Blue.
	57.  Ironic Verse After The 17C. Japanese Genre.
38.	58.  One More Seaside Sonnet.
39.	59.  Return To Seacliff I.
	60.  Return To Seacliff II.
	61.  Return To Seacliff III.
	62.  Each Person - Each Thing.
40.	63.  A Lifetime's Lament For The Departed Bush.
43.	64.  The Glance That Bespeaks All Thought (After W.W.).
46.	65.  The Telephone Company Minus The Generals?
47.	66.  The Infinite Variety In Falling Water.
	67.  Puzzle Shih (Sleep).
48.	68.  Returning To The Icons Of My Childhood.
	69.  Not One Thing Is Ever Lost.
	70.  Can An Artwork Lack Adequate Self-Integration?
49.	71.  Could The Parts Of An Artwork lack Self-												   Integration?
	72.  Could The Context Of An Artwork Lack Integration?
50.	73.  Could An Artwork Be Two Or More Artworks Or Vice 												    Versa?
	74.  Through These Portals.
	75.  Exits And Entrances.
	76.  Chaos.
52.	77.  Crisis.
53.	78.  Catastrophe.
	79.  Controversy.
	80.  Confidence.
55.	81.  Beneath The Surface Of Reason.
63.	82.  Puzzle Shih (Chess).
	83.  Winter Ills.
64.	84.  Twelve Shi In An Imagist Mode (Invoking Themes In 	 							  Chinese Painting).
67.	85.  Guilt - Real Or Imagined.
	86.  Sun Burnt Land.
69.	87.  Reflections On the Russian Coup.
70.	88.  Scholarly Authenticity?
73.	89.  How Proud Is Angry Pride?
	90.  A Travel Poem: That Journey Spent In Flight.
74.	91.  One Hermeneutical Interpretation.
75.	92.  Hey There: Semi-Autobiographical Sketches.
82.	93.  Who Are These Humble Keepers Of The Culture?
83.	94.  The Necessary Deconstruction Of The Great 													 Helmsman.
85.	95.  Poetic Time.
86.	96.  In The Heavenly World Of Poets.
88.	97.  History As One Long Interwoven Story.
89.	98.  Puzzle Shih (Tea).
	99.  This Ship Of State Battered By Time.
90.	100. A Second Set Of Haiku On The Subject Of Plum 		
										  Blossom.

	Appendix I

91.	101a/b. Two More Sets Of Haiku On The Subject Of Plum 												  Blossom.

Volume V

Beneath The Surface Of Reason - Miscellaneous Poems

Introduction To Part I

	The inspiration for this fifth volume of poems, half-finished, or half-incompleted, at this stage of its presentation, is to be found in a long interest with oriental poetry and philosophy. Moreover, in looking at classical Chinese forms I noted a general use of lines of odd numbers of syllables and seizing upon this observation set about to experiment in this regard as a reaction against, to some extent, the manner Western poetry is often composed. Additional to this consideration I also had at my disposal a complex form, namely that of the Chinese shih in both its old irregular format and its later more regulated manifestation to choose from. Recognizing the impossibility of our being able to completely adopt this format in an English language context I set about borrowing, through various forms of adaptation, aspects that in my relatively new appreciation of this format would allow me considerable freedom in how I went about this task (e.g., 2,3,8,10, etc.). Lastly, with the development of a phenomenological appreciation of this subject of poetry as developed in the recently written paper titled The Hermeneutics Of Poetry allowed myself to philosophically experiment with various traditional poetical themes on the allied topics of change, suffering, transcendence, etc., (e.g., No.'s 1,3,8,18,24,38) all under the guise that a poem must include some moment of insight or insightfulness and to that extent can never be completely descriptive. In the light of this comment I must offer an apology that often these poems wander rapidly away from the attitude of the natural world to enter a speculative or abstract domain that explores some theme in less picturesque detail.
	Rather than give a scholarly exposition of the shih form of Chinese poetry in its non-regulated and its more regulated forms let me sketch out something of I my own imperfect appreciation of the same. In its regulated format there are eight lines, written as couplets each line relatively complete in itself. These lines are often in five or seven syllables and in the English adaptation of this aspect have often extended this idea to include nine syllables per line. Moreover the last syllables of the second, fourth, sixth and last lines rhyme. Various rhyming schemes in these poems of mine were adopted and sometimes the deliberate use no rhyme was also put in place although, in this latter category, rhyme often spontaneously enters at a cadence or the end of the poem. Additional to this fact parts or the entirety of the end-rhyme, when used, are also often allowed to enter the rest of the line to increase its spoken and thematic intensity. In the Chinese form tonal patterns are reversed, in accordance with certain reasonably strict rules, between the odd and even lines within the couplet construction. I have occasionally attempted this idea by breaking the first line of a couplet into unequal half-portions and then reversing this distribution of sense in the following line (e.g., No.31). In the occasional poem a word with the appropriate tonal complexion is placed in the line in a location to reinforce the intended meaningfulness of the sense of that poem (e.g., the words high and sheer in No.13 and the word stillness in No.21). One of the common poetical techniques is to parallel ideas in a dialectical-like contrast. This idea motivates much of No.10 with the flowers taken from the mountain garden forming a connection between the city and the mountains. Few poems attempt to complete all or most of these conditions.
	Hopefully, a few poems in this recent collection will catch your eye, linger upon the ear and give rise to a laugh or sigh and if to that extent I can be considered the cause of moving you to make some small response I might rest a little happier although politeness might prevent you from agreeing with me that these artefacts of time barely deserve such attention. In your private inspection of this volume I hope you will grant me the poetic license that is often allowed to enter the construction of a poem that has a life of its own and that you will not judge their author of these frailties in the light of their content, or lack or it. Accepting the fact that many of these poems are mere exercises and experiments it is my hope that your criticism of some of these examples not be too harsh however well deserved such castigation might be heaped upon them. Therefore, I resign myself and these poems to your careful inspection wishing you all the best...

				Noël Tointon, Sydney and Leura, 1/12/91.

Introduction To Part II

	The second half of this volume has now been completed. Again the Chinese form of shih has preoccupied my attention along with a renewed interest in the haiku.
	The title of this volume comes from a line in the longest poem in this book, no. 81. It is my philosophical perception that the logical is only provisional and whose province is primarily centered in the pragmatic-empirical sphere of the everyday. On the other hand taking the logical, and the logical expression of the phenomenal, to the very limits of the logical sphere of operation deconstructs those essential structures/functions. In its own way the insightfulness of poetry, in my current opinion, resides in some form of deconstruction; the deconstructive moment returning essentially-oriented meaning back to the meaningfulness of its horizon or context. In this reversion to the situation of the logical expression language takes on a prescriptive-interpretive stance and our philosophical, or aesthetic, interest should take on a hermeneutical orientation as opposed to a phenomenologically-descriptive flavour. However, correctly both of these orientations are two sides of the same coin (the phenomenon-in-its-relationship-to-its-phenomenal-environment; an aspect that is approached through the medium of the transcendental suspension to which in return some degree of phenomenological/hermeneutical objectivity can be obtained by re-invoking its informed presence). In this return to meaningfulness the dialectical nature and generation of meaning can come to the fore revealing in the process the apparently contradictory nature of non-superficially examined meaning; meaning and meaningfulness correctly coming into being through a process of resolution; the same type of process that concerns the aesthetic experience and by direct implication the creation and receptive re-creation of the poetic experience. To a certain, and considerable, extent poetry is a reflection of the form of life itself and it is in this capacity it can insightfully reflect our-living-in-this-world. In this type of position presence is no longer to be viewed as some form of substantial concrete presence rather as an illusion that in the natural sphere of operation could be treated as phenomenal and as a phenomenal experience as a real phenomenon. In this light the recurring theme of hollowness alluded to in a number of poems is to be understood. In the same type of philosophical perspective I try to take a middle path in my treatment of intentionality between a completely uni-modal non-contradictory logical definitiveness and a relativistic non-definiteness in meaning/meaningfulness. In some measure a logical text in the generation of its overall meaning/meaningfulness is in an ongoing resolutional relationship with its contradicting and differentiating sub-texts hence through the fissure of the logical, when the logical is subjected to deconstruction, is revealed the deeper meaningfulness of the text as a series of enriching sub-texts standing in relationship to that text.
	I have included in this volume a short essay that may well present the only defence that these insignificant poems of mine might possess, namely, the argument that as all art has an element of resolution central to the being of its experience and that as this element of resolution is experienced as a form of relief all art, good or bad, in aesthetic terms of reference only must be experienced with some degree of (transcendental) pleasure despite the imperfections in its crafting. Of course such a defence defends little other than the mere presence of the aesthetic, an evaluation of this territory is quite another matter occupying a higher point of view in its evaluation and estimation of the value, or second order pleasure, of this first order (transcendental) pleasure (as a more simple form of judgmental satisfaction).
	In the middle of writing this second part I made a short visit to New Zealand and a number of poems reflect that temporary return to my original homeland. It is my intention to eventually write an Australian poem, my current production on the whole has ceased to reflect my former land of residence, and in the meantime I must present poem no. 86, or no. 56, e.g., as a provisional token towards that end.
	Hoping these poems become the occasion for more than the mere aesthetic pleasure that must attend a work of art, however poorly made in construction, and that, instead, they might rise to a level of pleasure and insightfulness that allows us to see through them to the sub-texts lurking allusively beneath the surface of reason that must clothe all artefacts of human intentionality even though fundamentally, in the final analysis, those vestments must lack a body, encompass an emptiness filled with a bottomless source of happiness that invests this hollowness with an aura of infinite richness that knows no depth.

				Noël Tointon, Sydney and Leura, 24/9/90.

A Short Essay Written On The Completion Of This Fifth Volume

Could We Ever Truthfully Dislike `Good Art?'

	Could we ever, truly, dislike good art; or, even dislike that part of a bad, or poor, artwork that has some degree of artfulness in its imperfect construction and expression? In resolving this question, I believe, our philosophical understanding of the phenomenological nature of an artwork would be deepened. Perhaps, and this is said in all modesty, such an understanding might well be insightful in its in depth development necessary to establish the resolution of this issue?
	In the exposition and demonstration of this proposition in its broadest formulation; that no true artfulness could ever be disliked, I am arguing, first, that this artfulness is appreciated and that such understanding in itself once in place could never be disliked. Second, that any absolute dissatisfaction on our part is a result of either our non-understanding or misunderstanding of that artwork, our disliking the genre or cognitive content of that artwork, or, our simple over exposure to either its material presentation and/or works of a similar expression in that particular genre. In effect a reaction to an appreciation that is relatively under developed or over encountered. I would add, however, that an understanding of the artfulness of an artwork does not simply imply that our appreciation is going to necessarily alter the hierarchy of preferences all people have in their interaction with works of art in general. This territory, already sedimented through our pre-exposure to works of art conducted through the social and personal lens of our own cultivated cultural perspective, is definitely the distinctive domain of the individual and to a considerable extent reflects their overall education, their powers of reflection and the existential nature of that person to be as unique individual (in this world of life or life-world. The ongoing existential constitution of the expression of that person being grounded upon the infinite possibilities and potentialities of the individual-as-a-person-in-society pre-established by that absolute dimension of the life-world. This dimension being absolute by virtue of our trans-constitutional, trans-phenomenal and trans-intentional powers of appreciation of the relatively phenomenal in contra-distinction to an absolutist perspective that is either phenomenalized and/or inherently senseless in its communicated formulation and attempted expression. Included within this realm of the phenomenal is the relatively distinctive nature of the aesthetic and its overlapping regions of genre and extra-aesthetic factors and influences).
	An important point I would like to present here is the epistemological fact, as an observation on my part, that not all instances and forms of art have the same degree of (transcendental) accessibility, and, that our instantiated appreciation of this state of affairs is itself dependent upon the overall education of the person and the status of their current state of consciousness. Some works of art just do not have a public face. That being the case we must not dismiss such artistic productions as irrelevant, artless and only worthy of our dismissal on these grounds. Of course if a poet, e.g., intends their work to have a more presentable public image and they fail in this endeavour then we might consider their work of art as having failed in this regard. However, I am sure most poets, e.g., are considerably aware of this dimension to their output and take the same into account; either accepting that their work is going to have a wider appeal or is going to be left, hopefully, to the exclusive province of a circle of connoisseurs or similar.
	What exactly is entailed in this concept of (transcendental) accessibility you might wonder? (Well, for a start you can forget the word transcendental, it has for me a specialized complex phenomenological-philosophical sense implicating that level of trans-cognitive experience that deals directly with the center of judgment, and, by implication, all processes of aesthetics appreciation, as well as being essentially trans-intentional when intentionality is observed from a purely cognitive conceptual-perceptual perspective). Accessibility itself signifies just that, namely, the accessibility of the artwork to the individual and, by extension, to society given its publication and expression in some form or other. A lost work of art of course is completely inaccessible (in direct terms of reference) given that absent state of affairs. However, on the other hand, no work of art in its re-experience can be completely inaccessible on the grounds that the sheer recognition of the intentionally constructed nature of that phenomenon itself, as an artefact of human consciousness, is already witness to the commencement of our interpretation of it as a work of intentionality, as a possible work of art, etc! Not that aesthetic reflection is to be restricted to the confines of the world of art in complete isolation from the world of the natural, indeed, our appreciation of the satisfaction to be found with the latter, as a standard, is a good guide in our estimation of the aesthetic potential of the former. (Such an estimation being objectively evaluated within the transcendentally detached auspices of the aesthetic reflection; such objectivity being established through the balance put in place through the adoption of an informed and productive transcendental suspension or epoche).
	Factors external to the experiential accessibility of an artwork are our current state of psychological development, our collective aesthetic exposure to works of art and works of that genre and/or that artist or artists under consideration, and, the particular status of our current state of consciousness; the appreciation of the aesthetic necessitating a sufficient degree of gestalt-psychic integration of the person as a necessary pre-condition for the productive reception of this aspect of the phenomenal. Transcendental accessibility concerning itself primarily with internal factors; those considerations that constitute the intentional nature of that work of art and the psychological nature of its reconstitution and overall reception. 
	Essentially, the aesthetic power of the work of art is generally centered on some distinct level within the hierarchically structured psyche, as a rule of thumb, works of art becoming less accessible the higher their centering within this psychological organization actively involved in the constitution and reconstitution of that work of art. Although all works of art are appreciated on the (transcendental) level (of psychological organization) that conducts processes of judgment the experience and resolution of dissonance in the construction of that work of art is oriented else where in this organizational hierarchy. In direct proportion to the psychic distance between this material, or phenomenal, center of the work of art and its (transcendental) aesthetic appreciation the greater the degree of probability that is to be found under normal circumstances for the public to find aesthetic access to that work of art in its encounter by the public. E.g., a rhythmic work of art is generally more accessible than a work of art that depends for its aesthetic power on some refined and subtle level of conceptual exposition, e.g., as is to be found often in the poetic and musical content in the lieder of Hugo Wolf? Hence, e.g., the greater overall accessibility of music over poetry, and, rhythmic/formal forms of poetry over non-formal forms of poetry; the greater accessibility of representational forms of visual art over abstract forms of production, etc.
	An anecdote, and its phenomenological interpretation, might bring this observation, more clearly to the fore.
	One of my philosophical teachers interested in `commenting' on my position that `an appreciation of works of art need a prior exposure to the genre of that art form, and that some art forms are thereby less accessible to certain less equipped sections of the public' produced the following photo contained within a book retrieved, after long search, on the shelves of his considerable personal library. The book was an account of some apparently rather eccentric missionaries who had travelled up the Amazon with of all things an enormous old fashion, hand powered, gramophone player. Seated beside this instrument listening to a record was a native in full dress regalia in an obvious state of rapture; his eyes shut, his mouth open and his head slightly tilted back. The caption read something along the following lines to the effect that "the native was listening to Mozart's Symphony Number 39 in g minor."
	Well, it was obvious I had to go back to the drawing board in order to rework this particular, rather elitist, position of mine. It dawned on me that specific exposure to an art form, or genre, was not of itself a deciding factor in this access of appreciation. Rather, in my reinterpretation of this phenomenon, it was the aesthetic center of the artwork where its power is to forge and fashion an aesthetic response (through the transcendental resolution of the dissonance expressed on that level of psychological encoding) that primarily decided such an issue? In this light it struck me that the great rhythmic subtlety of that symphony was a door for that native Amazonian to appreciate that work, his own culture no doubt having developed an appreciation for such a level of subtlety. So the conclusion I drew was that this psychological center of the artwork established its general accessibility and that the (transcendental) aesthetic power of that artwork in some additional measure assisted this accessibility in direct proportion to the intensity and successfulness of that aesthetic resolution. By these means I had hoped I could still have both my cake and eat it? 
	A few years later, I might note in passing, a potted version of the first movement of this same symphony was prepared for the world of popular music and was to prove equally successful as a hit in the estimation of the public.
	In returning to the thesis of this essay I can now add the observation that not all forms of art are generally, and automatically, accessible to the public. Indeed, such accessibility is also a measure of openness on our part to a particular instance, or type, of art as a work, or type, of art in its own right. However, the-to-be-expected-approachability of some forms of art for a particular person is not real grounds for establishing that they truly dislike that particular work of art or that form, or genre. A statement to the effect that a particular work of art is disliked, I would argue, is not a statement that directly reflects upon the quality, or artfulness, of that artwork per se. Let me conclude this essay by attempting to demonstrate this point quite counter to the ostensive surface meaning of such a pronouncement.
	First, I must attend to my understanding of the nature of the aesthetic response. Using a musical model that envisages that a musical work, or a non-musical work of art, is structured through its ongoing resolution of dissonance I would like to argue (and have argued this point elsewhere) that the intensity and satisfaction of this aesthetic response is a direct reflection of this process of resolution. The immediate gestalt totality or initial flavour of the artwork presents itself through its experiential simulation and general repetition of component factors as a relative background of consonance within the boundaries of that work of art. On the other hand any introduced material that appears to be in contest, conflict, opposition, etc., to this already established background of consonance naturally presents itself as an area under conscious focus which in turn is experienced as a relatively dissonant foreground. 
	Second, the constituted interrelationship of the parts in that artwork to its totality, and, the same parallel structure (phenomenologically and hermeneutically) encoded in its aesthetically reflected upon re-constitution establishes (the relationally-oriented psychic experience of) the aesthetic being of that artwork and that both this relational experience and the experience of its aesthetic potential is intersubjectively re-experienced through the reconstruction of the distinctive resolutional pathways (structurally and functionally) provoked by that work of art.
	Third, all forms of resolution are experienced as pleasurable; a refined form of pleasure or satisfaction (experienced from a transcendental point of view). Hence the central argument of my thesis: that no work of art(fulness) could truly be experienced in the form of a process of aversion. To re-work this idea let me offer my interpretation of a person who might consider themselves to be averse to all, or some, forms of art.
	The ascetic, e.g., may be averse to their experiencing all, or some, works of art on the grounds that they interpret such an interaction as a diversion, not worthy of our time, as adverse to the spiritual well being of the individual for some reason or other... Yet, even here, I would argue, in the midst of this process of aversion their experience of a work of art as a work of art would be primarily experienced in a non-adverse form even if that non-adverse experience was then retreated to a process of aversion. That aversion would then be to their retrospective experience of aesthetic satisfaction and not the spontaneous experience of aesthetic satisfaction per se. If that process of aversion to their perception of the `deceptive' nature of art was thoroughly enforced then we would argue, quite naturally, that that work of art so interpreted or `avoided' was not experienced as a work of art at all. Consequently, their appreciation of that work of art would not directly be of that work of art hence their interpretation of that work of art is not a direct interpretation per se and thus this fact dis-entitles them to pass any comments, one way or the other, about the aesthetic nature of that avoided work of art, or their global or selective avoidance of works of art in general.
	Resolution is experienced as a form of relief; as a specific type of pleasure or satisfaction. By definition such an experience entertained in its own right, and not overridden by relatively external factors, could not be entertained in a contrary fashion! Hence the essential point of this thesis has just been demonstrated. 
	However, to conclude, and more difficult to explain is, the observation that the significance of the statement of the form that a certain person, or collection of persons, x dislikes a certain work, or genre, of art appears to mean just that must itself be explained in order to avoid our entertaining a contradictory set of ideas. 
	As indicated earlier our appreciation of an artwork involves the necessary putting in place of those factors, both internal and external, that establish our appreciation of an artwork. External factors concern our prior exposure to aesthetic experience in general (as entailed in the general psychological development of the individual), their general exposure to that genre involved and the status of our general consciousness; aesthetic reflection normally  necessitating a deeper state of concentration and attentiveness on our part as hinted by the temporal-spatial presence of art galleries, picture frames, pedestals, the up-raised baton of the conductor, etc. Internal factors involve the (transcendental) accessibility and the (transcendental) successfulness of that work of art (in its intersubjective ongoing provocative creation of dissonance and distinctive resolution of that dissonance). Thus I am forced to conclude a person's statement to the effect that they dislike a certain artwork or genre of art as it stands is essentially senseless involving either their over-exposure to that work of art, or, their mis-understanding or non-understanding of that work of art, and/or, their outright avoidance of that aesthetic dimension considered on its own terms of reference! That, truly, the artful aspect of any work of art could never directly be experienced in an adverse form. Of course this does not imply that all works of art are good or equally worthy of our attention, or, for that matter, that the preferences exhibited by some person, one way or the other, are not valid for that particular individual. But we should not transfer the current attitudinal configuration of our prejudices (as pre-judgments) directly to any work of art, or genre of art, as a comment on that work, or genre, of art per se. This concept of accessibility itself recognizes that not all forms of art are equally going to be, or remain, the attractive focus of our preferential treatment. On the other hand our excessive exposure to a work of art also does not entitle us to say that we now dislike a certain work or genre of art. Such a developed process of aversion is, correctly, our over-reaction to our over-hearing of that particular work or genre, which through familiarity now breeds our lack of a fresh attentiveness towards it, or, even, an outright rejection of its phenomenal re-expression. 
	Lastly, let me add, in the form of a qualification, that our current configuration of prejudices, as a form of pre-judgment, is the very ground upon which we come to appreciate and approach a certain work, or genre, of art, indeed, the only avenue open to us in this endeavour. However, our objectivity is re-established through the detached nature of that act of judgment (that is allowed to existentially develop its own receptiveness to the inherent potential for the resolution of dissonance entailed within the central transcendental boundaries of that act of aesthetic appreciation). However, once this process of judgment has passed the act of judgment is quite naturally converted into a judgment fossilized for the record. The reconstitution of the act of judgment allows us to de-freeze that delivered judgment hence the continual potential for a work of art to provocatively re-establish its aesthetic actuality through a re-experiencing of the resolutional pathways indicated by that work of art. For a person to meaningfully say that they dislike a certain piece, or genre, of art is merely to take a dislike to their prejudice towards that aesthetic object or state. That one person alone should find aesthetic pleasure from their aesthetic reception of a tentatively treated artwork is grounds enough for us to not hold the conviction that they might, instead, dislike that same object of appreciation. In this lies a good lesson that we should forever remain open to the world in all its existential richness despite the apparent objectify, or otherwise, of our appreciation and the inherent satisfaction that might, or might not, be obtained in our reflective experience of that object or state of our appreciation! 
	That, in essence, the artfulness of a work of art could never be experienced adversely however inherently unsatisfactory that work of art has been constructed and/or expressed, and, that our prejudices can only have an indirect say in our understanding, mis-understanding or our not wishing to understand, a particular work, or genre, of art!

Footnote

	Needless to say various further qualifications and comments would have to be added to ensure a more complete understanding of this topic. E.g., how could we discern an aesthetic dimension in the apparently uni-modal material presentation of an artwork? Moreover, to what extent can we draw some form of demarcation between (phenomenological) description and (hermeneutical) interpretation or prescription? What role can we discern for deconstruction in the midst of the aesthetic experience and its interpretation? Hopefully, such questions, and others, will be taken up in a series of essays that will form a volume on the subject of a phenomenology of the hermeneutical value of interpretation?

							   Noël Tointon, Sydney.
Part I

1.	Six Haiku On The Subject Of Plum Blossom
						(End of September, 1990)
				
1.	Has the winter past?
	Overnight prunus blossom?
	Snow finely balanced.

2.	Has winter ended?
	Finely balanced plum blossom,
	Like snow in disguise.

3.	Mingling in the trees,
	Without the sound of mating.
	Plum blossom and snow.

4.	A few days of sun,
	The fleeting plum blossoms wait.
	Before returning.

5.	Poems in paper.
	Fleeting tissues on parade.
	Ticker-tape plum trees.

6.	Drink wonderful tea
	But plum blossoms gladly swapped
	For those blood red plums!

2.	Two Poems - From Melbourne By Train (30/9-2/10/90)
		(After the Chinese shih of seven syllables, 
				eight lines, in four couplets, etc.).

1.	From the train through windows see
bald hills, a boring landscape.
The bush long gone, stunted trees
stud the hollows like corpses.
There past this rolling vista
sits the center to this land.
There lies sylvan Canberra
transplanted and transported.

2.	See rounded rocks upon rocks
sitting on larger boulders.
Ask the reason why, thinking
how nature could sculpture so?
We seek out these patterns here,
notice their repetition.
Could reality reason,
could poets their lines predict?

3. 	21 Meditations On Time, Change, Suffering
					And Their Transcendence (13/10/90)
		(Using the same form as the last two poems)

1.	The rotted log lies fallen,
a visible sign of decay.
The grasses waver greenly
while the wee ants struggle on.
Is all life lived out in vain,
little joys like hollow laughs?
Or might petty aches and pains
paint one happier picture?

2.	Breezes caress the surface,
the scented air wafts in waves.
Little fishes dart about
in this scene of such delight.
Your brush O Master evokes
such memories of this past.
Happy to see them restored,
recreated before me.

3.	"Will these lichens outlive me?,"
is a silly question to ask?
Grubby man will cart away
these rocks for lofty gardens.
See sacrificial bronzes
before the altar of time.
Rubbed by the hands of children,
lost in the debris of war?

4.	The joy of small things outweighs
the heavy suffering heart.
To give oneself to despair
gives up that hope to move on.
Through the center of sadness
sees life boxing these shadows.
Fully immersed in this world
but untouched by flowing time.

5.	See overwhelming despair
sometimes blanket the chosen few.
For the finer the feelings 
the deeper is the contrast.
No comparisons, no peaks
to highlight the aches and pains.
But great joy necessitates
the detachment of real concern.

6.	How do we transcend sadness
but through suffering itself?
The house of being is built
with both a doorway and door.
The very exit itself
is through that exit itself.
Like the use of fire to burn
out the fire out of control!

7.	How many poets despair,
suffer through the thought of time?
Alas, all's impermanent
except that impermanence.
See in the flashing of time 
our being like blinking toads.
See in the placing of space
our fading like falling stars.

8.	Might our relief sweetly lie
in those shifting tides of sand?
How delightful the rising 
and falling of rolling waves.
Surfers finds no enjoyment
in seas of tranquillity.
Let the waves roll over you,
savour the sweat; salt and sun.

9.	If all life was spent in sex
our sex would have no meaning.
Our death therefore must give life 
to life, be the death of death.
Each second should rightly die 
in the ecstasy of life.
Each second should rightly live 
in the sweet bliss of dying.

10.	Find delight in little things,
grand designs find no attainment.
Forever cheated the sage
cheats time through their no desires.
Their desiring no desires 
sees their fulfilment.
Seeing out their fulfilment
fulfils their sagely seeing.

11.	But, alas, where is the sage
who tells us they be a sage?!
The named master is cut down
like all other ears of corn.
Faithful death reaps a harvest
more perfect than the whirlwind.
Gathered into sheaves each blade
of hay is cut from its roots!

12.	Each sheaf of humbled hay 
is found a community.
The dull ignominy
of a bundled up array.
Set in lines or found in mounds
or piled up in heaped up stacks.
Humiliation, fed out
to animals, left rotting.

13.	Sure the sadness of our fate,
sweet the paradox - two faced.
That we both exist and will 
surely cease to so exist!
But lived time has duration,
a time that must, must drag on.
A time that fickle fate ends
in moments that have no time.

14.	Waiting fate may be a slave,
a poor servant serving time.
Wasteful we may spend the day 
but that day spent did endure.
The day did change but in time
it took its entrance and stay.
Then in due course it past on
in that death of passing day.

15. 	Speak to me no more of passing,
impermanence is a fraud!
A fake, an illusion, farce,
a fanciful theatre.
The day endures, an actor
whose entrance must drag us on.
A stage already set up
with props and lines and exits.

16.	You remember that summer
when you slept beside the waves?
When the surf and sun were fine,
the company even better?
The whole season has now past
us by in passing review.
Memories that must outlive
the dying of distant days.

17.	We lay beside each other
in the dead of night to talk.
Putting aside that sweet lust
that did wish to wash ourselves.
In streams of forgetfulness
passion was put aside.
But now we have once more met
to seek a start unbegun.

18.	Such ecstasy saw night fade
before the pale rising sun.
That night did speed more quickly
than those long nights spent in sleep.
Sweet kisses sealed those wet dreams
more divine than earthly love.
Alas, one day, thy name will
stay no more upon these lips.

19.	So time drags on, and on, yet,
in fleeing forever stays.
Root bound like a flower in pot
bedded down in worldly soil.
From a seed or fresh sapling
sprung springs life anew, once more.
So meditate on the way 
time presents itself, anon...

20.	Time in thoughts passes onward,
a proverbial river.
The flood of being becomes
a torrent of memories.
Those friends and lovers re-met
new chapters in the same book.
New pages in the turning
that charter one document.

21.	How relative can time be,
a pure relativity?
How absolute can time be,
in one world, one unity?
In memory transcended,
through possibility changed.
Through time timely fate untimed
finds its untimely embrace...

4.	Two Haiku

1.	Down the street was chased.
	The scraping sound grew more shrill.
	A branch of dead leaves.

2.	Up the street followed.
	My steps hardly catching up.
	Shadow striding on.

5. 	Miscellaneous Haiku As A Set

Prime Minister speaks,
one more speech just off the cuff,
faceless economics.

Value no values,
manage just the bottom line,
profit is profit?

Thoughtful being lives,
live life in thoughtful being,
becoming thoughtful.

Summer sees harvest,
a time to reap, then re-sow,
action - reaction.

Scattered thoughts on paper
feed a fire when burnt.

6.	The Visitation

Visited by an angel
one morning whilst sound asleep?
A face never seen before,
a presence so full of life.
A personality that
worked its charms without design.
Told him my hand was taken
but that did not bother him.
Told me that in other worlds
reality took new forms.
No matter the spirit moved
the way it will as it must!
In the end his quiet patience
would over take both of us.
Boyish in looks, twenty-five
or there abouts, in full health.
A fine young man, a person
who inwardly saw the good.
In form took a lowly birth,
noble in disposition.
Being with no pretension,
divinity incarnate. 
His thin bronze hair burnt pale gold
like the threads that wind the corn. 
His eyes were full of treasure,
that well revealed hidden truths.
But two stars, all twinkling,
that bespoke nothing concealed.
His lips the doors that would seal
our fate in some other world.
Now naked on an altar,
all garments dissolved like dust.
A sacrifice of the self
reborn through love's communion.
Then our worlds touched shooting sparks
through the void that felt empty.
Into each other's embrace 
we soon found ourselves immersed.
Like two magnets now coming 
ever closer together.
Like two planets in orbit
swallowed by the sun on fire.
Swimming on up through movement
in a cosmos of desire.
Shutting our eyes and sighing
we took the same inward breath.
In that moment within time
the dream moved silently on.
O friend I've met thee nowhere
yet in truth I know thee well!
What eternal pleasure found
he in me and I in him.
How he savoured affection,
all without reservation. 
Ev'ry sweet second was made
unique, given flesh and blood.
Made meaningful to behold,
that welcomed repetition.
In continuous delight
a dream that dreamt on anew.
A theme and variations
unfolding cyclical time.
And amid our chattering 
we would laugh, hold hands and kiss.
Forever making our life 
an artform without regret...
And then that new day began,
forced apart without farewell.
How sad this separation,
this rift between two more souls?
How sad the moment we see
our parting from our loved ones?
Birth and death sign on as one,
but relations have no age.
In a world beyond the tide
of time, space seething in change.
Now I see thee ev'rywhere,
thy sweet face in all mankind.
Smiling meet thee many times
and meet thy recognition.
Smiling back see thee once more
dispersing revelation.
See thee deep in mystery,
met in dream so vividly.
O beloved, my angel,
in thine arms met ecstasy.
And in waking still find thee
there profoundly inside me.
Ever waiting patiently,
penetrating this darkness.
Transforming this deep abyss
that has separated us.
The petals of all flowers
are flagrant in their posture.
But Sweated Scent so fragrant
how refined is love's true hour?!
In ne'er time nor place nor change,
transcending all selfish power!

7.	The Power Of Religious Traditions

In Mongolia after 
fifty seven years of fear,
of complete state repression,
the monks again chant their prayers. 
In public they can now read
those lengthy texts from the past 
that anchor their traditions
in the teachings of their saints.
What strength this sacred culture
when being in an order
was itself a death warrant,
a fact for sixty thousand.
This monastery now formed,
re-opened all of three months, 
as if those dreadful years had 
never blighted the landscape.
A mute profession of fact,
a hidden ordination,
one hermetical silence
sealed in underground temples.
A phenomenon witnessed
in the cruel persecution 
of other faiths, testament
to the power of culture!
The spirit of these people
still has life, a steady light
to shape the moral force in
their way of seeing their world!
How can the powers that be,
those educated people,
let such inhumanity
stride this stage of state terror?
What political fashion
could sanction such corruption
and still claim a progressive
mandate for the new culture?
Tear your heart out, cut your roots,
disembowel yourself, spread lies,
do all this should you so wish
but don't claim to be cultured.
What love of country perverts
your so called education,
over-riding common sense,
tries to re-write history?

8.	Tears of Rain

	(Let us bring to the conscious surface
some pointed ecological thoughts.
Cut through the sharpest formulation
in a polished verse format like quartz.
Summarizing a few arguments
that must with speed thoughtless greed defy.
Halting those mindless materialists
that wreck and rape our patrimony.)

Tears of rain fall upon the landscape,
blur the careless progress of the track.
Today young axemen with power saws
wrench tall trees from the sky with a crack.
Each prostrate trunk like a corpse in state,
in death taking more trees as they break.
Then the living foliage is shaved
and the mud scoured in the tractors' wake.

Now scars cut up the em'rald pastures,
weakened by the rains, rutted by stock.
At dawn ride the redundant herdsmen
as world prices decimate the flock.
So kill each one and shot by the gun
twitch the lifeless heaps of blood and bone.
Then must come the droughts that parch the soil,
sending the wind blown loess seaward flown.

All excess sees a loss of meaning,
all deficiency rewards that fear.
The world is our home and our body,
a garden to tend in loving care.
Enrich experience on all levels,
enter this ecological choir.
Sing and dance to this cosmic tune, find
a world of polyphonic desire.

Rain forests can protect the real farms,
food for the people there on the land.
Flee those mono-cultured disasters,
those dreary deserts that feed the sand.
Let the whole world realize the true price 
of its progeny through its absence.
Selling better products, add value,
trading dollars, not subsistence.

Farms in cities, towns in villages,
national parks in all the suburbs.
Cultivate a richness of outlook,
seasoning life with the choicest herbs.
Hide the houses in forests of trees,
re-enhance the landscape with meaning.
Leave wildernesses to wildly breath
an ecstasy into our dreaming.

8.	On The Bus Of Modernity

O how much wiser we are today
in this great technological age!?

Trave'lling on the bus see one yuppie
broker with portable computer.

A slick businessman answers his phone
whilst list'ening to his jazz-rock walkman.

Admire the cacophony of sounds -
kids games, watch alarms, bleating pages.

Why not turn yourself on with tv,
forget those obsolete newspapers.

Trade heavy books with hard back covers
for a modem, be faxed a copy.

Play money markets en route to beach,
send your mail, down-load one more floppy.

Do your banking and your shopping too,
ring in sick, see your boss answ'ring you...

10.	In The Mountains

In the mountains do my gardening
oblivious, forgetting city
spread out below like a grey-white mould,
prune ground cover, work without pity.
Fine flowers in bloom, eth'ral perfumes,
fragile petals, looking so pretty,
have not the heart to cut these fragments,
travelling tokens of mem'ry.

11.	Thinking Of The Poet-Painter Wang Wei

Like Wang Wei, mountain retreat
filled with books, by the car load,
a dining dust mite's delight,
like myself in this abode.
In the wind the pine tree creeks,
tense wrinkles, bit stiff and slowed.
Asked if all these tomes were read?
Said, are picture seen once showed?

12.	Petromaniac Or Petrophiliac? (7/11/90)

At long last, the perfect rock,
Chinese in shape, but not too tall
or heavy, elongated,
with some curves, against the wall.
With sweat from the vacant lot,
such hard work, hard to install,
rolled and lugged, seen by neighbours,
took with care, named Resourceful.

13.	A Summer Day

A Summer's day high on the sheer cliffs,
a sweet stillness perfume pervaded,
find the scent of pink boronia
clinging tightly, one long root aided.
The soil is thin, weathered and well washed,
numerous rocks and sparsely shaded
yet finds favour in these conditions,
the finest soils are not invaded.

14.	The Sacred Waterfall

See the sacred waterfall
waxing, waning, e're weeping
in harmony with season,
in falling joyous leaping.
Alas, from the past this pool
a sad history speaking
yet knotted circles of twigs
see old ways merely sleeping.

15.	The Relationship Between Environment And Culture

Into the big boiling pot the peas
are thrown, later, brew will be blended
to form a rich textured sludge called soup,
an eaten artefact of culture
that should tell us more about ourselves;
being who we are through what we eat,
or in negative terms, our being 
what we are not through what we don't eat?
Then what's the relationship between 
environment and that of culture?
Could nature be improved, could the sound
exercising of the mind ensure 
an existential freedom beyond 
the mixing realms of matter and mind,
in a state of transcendental bliss,
one with the eternal light of truth,
in a state of suspension removed
from time and space, from cause and ego?
Plunged into and through the black hollow 
of fear authenticity merges
the three periods of time to dazzle
a world in its active reflection,
emerging as a sovereign state,
integrated semblance of spirit,
an interdependent forcefulness
bridging the world in all its living 
splendour, its marching to one heart beat,
this world of life as this life of world,
resplendent, all manner of banners
unfurled, drums beating, trumpets ever
blaring forth in the sound of fanfare,
ground organs pulsing, swelling in prayer.
Blending one worldly environment
in the infinite culture of care!

16.	On The Discovery Of An Orchid

What real difference is there
between having and finding?
Two beautiful orchid stems
discovered when gardening.
This fact unbeknownst to self
sees desire self-fulfilling.
Pure pleasure best left untouched
leaves two joys jointly growing.

17.	Resignation

I read the lives of long dead poets
between lines of memorable pages,
meet their uniqueness in existence,
see that impermanence engages
the most noble of minds, yet realize
that each person has the outrageous
right to just resign themselves to their 
own unsatisfactory self-images. 

18.	The Pornography Of Existence

Each day see the happy smiles 
of healthy physical boys,
proudly displaying themselves
playing with various toys.
Each year a new crop of men
posing as picture decoys,
imprinted on life's pages 
a record that time destroys.

19.	Happy The Person That Can Speak Their Mind?

Happy the person
that can speak their mind?
A rare spirit tuned,
thoughtfully designed.
Alas, this planet
despises their kind.
Destroys those speakers
whose true thoughts are signed.

20.	Country Lanes

Alas, these days country lanes
rarely see local farmers.
The times are not good, I'm told,
even though weather's perfect.
The poplar trees stand en guard,
sentinels to empty trucks.
Leave the fields fallow, they say,
let the banks bring in the hay! 

21.	One Waterfall Seen On A Bush Walk

Behind waterfalling riverlets
in the cool recess of the low cave
water beetles congregate in swarms,
mirror faint clouds of floating midges.
Here admidst the rushing and rippling
and all manner of nat'ral movement
lies a stillness born through harmony,
the restful value of the moment.

22. 	Another Waterfall

Another waterfall heard,
hidden serene to the side.
Just off the track, up the creek,
a perfect gem I soon spied.
Through the undergrowth it stood
cascading sills, not too wide.
It rippled, dripped, splashed and slid;
in sundry ways hissed and sighed.

23. 	The Many Faces Of The Life-World 

One philosopher thought all others 
might robots be, automata, clocks,
wound up at the crack of dawn, unwound
in the mysterious depths of night?

Go out onto the streets and observe
those hassled people, faces set fast
in stiff wax, all marching on parade,
frozen, unfriendly, fleeing their past!

Perhaps this is right, all other worlds
are figments of imagination,
just fevered fragments of our person
set loose in the waste-lands of ego?

Yet our pains and feelings are distanced
from self, detached - appreciated;
if we can separate feeling tones
could that cleave me from other beings?!

24.	A Voyage Through The Solar System

Passionately burnt by the hot Sun,
madly felt and touched by the cool Moon.

A fleeting evening spent with Venus,
a lengthy lifetime with Mercury.

An irretrievable few years locked
in sluggish battle with rugged Mars.

By Jove old times do fly, remember
those long nights between sheets of Saturn.

Some brief encounters with Uranus,
but all spaced out with good old Neptune.

Far too drunk and drowned to comprehend,
met Pluto too on the underground.

Then slept an aeon with dirt-stained Earth,
alas, ashes to be no where found.

From dust to dust we share our bodies
with every person from the past.

Universal recycling's the game,
as quaint and as strange as it may sound.

Playing musical chairs out on this
cosmological merry-go-round.

25.	Two Brown Foxes

Choosing, choosy, two brown foxes,
hide, seek, burrow dug deep.
Meal time - rabbits, native marsupials,
after eating two days sleep.
Farms - sheep, deserts - imported furs,
landscape improved, introduced grasses creep.
Discarded bones, newly lost species,
stop awhile, think and weep.

Interpretation of 25.

Choosing yet choosy, two brown foxes,
hide and seek, their burrow dug deep.
Meal time eat rabbits and native marsupials,
after eating then disappear for two days sleep.
On the farms now sheep, in the deserts imported furs,
landscape improved while introduced grasses creep.
Discarded bones of newly lost species,
stop awhile, reflect in thought and weep.

26.	Con The Greeks, Bash The Poofters

Con the Greeks, bash the poofters,
blame the Poms, smash the bastards,
pot the Poles, death to ockers,
freeze Russians, transfer the Kurds,
ship the wogs, transport the crims,
skin the skins, wreck the rockers,
ignore sick, show drunks the door.
Sack workers, fly home Kiwis,
jail Abos, murder Maoris,
go home Chinks, kill Viet Cong,
no Negroes, migrate Indians,
hate woman, castrate lesbians,
stone all Jews, spear all Arabs,
duck dancers, jeer at thespians.
Rape all men, sacrifice boys,
grill all girls, burn all Christians,
hit Hindus, make Japanese jump,
thump police, smack judges too,
book the Serbs, smear Italics,
have a ball, just have a bash
and knock down your best pet hate,
find none left in this fair land
if all gave a helping hand!

27.	Each Sweet Bloom

In my garden each sweet bloom
is often well near perfect.
Long waited for, well watered,
then with great reluctance picked.
Alas, see the human race
more like a weed run amok.
Fl'wers of youth, a motley pick,
gone to seed, from messy stock.

28.	Jolly Gold Digger

1.	Jolly gold digger
seeking your fortune,
working your figure
beneath the full moon.
Something for nothing,
dredging for that flash,
money for taking,
slight effort for cash?

2.	Jolly gold digger
its colder tonight,
you've lost your vigour,
seem a ghostly sight.
Still working your plot,
high prices no more,
have you quite forgot
old miners stay poor?

3.	Jolly gold digger
just plying your trade,
Sweet Billie's bigger,
has that fortune made.
Now's time to retire, 
your diggings run dry,
no longer inspire
dollars for a lie.

4.	Jolly gold digger
now hiring young hands
helps to re-figure
all those new demands.
They now work your fields
for a commission,
bring in higher yields,
sheer exploitation!

5.	Jolly gold digger
will you soon retire?
Said with a snigger,
I'm now a buyer.
Better others ply 
this trade in desire,
you cannot deny 
this treasure I hire!

29.	I'm Looking Down

I'm looking down from the cliffs 
out upon another world.
To the birds in flight flying
is simply one's wings unfurled.
To the ferns in the hollows
living is those fronds uncurled.
To the clouds in the heavens
being's just through space-time hurled.

30.	Midnight

The sound no more of those fast buses
signals the final dying of day.
Now no more the thud of trembling train
nor passage of passing cars in play.
No midnight bells nor careless sirens
to wake those lovers in slumber's way.
Hearing scrambling darkness rambling rough
as wide eyed bushy tailed possums play.

31.	Day Break

At day break wild birds awake,
sound a welcome filled with scorn.
Each morning in the valley
white mist rises greeting dawn.
Due drops set beads on a string,
on blades of grass silver worn.
Rays of light meeting the sun,
Heaven on Earth sees life born.

32.	A Naughty, Naughty Poem

O gorgeous fellow
with crop of hair 
like a monstrous prick,
gosh, how I would like
to check you out
and suck your dick!

O degenerate verse,
so naughty, naughty,
have you no moral content,
how couldst you permit
to paper such
perverted intent?

The poem is honest 
and the poet too,
have not the heart 
to hide from view
this pen's quite a tart?

O naughty, naughty poem
take note, I'm told
that long haired guy
is quite a prick,
likes not older men,
prefers younger boys
between the ages
of six and ten!

Alas, we now see
an old wolf in lamb's clothing
and hear in verse
a moral tale 
that's not at all good
but as they say 
the proof of the pudding 
is in the eating.

O naughty, naughty man
can appearances 
be so deceptive
for their is no art
to find the mind's 
construction in the face 
for so variable 
is the human race!

But in reflection
a simple tale is told,
if I may be so bold,
that the good and bad
must take their place 
beside the other
for there is always the hour
we know not one from t'other.

So, if I am permitted
to make one more pun
the point of this poem is
that there can be none!

Can a tiger's tail
have a tail too
to drag along behind
or must a crafty story
have a hidden view?

Surely, O naughty poem,
when no moral can be found
that left unsaid is perhaps
the new-moral-to-hand
and that's so profound!

33.	Will We Stand Up

Will we stand up, be counted,
express our own views, design
our own tomorrows today,
in our affairs have some say?!
Should the masses be passive,
let experts exert themselves
on our behalf, go astray,
listen not to what we say?

Beautiful circular beds
of flowers grace the square where
automatic sprinklers spray
passing public on their way.
Stairs and more stairs for the old,
wind tunnel doors whistle loud
architects on paper play
in their own grandiose way!

Insist that those smart scribblers
live inside their constructions
for at least a week and pray
they learn well from such a stay!
Enforce the fact designers
should become the first victims
of their creative display,
help market products that stay!

Precious civilization
is times past well remembered,
an ornamental inlay,
minds meeting minds day by day.
That long accumulation
that surrounds worldly meaning,
elevates our feet from clay,
lets us live well day by day!

34.	Has The End Of Time Now Come?

Has the end of time now come,
or has a new age begun?
Standing on railway platform
a group of punks jest in fun.
Then see from the parting train,
ever so discreetly done,
two male lovers holding hands;
I smile, they wink, laugh as one!

35.	Friendship Is Never Feigned

Friendship is never feigned if in fact,
in simulation are we so blind?
Distinctions have been seen or not seen,
but once noted behaviour is signed!
How can authentic action issue
forth from the ego-fragmented mind?
Relational spontaneity
is always meaningfully designed!

	We may say hello, 
	even wish you well,
	but have no desire
	an untruth to tell.
	Cross our paths with deeds,
	explained fair or fell,
	might precipitate
	one contracted hell!

36.	The Graceful Landing?

The birds in flight land upon water,
the long horizon stretched far beyond.
So graceful this mastery of air,
through magic finding a common bond.
Above, the thin smear of Blue Mountains,
by this restful tranquillity conned.
Then the distant roar of one more jet
in the center of this fetid pond.

37.	Transcendental Delights

What transcendental delights 
do we have today to tempt 
the philosophical mind, 
what illusions of indubitability 
that flicker forward for discussion, 
what great bargain reductions 
to get our new teeth into, 
what super suspension found 
in that conclusive argument lost
through its long unravelling, 
what a palate that could possibly  
stomach twenty-five century old 
morsels crudely pulled apart 
ten thousand times; faithfully
etched in analytical acid 
and pickled in paradox 
too profound and fine for the secular taste 
of some hypothetical divinity
and its public transcendental agency?!

38.	Our Evolution Or Extinction?

In the grand plan of this universe,
in the far province of this planet,
what progressive course are we to choose -
our evolution or extinction?
More species have been at home
here on this finite sphere misnamed Earth
than now exist or existed at 
the turning of this century or
at the beginning of written time.
Many of those long lost creatures would 
defy all belief, scare any psychopath,
frighten the drunken person sober,
cause trepidation for the taxonomist.
Alas, the probability of our fate 
is a stacked die loaded against us, 
for the sorry story of our origins 
is that we are doomed to extinction. 
Might our only hope then lie 
in the faint chance that from our dust and 
ashes the new person might arise, 
awash with civilization and 
the sweet warm sparkle of fiery love 
flashing in their eyes, 
	all three of them on their 
	thirty fingers and toes,
	and those six on their bum, 
	and those six on their crown 
	and those six found dangling
	from the end of their nose?

39.	The Cockroach And The Cripple

O creepy crawly cockroach
seen sneaking along the ground
why do you choose to ramble
around this old wheelchair found?
Food, food, glorious food, all
those crumbs we cannot deny,
and soon a horde rush towards
this poor quadriplegic guy.

40.	The Workers' Clock

The tyranny of time sinks
its sickle ever deeper,
a long mortal catalogue
is taken by this reaper.
A grimy harvest enforced
through working conformity,
daily hear the sirens that
sound this sad enormity.

41.	Please Tread Quietly With Care!

1.	Please tread quietly with care 
that fellow over there is
a homicidal suicidal maniacal
man with delusions, hallucinations,
concussion and bony growth intrusions.

2.	Please tread quietly with care 
that fellow over there is
a repressed depressed incest victim,
a rugged, ragged oil rig driller
who's dreadfully queer.

3.	Please tread quietly with care 
that fellow over there is
a manic panic driven spastic mess
an argument waiting for premises,
a sick man in distress.

4.	Please tread quietly with care 
that fellow over there is
a walking talking accident
stalking fate running late
for his plastic hip repair.

5.	Please tread quietly with care 
that fellow over there is
a monk as drunk as a skunk beaten up
by a punk who sunk his boot
into his insensitive rear.

6.	Please tread quietly with care 
that fellow over there is
a noisy, nosey, snotty, potty, grotty tramp
who lost his entire fortune in 
Bond Corporations shares I fear.

7.	Please tread quietly with care 
that fellow over there is
a schizophrenic paraphrenic, neurosthenic, 
senile dementia who cannot remember if
he's sick enough to be here.

8.	Please tread quietly with care 
that fellow over there is
a neurotic psychotic psychopath,
a disturbed perturbed person
who's sad, mad and bad I would declare.

9.	Please tread quietly with care 
that fellow over there is
a mentally retarded, artery enhardened
chronic bed wetting epileptic
on a respirator for the comotosed here.

10.	Please tread quietly with care
that fellow over there is
another drug crazed addict off their face,
all phased out and dazed, shivering, 
perseverating and gyrating totally unaware.

11.	But I don't care what you say
that body asleep or awake or at large
is still a person with a name
and not a number nor a disease,
nor an immanent nursing home bed
nor another bankcard charge!

12.	So please tread quietly, and
take greater care for that person 
in that bed has now bled to death 
under the sheets waiting to be fed,
for the Mafia didn't like him either
and pumped him full of shotgun lead!

42.	A  Flat Palette Of Moving Cliches

Every good artist uses one -
a flat palette of moving cliches.
In sound or colour, in time or space
there's in practice only so many ways.
But the artist hears another drum, 
rewrites these bits in different plays.
And through the rhythm of the old time
weaves the latest dance before our gaze.

43.	Ten Minutes To Midnight

Its ten minutes to midnight,
another poem to pluck 
from the thin ethereal air
that my ear wishes to hear.
The traffic rushes onward,
in a fast frenzy of speed,
all the noise under the sun
has now re-begun in fun.
Even the wandering drunk 
cannot keep quiet, keep still,
and see those partying punks 
are as loud as those gay hunks.
Most are on their streetwise way 
from those local pubs serving
not so local good-time guys
and gals, gays and part-time bi's.
The heated air of Summer
creates many sleepless nights,
so why bother to slumber,
why not dance that new number?
And now the bells ring abroad
and the traffic rushes past,
brawls fighting with cat calls as
temperature slowly falls...

44.	Should Life Have Meaning?

Should life have meaning -
value beyond self/wealth/stealth/health?
Is personal worth - 
a matter of wealth/stealth/health/self?
Our long survival -
a practice of stealth/health/self/wealth?
Our best happiness -
realized through health/self/wealth/stealth?

45.	Can Life Have Meaning?

A word has meaning,
found beyond itself.
But not avoiding
a realm of living.
A carbon copy
of what we desire.
And met already,
fickle, unsteady.

46.	The Treasured Relics

With this one photo in hand of thee
I see the form of someone long lost,
now no more a lover of that life 
striving on this planetary plane.
With this small lock of thy auburn hair
I find a token of thy presence
formulated through that genetic
expression that once encompassed thee.
Reading thy letters that had brought cheer,
shared laughter and sympathetic thoughts
now find a hollow emptiness leaves
a long sad taste too deep to be touched.
Yet in remembrance say a prayer
that finds me once more within thy grasp,
one more hug that tugs the strings that wind
within the soul an embrace with thee 
			here!
I praise thee O Eternal Moment
for through thee the past and future meet 
in an emergent entrance always
found in this everlasting event!

47.	My More Earthly Lover

My heavenly beloved
is a god far too divine
but my more earthly lover
is a man all too human
for he has, (I discover,)
a small dimple on his chin 
and a pimple on his bum 
and those wrinkles on his face 
and those crinkles on his cheeks 
(that in wonder) leave me lost
for words all far too profane.
Two loves have I, I confess,
without being unfaithful,
but one Love I here profess
leaves me flirting and playful!

48.	The Value Of Culture

The value of culture is
the culture of value too!
Self-reproducing, moment
by moment, like yeast in brew.
Reconstituted through the 
shared interpersonal view.
Like a fertile field of fl'wers
of ev'ry colour and hue.

49.	The Value Of The Other

The value of the other is 
the source of our freedom found.
Sense of self choosing objects
seen through horizons profound.
Tempering that sense of self
through seeing others abound.
One longing conversation,
one dialogue all around!

50.	The Perfect Poem

1.	The perfect poem,
	like that colourful season,
	leaves a falling trace.

2. 	The perfect poem,
	never one frozen word more,
	nor one word too few.

3.	The perfect poem,
	springs into life afresh,
	like each river bend.

4.	The perfect poem,
	seasoning ne'er bland nor hot,
	like the perfect meal.