A life in poetry
staccato conversation on
our walk to preschool
first observe the dead rat
laid out in the gutter
long tail ribbed like a worm skin
next pass the bat
pinned to the ground
by gravity’s inevitability
then the carcass of a cat
and the howl of a man crumpled in the gutter
his lover hovering unable to cross grief’s divide
return to the rattatattat of our conversation
rat bat cat rat cat bat
in the distance
the bullet connects like a sting
the bullock slumps in the paddock
in hock deep grass
the hunter lays down the gun
settling the scope gently
before sprinting knife drawn
to cut the throat and bleed the beast out
a ceremony played in silence
the disconnect between sight and sound
leads my four year old son
to report the scene as seen
that cow just fell over
an innocence not even
these events could extinguish
the hunter controls
his pulse as he pulls the trigger
his chest constricts
the hunter fears
the quarry stands in blissful
ignorance
will you eat what you kill
the beast winched
onto the truck
deck slick with blood
slithering
then strung up
stripped of hide
eviscerated and butchered into portions
are you prepared to kill what you eat
the daily mix of seed and mash deposited
inside your wire enclosure
fenced to keep the cat out not you in
click and chirrup as you circle
quizzical as I mimic you
in the scramble for the feed
you walk over my feet
eyes targeting the largest corn amongst the seed
a sudden dart extracts that morsel with precision
the focus of your greed
I reach into the nest
a perfect bowl lined with lilac feathers
and collect two pale blue eggs
to complete the exchange
your feathered carcass lay
Elvis white with yellow quiff
in the gutter where your flightpath
intersected with the road
bitumen black beak and claws
for days your cohort of lairs
hung about the wires strung above
scooped into a bag
and dumped into the bin
on collection night
no viking funeral for you
I held your surprising heft
feathers softer than skin
your natural life span
longer than my own
looming large and suddenly
at speed there is no time
as you slam into the windscreen
with such force
the wipers are activated
all that remains
the perfect imprint of your wings
and a smear across the glass
I
in the deepest cave the ancient
carved stone reclines
soles of the feet
marked with winding circles
hands set in enlightened repose
each cave contains a statue
evolved over time
the last a gift
gaudily decorated as authentic
as a retail mannequin
we emerge into the light
from the depths of the cave
blinded by what we now know
II
at the entrance to the cave complex
shoes and thongs in random array
like the aftermath of some market bombing
a reminder of Sri Lanka’s recent past
I
the liveried sentry
on guard against the 20th century
faded colonial colonnades
regimented
once the official home
of the Governor of Ceylon
II
around the pool
crows stand their distance
long trained to anticipate
staff flinging fireworks
in their direction
a gesture like striking a match
sufficient pantomime to set them to flight
a dance rehearsed
III
the Saturday brides assemble in their finest
gaudy saris billowing in the wind
waiting expectantly for their photoshoot
and their future
the Indian Ocean drives
against the rocks
as if to reclaim this promontory
letting us know
our presence here is transitory
HOCKNEY
shots of light
mesmerizing the surface of the pool
his LA exile
looking like bad photography
surfaces bisected
by light and shade and colour
a flat pack world
not as you might imagine
unlimited blue water
reflecting the vast sky
a static take
on that vibrant splash
his real interest
the intersection of that boy
with this water
the way the white bottom bobs
CAVAFY
the barbarians are still needed
a century on
Xenophobia justifying itself
his quest began
looking into the eyes of old men
and ended with the splendidly oiled body
of that remembered youth
a journey without end
as if that were the meaning
Alexandria a way point
to exile Ithaka an ideal
loss and longing
(his Fourteen Poems illustrated with
line drawings by Hockney)
water like glass placed over white sand
scores of hermit crabs move at your feet
in borrowed shells soon outgrown
smaller crabs grateful of the hand me down
the way of ideas
on the shore shells flattened and uninhabitable
slowly disintegrating replenishing this beach
you wander for hours
looking at dross the dregs
and detritus the sea spits out
avoid the lumps of congealed oil
volatile under your prodding stick
avoid the gaze of mutton bird carcasses
bloated on the high tide mark
avoid their anguished beaks
in the haze the beach becomes a concept
you struggle to make sense of how
water and sky intersect and where
the distance like some unknown future
tapering to an unseen point
sun disorders your senses
that smell of sex and ozone
the way you wish this time would extend
like the best of intimacies
footprints in the sand
steps like a crazy dance
to your ambiguous future
I
this is no rehearsal
away to safety in your mother’s wake
child’s gas mask
malevolent in its dun bag
to the neighbour’s cellar
two doors down
on the sounding of the alarm
coat over pyjamas
as planned in total darkness
and sullen silence
there to sit out the night
listening 1945
your father out on duty
as an air raid warden
this war senseless as the last
too young to join your brother in the fight
a target under the flightpath
to the steel works along the coast
someone incants
don’t fear the one you hear
it’s the one you don’t will kill you
the silence is unnerving the world shifts
time stops the flash
the juddering crash
then darkness dust a form of silence
punctuated by screams and the broken
wail of a broken siren
the ringing in your ears
climbing into the cold night
clothes shredded
as you are delivered from the remains
of the house
time resumes
with the sudden realisation
your mother is no longer there
the ringing in your ears
a lifelong tinnitus of grief
II
the ringing always there
like cicadas in summer
sound that hurts
you sit in the shade
of a Sydney summer
wheeled there in your hospital issue chair
delivered from the antiseptic smell
of bodies bumping up against their use by dates
our conversation avoids the fact
you are dying
concentrates on the mechanics of what passes
for your life these days
the insects the flies that flower
that sound reinforces
this is your last experience of this
the ringing the ringing is always there like pain
your faithful wife
attends to your every need
a sip of water and a wipe
her life has no meaning beyond you
such love on show
embarrasses me
then you conspire
to send her home to collect
some vital thing
she goes with a kiss
you kiss her back like Judas
as you close your eyes
intent on dying alone
shedding a tear for your mother
one last time