Poetry Volume IX – Book I I

Supplement to Book I…

Noël Tointon

(1998-99)

Introduction to these Supplementary Poems in the Form of a Second Book

	These poems are meant to supplement, in parallel, the poems as presented in Volume IX, Book I.  These poems taking the left hand side and those from the first book on the right. They are printed here, for the most, in their chronological order of composition. They can also stand alone in the form of this book as printed.

	In these poems I have tried to concentrate on a shorter, more intense text in a more Contemporary vein but, alas, in this mission I have again failed.

	Hoping some of these poems will see the light of day if only for a few moments…
										
Noël Tointon, 18.12.99.

Index

Letter… Supplementing Poem from Vol.IX Book I No… Title of Supplement

A  	14	A Set of City Haikus
B  	23	Buddha Comes to Australia
C	4	One More Drug Related Death Discovered in the Squats
D	18	An Old Snow-Man
E	2	Must Get Home my Parents are Waiting up for Me
F	7	The Pleasures of the Day
G	11	Playing with Fire
H	1	As Writ in the Larger Book of Life
I	21	Can Words be Painted?
J	5	When I am Lonely
K       Epilogue	Multiculturalism	
L	16	Creating News
M       Prologue	Just One Little Stain
N	12	On this Busy Street
O	17	A Small Unit Balcony
P	19	Trick or Treat
Q	9	In that Psychiatric Hospital
R	20	When I Stand Naked before You
S	13	You shall Know Them
T	15	You Know Times are Tough
U	3	In the Shade Made by some Gum Trees
V	6	Are You Over Him
W	8	A Sydney Collage
X	22	A Love poem
Y	10	My Dog is on the Internet
Z	24	One Last Poem…

Finale:		An Open Sea		

W.r.t. Book I the Sequence is: 

Epilogue-K, 1-H, 2-E, 3-U, 4-C, 5-J, 6-V, 7-F, 8-W, 9-Q, 10-Y, 11-G, 12-N, 13-S, 
14-A, 15-T, 16-L,17-O, 18-D, 19-P, 20-R, 21-I, 22-X, 23-B, 24-Z, Epilogue-M.
Supplement A

A Set of  City Haikus

1.	Inner city door
forever open, stealing
coins from your pocket.

2.	The old paper barks 
tarted up, from balcony -
fallen camellias.

3.	Tall, white boy, good looks,
driving Asian car, finding
lots of room inside.

4.	Two pubs on Fridays
out drank each other, vast crowds
swallowed in the noise.

5.	In quieter streets
and backyards more robberies…
Jets flying over.

6.	Demonstrating gays
with their whistles frightening
the police horses.

7.       Even St. Vincent
de Paul have a yearly sale.
Prices going up.

8.       Middle of Winter,
many trav’llers at Central,
some going nowhere.

9.       Trendy coffee shops
doing a roaring trade on
one more busy street.

10.     Black fellows drinking
cappuccinos, Italians
sipping expresso.

11.	Secretary saw 
herself in the shop window 
outside David Jones.

12.	Even poor wear names, 
last year’s fashions now modelled 
at Matthew Talbot.

Supplement B

B.  Buddha Comes to Australia

The vicar of this old inner city church
must be most upset
with a trendy warehouse next door
selling Buddhas like hot-cakes,
standing, sitting and lying down,
smiling at pedestrians 
passing by, contemplating
this stylish window display...

A few years ago
the Asian bread shop
had an altar
ever so discretely 
around the corner.
Now this restaurant
has a Buddha
complete with
fluorescent aura...

The first thing
the tourists see
as they get off the train
is a big golden Buddha
smiling beneficently;
in the gift-shop window
of the information bureau
handing out advice
subliminally...

Buddhas, Buddhas everywhere
and not a cross to see,
Buddhas, Buddhas everywhere
and Christianity, I fear,
could well disappear
as the West goes East
and the East goes West
tying knots, unlinking
signs and symbols 
in one huge melting pot...

There seated on the church fence
one day late last summer
one homeless native from India
sitting cross-legged,
with wild flowers growing 
beneath his ledge
and one plastic bowl seeking alms
indicated in coins 
and pieces of fruit...
So Buddha has come to Australia,
a big fellow, so overweight,
showers at the bus terminal,
shopping with the Salvos,
spends all night dispensing coins
to a machine at the railway station
when not above the street
in some seedy, run-down  flop-house
accepting a helping hand
from some Christian soul, or other,
and with his reputation,
a man much sought after...

Supplement C

One More Drug Related Death Discovered In The Squats

In life - forgotten,
in death - fought over
by the state,
a rat-infested corpse carved up
by this department and that,
such a young soul,
clad in a singlet,
blue jeans, boots 
and bracelet,
do we have a name,
alas not, more’s the pity,
it makes filing ever so difficult,
we don’t even know
the date this unloved one departed,
only the day 
he was tagged and made 
one more statistic….

Supplement D

An Old Snow-Man

Without a word, only a whisper
through the branches of the pine
feather flakes of white light descended
giving the morning an eerie glow.
Like all things wonderful it didn’t last,
a surprise none the less,
a fickle creature from the past,
to tickle the senses once more,
before the breath of the maker 
of this creature
fades just as fast...

Supplement E

Must Get Home, my Parents are Waiting up for Me.

Must get home,
my parents are waiting up for me,
such a convenient excuse,
without quite telling a lie,
for the ashes of his mum and dad
resided on the mantelpiece 
in separate urns...

Supplement F

The Pleasures of the Day

Most of us never see the break of day,
remember a rising disc,
burnishing the bay,
giving earth a russet colour,
only recall waking hours 
for a long time endured
with the inevitableness
of a setting sun taking 
its slow course in a steep descent
into a night of equal forgetfulness...

Supplement G

Playing with Fire

The young baby came upon
a place of heated, roaring flame
singing in the grate,
a seductive, sparkling temptress
beckoning fate,
but a shower of sparks
startled the young boy
into realising a better date,
a date kept just watching,
watching a world ablaze,
burning with infinite desires;
until fleeting embers of love
transport us beyond 
all such earthly fires...

Supplement H

As Writ in the Larger Book of Life

In this sonnet there be no tome on life,
And in this tome no sonnet in design;
No old fashioned poetry line by line
That parses well, this test, instead, a knife
Hollowing out such a genre - How rife
That pose of squawking, squeaking mice that dine
On words, although ‘tis how I feel, ‘cause fine
Sadness now lies beside me, like a wife.
Would that I could write well upon paper
The colour and sheen of his golden hair,
But died this desire in my angel’s look
When our dreams dissolved in human vapour;
So backpack the cosmos engraved on air,
Bedded betwixt the pages of this book.

Supplement I

Can Words be painted?

Can words be painted,
can portraits speak?

On the linguistic landscape
can we hear the Australian psyche
talking to itself?

Where to look – how to listen?

Search the Black market –
buy an Aboriginal picture;
find one that takes the breath away,
rediscover this continent
already dipped in pigment,
a universal language
traced out on a canvas…
after speech…

Supplement J

When I am Lonely

When I am lonely
I do tea
with my new teapot
that speaks to me…

You’ve heard of singing kettles,
now musical teapots;
and I don’t care
if it’s kitsch or camp…

Tea for two
and two for tea,
I love you 
and you love me…

With swirling ridges up the side,
with two sets of roses displayed
on the white porcelain;
painted without thorns that prick one so,
alas…

Supplement K

Multiculturalism

Is Australia a multicultural country?
Australia is a multicultural country!

…what with rats from Norway,
wasps from Germany,
foxes from England,
rabbits from Scotland,
mynah birds from India,
water hyacinth from South America
along with pampas grass,
proteas and jacarandas from Africa,
pine trees from North America
along with cane toads
and property developers
from all the above, and more!

Without a doubt I do believe
Australia is a  poly-ethnic,
multicultural landscape
with one identity forged
in the midst of such diversity…

Supplement L

Creating News

The media has created an interest,
a need that needs to be filled,
and so media fills it
“creating the news,”
so many more stories,
much more exciting 
than mere reality,
fantasies built on hot air,
an industry adding value,
consuming its own scorn,
recycled as manure
for the next crop of corn…

Supplement M

Just One Little Stain

Oh, the fabric of society
sports a stain –
quick, a public address,
address the public,
explain you only salivated
on that cheap skirt in private.

So, off with your shirt
and be flogged on the internet,
turn e-mail into fee-mail,
sell your version
for a figure more plump
than a bankrupt businessman.

Though, only a pubic 
misadventure, and misdemeanour,
don’t forget to cover up,
you don’t want good folk to speculate 
on what else might travel,
unravel from around 
those presidential corners…

Supplement N

On this Busy Street

On this busy street
this discrete house
of prostitution
has parking 
in the laneway 
behind…

Supplement O

 A Small Unit Balcony

A small unit balcony -
Air-conditioning, barbecue,
a white table and two chairs,
two struggling cacti
and a baby pot plant,
not much room 
for something else…

Supplement P

Trick or Treat

In Surry Hills
on Halloween
some residents
could not make up 
their minds when asked
“trick or treat.”

Supplement Q

In That Psychiatric Hospital

It took five years 
to get this door fixed,
it only took five years 
to get this door fixed.

Imagine how the patient’s fare?

Perhaps its just as well
that they didn’t get around
to fixing the door
a little sooner 
in that psychiatric hospital…

Supplement R

When I Stand Naked Before You

When I stand naked before you
it is as if I’m fully clothed.
When you stand naked before me
it is as if you’re well dressed.
There is an unrecognised happiness
in our being able to be just ourselves
before the sight of the other
rather than being – 

desired one day
and discarded the next,
sought after 
for the moment
and then ignored 
for a lifetime…

The mysteries of being
need no mask,
need no flash clothes
to give flesh
to a formless body 
inspected through 
the fabric of friendship…

Supplement S

You Shall Know Them…

You shall know them
By what fashion they keep.

“When I shifted here I decided
to go all minimalist…”

…an almost empty space,
no one wall parallel to any other,
omnipresent white surfaces,
a few prints signed and numbered,
one isolated piece of furniture;
pseudo-provincial, beaten and distressed,
an aloof table with chairs 
that de-defined themselves
beyond mere function,
two opposing sofas facing 
a television side on…

“…I must buy some more art,”
he said, in an unknown moment of insight;
as if putting up this sort of wall-paper
could paint over the void…

…such a pity, I thought,
for he had a good eye for form, 
an understanding of perspective,
and a sense of balance 
that went beyond 
the mere confines of this type 
of magazine cover…

Supplement T

You Know Times are Tough

You know times are tough
when shopkeepers stand in doorways,
and not just to smoke,
waiting for potential customers;
with hands in their pockets,
passing, passing by…

Supplement U

In the Shade Made by some Gum Trees

In the shade made
by some gum trees
five Friday night thugs
espy and old man
limping along the street.

Too old to drive,
too poor for a taxi,
each night he walks
the short distance 
between the bus and the lift 
to his one bedroom flat
high above the pavement.

Near crippled with age,
still manages to feel sprightly,
seen taking pleasure
in the snapping of a twig
on the path underfoot
(in the shade made
by some gum trees…)…

Supplement V

Are You over Him?

Has he left,
or did you leave,
were you pushed 
or did you just walk away?

You were like reflections
that shadowed each other,
two life-sized puppets
on the very same string…

Are you over him,
all over him still?
Is he over you,
all over you still?

All over, all over…
one way or the other
the only problem being
that state in between...?

Supplement W

A Sydney Collage

Seeking Casino City, 
one gigantic market place
with a twist in the tail 
and an extra strong whiff
of testosterone in the air,
a heated breeze 
from the blast furnaces
north and south,
centrally heated;
cowboys, and cowgirls, 
with poker faces
transmuted into
sporting guys in suits 
with perfect imperial 
half-Windsors, 
and girls in designer scarves
over-exposing the same old
masculine brands 
in fashion…

Its all about 
cronies and paper-crooks
playing games 
with this capital,
shuffling virtual money
in a global economy, 
getting paid to profit 
from invisible entities
flashing on and off
computer screens,
sometimes appearing
no more substantial…

Sydney’s one tram 
resembles Melbourne
with a rumble and a bell 
like a tumbrel
taking a fishbowl 
of Asian tourists
to be fleeced 
only halfway 
down the tracks…

A city of country slickers
drawn here, or strange folks
from overseas,
all trying their luck
at the transplanted tables 
leaning on the footpaths;
some souls reading 
their stars, some laughing
at the laughter
of fellow jokers,
others smoking;
the latter starting to look 
a little out of place,
with a nervous, almost 
self-conscious grin,
arms stretched out 
behind them three feet,
teeth lightly clenched,
still taking a chance
with cancer’s side-way glance…

On bus time-tables 
struck by fate
the reflections of 
the rotating flashing 
of the trapped ambulance
lights up every face
not yet fled from this scene,
repeated in sharp points 
against the metal work, 
and in the windows,
likewise in the cars beside 
this equally beached whale,
and from the buildings 
up and down this 
clogged canyon street;
all things reflecting 
everything else,
the silent faces 
seeming to echo
an imminent depression,
or maybe just another 
tidal recession…

In the traffic the mad person
off his face does not seem to care
playing Russian roulette
with wheels truly lethal…

And each corner pub’s
a gambling joint,
y’ favourite coffee shop’s
a moving feast
of musical chairs,
in the lunch-time rush-hour
clients take numbers
from bureaucratic counters
getting ready to shout “bingo”
when the house is 
near empty…

Need some money,
there’s pieces of plastic
in this world of dancing dice,
take it before it takes you,
though don’t blow y’ head away
for if y’ luck has run out
there’s always accommodation
in the local locked-up bin,
either way don’t complain,
for you have been warned…

Folks this is Casino City,
take a chance, place a bet,
see this town like a lottery,
then here today, gone tomorrow
to some coral-island atoll
off far North Queensland
on a drip-feed
of instant luxury:-
as the ads would all
have us wish…

…and yet if all 
should win lotto
most would come back,
like breakers on Bondi,
merely going up-market
on a ladder of ambition
snaking ever skyward,
surely, only changing 
their lot in suburb...?

Supplement X

A Love Poem

Would that I could sing well an ode to this forest			-~~-  ~-~-~-~-
when walking through those woods listening to the creek,		-~~-  ~-  ~~~-  ~-
such rhythmic sounds caressing me, damp, musky smells		-~~-  -~~-  -~~-
of wet foli/age inhaled in sheerest ecstasy.				~-~-~-~-~-~-

My forehead’s moist with thin droplets of mist falling			-~~-  ~--~ ~--~
from gently swaying branches floating around me,			~-~-~-~-  -~-~
the fallen trunk of a tall tree gives me passage, 			~-~-  ~~~-  -~-~
I, following the confines of this fragile trail,				-~~~  ~-~-~-~-
find, outlined in vegetation, undulations;				-~~-  -~~-  -~~-
as if ripples on sand, on this sacred landscape.			~-  -~~-  ~-  -~-~

Wading through thick fern the brush of the bush pushes 		-~~--~-~~--~
past me as I traverse this glen of treasured touch,  			-~~-~-~-~-~-
O how my passionate soul swells although alone			-~~-~~~-  ~-~-
in mere remembrance of this solita/ry presence...			~-~--~~-  ~~-~

	************************

With one kiss he took my soul, 
made me feel welcome, wanted inside, 
with one look he entered my heart,
made me feel a part of his love for life,
with one touch of his hand pressed
inside mine he linked his fortune
by such an intimate sign that lasted 
no more than the fraction of a second.

But, alas, there was little time 
to consecrate such synchronised affinity,
such affection witnessed in disbelief
by those not chosen for this display,
this simple action passed off as no more
than a parting kiss, for that in fact it was,
for the opportunity never presented,
myself then transported far away
to work separated a thousand miles,
his company spent watching over him,
and my company watching over me.

One more time we met, and then we parted,
to be sighted eight years later 
having alighted from the very same bus 
that I had then unwittingly entered.

After all those years my love still lived,
and hopeful of once more re-meeting
searched the horizon of the street
longing for his joyful interaction.

Then one day he touched me upon the shoulder,
mentioned my name, told me he missed me,
told me he had well spent those long years 
of absence in an others’ arms,
wondered whether I would join him 
one day for an afternoon’s picnic 
in a national park beside a stream,
taking delight in each others’ shadow 
seeking a secret embrace.

Then I noted, hairy was his hand, 
so masculine the contours of this land,
and I found it hard not to speculate
what might be found beneath his shirt
had I been allowed to remove that same jacket
seen years before; moulded in a leather
well-tanned in a terra cotta brown;
that seemed such a permanent part of him...

	************************

Would that I could sing well an ode to this forest
when walking through those woods listening to the creek,
such rhythmic sounds caressing me, damp, musky smells
of wet foli/age inhaled in sheerest ecstasy.

My forehead’s moist with thin droplets of mist falling
from gently swaying branches floating around me,
the fallen trunk of a tall tree gives me passage, 
I, following the confines of this fragile trail,
find, outlined in vegetation, undulations;
as if ripples on sand, on this sacred landscape.

Wading through thick fern the brush of the bush pushes 
past me as I traverse this glen of treasured touch,  
O how my passionate soul swells although alone
in mere remembrance of this solita/ry presence...

Supplement Y

My Dog is on the Internet

My dog is on the internet,
dogynet to be more precise,
and everyday he reads his p-mail
deposited on every prominent point
upon the street or in the park,
in turn rewriting a new message,
without fail; scent, as is their netiquette,
seeking news of this world,
hoping to meet at least one hot bitch
on the social reality of the local chat show, 
only escaping censorship if the two dogs 
can learn to type quick enough..!

Supplement Z

One Last Poem…

Drip, drip, drip…

I am old and the dripping tap
seems to bother me less 
in this run-down, rented flat.
You could say I have grown deaf,
but you would only hear it 
when the traffic stops 
in the dead of night…

Drip, drip, drip…

At my age it takes 
a lot more time to dress, undress,
attend to the chores,
get round to fixing things
in a world more use to clocks,
trains, time-tables, 
the noise from planes,
visited by the incessant beat 
of primitive, primeval parties;
interminable discos, or,
what ever they call their music now.
From time to time
this suburb does find
an occasional hour of peace,
often at the very end 
of the hectic week…

Drip, drip, drip…

Mustn’t laugh too much,
might piss myself, again,
although it takes ages
when standing still
in front of the pan,
no doubt a problem 
time will soon solve.
Now other things take 
my attention;
a poem to write,
one last work to pen,
if only this world were not
such a distraction…

Drip, drip, drip…

I now have no use for fame,
defining identity in the banal,
clinging to some scrap
of immortality, 
some fragment of a verse
fragrant like a flower 
in the twirling wind
as if sung to by some 
honey-bird or honey-bee.
Still seeking those drops
of inspiration, sweat, nectar;
an exercise in torture -
giving birth in rapture;
finding words dancing 
in a perfect line, although,
some tactless critic
would no doubt say
he merely wasted his time,
wasted away…

Drip, drip, drip…

A summer’s day 
has long gone cold,
soon someone else
will fix that tap,
let me linger here 
a little longer
sipping this pot of tea,
with my short pencils 
beside me on the bed.
Let me scratch out
some simple catch,
giving pleasure(?),
glossing, gilding
a silver thread
traced o’er this page,
no matter the thoughts
scattered out across
this moonlit patch
of paper less fragile
than this hand so slow
that now no longer knows
how to go faster,
or, indeed, a bit more slow…

Drip, drip…

[In the fabulous world of Chinese poetry
there exists the genre of the death poem
and the above, hopefully, is a ‘simulation’
of just such an instance. Refer to, e.g.,
Arthur Waley, Chinese Poems, 
Poems of Po Chu-I, Last Poem, p.174.]

Finale: An Open Sea

A poem is like an open sea,
flat and calm…

then one more wave rolls in,
aiming at the heavens,
frothing a little at the mouth,
frayed at the edges,
trying to overcome 
the sound of its own voice…

a moment, later, of stillness;
and the breakers wash away
to return to the ocean
its precious impetus…