Melaleuca 006
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Transcript of Melaleuca 006
MelaleucaNumber 6: December 2009 Editor: Phillip A. Ellis
Table of Contents
Bali Dreaming Gail Arkins 3Life Passes by Gail Arkins 4Sweet Seasons Suite Gail Arkins 5View from the Fourth Floor Gail Arkins 8The bag man of the Alameda Greg Lewis 9The Leavings Greg Lewis 10the bush Christopher Kelen 11idyll; or, poem with most of a line from Sorescu
Christopher Kelen 14
postcard of Elysium Christopher Kelen 15Tai Mo Shan / Big Hat Mountain Christopher Kelen 16The Imperial Lynda Hawryluk 28Sandalwood Sunset Lynda Hawryluk 29The sky is darker at night Lynda Hawryluk 30
All works are copyright by their respective creators, 2009; the arrangement of this collection is copyright by Phillip A. Ellis, 2009.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 Australia License <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.5/au/>.
1
2
Bali Dreaming
The palest of green leaves
kissed by the sun
a swathe of lemongrass
sways and flows
to the shore,
a flock of green-fleeced sheep.
Overhead, palms
dapple-shade an exercise class;
the tan and lean instructor
issues orders in French:
genou! -- knees up!
All obey.
A small animal bounds,
stops; alert eyes
dart, tail quivers.
It runs up the nearest tree,
leaps from frond to frond,
which shiver and rustle.
Beautiful Bali:
island of temples, gamelan and heat,
your people laugh
with their eyes and smiles,
even though I’m far away,
my heart remains, remembers.
Gail Arkins
3
Life Passes By
Peaceful
on a park bench,
front paws
by her sleek tail,
she sits;
gentle,
green-eyed,
and stares
at a butterfly.
Her white face, a jewel,
her nose blunt, ears pricked,
alert,
in the joy
of life
and just to be.
Later
on a verandah,
we sit
together,
contemplative,
we watch life
as it passes by,
my cat and I.
Gail Arkins
4
Sweet Seasons Suite
Summer
Crickets;
strident voices
heard at dusk, shrilling; still
unseen, imagine their shadows,
hidden.
Swelter;
hot north wind gusts,
eddies of arid brown dust
swirl; dry dams, water lost - vanished
like smoke.
Swatting
swarms of bush flies
nuisance pests of summer;
season of dusty heat, thirst and
mangoes.
Autumn
Listen:
torrents of rain
team from the leaden skies.
Silence assails the senses as
leaves fall.
Colours:
russet, gold, red
vibrant autumn pageant
before winter’s frosty kiss, cold
5
as ice.
Winter
Nature retreats
into herself,
time for sleep.
In burrows and hollows
curled up balls of fur -
not a whisker moves.
Morning frost,
children crack
ice on the birdbath;
frozen fingers
cold noses and toes;
thawed later
by the fire.
Trees stand
straight as soldiers,
leaves passed to another place,
wait for the new life
that will blossom soon
in Spring.
Spring
Goodbye winter blues.
September song;
joyful notes
herald new beginnings.
Spring enfolds the earth.
6
A bud unfurls
and greets the sun
a young leaf of sparkling green
quivers in a waft of warm breeze.
Spring hugs the earth.
Time of fresh focus
fragrant perfumes fill the air
love blossoms
harvest is bountiful.
Spring embraces the earth.
New life abounds
butterflies, birds and bulbs
a fanfare of foals flourish
baby lambs leap.
Spring caresses the earth.
Gail Arkins
7
View from the Fourth Floor
Night time, bright lights announce the coming planes;
a hard right now, they change to flashing red.
I gaze, mesmerised, through the window panes
at blinking lines of lights, my eyes transfixed.
The morning dawns, the corner park’s deserted,
the larches are bare, a silent statue stands
greeting the dawn, with blank eyes and averted;
small children run to pre-school, hand in hand.
A squirrel wakes and leaps from tree to tree,
faint sounds of birdsong permeate the air,
and feelings stir of peace, tranquillity--
perfect solutions to an aching despair.
The park’s heart beats now, people all around,
the day brings life, and love and treasures abound.
Gail Arkins
8
The bag man of the Alameda
I know the bag man of the Alameda, he is always here.He is never elsewhere.He drags his bags up and down the Alameda, never straying from this street.
I heard he was from Puerto Montt, from the rich central valley, and Arica.In him, the glaciers, and the wild waves pounding the long coast.
In him, the northern desert, dry and dusty, and the flowering of his heart amid the arid land.
I see him every day outside the subway - the eternal traveller, with the Andes behind him,casting long shadows over his life.
Greg Lewis
9
The Leavings
Our pacing days galloping in to yearsturn now, and now our memories yellow,break photo frames and scratch clean surfaces.What will become of the leavings?
Years turning generations,Christmas decorations are sooner erectedand sooner taken down,tinsel dusted in the autumn cleaning.
Leaving in our wake – weight loss obsessions, shiny collectables,careers endured with holidays on the coast,and life under the regime of the heart.
Lovers, teeth and birthdays recede,and all that is left is Christmas tinselraining down somewhere,as the leavings take flight.
Greg Lewis
The Bush
1
which is the wild out-of-order,snakes hunting
under tin left lie
garden too thick for weeds this unnaming
its chorus birds commonly bright
2
minds its business we make ours
yields to spirit its sustainingbest model from democracy dark wordless turn,
self tending, ruthless
its arcane angels knot flux
in lines of flight unto all selves
absent of law
flimsy instinct joins logic to one wish – the guiltless having of all this
3
and hearth by hearth it breathes to burn
a curlicue pens home this one tree left cut down to size
so when it's mine it is no longer
comes back in its pocket of risesthe bush is a trap
sets camouflage falls in and all it catches
bush
4
11
another sun spun, a next dicey sky
of maverick opinion, told-youinscrutable polysemy
song between the cityfoldscome clumsy in its own confiding
the bush is all unfinished businessall neighbouring and all horizon
team of madmen tied to one tunea tidemark shows where we retreat
5
blade hailing the forest,legend made fading
memorabilia: smug of stockwhip, gumleaf
this narrow harvestsets beast and grass to corner sun
gathers as a blowfly to what was meat
takes no convincing – its job to go nowhere
6
midst of limitsmost natural of histories,
gospel uncut in the woodyou can always come home
– it cures your axe,
– a waste of pages cash scrawls down the bush beside my means as such
7
pack up but where you come from's as gone as what was here
so we among all animals are party to the bush
take down each sky made out in ribs
12
a cross hangs bright above
8
leaves tracks to run a course paws takeand forward still the world is forestwe tongues a thread of it spun forthone species relieving others of hope
barks at the edge a dog at night burningthe hinge of sentience it mourns
9
beautiful old cars pass through the busheach to its picnic thanks the shade
this shallowest of burials
10
much admired the passage of ritesbecause once you were my besotteda frightened face to rouse such lovethe bush is an animal gathering homefrom its great arc unmeaning
Christopher Kelen
13
idyll; or, poem with most of a line from Sorescu
a wind shaped tree in the meadow of sleep youth after Lethe lain green in clover and death is here too in the blue of the sky cloud of a man comes floating and this the steadying rain speaks heart to heart pulse over these roofs of heaven head in the lap of the reaper
Christopher Kelen
14
postcard of Elysium
life’s a flash and then you’re ash eternity ghost floating ether aboveflames under the pot soul first into the void I do impressions like Ulysses posing as no one at allafter a whileI want to come clean but by then don’t rememberI went swimming that’s itgive me blood and I’ll tell what you wantto hear
Christopher Kelen
15
Tai Mo Shan / Big Hat Mountain
1
every night the mountain climbs over
whatever I dreamit remains
beginning up the mountain sits for the world to roar round it
‘Big Hat Mountain’ –when I get past the treeline the sun will show me what I’m not wearing
these feet before me as elsewhere mine
great volumes of the sky halt herethat the lungs might touch what makes them
past last of shade of people sparse I move mountainously
the track stands across my climbing
16
2
trees themselves climb– making, losing breath like me who bends them? who’s bent to them?
everything calls me away...look this leech! – a watch, my fur grown into garments, to hold the mountain off
head full of, eyes too, mouth full up even in this making silence I cast none of this off
paradox – this stillness sweats from me my presence in my means deferred that I belong where I’m no part and have not hide nor nesting
I take the mountain up now time has pitched its tent in methe city’s trafficking sloughs
enough blank space
17
3
smoulders into its autumn burden
someone is burning in the dry gully
...through the thickness of air a broken umbrella caught in tree forks the broken wind burnt here
far below tugs work the harbour dry the sea faced off in its cargo of sunk truths its grim old forevers as good as today
18
4
a day with the mountain – what does it mean?
the wind is like rubble piled in a silent forest where the birds have lost sway
then the forest itself bends under divinity
centuries back the mountain gets into me I must climb
the mountain can only be taken the wrong way: shrines and incense fall up its sides in the way of devotion
folk bring their birds to sing with the wildthe wind stirs up in its cornersas the sound the ear must stir from a shell Big Hat – and the city like ears sticking out
faith occults the gradientas if the mountain were to be believed
19
5
striding in the sun’s vast strokes my wrist minutely glints I bring this cast of light on the mountain to borrow an intensity
sun stands either side – can’t be found out
I pull the mountain up over my head
bears my sullen breath away the mountain confesses me I have only to come
there is something between me and it and not a form of understanding
to take up with the mountain is the hardest thing to do
eyes down at my pencil the mountain won’t grudge does not need to remember has forgotten nothing
the boredom of the mountain bigger than any of us
what is that speech below silence there?
20
6
breath down in rich seams older than speech
I am taking down the mountain’s portrait opinion of the place
in each lit square faces pay for the privilege of turning their backs on the mountain
a fine roof for all that has buried and built and the sun singing down therepast roots, past all dim hoards lost before measuring ever began all that the mountain is a fine roof
21
7
this going nowhere stills my bonesthe better of me got
as home yearns for me how could it not?
when I myself am pacing elsewherehow should the mountain manifest?who can see it in me?
morning slouches with the mountain noontide stands over, sun takes a set, quickens, sky of bones and insects forgetting
a mountain of words against the mountain symptom of which is self-erasure
climbing the mountain I am invisible does this get me nowhere?
stones washed raw the mountain in theory is indivisible if it leaves by the truckload truckloads are left
22
8
some divination senses me
under these weathered hands of season I make out the character for mountain
a bell sounds where the path comes stillwhich deities does the mountain guard?
faces worn with kindness uphill
in shanty sides and tricks of dwelling even this bent old joke of a mountain half erased and ready for more eyed but if the dollar bidsidle in such fraught desire I honour hoping that there’s honour in it
23
9
uphill choose one rock to sit on the mountain limbs rest two bodies together
which stills the way?
the fewer my footfallsthe more in the mountain
stood among clouds its windows thin mists
my mountain on the window hereof which the clouds are capable
24
10
dusk is a last turn wrestles the mountain
descending, picking burrs from clothes plucking ants from my fur sweat dries cold chill sets on my neck I learn I have given the mountain my scarffurther down the mountain offers a glove and then another for the same hand different, another colour I decline again
look in the morning – how the mountain still stands no hint of gloating
25
11
still life that we have ornamented catch the angles from it casts over pales by comes under a spell
nights homeI face the mountain my building casts a shadow over the mountain shows no faceI play the guitar a tune on the mountain
quavers like sparks spun the stars – such comrades dim about me
the mountain frames days buried looks on in its auspicious graves inauspicious though to look
once in a hermitfold black night of barking under your smoky blanket of breath grass curls up toesjackhammer blowtorch – these are the fauna
a postcard in the museum of what was the mountain a foolish old man grinds tiger bones
26
12
after the day’s tides lock up the mountain we all do, on all sidesthe mountain is no longer at large
ever since night upended here these bells wrung in this vindication the mountain pursues me in my darkness and in my knots of future
I kneel for the mountain until it recalls me – we have all the world’s time here
god of the mountain answer me this to be true to this place and to the earth underto be true to this air, my here and now whom must I mock? how?
Christopher Kelen
27
The Imperial
The Swords sliced the stage right openElectrifying chaos in a three-piece suitTorn t-shirts and a gaping head woundStitched shut after last nights riotThe headline act at an orgy in a canefieldOne month to the crush and time to let looseHere seasons cannot be challengedThe canecutters slow to start this yearWatching with dark eyes from the side of the stageReady to leap on overenthusiastic puntersA churning mass of tanned bodiesRumbling to the music in front of themSweat drips from the ceiling fansIn a cavernous club by the riverThe crocs cock an eye then doze againTo the sound of the Swords in mid-songA makeshift nest is all we’ve gotA swag, a tarp, some fishing line for a clotheslineWe’ll travel to the next town soon enoughConstruct another campsite on the high groundAnd work to the sounds of cicadas hummingYou sit outside now, away from this crowdEyes bright in the blackness of night Sitting on a rock soaking tired feet in the swollen creekAs I watch another Sword cutThick air with a razor sharp guitar lickThe fish left the river years agoOnce the Imperial started Friday night Punk nightAnd the backpackers came to stay
Lynda Hawryluk
Sandalwood Sunset
Grey butcherbirds scatter into the silence of a lazy still afternoonHousebound felines settle back to sleep, antagonised no moreThe last shrill peep of a honeyeaterChanges blue sky to a pinkish sheenFull green leaves of a mango tree rustle And shake from invading masked banditsBatwings stretched out against a deepening duskIt’s so quiet on Zonka’s Hill you can hear the waves lapping at Fisherman’s shoreThe screech of little blacks like fingernails on a blackboardBreaking the gloaming in twoMango tree murder spree over they head towards Wreck PointSharp silhouettes against a glimmering bay the full moon ripe and pendulous hanging over the headlanda mound of dense bushland, solid and stillthe tide bounces off the Bluff and a cool breeze blows through the Pandanuslike a sneaky possum stealing forbidden fruitdarkness settles over Cooee Bay like a mosquito net protecting usthe red glow of a coli in the window blinks in the moonlightcandles flutter dancing by themselvesa radio in the next street floats across to usas we sit and soak in this sandalwood sunset
Lynda Hawryluk
The sky is darker at night
A balmy breeze blows through palm trees
Happy in their natural environmentAnd sleepily watching faint lights flickering in the distance They might belong to a car or a house Or something you don’t want to think about
Every tree could be an abrupt ending to the journey home
And every shadow beckons you closer towards the darkA thousand eyes line the roadsideWatching and waiting for the next car to passWho knew kangaroos were voyeurs?
Driving along though endless blackness
Belying the vast and empty country; it’s out there someoneIn the car is cool and comfortableAnd gives a false sense of safetyBut it could all be over in seconds
The sky is much darker at night
Without the benefit of the reflected lightOf a humming cityscapeA different kind of city sits out there in the darkHiding behind bushes, away from the headlights of an oncoming car
Lynda Hawryluk