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\par 
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\par }}\pard\plain \s2\qc\keepn\widctlpar\tx5040\outlinelevel1\adjustright \fs28\lang3081\cgrid {\fs22 
\par 
\par }\pard\plain \widctlpar\adjustright \fs20\lang3081\cgrid {
\par 
\par }\pard\plain \s2\qc\keepn\widctlpar\tx5040\outlinelevel1\adjustright \fs28\lang3081\cgrid {\fs72 UNMANNED
\par }\pard\plain \qc\widctlpar\tx5040\adjustright \fs20\lang3081\cgrid {\fs28 
\par 
\par 
\par }\pard\plain \s4\qc\keepn\widctlpar\tx5040\outlinelevel3\adjustright \fs40\lang3081\cgrid {\fs56 Stephen Oliver
\par }\pard\plain \qc\widctlpar\tx5040\adjustright \fs20\lang3081\cgrid {\fs28 
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par }{\fs36 
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par }{\fs32 HEADWORX
\par }{\fs24 WELLINGTON
\par }\pard \qc\widctlpar\adjustright {\fs28 \page }{\fs22 \u169\'a9 Stephen Oliver, 1999
\par 
\par 
\par First published 1990
\par 
\par 
\par ISBN 0-473-05753-0
\par 
\par 
\par }\pard\plain \s5\qc\keepn\widctlpar\outlinelevel4\adjustright \i\fs28\lang3081\cgrid {\fs22 Published by
\par }\pard\plain \qc\widctlpar\adjustright \fs20\lang3081\cgrid {\fs22 
\par HeadworX Publishers
\par 26 Grant Rd,
\par Thorndon, Wellington
\par Aotearoa / New Zealand
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par }\pard\plain \s5\qc\keepn\widctlpar\outlinelevel4\adjustright \i\fs28\lang3081\cgrid {\fs22 Printed by
\par }\pard\plain \qc\widctlpar\adjustright \fs20\lang3081\cgrid {\fs22 
\par 
\par Otago Uni Print
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par Typeset by HeadworX Publishers
\par inElegant Garamond 11pt
\par 
\par 
\par }\pard\plain \s2\qc\keepn\widctlpar\outlinelevel1\adjustright \fs28\lang3081\cgrid {\fs22 HeadworX\u174\'a8 is a registered trademark
\par }\pard\plain \qc\widctlpar\adjustright \fs20\lang3081\cgrid {\fs22 of HeadworX Publishers
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par }{\i\fs22 This book is copyright.
\par Apart from any fair dealing
\par for the purposes of private research,
\par criticism and review, no part may
\par be reproduced without written
\par permission from the author.
\par 
\par }{\i\fs28 \sect }\sectd \pgwsxn11909\marglsxn1985\margrsxn1109\margtsxn2160\psz9\linex0\headery706\footery706\endnhere\sectdefaultcl \pard\plain \s8\keepn\widctlpar\outlinelevel7\adjustright \i\fs22\lang3081\cgrid {\i0\fs24 Also By Stephen Oliver
\par }\pard\plain \widctlpar\adjustright \fs20\lang3081\cgrid {
\par 
\par }\pard\plain \s15\widctlpar\adjustright \fs20\lang3081\cgrid {\caps\fs22 & interviews
\par }\pard\plain \widctlpar\adjustright \fs20\lang3081\cgrid {\fs22 Horizontal Press, 1978)}{\caps\fs22 
\par }{\i\caps\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\caps\fs22 Earthbound Mirrors
\par }{\fs22 (Horizontal Press, 1984)
\par }{\caps\fs22 
\par 
\par Guardians, Not Angels}{\fs22 
\par (Hazard Press, 1993)
\par }{\caps\fs22 
\par 
\par Islands of Wilderness - A Romance
\par }{\fs22 (Penguin Australia, 1996)
\par }\pard \li720\sl360\slmult1\widctlpar\adjustright {\page }{\fs32 Contents
\par }\pard \sl360\slmult1\widctlpar\adjustright {\b\i\fs24 
\par }\pard \fi720\li720\widctlpar\adjustright {\fs24 1
\par }\pard \sl360\slmult1\widctlpar\adjustright {\caps\fs22 
\par }{\caps Cultural MisAPPROPRIATION}{\caps\fs22   9
\par }{\caps WORD MAPS}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 10}{\caps\fs22 
\par \tab 1.   }{\i\caps\fs22 d}{\i\fs22 own By The River
\par }{\fs22 \tab 2.  }{\i\fs22  National Park Holiday}{\fs22 
\par \tab 3.   }{\i\fs22 False Idols
\par }{\fs22 \tab 4.   }{\i\fs22 Surveyors\rquote  Party
\par }{\fs22 \tab 5.  }{\i\fs22  Got Ourselves }{\i\caps\fs22 a}{\i\fs22  Convoy}{\fs22 ! 
\par \tab 6.   }{\i\fs22 Cultural Desert}{\fs22 
\par \tab 7.   }{\i\fs22 Down By The Station}{\fs22 
\par \tab 8.  }{\i\fs22  Continental Shelf Co.
\par \tab }{\fs22 9}{\i\fs22 .   Three Cheers The Militia}{\fs22 !
\par }\pard \sl360\slmult1\widctlpar\tx1080\adjustright {\fs22              10.   }{\i\fs22 Video Conference}{\fs22  
\par }\pard \sl360\slmult1\widctlpar\adjustright {\fs22 `            11.   }{\i\fs22 Crow Country
\par }\pard \sl360\slmult1\widctlpar\tx720\adjustright {\fs22              12.   }{\i\fs22 Hills Of Home
\par }\pard \sl360\slmult1\widctlpar\tx1080\adjustright {\fs22              13}{\i\fs22 .   Eco-Tourism 
\par }\pard \widctlpar\tx1080\adjustright {\i\fs22 
\par }\pard \sl360\slmult1\widctlpar\adjustright {GENERATION OF \rquote 68}{\fs22   }{\i\fs22 23}{\fs22 
\par }{PAT BOONE & TONTO   }{\i 24}{
\par }{\caps TO TALK OF FLAGS}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 26}{\caps\fs22 
\par }{\caps WORDS TO LURE A GHOST}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 27}{\caps\fs22 
\par }{\caps CHRISTMAS }{\caps\fs22  }{\i\caps\fs22 29
\par }{\caps EMBLEMS}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 30
\par }{\caps\fs22 \tab 1.   }{\i\caps\fs22 A}{\i\fs22 dam
\par }{\fs22 \tab 2.  }{\i\fs22  Oblation
\par }{\fs22 \tab 3.   }{\i\fs22 Detail
\par }{\fs22 \tab 4.   }{\i\fs22 Born
\par }{\fs22 \tab 5.   }{\i\fs22 Style
\par }\pard \widctlpar\adjustright {\fs22 \tab 6.}{\i\fs22    Beachcomber 
\par }{\i\caps\fs22 
\par }\pard \sl360\slmult1\widctlpar\adjustright {\caps TRANSGENIC PIGS}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 32
\par }{\caps SHEET MUSIC}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 33}{\caps\fs22 
\par \page }{\caps MYTH & MARIOLATRY}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 34
\par }{\caps STORK}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 36
\par }{\caps UNMANNED}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 37
\par }{\caps BRAIDWOOD}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 41
\par }{\caps MODERN LOVE}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 42
\par }{\caps BRILLIANT LOSERS  }{\i\caps\fs22 44}{\i\caps 
\par }{\caps HOTEL DILIGENCIAS}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 46
\par }{\caps WARDROBE DRINKERS}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 48
\par }{\caps GIRL. GOLD. BOAT}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 49
\par }{\caps DOMESTIC PACK SHOTS}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 50
\par }{\caps\fs22 \tab 1}{\i\caps\fs22 .   t}{\i\fs22 he Gays Next Door
\par \tab }{\fs22 2.}{\i\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22  }{\i\fs22 Working Hot
\par \tab }{\fs22 3}{\i\fs22 .   Hooking For Jesus
\par \tab }{\fs22 4}{\i\fs22 .   The Priest Across The Lane
\par \tab }{\fs22 5}{\i\fs22 .   Corruption Is Glorified Mateship
\par }\pard \widctlpar\adjustright {\i\fs22 \tab }{\fs22 6}{\i\fs22 .   Inner City Camping Blues 
\par 
\par }\pard \sl360\slmult1\widctlpar\adjustright {TARTS & TAKEAWAYS}{\fs22    }{\i\fs22 56
\par }{WHO KILLED BRETT WHITELEY}{\fs22   }{\i\fs22 57
\par }{SUGARBAG CARPENTER}{\fs22   }{\i\fs22 58
\par }{AUNTY EVE}{\fs22   }{\i\fs22 60}{\fs22 
\par }{HAROLD LLOYD}{\fs22   }{\i\fs22 62}{\fs22 
\par }{CONRAD & WELLS & CO}{\fs22   }{\i\fs22 63}{\fs22 
\par }{HOPALONG CASSIDY}{\fs22   }{\i\fs22 64
\par }{\caps \ldblquote BOB ORR\rdblquote }{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 65
\par }{\caps DAVE SPENCER}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 67
\par }{\caps YOU DON\rquote t remember dying}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 68
\par }{\caps GRAHAM CLIFFORD}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 69
\par }{\caps BRUNO LAWRENCE}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 70
\par }{\caps\fs22 
\par }\pard \fi720\sl360\slmult1\widctlpar\adjustright {\caps\fs24 11
\par }\pard \sl360\slmult1\widctlpar\adjustright {\caps\fs22 
\par }{\caps the still watches}{\caps\fs22   }{\i\caps\fs22 73}{\caps\fs22 
\par }\pard \li2160\widctlpar\adjustright {\caps \page }{\caps\fs24 1
\par }\pard \widctlpar\adjustright {\caps\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\i\fs22 Poets have wrong\rquote d poor storms: such days are best;
\par }\pard \widctlpar\tx2160\adjustright {\i\fs22 They purge the air without, within the breast.
\par }\pard \widctlpar\adjustright {\fs22 
\par }\pard \sl360\slmult1\widctlpar\tx5040\adjustright {\fs22 George Herbert}{\caps\fs22 
\par }\pard \sl360\slmult1\widctlpar\adjustright {\caps \page }{\b\caps\fs24 Cultural Misappropriation
\par }\pard \widctlpar\adjustright {\b\caps\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 is that what I hear you cry, citizen?
\par If a delph-glazed moon with its O so
\par delicate pattern pans over Holland, flat as
\par a tack, it also comes by way of the
\par Antarctic circle right to your door-step
\par in equal measure. If the sun clamps
\par its golden torque on mosque or synagogue, pa,
\par cathedral or sacred site does this endorse
\par any one people over another? Is it your wish
\par to head off the cultural bandits at the
\par historical impasse, citizen, by placing a
\par patent on your mana? Beware the polemicists
\par who define and so divide, who aggregate
\par authority unto self where before lay none.
\par Symbol becomes the circumference of
\par time & custom. It is not the thing itself,
\par but the beautiful echo of a people\rquote s harmonic
\par which cannot be bounded nor weakened.
\par Here lies the camouflage that protects the
\par ancient matrix, the silent memory of our
\par blood\rquote s journey & sound leads you to it.
\par }\pard\plain \s1\sb240\sa60\keepn\widctlpar\outlinelevel0\adjustright \b\f1\fs28\lang3081\kerning28\cgrid {\f0 \page }{\f0\fs24 {\*\bkmkstart _Toc402750568}{\*\bkmkstart _Toc402750733}{\*\bkmkstart _Toc402750929}{\*\bkmkstart _Toc402751381}
{\*\bkmkstart _Toc402751496}WORD MAPS{\*\bkmkend _Toc402750568}{\*\bkmkend _Toc402750733}{\*\bkmkend _Toc402750929}{\*\bkmkend _Toc402751381}{\*\bkmkend _Toc402751496}
\par }\pard\plain \qj\widctlpar\adjustright \fs20\lang3081\cgrid {\fs22 
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par 
\par 
\par }{1.}{\i\fs22 \tab Down By The River
\par }{\fs22 
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par }{\fs22 Of the brain, mushroom shaped as
\par bomb blast, we project the image to
\par fact; up river from the torrent,
\par amongst the calmness of boulders, the
\par angler shadow-casts looping
\par the steady surface for the archetypal
\par fish whose leapt arch anticipates -
\par but the headwaters are held greyly
\par back by a concrete-net on this
\par dappled and uncaptured urban afternoon.
\par He deftly flicks & spools back and
\par forth from channel to channel.
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par }{2.}{\i\fs22 \tab National Park Holiday
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 If you go into the woods 
\par today you will be part of a task
\par force moving in line-formation.
\par You will allow that the plastic yellow
\par tape which cordons off select
\par areas does not imply a Sacred Grove.
\par If you go into the woods
\par today disinterment, not picnics,
\par is the order of inquiry. The
\par Vegetable Kingdom remains thoroughly
\par documented and every species is
\par accounted for; some of whom are
\par human, or parts thereof.
\par \page }{3.}{\i\fs22 \tab False Idols
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 It was always wood, wood
\par along the way, and exits went from
\par grove to sacred grove till deeper wood
\par lay beyond the roman shield and sword;
\par that, though, belongs to another
\par picture book. The lyre-bird mimics the
\par chainsaw and Birds of Paradise
\par spit chips. Along the Hume Hwy. east
\par of Eden, a concrete Mountain Ash
\par dubbed \lquote }{\i\fs22 Yggdrasil}{\fs22 \rquote  boasts a
\par wide-screen computer enhanced vista:
\par an arrow-straight mono-rail running
\par from Uluru clean through the Olgas.
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par }{4.}{\i\fs22 \tab Surveyors\rquote  Party
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 These twin obelisks which guard
\par the southern entrance to the Great Sandy
\par desert, though partnered to a sun
\par fiercer than anything Egypt had to
\par offer, preside over a millennia of flat
\par emptiness, and attest to the prowess,
\par not of indigent cultures, but the
\par engineering whim of the }{\fs18 LAND BARONS
\par }{\fs22 who pray that one day, these too, will
\par invoke an air-conditioned resort for
\par the rich to dwell in, amongst hydro-
\par mythological fountains, playing
\par endlessly over sacred-site motifs.
\par \page }{5.}{\i\fs22 \tab Got Ourselves A Convoy!
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\i\fs22 Hi Ho! Hi Ho! }{\fs22 But they\rquote ve been
\par laid off. Round Oberon, the town
\par spirit flat as a plank; then fury knots
\par in pubs. The big rigs aim chrome
\par cowlings at Canberra,}{\i\fs22  Convoy! }{\fs22 through 
\par the ring roads to circle Parliament House
\par wagon-style. Hey, you can\rquote t knock
\par it: logging by generations for
\par generations have trod them down. Count
\par the rings of the rigs revving. Each
\par logger raw-red, necks blood-throttled.
\par Say what, anger? You can put a ring
\par around that, champ.}{\i\fs22  Hi Ho! Hi Ho!
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 
\par }{6.}{\i\fs22 \tab Cultural Desert
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 The earth is dismembered & what
\par remains gives evidence; clues: history
\par by blocks displaced as in the Aswan
\par Dam & the Temple of Philae. Osiris rolls
\par in the winding sheet of the Nile
\par (O moisture of the World!) and vainly
\par cry the well-wishers. Richard Burton
\par tracked the source back to Lake
\par Victoria, and back again to the Royal
\par Geographical Society; no gushing 
\par waters from the cleft rock, only lameness,
\par fever under the rays of the Sun God, Ra.
\par \page }{7.}{\i\fs22 \tab Down By The Station
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 Indecision. Doubt. A bungled
\par lift-off, the bumpy landing. Of course,
\par the forest dwellers who continuously
\par run at you from tangled undergrowth
\par onto the stubbled air-strip. dreamlike,
\par don\rquote t make it: }{\fs18 THE LAST CANNIBAL WORLD:}{\fs22 
\par lithe tribal girl handjobs hero through 
\par bamboo cage. The Spiked wooden ball
\par swishes from tree canopy to impale
\par support cast. Sunday matinee in country
\par town. Farm boys lope under dirty clouds
\par to crop-dusted paddocks, and water
\par slips by the BP Service Station, somewhere.
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par }{8.}{\fs22 \tab }{\i\fs22 Continental Shelf Co.}{\b\fs22 
\par 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 I officially declare the millennial
\par Poets\rquote  Symposium on the Age of Inner
\par }{\caps\fs22 s}{\fs22 pace now open: Welcome to }{\fs18 OCEANISM.
\par }{\caps\fs22 p}{\fs22 oets are required to be proficient
\par in submarine mythology of an exploratory
\par and Cousteauesque manner, able to
\par identify myriad life-forms luminescent yet
\par undiscovered (except, perhaps, for the
\par }{\i\fs22 Vampire Squid}{\fs22 ) at depths unsounded, in
\par sea-trenches unknown, free, hopefully of
\par maritime wrecks & missiles from any epoch;
\par whose task it is to float lines at once
\par filigreed as plankton, filtered as sunlight.
\par \page }{9.}{\i\fs22 \tab Three Cheers The Militia!
\par 
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par }{\fs22 What plays us back - death? That
\par this world\rquote s a stage and we upon it act
\par to resolve the scenery with our yearning:
\par and while the syrinx play, panic rebounds
\par to the dead cry: }{\fs18 ET IN ARCADIA EGO}{\fs22  
\par from the walled garden and far wilderness.
\par O desert! O armour-plated sun!
\par Under a scornful wind the madmen bellow
\par and tribes cower amongst the rubble,
\par caught in the sound bites & grabs of war:
\par }{\i\fs22 Tibet, Chechnya, Kurdistan, Iraq, Burundi,}{\fs22 
\par plus the boys in the hills back of Montana.
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par }{
\par 10.}{\i\fs22 \tab Video Conference
\par }\pard \qj\widctlpar\tx360\tx540\adjustright {\b\fs22 
\par }\pard \qj\widctlpar\adjustright {\b\fs22 
\par }{\fs22 Like a hurried geology that
\par arose out off glasshouses came the
\par skyscrapers, meanwhile, History
\par cut a swathe through the Natural World
\par and architecture strove to regain it.
\par Lost to the familiar, Age moved us
\par out of living memory, unlike those tribes,
\par the autochthons who saw the earth\rquote s
\par infancy still. Let us go, you & I,
\par to re-invent the damage and call it
\par discovery, to uniformly lift up our cry
\par in }{\i\fs22 schadenfreude,}{\fs22  meek before Great Cities
\par that bend as fenders to the glare.
\par \page }{11.}{\i\fs22 \tab Crow Country
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 A field of wheat, a paddock of
\par stubble, the chafed dust-cloud staggers
\par the pick-up at distance, the Rock
\par of Ages rises over Plainville: pop:
\par dead serious. No hermits, only
\par the bowing pumps facing west for oil.
\par Family photos hang easy next to
\par the semi-automatic in each clap-board.
\par The Long Horn Saloon boasts the
\par one rule: }{\fs18 NO SPITTING. NO STRANGERS.
\par }{\fs22 the hard hat\rquote s passed round every
\par Sunday and the big fists knuckle under
\par prayer & flag real righteous like. 
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par }{12}{\fs22 .}{\i\fs22 \tab Hills }{\i\caps\fs22 o}{\i\fs22 f Home
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 Greywacke mostly, & fat pale
\par clay where I troubled the hills about
\par Wellington (Brooklyn-west) that
\par you dug through to reach China as a
\par kid out-the-back of our place.
\par The gorse gully and yellow flowers,
\par black seed-pods bursting in the summer
\par heat. Down you went past broken
\par bottled glass to the untouched cool
\par clay hoping any moment to pot-hole up
\par into a paddy field through the
\par earth\rquote s centre. Every failed dig
\par stayed a secret from adults, forever
\par }{\page 
\par 13.}{\i\fs22 \tab Eco-Tourism
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 Welcome to Smeltback Inc.
\par copper, zinc, lead, uranium, iron,
\par O mineral gardens of the Inland Sea!
\par A company satellite tremulous as
\par a divining-rod maps onto flow charts
\par corporate terrain; prospectus
\par for all the kingdoms of the earth.
\par Radio Redneck pumps the poet
\par who banks safe on a right wing bet,
\par steadies to subvert the norm
\par for God and Clever Country\rquote s sake.
\par Prettily thus he underbends the knee
\par to throw his best foot forward O.
\par }\pard \widctlpar\adjustright {\fs22 {\*\bkmkstart _Toc402750569}{\*\bkmkstart _Toc402750734}{\*\bkmkstart _Toc402750930}{\*\bkmkend _Toc402750569}{\*\bkmkend _Toc402750734}{\*\bkmkend _Toc402750930}
\par \page }{\b\fs24 GENERATION OF \lquote 68
\par }{\b\i\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 Frank O\rquote Hara (here I\rquote m skating slow
\par on sacred ice) has got a lot to answer
\par for, yet who hasn\rquote t? Take the legacy
\par of \lquote 60s poets, for example, who can\rquote t
\par help but write like him; syntactically
\par careering around his blizzard of words,
\par elbow-jolting crazily, clutching at
\par each others\rquote  ear-muffs, button-holing
\par opportunity. Seems they did that as
\par par for the course till it got too dizzy.
\par Round and round the freedom rink they
\par went & those who zigzagged quick & cut
\par up rough fell back upon the railings
\par youth exhausted to exhale worn, cautious
\par success though tried not to show it.
\par What happened to the stragglers in the
\par maul is anyone\rquote s guess; some unmarried,
\par a good number courted hardship - whatever.
\par Nobody cares overly much. The 60s poets
\par they go on to write like Frank 0\rquote Hara:
\par fewer drop-by parties, meaner somehow.
\par }\pard \qj\widctlpar\adjustright {\fs22 \page }{\b\fs24 PAT BOONE}{\b\caps\fs24  & tonto
\par }{\b\i\caps\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 White-shirted (not blue)
\par they approach in twos:
\par \ldblquote Excuse me Sir, a small
\par moment of your time?\rdblquote 
\par Soft-selling eternity &
\par the clean-cut Hereafter.
\par The boyish accent downloads
\par the serious side of the
\par American dream, eyes fixed
\par computer bright. The other
\par is slower, slope-shouldered
\par & discipled, backgrounded
\par by a blandished brain.
\par As a child, when the God
\par was always friendly,
\par big as a house, long as a
\par street & the day endless,
\par the knock upon the door
\par signalled: \ldblquote Excuse me
\par young man, is the lady of
\par the house in?\rdblquote  Welcome
\par the suitcased salesman; the
\par Bon-Brush Man}{\i\fs22 : }{\fs22 big-bristled,
\par wooden-backed scrubbing
\par & bottle brushes, sandsoap
\par & }{\i\fs22 Brasso}{\fs22  for hard domestic
\par usage. }{\i\fs22 Not now}{\fs22 .}{\i\fs22  }{\fs22 These two
\par modern peddlers head out
\par to the brick bungalows of
\par the inner-city suburbs
\par selling the }{\caps\fs22 l}{\fs22 ight & the Way,
\par galloping round the outer
\par handicapped districts;
\par brainwashed right-wing angels
\par confident as professional
\par sportsmen on a World Tour.
\par }\pard \widctlpar\adjustright {\fs22 \page }{\b\fs24 TO TALK OF FLAGS
\par }{\b\i\fs22 
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par }{\fs22 \lquote The flags fall like large, hollow,
\par monochrome leaves,\rquote  said Ritsos, but
\par this isn\rquote t Greece. How can you talk of
\par changing flags as blithely as you
\par would a marriage? When we fly the flag
\par it is as label to proclaim attitude,
\par and rightly so, too: the Remembrance
\par Day Parades, Expansionism, other
\par people\rquote s wars; the main street of every
\par country town at the dying of day lights
\par up the Unknown Soldier & the long 
\par lists of the Dead written in lead. No,
\par these things will always hold, rung up
\par once yearly regular as a poker-machine.
\par Change flags, to acknowledge what? Whose
\par domestic honour, what custodial deaths?
\par \page }{\b\fs24 WORDS TO LURE A GHOST
\par }{\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\i\fs22 an exile\rquote s soliloquy}{\fs22 
\par 
\par 
\par Henley Pub? I am one year from
\par your death, and a mad mile from your
\par achievement
\par \tab \tab twenty or so years
\par down the track. I think you may have
\par killed a few of us off, brother,
\par who rejoiced
\par in your thicket of sorrows.
\par \tab \tab \tab \tab Jim Baxter,
\par if a cabbage tree marks your spot by
\par the river,
\par \tab \tab I am glad of it.
\par After you went, we were too eager
\par for another Apollo, and the laurel
\par was tossed from
\par hand to poetic hand like a hot kumura.
\par Most dropped it. A number were swept
\par by the winter river with the eels
\par into the Underworld.
\par \tab \tab \tab The God Love
\par and the God Vengeance sat down
\par in a burnt out warehouse to share out the
\par small morsels
\par \tab \tab \tab of pain.
\par The poets
\par \tab \tab are playing hide-and-seek
\par with each other in and out of marriage.
\par The sharing 
\par \tab \tab is done.
\par \tab \tab \tab A southerly
\par whistles up over the gun emplacements on
\par Brooklyn Hills,
\par \tab \tab Jim, scattering
\par the unposted Autumn leaves.
\par \page }{\b\fs24 CHRISTMAS
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 Under the mining operations of 
\par the moon, continental drifts of cloud
\par collude and a pelican scaffolds
\par the air. In cities, bricks sweat. We
\par are blinded by the rush to live;
\par \lquote keep it moving,\rquote  says the sense of loss,
\par our common language. The information
\par Super Highway informs to inform -
\par \lquote supra\rquote  clicks the instinct. \lquote Hold on\rquote 
\par screens survival. We are built upon
\par reflection; under the arch of the railway
\par see the conduit flow & steady in the
\par round. A piece of hill lights up and
\par beneath it shadow - so shakes the net.
\par Hear the sheer drag of scythe on metal
\par the shunter makes at the curve of the
\par viaduct while, with elongated wail, rolls
\par three spoil-wagons to the hollow hill.}{\b\i\fs22 
\par \page }{\b\fs24 EMBLEMS
\par }{\b\i\fs22 
\par 
\par }{1}{\i\fs22 .}{\b\i\fs22 \tab }{\i\fs22  Adam
\par }{\b\i\fs22 
\par }{\fs22 A lamp passed behind a perforated shield;
\par stars leaked. What he thought thunder brought
\par footfalls of lightning. He scanned over the
\par plateau & nowhere found a neighbour\rquote s spoor.
\par 
\par 
\par }{2.}{\i\fs22 \tab  Oblation}{\b\i\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 The Island nations of the colder latitudes
\par breed alluvial poets, it is believed, who convene
\par once yearly under friendly, arched viaducts 
\par to talk of river shingle, boulder, and water birds.
\par 
\par 
\par }{3}{\i .}{\i\fs22 \tab Detail}{\fs22 
\par 
\par The yellow machinery tracks on the freeway
\par are as soldiers in single file stretching out into the
\par late afternoon, slanting sun, shadow-crimson 
\par earth leaning forward to the compassed horizon.
\par }\pard \widctlpar\tx810\adjustright {\fs22 
\par }\pard \widctlpar\adjustright {
\par 4.}{\fs22 \tab }{\i\fs22 Born
\par }{\b\i\fs22 
\par }{\fs22 The year of my birth followed by a hyphen,
\par by the solace of expectation, by a small measure
\par of success, by a teasing out of hopelessness
\par and of course, by another date yet to be fixed.
\par 
\par }{
\par 5}{\i .}{\i\fs22 \tab Style
\par }{\b\i\fs22 
\par }{\fs22 Would he have leaped from the stern of the
\par }{\i\fs22 Orizaba}{\fs22 , at noon on April 27, 1932 if he\rquote d known 
\par of the unfashionable rise in sea-levels 70 years 
\par hence, Hart Crane, a rhetorical gesture, surely?
\par 
\par }{
\par 6}{\i\fs22 . \tab Beachcomber
\par }{\b\i\fs22 
\par }{\fs22 Pampiniform it writhes, bladder-wrack or
\par kelp, a heavy swell that slops about rustily in
\par the basalt trough, breaking through the sea rush;
\par & solitary goes Heaney, curling at dictions.
\par \page }{\b\fs24 TRANSGENIC PIGS
\par }\pard \qj\widctlpar\adjustright {\b\i\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 The }{\i\fs22 oink}{\fs22  is a fugue, Baconian
\par and philosophical. By a corn-cob moon
\par they snaffle, silvery-hulled backs
\par adrift & dolphin-arched in the mire. A
\par litter of stars in the laboratory-bright
\par sky. }{\fs18 \lquote PUT SOME PORK ON YOUR FORK\rquote 
\par }{\fs22 intones the television commercial. O but
\par but these are no bristle & foam flecked
\par boars of Arcadian Days, brutally twisting
\par on some Danaan spear-haft, in a
\par flying rage tearing at ilex roots, or
\par blasting marble shards with iron-tough tusks.
\par These are the sleek-lined, chrome-bright
\par & delicate trottered. These with a call
\par soothing as a computer bleat, ears
\par alert as mobile-phones, flesh pliable as
\par an artichoke, temperament cool as a cold
\par cut. These, the upwardly mobile,
\par porcine delicacies, models of dinner-table
\par decorum. Designer-label pigs, feted,
\par wined & dined exemplars of taste, accepted
\par in the most refined of social circles.
\par These are the well appointed pigs replete,
\par with a privately funded education bred O
\par }{\i\fs22 so exclusively}{\fs22  for the Export Drive.
\par }\pard \widctlpar\adjustright {\fs22 \page }{\b\fs24 SHEET MUSIC}{\fs24 
\par }{\fs22 
\par 
\par Like some murky storm that presages
\par pain, or engine that mauls the curb, the
\par stereo wallows its bass notes at the
\par top of the head, lands soft as afterbirth.
\par }{\i\fs22 \ldblquote If you place a white sheet over America
\par 500 Indian Nations show like bloodspots,\rdblquote 
\par }{\fs22 said Jim Harrison at Lake Superior,
\par }{\i\fs22 \ldblquote the buffalo and the Big Tree\rquote s gone}{\fs22  
\par }{\i\fs22 too. Greed!\rdblquote }{\fs22  Mostly, beauty is nostalgia.
\par The random motes of a rainbow end up
\par on the garbage heap again. These sticks
\par which encase the Great Lakes, Jim,
\par are the Happy Hunting ground for the likes
\par of you & me. Men picking on the chance
\par sounds of emptiness. The daily round
\par of campfire, man and nature, etc., A moon
\par patient as an escalator, maybe. It\rquote s all
\par been done before, anyhow. What was
\par that about Indians leaving a flaw in the
\par fabric for the soul to escape? Ours
\par is the gift of factory seconds, well made &
\par well meant through to a public we detest
\par if you think about it. And the quickest way
\par to solitude is via a four wheel drive, }{\i\fs22 eh?
\par }{\fs22 There\rquote s comfort in that mate, getting out.
\par }\pard \qj\widctlpar\adjustright {\fs22 \page }{\b\fs24 MYTH & MARIOLATRY
\par }{\b\i\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 At a small village not
\par far from Manila, in the house
\par of armaments & munitions,
\par in a house of grenades &
\par ammunition, the plaster
\par statue of the Virgin Mary as
\par humble as a trademark,
\par stands splashed in carmine
\par tears like some peasant
\par shot on a quiet morning bearing
\par water from the creek.
\par The hovels strewn about
\par the hills are so many broken
\par boxes. The sun is spinning
\par clockwise for hope. One
\par cloud out of nowhere & then a }{\b\i\fs22 
\par }{\fs22 drape of blue that might
\par be the sky. The gathering of
\par people is more impressive
\par than a food drop. They come
\par at the appointed hour when
\par the boy who serves as
\par runner to the Beautiful Lady
\par arrives, breathless, with
\par the Word. Occasionally,
\par the statue weeps paint-fresh
\par tears. They will leave
\par once faith is gathered in
\par abundance like so many wild
\par flowers off the nearest mountain
\par slope. Here under a glass
\par blown moon, a cool wind shall
\par leave this place sacred.
\par }\pard \widctlpar\adjustright {\fs22 \page }{\b\fs24 STOR}{\b\caps\fs24 k}{\b\fs24 
\par }\pard \qj\widctlpar\adjustright {\b\i\fs22 
\par }\pard \qj\sl480\slmult1\widctlpar\tqc\tx540\tqc\tx2160\adjustright {\b\i\fs22 
\par }\pard \qj\sl480\slmult1\widctlpar\tqc\tx540\adjustright {\fs22 The scene is of a deep rural setting done by one unhurried
\par Impressionist, say, pre-}{\caps\fs22 w}{\fs22 orld }{\caps\fs22 w}{\fs22 ar 1}{\caps\fs22 ,}{\fs22  }{\i\fs22 c}{\fs22 .1907. }{\caps\fs22 E}{\fs22 very thing
\par }\pard \qj\sl480\slmult1\widctlpar\tqc\tx540\tqc\tx2160\adjustright {\fs22 luxuriant, soft and round, the paint is combed out by cordial
\par }\pard \qj\sl480\slmult1\widctlpar\tqc\tx540\tqc\tx1800\tqc\tx1980\adjustright {\fs22 summer breezes. Countryside: Poland, a rained-on morning, 
\par }\pard \qj\sl480\slmult1\widctlpar\tqc\tx540\adjustright {\fs22 the distant plash of milk into wooden pails sounds thinner
\par }\pard \qj\sl480\slmult1\widctlpar\tqc\tx540\tqc\tx2160\adjustright {\fs22 than its clotted creaminess. The cobbled yard is blue and wet
\par after the morning\rquote s sluicing; alder, elm or poplar wind-breaks,
\par but what shows through is the church spire you would observe 
\par if you lifted your gaze up from the unhitched wagon, its spars
\par tilted off skyward from the fields, past chimney, gable, and 
\par farmstead. The stork is here on its top (though) bottom heavy 
\par nest of thickly woven twigs which throws the scene into surreal 
\par proportion, suggesting a still hour of witches and moonlight 
\par moving stealthily through the forest\rquote s black patches. Stork,
\par calm as a weathervane (a model) presides over maize and barley 
\par crops, that brighten through weeks of high summer, stretch tight 
\par as a canvas to the nearby farms, and further still, to centuries 
\par }\pard \qj\widctlpar\adjustright {\fs22 old, grassy marshlands from which the stork feeds its nestlings.
\par }\pard \widctlpar\adjustright {\fs22 \page }{\b\fs24 UNMANNED
\par }{\b\i\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 Take this day, lonely as a man in
\par an empty house, at his window, the wintry yard
\par below.
\par 
\par 
\par Sea calm. The moon scatters its
\par coinage. A rubber dinghy bucks an orectic
\par surf. Pebble beach. The conning-tower signals:
\par 
\par 
\par }{\i\fs22 \lquote which came first, meaning or memory?\rquote 
\par 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 One flashlight winks hungrily under sea-cliffs,
\par and then the flare. This setting becomes
\par an habitual space, chosen era for commando or
\par smuggler.
\par 
\par 
\par We make our choice, learn that grief comes
\par regular as sunset.
\par 
\par 
\par \tab \tab \tab The bow-wave
\par turned in chrome coils as the coastline dropped
\par from view.
\par 
\par 
\par Once in a metal-etched hour, people
\par ran away to America to buildings the colour of
\par gun-metal, to a sidewalk venting steam
\par about the ankles of sable-stockinged girls.
\par 
\par 
\par How many of us cannot begin the adventure of the
\par day upon its arrival? The ablutions of the night done
\par with, the half-bad dreams wiped away, the tensions
\par of the muscles adjusted in preparation for the
\par 
\par 
\par perpendicular, the carpet rolled back, the masks
\par hung up once more upon the wall at the ready. Each
\par waking is a starting out from the old country.
\par \page \tab \tab \tab The responsibility
\par of light beckons, unclothes the familiar objects and not
\par so familiar ones.
\par 
\par 
\par Lightning leaves the expression surprised
\par and the lone tree in the paddock startled with
\par cinematic glare, unharmed and lovely.
\par 
\par 
\par \tab \tab \tab In a homely way,
\par the headlights sweep the backyard hovering over the
\par roped-swing in the pelting rain and neighbourhood
\par of cat & dog. This tells you that the family
\par 
\par 
\par is in deep trouble to be called into account in
\par afteryears while the shutters slap wettish to little
\par effect.
\par 
\par 
\par Shaped as an emu neck, steam extends
\par over the factory stack from the industrial sector
\par in this small, southern city. A yellow band
\par of horizon suggests sunset. The steam darkens out.
\par 
\par 
\par Now runs at 4:15 the see-through veins of rain from
\par window-to-sill. A splashed up forest of drops tap out what
\par is left of this late, ruined day in July.
\par 
\par 
\par Here there is no history, if by history you mean
\par the soul fired in the kiln of time. Here there is only
\par the compilation of event in a scrap-yard of days
\par & kicked aside incident.
\par 
\par 
\par \tab \tab \tab You can still hear the
\par settlers\rquote  squeeze box & fiddle in suburban settlements &
\par tavern, the landscape-flat accents, the }{\i\caps\fs22 s}{\i\fs22 ky }{\i\caps\fs22 c}{\i\fs22 hannel}{\fs22 
\par applause and throat-clearing of smoke exhaust.
\par 
\par 
\par We remember the po-faced poets who went away never to
\par return from the Ambition Wars & Success Sorties.
\par \page As always, cars chittering in long queues in the
\par persimmon light of dusk, on freeways dreary with drizzle
\par and distance, at the encoded city-bound intersections.
\par 
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par }{\fs22 He makes his heroine his addiction and vice versa,
\par becomes the object of obsession into which safe-zone he
\par precipitates himself, unmanned.
\par 
\par 
\par \tab \tab Away now from that well worn cliche,
\par the crazy party hat of Sydney\rquote s Opera House / the bat-eared
\par shells
\par 
\par 
\par & clouds that muscle reflective buildings
\par 
\par 
\par to the O so cloacal coil of green hills round the
\par rectangular cattle, prominent as so many out-of-town acts
\par in provincial centres.
\par 
\par 
\par You pass smoothly in your car the valley below & there -
\par an intimate scene: a family gathered shock still: the
\par overhanging forest imaged on the coffin-lid,
\par 
\par 
\par \tab \tab \tab \tab \tab momentarily,
\par then lowered into shadow. The town lies behind you.
\par 
\par 
\par The world will change to that which forgets you,
\par and your enthusiasms will be as a passing fashion. In this
\par you come to understand the nature of illusion
\par 
\par 
\par \tab \tab \tab \tab and the hoped for
\par expectations of youth a too-well travelled dream. Here
\par where life recedes further into distance
\par 
\par 
\par you will know yourself as unmanned.
\par \page }{\b\fs24 BRAIDWOOD
\par }{\b\i\fs22 
\par }{\i\fs22 \tab for Judith Wright
\par 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 Granite & quartz country, once
\par gold rush, now cattle tread amongst
\par 
\par 
\par the white hawthorn and yellow broom;
\par from Captain\rquote s Flat to Major\rquote s Creek
\par 
\par 
\par the creek-beds cut the empty vein.
\par 
\par 
\par Hail or heat, the hanged ghost
\par of Thomas Braidwood rolls out his
\par 
\par 
\par oaths big as boulders upon the town:
\par }{\i\fs22 \lquote dust, poverty, despair, drunkenness\rquote 
\par 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 before he choked his rage at the
\par end of a rope, phlegm thick as gossip.
\par 
\par }{
\par }\pard\plain \s8\keepn\widctlpar\outlinelevel7\adjustright \i\fs22\lang3081\cgrid {November 4, 1996
\par }\pard\plain \widctlpar\adjustright \fs20\lang3081\cgrid {\i\fs18 \page }{\b\fs24 MODERN LOVE}{\fs24 
\par }{\fs22 
\par 
\par }{1.}{\fs22 
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par }{\caps\fs22 T}{\fs22 hey are survivors, the sole
\par occupants of this one guarded world.
\par The local repertory theatre packed
\par up & departed elsewhere. These two
\par old troupers stay on as the sweeper
\par plays his broom against the grain
\par back-stage. They play out by agreement
\par the familiar angers to a suspension
\par of hostilities. A semi-believed in love
\par tried but haunted by its past. A
\par self-deceiving hope posturing the loss
\par of lives that went before - of youth,
\par of partners had & names forgotten.
\par What holds at the season\rquote s close
\par is passion flogged to life like a
\par single-piston engine, a sputtering
\par exchange of plenitude, the usual run
\par of days & dishes. The couple come home
\par to roost at last, tense & too aware.
\par 
\par 
\par }{2.}{\fs22 
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 Squinting back down the telescoped
\par years as he had once through bomb-sights
\par to that recently freed city, after the
\par war & burnt out trams to how they
\par first met. He posted to Berlin and the
\par American sector, she from Baden Baden where
\par he had fallen for her. So agile & aerial,
\par a mermaid of the trapeze, star act of
\par an old fashioned circus. A picture framed in
\par time within the bleak cabaret of youth:
\par he uniform crisp & she in sequined tights
\par with her angel\rquote s }{\i\fs22 \lquote Wings of Desire\rquote }{\fs22 
\par flared from bared shoulder-blades. They are
\par holding hands in celebration of the letter
\par \lquote M\rquote . Now, married into age & ageless
\par on an ancient Island, theirs is a love
\par old as childhood & wise as water. Solidly
\par based as the fist-backed rock of Uluru.}{\i\fs22 
\par \page }{\b\fs24 BRILLIANT LOSERS
\par }{\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\i\fs22 on reading Geoff Cochrane\rquote s }{\fs22 Tin Nimbus
\par 
\par 
\par The gay psychologist quoting \lquote The Divine
\par Right of Kings\rquote  and the lexicographer, his life\rquote s
\par dream of the Great New Zealand Dictionary,
\par 
\par 
\par both entrenched alcoholics, both the originals
\par Dostoyevsky might have claimed, although
\par both stark losers by the world\rquote s brute standards.
\par 
\par 
\par Yes, I was there too, that late Saturday night
\par after }{\caps\fs18 the Duke}{\caps ,}{\caps\fs22  }{\fs22 riding the Kelburn cable-car up
\par under the shadowy, Gothic pile of Victoria
\par 
\par 
\par University, where furtive as hedgehogs, we found 
\par a handhold to jemmy open an illegal window,
\par fossick the disused office for carton stacked upon
\par 
\par 
\par carton, each one packed with indexed filing 
\par cards, meticulous references, NZ arcana, forgotten 
\par dialects, fables rare as moose from Southland, 
\par 
\par 
\par obscure derivations, }{\i\fs22 etc}{\fs22 ., incalculable musings
\par of an idealist and dreamer (this he showed us). Here
\par lay the singular industry of a reverential scholar,
\par 
\par 
\par abandoned - yet thirty years on, }{\i\fs22 The Oxford
\par Dictionary of New Zealand English}{\fs22  first appeared,
\par penned by an academic of that  selfsame city.
\par 
\par 
\par We are the last of the witnesses Geoff, like the
\par derelicts who took the sun sitting behind the Public
\par Library, or sheltered in Pigeon Park, days long
\par 
\par 
\par gone (along with }{\caps\fs18 The Duke}{\caps\fs22  }{\fs22 and }{\fs18 THE GRAND
\par HOTEL)}{\fs22  a city newly syllabled, yet the light remains,
\par much the same milky white and pale as stone.
\par \page }{\b\fs24 HOTEL DILIGENCIAS}{\fs24 
\par }{\fs22 
\par 
\par \tab \tab In Veracruz
\par dusk troubles with a scent of
\par gardenias after the last tramcar passes by,
\par and the rocking chairs begin their
\par small breeze-making on the balconied
\par terraces between the family photographs
\par and little statues.
\par 
\par 
\par The dancing couples revolve at an angle
\par in the great brewery mirrors marked:
\par 
\par \tab }{\i\fs22 \lquote Cerveza Moetezuma\rquote 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 before the globes lighting the plaza
\par die out at 9.30 p.m. sharp.
\par 
\par \tab \tab \tab But this was
\par Villahermosa.
\par 
\par 
\par Lightning burns like mescal in
\par \tab \tab \tab \tab the throat of night.
\par 
\par 
\par The whisky priest skulks about
\par the mountain roads where you are headed, at
\par Chiapas or Las Casas, charging so many
\par pesos per baptism in the illegal night.
\par 
\par 
\par With or without him thrive the false
\par saints & miracles in these remote regions,
\par pure homage to superstition.
\par 
\par 
\par O comfort of Poverty! O lie of Pleasure!
\par 
\par 
\par You recalled the hot seaport,
\par your departure planned on the }{\i\fs22 \lquote Ruiz Cano\rquote 
\par }{\fs22 that dangerous barge which took you
\par out over the Gulf of Mexico
\par \page away from the anger hidden in laughter,
\par from the pistilleros lounging by
\par the Presidencia.
\par 
\par 
\par }{\i\fs22 You - }{\fs22 the too curious
\par gringo left behind you the coasting steamers
\par & pink squared plazas to forget the
\par taste of warm beer in dreary cantinas.
\par 
\par 
\par You headed for the high ground
\par of Tabasco & the country of ruined churches.
\par Back at the beginning
\par 
\par 
\par \tab of those lawless
\par roads lie the dingy houses smearing out onto
\par silver sandhills.
\par \page }{\b\fs24 WARDROBE DRINKERS
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 is what they are in Austinmer.
\par Yuppies from the North Shore }{$300,000
\par }{\fs22 homes on the beach front sending
\par the RSL broke & the greenies
\par blocking development for a few birds
\par up an estuary. Could be worse,
\par given the Japs on the Gold Coast
\par going off like mobile phones.
\par The miners & cottages are long gone &
\par so is full employment. In 1941
\par as a telegraph Delivery boy I made
\par }{13}{\fs22  shillings }{10}{\fs22  a week. Across
\par the Harbour Bridge to the North Shore
\par on a regulation red bike. Sunday
\par was the day for casualty messages,
\par the dead & wounded delivered
\par all over Sydney except Vine street,
\par Darlington, where }{\i\fs22 Darcy the Crim}{\fs22  lived
\par & the most dangerous place in town.
\par I came to Austinmer }{30}{\fs22  years ago
\par before the Wardrobe Drinkers
\par in the days of the miners & cottages.
\par Take those grain & coal carriers
\par upwards of }{250,000}{\fs22  tonnes with a }{12}{\fs22 
\par man crew, anchored stern to wind,
\par off Hill 60 out of Port Kembla
\par navigated by satellite direct to Japan.
\par You want the best view? Sublime Pt.
\par Lookout, right down the coast, the
\par Pacific ironed flat far as the eye can
\par see, a sky expanded metal-red nightly.
\par \page }{\b\caps\fs24 girl. gold. boat
\par }{\b\i\caps\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 out of Port Moresby. The obese
\par Oxford villain tumbles overboard
\par speared by the fuzzy-wuzzies. Our
\par hero, Captain Singleton, finally
\par 
\par 
\par puts his shirt back on and tilts
\par his cap to the sunset. He places one
\par arm around his sweetheart and the
\par other at the helm. The sea falls into
\par 
\par 
\par suburbs of light, a topiary of
\par Islands could be mist. He is American
\par and at home in the world as he
\par moves forward on the celluloid tides.
\par 
\par 
\par He came out of sickness country,
\par (}{\i\fs22 sic}{\fs22 ) he came out of the Holy Land.
\par }{\caps\fs22 \page }{\b\caps\fs24 DOMESTIC PACK SHOTS
\par }{\caps\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\caps 1}{\i\caps .}{\i\caps\fs22 \tab  T}{\i\fs22 he Gays Next Door
\par 
\par }{\fs22 shrieking like hyenas in
\par their sexual mirth to the disco
\par bang of Madonna making her
\par mint in the sacrilegious from the
\par sacred. For some, perhaps, a
\par continuous custom to hang together
\par whatever sense of family may
\par be had once the wild oats
\par have passed into the photograph album:
\par circa: June, in some tumbled month,
\par the garden hose spurting champagne
\par and the neighbour, suspect as
\par an affair, out of shot.
\par 
\par 
\par }{2.}{\fs22 \tab }{\i\fs22 Working Hot
\par 
\par }{\fs22 Joe Hammer makes his move on
\par screen and the girl cries out for Mamma.
\par A family of sperm packs up and moves
\par house. The removal of limbs.
\par The images dim to an impotent mauve
\par and the stage act begins. She\rquote s
\par only working warm, consistent as a
\par vibrator. She hopes one day
\par to make big bucks; the conference 
\par room, that is, before she hits twenty.
\par The one spot-light fixes on
\par the portico between her thighs.
\par The audience soughs in the dark. Strippers
\par don\rquote t have no union, strippers don\rquote t.
\par O Karen, your smile, cool as a cucumber.
\par \page }{3.}{\fs22 \tab }{\i\fs22 Hooking For Jesus
\par 
\par }{\fs22 Let us sing the rosellas who
\par buckle under branches for the paper-bark
\par blossom, and the far distant shadows
\par on slate-roofs. Let us herald the
\par Children of God, the Family of Love,
\par progeny of the Jesus Freaks founded in
\par Oakland, California back in the 70s.
\par And this child, who believes
\par Bethlehem resides in her fourteen year
\par old womb. Hers is the pioneering
\par spirit caught in a spectral watercolour.
\par There she leans, under the guiding
\par star of a single streetlight, while
\par bluestone clouds move away over
\par St Kilda into yellow, polite paddocks.}{\i\fs22 
\par 
\par 
\par }{4.}{\fs22 \tab }{\i\fs22 The Priest Across The Lane
\par 
\par }{\fs22 in the presbytery is maxed out
\par from the exo-bike, beads of sweat drip
\par off his finger-tips. He is purged
\par of the last house-boy from the
\par jungle parish in Papua New Guinea, ten
\par years previous. He pounds at the
\par peck-deck in his lounge room
\par wishing the garden hand were an opera
\par singer. Several repeats of the
\par pole-twists and his bowels grunt like a
\par sermon. A final glass of claret drops
\par him to his knees ashen faced. His
\par big bath steams plump now, full
\par as the Jordan river. The one bedroom
\par light burns on the lemon bush
\par which holds its globes of fruit like
\par a juggler stopped mid-trick.
\par 
\par 
\par }{\i\fs18 \tab \tab }{\i\fs22 Chelmsford St, Newtown, Sydney}{\fs22 
\par \page }{5.}{\fs22 \tab }{\i\fs22 Corruption Is Glorified Mateship
\par 
\par }{\fs22 It\rquote s Bastille Day in Sydney.
\par The weird man in the moon falls to the
\par night basket. Stars roll out
\par another lottery and unemployment raises
\par dust over the land. }{\i\fs22 Tout est perdu
\par fors l\rquote honneur}{\fs22 . Among thieves.
\par Running with images I whirl out the
\par rainbow. Spring flutters as the National
\par flag to salute the pilot whales
\par herding one more disastrous landing.
\par Waves roll head-to-head round
\par the plate of The Great South Land.
\par }{\i\fs22 \lquote Which way to Wynyard,\rquote }{\fs22  calls
\par the currawong. Helicopters line up like
\par magi over Bankstown. When you
\par look up at that old full moon makes you
\par feel like a cowpoke, don\rquote t it?
\par 
\par }{\i\fs22 
\par }{6.}{\fs22 \tab }{\i\fs22 Inner City Camping Blues}{\fs22 
\par 
\par under a dusty-hulled moon out
\par of an empty Hollywood lot placed there
\par in the out-take of twilight. The
\par bus families have arrived in convoy.
\par Stolidly parked nearby in protest
\par at two suburban parks up for auction in
\par a depressed market. A couple of
\par pitched tents and an Information Stand
\par of press clippings. Kids play in a
\par refuse pit between tossed aside railway
\par sleepers. Slung about the Council
\par Chambers fairy lights all a-twinkle since
\par the last bi-election a year back;
\par not much in this, not even a picnic. 
\par \page }{\b\caps\fs24 TARTS & takeaways
\par }{\b\i\caps\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 is what he\rquote s into, he said &
\par that\rquote s fine by me (William street in
\par winter and pissing down is the pits)
\par standing around in doorways waiting
\par for some totally wasted guy -}{\i\fs22 excuse me!}{\fs22 
\par it\rquote s a trick is what it is - to
\par slap his dumb meat between my thighs.
\par Hey, I\rquote m Jasmine though I don\rquote t
\par feel like one. Mostly bored.
\par On each hip I\rquote ve got this tattoo says
\par }{\i\fs22 \lquote Allan\rquote }{\fs22  kind of smudgy & out of focus
\par because its real old. The main
\par man. A jerk off really in someone
\par else\rquote s life. A lifer. Summer\rquote s
\par shit, more noise and especially groups.
\par For hours or however long it takes
\par & I do }{\caps\fs22 S}{\fs22 panish & French, but I\rquote m
\par better at French. Sometimes not much
\par happens. Idle as a lizard pointing
\par brickwork on hot buildings, someone said.
\par I read in this magazine once,
\par (I meet all sorts) and this guy
\par says, \ldblquote nor can I say I love you
\par but a gentle calligraphy informs your
\par brow.\rdblquote  What a whacker! I know shit
\par from clay, he just reckoned he could get
\par away with saying nothing. Dickhead!
\par guys are like that with money
\par like it\rquote s some sort of fucking secret.
\par \page }{\b\fs24 WHO KILLED BRETT WHITELEY
\par }{\b\i\fs22 
\par }{\fs22 
\par Actually, it was Lloyd Rees
\par killed off Brett Whiteley who couldn\rquote t
\par live the promise of old age,
\par the calm terror of it. That\rquote s what
\par Rees meant in his letter to Brett:
\par }{\i\fs22     \lquote carry the torch forward\rquote }{\b\i\fs22  
\par }{\fs22 and something about being a warrior
\par for Art. Brett, in fact, was
\par skittled by a high powered mix of
\par narcissism & clown. Forget what
\par he had to, or couldn\rquote t leave behind &
\par anything to do with High Seriousness.
\par He got caught up in latitudes
\par of sex where the Olgas loomed round as
\par buttocks. Brett became his own
\par myth when he died, and effectively
\par slammed the door on the 60s.
\par Maybe some other seascape, like Thera,
\par suggestive of broken altars;
\par looking down into the cratered harbour
\par he might have seen beneath the
\par lapis lazuli waters, an ivory
\par scimitar held in the gaze of Portunus,
\par perfectly preserved, snapped in two. 
\par \page }{\b\fs24 SUGARBAG CARPENTER
\par }{\b\i\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 Them days all you
\par needed was a blunt saw &
\par an axe thrown in a
\par 
\par 
\par sack. If you could
\par drive a 3\rdblquote  nail through a
\par pound of butter
\par 
\par 
\par you got the job
\par and that\rquote s a fact - ask
\par Bob the Builder
\par 
\par 
\par who shook the hand
\par of Banjo Patterson though
\par no-one believes him.
\par 
\par 
\par There\rquote s not one
\par finial or mullion round
\par Boomi that hasn\rquote t
\par 
\par 
\par his name on it;
\par he was there with the ox
\par & swivel chain.
\par 
\par 
\par When he couldn\rquote t
\par make a }{\i\fs22 deaner}{\fs22  he went }{\i\fs22 bumper
\par shooting }{\fs22 in the 30s -
\par 
\par 
\par way back before
\par the Great War the first of the
\par street kids in Ultimo,
\par \page and his father
\par (he\rquote ll tell you) saw electricity
\par come to Tamworth in 1888.
\par 
\par 
\par From Tilba Tilba
\par to Bondi, the last of the
\par Sugarbag Carpenters.
\par \page }{\b\fs24 AUNTY EVE
\par }{\b\i\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 who always kept the Aspidistras
\par flying high up in her Georgian house on
\par the windy Terrace from marble urns
\par 
\par 
\par \tab \tab had lipstick bomber pilot red
\par & nails the colour of flame.
\par 
\par 
\par It was often \lquote elevenses\rquote  in her lounge
\par with Gordon\rquote s served on a silver platter and}{\fs18 
\par }{\fs22 THE CITY HOTEL, DUNEDIN}{\fs18  1932}{ }{\fs22 engraved
\par }{
\par }{\fs22 
\par on the rim. \ldblquote Another \lquote stim\rquote  dear? \rdblquote 
\par from the mahogany sideboard repository to dozens
\par of weighty 78 jazz records in brown paper
\par jackets stacked like so many ossified flap-jacks.
\par 
\par 
\par Oh she had the most beautiful hands (in her
\par day) they said used for \lquote commercials\rquote  in the
\par Women\rquote s Weekly & Booths the Chemists.
\par 
\par 
\par Who could forget her gravel voice & make up
\par mannequin thick
\par 
\par 
\par \tab not remember her gin-sweet
\par breath warm upon the neck? And how some Yank
\par billeted during WW2 (here) \ldblquote ducky!\rdblquote 
\par thought she was a \ldblquote real living doll\rdblquote .
\par 
\par 
\par Oh such beautiful hands she had & the crystal light
\par streaming forth from those great bay windows
\par 
\par 
\par onto the iron railings below.
\par \page }{\b\fs24 HAROLD LLOYD
\par }{\b\i\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 is stridently hanging on for
\par dear life from the Big Clock hand
\par reading 12.30 twenty floors up in NYC
\par dangling a gibbet jig on the ledge
\par beneath his girl with the bob cut
\par screaming soundlessly as he catapults
\par past the big businessman whose fist
\par is foreclosed like a bank on their
\par undying love which against all odds is
\par saved as he grabs at the flag-pole
\par angled stark as an erection from the
\par side of the building on the way through
\par the office window only to upset the
\par cooler and startle the typing pool
\par then back down the zigzag emergency
\par exit skittling the fire-bucket to snatch
\par the fire-hose & bungy jump down
\par the side of the sky-scraper while the
\par key-stone cops are toppling in omnibuses
\par furiously toward the wrong address
\par at odds with the clanging fire-brigade
\par a cavalry charge amongst a confusion
\par of ladders & outsize helmets
\par pointing the way into the fray
\par continuously as down drops Harold free
\par falling as only a spider can to be
\par pulled up short one foot from the side
\par walk under the canopied foyer entrance
\par as \lquote darling thing\rquote  hurtles into
\par the stripy canvas awning where Harold
\par catches her in his stiff upheld arms to
\par the astonished joy of the hotel porter
\par \page }{\b\fs24 CONRAD & WELLS & CO
\par }{\b\i\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 Great to have met Joseph Conrad
\par or for that matter, H.G. Wells, who said,
\par }{\i\fs22 \lquote Let\rquote s go upstairs and do nice things}{\fs22 
\par }{\i\fs22 with our bodies,\rquote }{\fs22  and who did just
\par that to take a tilt at the waitress.
\par I saw them once, Conrad & }{\caps\fs22 w}{\fs22 ells, in
\par a photograph, standing together.
\par A courtyard setting beside a few bamboo
\par chairs. The hour was mild in a black
\par & white afternoon. Trees, too,
\par green galleons shipping oars in Autumn.
\par Conrad had, perhaps, cast off the last line
\par of a novel: the indigo lump upon the
\par horizon is an Island: behind it the sun
\par spilling its treasure trove: the rent
\par sail-cloth of a sea-squall. Anyway,
\par he could still smell the coast wobble from
\par the deck of the tartane, her weight
\par to the wind. Wells, maybe, was thinking on
\par socialism & science, and in some
\par melancholic way of the waitress, she all
\par a-scent. By what conversations did
\par they measure each other, these two voyagers
\par who possessed that sense of the bigness
\par of the world? For Wells, an electrical
\par spark that arced across the white page, and
\par for Conrad, each word creaking on
\par the blocks, the woman pale before the moon,
\par her eyes black as tornadoes at sea.
\par \page }{\b\fs24 HOPALONG CASSIDY}{\fs24 
\par }{\fs22 
\par 
\par nearly topples as the Jaffas rumble
\par down the aisle escarpment which in no way
\par disturbs Bully Boy in the back seat
\par corner of the matinee session on a Saturday
\par afternoon flick with it might be Bus Stop 
\par Bev with one leg hooked in surrender
\par over the front seat that you\rquote d think she\rquote s
\par getting shod or something judging by the
\par whinnying which could be some sort of scuffle
\par but then Hoppy regains the ground & the
\par white Arabian stallion muscling to middle
\par screen his ten-gallon hat gum stuck atop
\par his head & his pearl handled six shooters
\par bristling at each hip as he thunders
\par round the dusty back lot who has just saved
\par the stage coach with the backward spinning
\par wheels out of last week\rquote s cliff-hanging
\par disaster when over it went packed with
\par the good townsfolk but it didn\rquote t all saved by
\par the man in the black velvet with the silver
\par studs & turkey gobble voice much to the hand
\par pumping appreciation of the circuit judge
\par too old to take the high jump & this
\par real paternal dude takes it in his stride
\par is off next week in search of the Lost
\par Dutchman\rquote s Gold Mine as legend has it but
\par not for long while Bully Boy will be
\par back sweaty as a farrier with Lemonade Lil
\par to catch what he can with Hoppy sure
\par is a friend indeed when a friend\rquote s in need
\par \page }{\b\fs24 \lquote BOB ORR\rquote 
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\caps\fs22 I }{\fs22 called back down the unawakened
\par dawn of the Tasman sea and along the East
\par Coast from the pre-dawn light of
\par my sleep, I called out \ldblquote Bob Orr\rdblquote 
\par soft as the punch of a howitzer to the
\par Hokianga Harbour & still further over the
\par Waikato\rquote s billiard-table green paddocks.
\par I hailed \ldblquote Bob\rdblquote  to the Great Barrier
\par Island & \ldblquote Orr\rdblquote  to the Little Barrier,
\par but no answer came chasing after. I
\par sought you down the Harbour Heads &
\par Hauraki Gulf then all about the Waitamata.
\par I found a Thunderhead big as a
\par container-load of sorrows & nowhere hard
\par by were you toiling. \ldblquote Bob Orr\rdblquote  I
\par called from Meola Reef to the outlandish
\par fishing-tackle cranes along the docks;
\par to Jellicoe Wharf, Bledisloe Wharf,
\par Marsden Wharf, Captain Cook Wharf to the
\par Admiralty Steps hoping I would find
\par you gazing out upon the glaucous slick of
\par trawlers, or catch you guiding a snub-
\par nosed tug under the Western Viaduct.
\par \ldblquote Bob Orr\rdblquote  I called down the unending
\par roadsteads to Motutapu & Rakino Islands,
\par back behind the wave screen at Okahu Bay
\par to Freeman\rquote s and St Mary\rquote s Bay. And as
\par I called into the Schooner Tavern &
\par sought the drear interior of the Wynyard
\par Tavern & the sailor\rquote s talk told me
\par you had fitted and trimmed your craft
\par against every dire prediction to set sail
\par on that other sea, Bob, the one that
\par has no name & no horizon & is drowning you.
\par \page }{\b\fs24 DAVE SPENCER
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\i\fs22 \ldblquote lived his life like barbed-wire\rdblquote }{\fs22 
\par is what an old girl-friend said, man of
\par the river. But then, life finished you
\par off bit-by-bit though couldn\rquote t pluck out
\par your dingo-bright eyes. Let\rquote s face it,
\par you were pretty much an arse-hole
\par to those who knew you. Most of us just
\par bash the trees without seeing the kangaroos.
\par You saw living mostly for what it is,
\par a part-time job with bugger all security;
\par the occasional softness of a woman,
\par maybe, and of course grog by the bucketful.
\par What was it you saw at the last, Dave,
\par when passing through the ripped canvas of a
\par thunderstorm, lightning flashing down the
\par Hawkesbury, a good belt of rain after?
\par \page }{\b\fs24 YOU }{\b\caps\fs24 DON\rquote t reMEMBER DYING}{\caps\fs24 
\par }{\caps\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 least, that\rquote s what the Old Londoner
\par told me who didn\rquote t learn to relax till well
\par past fifty, seated alongside his two
\par mates: a Norwegian: \lquote You\rquote re not the same
\par person now as you were ten years ago.\rquote 
\par And the Irishman: \lquote I like the music it\rquote s
\par the noise I can\rquote t stand.\rquote  Each one,
\par orphaned & aphoristic, deep into his sixties.
\par NZ born and much younger, I offered:
\par \lquote You\rquote re not the same person tomorrow as
\par you were today.\rquote  And then, \lquote To your
\par arrival in Melbourne,\rquote  they singly toasted. 
\par (}{\caps\fs22 g}{\fs22 reat-grandfather, McCormack, arrived 
\par here in 1851 & }{\caps\fs22 26 }{\fs22 years later, in 1877, set
\par sail for Dunedin aboard the }{\i\fs22 Ringarooma}{\fs22 ).
\par So our tale of the two cities unfolded:
\par }{\i\fs22 Sydney is get what you can. Melbourne,
\par what have you got to offer & are we really
\par interested.}{\fs22  The afternoon floated by
\par as did the trams with dry, asthmatic rush
\par in this mellow town of bungalows & brass.
\par \page }{\b\fs24 GRAHAM CLIFFORD
\par }{\b\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 After THE DUKE }{\caps\fs22 Hotel\rquote }{\fs22 s}{\caps\fs22  }{\fs22 demolition,
\par (}{\i\fs22 opp}{\fs22 . Perrett\rquote s Corner) one last joke: one }{\i DB}{\i\fs22 
\par }{\fs22 beer bottle ringed by ten green cabbages
\par 
\par 
\par as roseate or wreath for an empty lot. Close by,
\par the mad bucketing fountain of Cuba Mall
\par played on. Meanwhile, at his Manners street
\par 
\par 
\par studio above the music shop, Graham
\par Clifford, renowned for his }{\i\fs22 Figaro}{\fs22 , ululated
\par profoundly through the scales. A window framed
\par 
\par 
\par trolley-bus poles that, tacking, bluely flared
\par along the wire. The }{\i\fs22 maestro\rquote s}{\fs22  voice floated 
\par over harbour & city, capital & far-flung country, 
\par 
\par 
\par far from Covent Garden. A 1930s London
\par partied on amongst black & white photographs }{\i\fs22 
\par }{\fs22 plastered to the wall above a battered Steinway.}{\i\fs22 
\par 
\par 
\par }{\caps\fs22 o}{\fs22 n Brooklyn hills toi toi waved war plumes
\par to the southerly gusts with unceasing applause.}{\i\fs22 
\par }{\caps\fs22 t}{\fs22 hrough a hundred, sun-blown wintry afternoons
\par 
\par 
\par he coached opera singers, actors, newsreaders,
\par plucked notes off the yellow stained keys: -
\par he guided, rolled golden vowels, before them.
\par \page }{\b\fs24 BRUNO LAWRENCE }{\fs24 
\par }{\fs22 
\par 
\par }\pard \widctlpar\tx4050\tx4230\adjustright {\fs22 Bruno, do you remember the }{\i\fs22 Me and Gus}{\fs22  stories,
\par }\pard \widctlpar\adjustright {\fs22 way before Barry Crump got keen, when a cow cocky
\par was a bastard you met on gravelly roads? Recall
\par the nights playing community halls, and days making
\par a few records, only to break a few more? \lquote Ricky 
\par May\rquote s Jazz Combo\rquote , \lquote Max Merritt & The Meteors\rquote ,}{\i\fs22 
\par }{\fs22 
\par 
\par \lquote Quincy Conserve\rquote , plus, the all-stars-road-show}{\i\fs22 
\par Blerta}{\fs22 {\field{\*\fldinst SYMBOL 160 \\f "Desdemona" \\s 11}{\fldrslt\f21\fs22}}}{\fs22  travelling Aotearoa, through khaki paddocks,
\par down thistle blown highways in that diesel bus -
\par seasonal rhythms you doubtless gathered, drummer
\par extraordinaire, on your final journeying off Cape
\par Reinga, the spirit freed to ride the rain - you backed
\par 
\par 
\par the loner to the last, death the bottom line to stave 
\par off cancer. }{\i\fs22 Bruno, you did that thing}{\fs22 . R & B, jazzman, 
\par film star (didn\rquote t Jack Nicholson say get on over 
\par to Hollywood?) but you preferred back blocks, sought 
\par small towns, river shingle, the hollows of the land,
\par and a home around Waimarama in the Hawkes Bay.
\par 
\par 
\par A shifting romantic, hoon & hangman, a real joker
\par you played yourself sans bullshit in a heap of movies;
\par \lquote The Wild Man,\rquote  \lquote Ute,\rquote  you leapt from life to art 
\par without a hitch; \lquote A Bridge To Nowhere,\rquote  \lquote The Quiet
\par Earth,\rquote  how you loved women, warmth by the bus load, 
\par produced that classic - }{\i\fs22 my 12 inch, record of the blues.
\par 
\par }{\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 {\field{\*\fldinst SYMBOL 160 \\f "Desdemona" \\s 11}{\fldrslt\f21\fs22}}}{\fs22  }{\i\fs22 Bruno Lawrence\rquote s Electric Revelation and Travelling Apparition}{\fs22 .
\par }\pard \li2160\widctlpar\adjustright {\fs22 \page }{\fs24 11
\par }\pard \widctlpar\adjustright {\fs22 
\par 
\par }\pard\plain \s9\keepn\widctlpar\outlinelevel8\adjustright \fs28\lang3081\cgrid {\tab \tab }{\fs32 The Still Watches
\par }\pard\plain \qj\sl480\slmult1\widctlpar\tqc\tx540\tqc\tx2160\adjustright \fs20\lang3081\cgrid {\fs22 \page }{\b\caps\fs24 THE STILL WATCHES
\par }\pard \widctlpar\adjustright {\caps\fs22 
\par 
\par \tab \tab }{\caps i}{\caps\fs22 
\par }{\fs22 
\par }{\b\i\fs22 
\par }{\fs22 Autumn tinsel floats gold on
\par July leaves and up goes the memory
\par flare. The carbon rod of winter
\par burns low and the dark is a mammoth
\par locked within ice. Watch the simultaneous
\par reels of the seasons spinning before
\par your eyes. A plane passes, and
\par upsets the late sun to a shadow-print
\par upon the wall. With barely a
\par movement we come from the bleaker months
\par to where the picture pans briefly,
\par dissolves upon the softer ores
\par of spring. Ah, but the Captains of
\par Industry are wheeling! A building boom
\par amongst the trees after the first
\par few casual blossoms had fallen along
\par suburban driveways. Observe the birds
\par investing in the green shares of September.
\par This side of the documentary we
\par view in armchair safety, \lquote Our Planet\rquote 
\par : a well heeled cloud pads across
\par the moon\rquote s surface, under the
\par vast drift-net of the night tuna boats
\par swing light probes about the arresting
\par waters another country claims.
\par David Attenborough journeys through
\par deserts to break the ancient limestone
\par tablets, and proclaim that fossils
\par are the visual memory of stone.
\par We observe in awe the Environmental
\par Mysteries and ask, is the sun\rquote s bald glare
\par \page through the Glory Hole truly the
\par pointing finger of God? Laurence Olivier
\par puts on his final mask, looking
\par deathly, \ldblquote Tell my friends that I
\par miss them,\rdblquote  and then fades from the
\par ramparts. I name two from the camp
\par of Good Attitude, builders of the beauty 
\par of this planet - the givers, not takers
\par who direct our gaze upward from the
\par burning footlights of the closing century,
\par toward the language of our Common Future.}{\caps\fs22 
\par \page \tab \tab }{\caps II}{\caps\fs22 \tab 
\par 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 The seeing wears away the seer:
\par twelve years further on Voyager 2 putts
\par out through the pin-ball solar
\par system, past Neptune and beyond the
\par reach of time. Another day in
\par the round and the cliche of uneventful
\par incident has not yet arrived.
\par The balloon that is so majestic on
\par the plump air tumbles as heavy
\par as a plumb-bob onto the countryside,
\par trailing its fifty seconds of life
\par huddled to impact. The cattle
\par scattered, the sky did not change but
\par released names into the wispy
\par afternoon. Then all is as it was
\par before the tragic flight, except
\par the calm that betokens fear.
\par And clouds rich as coalmines gathered
\par from the chutes of mountainsides, over
\par the belts of grainfield to boost
\par the corporate climates, and to market
\par each end of the world gyrally.
\par 
\par 
\par A blotting paper sky, the soft
\par tear of thunder, then lightning. Who
\par would demand of the wise a word
\par to steer by? Nostradamus throws his
\par hands in the air after the event:
\par \lquote mark well my words, I told you so.\rquote 
\par Backward we look upon his bag
\par of tricks, and with each new calamity
\par \page a surreal rabbit lifts before your eyes.
\par Ribbed streets! Pneumatic heartbeat!
\par Prophecy is the Art of Boredom
\par for one who cannot stand his own company
\par from one moment to the next.
\par He pulls the hat trick, feigns the
\par future, argues the task of his breath
\par wearily on its way. Some ravel
\par dreams to cat\rquote s cradles in whose
\par uninhabited solitude, slowly as a yawn,
\par wish to pull forth the superstrings.
\par Call it a living this space
\par between meetings. Those encirclements
\par that bind us together temporally.
\par }{\caps\fs22 \page \tab \tab }{\caps III}{\caps\fs22 
\par 
\par 
\par }{\fs22 Who can offer words unsullied
\par by the Age like the sad integrity of
\par a Graham Greene? Generations
\par pass on into unchartered waters, the
\par lights out along the deck.
\par Behind, the flood-lit logging of
\par Malaysia gluts the Japanese market.
\par Ahead, seals choke in the heavy metal
\par swell of the Baltic sea;
\par or through a destiny as choppy as a
\par Berryman sonnet, the earth
\par seemed unearthly in a hold of love lashed to
\par the bulkheads of youth one time,
\par O it was sometime ago. But now,
\par the hour hangs out centre stage, a
\par cat whiskered moon doffs into
\par darkness and ushers in a Qantas Jumbo
\par to Kingsford Airport, down the runway
\par to Eastern Standard Time, and a
\par continent the memory of elsewhere.
\par 
\par 
\par Welcome tourists to the whirl
\par of Kings Cross, a caged fan spinning
\par the night through, shredding the
\par Sydney Dreamers. Out along }{\fs18 THE WALL
\par }{\fs22 you can solicit your night-long
\par visas where the bare chested boys
\par thrust hips from the bonnets
\par of old Holdens. High up on the
\par bulging stonework & boldly sprayed:
\par \lquote It\rquote s going to rain tonight, so
\par take a bullet proof vest,\rquote  and,
\par \lquote No war on the way, only a change in
\par }{\b\i\fs22 \page }{\fs22 the weather.\rquote  Welcome the
\par eagle-eyed predators come to roost
\par in the coops of the cities.
\par Let us go down to the docks again to
\par the fat silos that overshadow
\par Iron Cove Bridge, toward the inner-
\par harbour, where craft coloured
\par and alive on the paintbox waterways
\par streak around and about, caught
\par up against the shark-net constructions
\par of Patrick White. Welcome the waves
\par of early morning fog that break
\par upon the sky-gardens, and the iron clad
\par poppy of Centre Point Tower.
\par \page \tab \tab }{IV}{\fs22 
\par 
\par 
\par Lights ablaze in the House of
\par Europe, and the Party rolls from room
\par to room: Poland, Romania, Germany,
\par the black triangle of Czechoslovakia.
\par You can walk Europe comfortably with a
\par plastic shopping bag, Western
\par Europe, that is, forests and country
\par neatly manicured. A Sunday 
\par stroll sort of feeling. In Eastern
\par Europe you can do the same thing
\par though must lift your steps higher,
\par over the rubble, that is.
\par The Berlin Wall is falling down,
\par each chunk a souvenir sponsored by
\par Smirnoff. Who was that poet who
\par whispered, \lquote Death is a maestro from
\par Germany.\rquote  Away in America,
\par Raymond Carver, as the provinces of
\par his body revolted, gasped our
\par daily loses from ruined lungs. \lquote It
\par comes down to love,\rquote  he said.
\par What we hear is anger in its orbit.
\par 
\par 
\par Falling piano notes. The last
\par of the rain down brickwork. Guttering
\par full. Something like sounds of
\par water hitting a serving dish. A couple
\par of taps. It\rquote s that hour. A train,
\par of course, fading in and out of suburbs.
\par Time running off everywhere.
\par George Moore shuts his green door
\par against the catholic glare of Ireland.
\par A sense of things erased. The whole
\par \page night sliding down. Lamplight.
\par Gumleaves as strips of plastic bright
\par through a casual breeze. What can
\par later researchers make of this,
\par the Age of Rapidity? Things made which
\par had small use then cast aside.
\par The mirage of modern love. Something
\par swapped for something else. Made better.
\par And that charge of energy
\par varicose-veined as lightning, a little
\par kindness left to hover, unquestioned?
\par We know it as we get older.
\par \page \tab \tab }{V}{\fs22 
\par 
\par 
\par O Bougainville! Flying foxes
\par plentiful as copper, gone in a waste
\par of tailings from the Island,
\par forever. The \lquote most pure black race on
\par earth\rquote  in jungle fatigues armed
\par against the ravages of the Corporates,
\par wading the chemical rivers,
\par a cackle of gunfire to make the ABC
\par stringer\rquote s dispatch. But not the
\par words of Randolph Stow: VISITANTS:}{\fs18 
\par }{\fs22 \lquote My body is a house and some
\par visitor has come. My house is echoing
\par with the footsteps of the visitor.
\par My house is bleeding to death.\rquote 
\par O Bougainville! Your burnished blood
\par flows from the split chest of
\par Treasure Island. An open-cast land
\par and an over-cast sky. I think
\par of my mother and her breast-bone
\par snapped back. A row of X\rquote s marks it.
\par 
\par 
\par The sky one vast, curving blue
\par wave. \lquote Blue was; then painted itself
\par into Time,\rquote  sang Rafael Alberti
\par to the Bay of Cadiz. The day
\par a slow melting cube of ice. Bright
\par coldness of frost on the window,
\par in the silence, late at night.
\par The level rhythm of the taxi
\par down the street of streaming lights.
\par The distant applause of rain
\par and the weekend screaming of a girl.
\par The screech of a train\rquote s brake
\par \page as if a fire were being extinguished.
\par The exile\rquote s brain is a frozen, grey
\par sea-storm; from wave to wave
\par he stares down the barrel of the moon.
\par It is morning and the sun spreads
\par over Nicaragua slow as the slitting
\par of a throat. Consider Ernesto Cardinal
\par as he rises from his bed, how
\par he stacks his images practical as planks.
\par Ay, the rose\rquote s blood dark as diesel!
\par \page \tab \tab }{VI}{\fs22 
\par 
\par 
\par He will come urgent as a food 
\par riot. Beware the man who sheds tears of
\par mercury. His cough alone will thin
\par out the ozone. He grips oceans with
\par the black fingers of trawlers.
\par His voice is a slow leakage in the Third
\par World Night. Beware the Waste-Broker.
\par He comes to paint your wellsprings
\par ivory black and chrome yellow. You will
\par know him by his industrial oath:
\par \ldblquote $40 a drum! yes, only $40 a drum!\rdblquote 
\par Senegal, Nigeria, West Africa,
\par the sun dangerous as a forty-gallon drum.
\par Drums stacked on rotting pallets
\par in the back yard of tropical forests.
\par Drums swollen like the bellies
\par of starved children with toxic waste.
\par Under the red copper basin of the sun,
\par under the broken crockery of stars,
\par Senegal, Nigeria, West Africa.
\par 
\par 
\par Meanwhile, George MacDonald flees
\par the Evil Wood through the unreflecting
\par mirror of 19th century time, a
\par prophet of the cinema. O cine-romance!
\par Tony Curtis (sword glint of light
\par off teeth) and Natalie Wood, beautiful
\par in white tulle (lungs not yet water-logged)
\par in heady love. Follow their laughter
\par with an open-topped Lagonda down the
\par white-walled mountain roads of Mt. Aetna
\par to the Port of Catania in a blood-boiling
\par swerve to the red-chequered table,
\par }{\b\i\fs22 \page }{\fs22 and the fishing boats in the blue dusk.
\par Woody Allen steps from the screen
\par to the dead crystal lakes of Sweden. A
\par floppy disc of moon lies reflected
\par there in an Excalibur beam of light.
\par Clouds, too. Those ancient purities
\par across my triptych window-view-of-the-sky
\par package air as light as styrofoam.
\par The lighthouse beam chills the sandhills
\par and oceans gather up whale breath to
\par cloud. Our civilisation bartered on the
\par whale\rquote s back. Love undrinkable as water.
\par The silent film of fantasy which is night
\par plays out through the ivory keys of stars.
\par \page \tab \tab }{VII
\par }{\fs22 
\par 
\par Abie Nathan dons black and says:
\par \lquote Nor shall I change the colour of my
\par dress until peace is declared in Israel.\rquote 
\par He flies over Egypt to bomb Cairo
\par with flowers. The scent dispersed upon
\par the breeze the breath of the P.L.O.
\par He would dream the muffled explosions
\par in ancient streets the thunder
\par of looms and the moon over the Sinai
\par a }{\i\fs22 Lady of Gallant Memory}{\fs22 . He would dream
\par the sun a copper scroll, and of peace
\par perfumed with cedar and cypress, of
\par pomegranate, bitter herbs and balsam.
\par The thought that catches in the
\par throat wakes him - the shout of
\par Iraq. \lquote I will waste half your country
\par with flame.\rquote  He wakes to the taste
\par of Saddam Hussien\rquote s binary spittle, rips
\par his garments in grief. In this clear
\par cut country, snap your fingers,
\par watch sound bounce off rock. He dreams
\par that one profound thought unspoken
\par will change the minds of humankind.
\par O America! a poet is a detective
\par shadowing himself. Dashiell Hammett,
\par your success too late, success too soon.
\par You didn\rquote t find sufficient fog in San
\par Francisco to cover as the Great American Op.
\par The McCarthy Era burned you off
\par from the 50s, left the last twenty years
\par of your life a shredded, dud cheque,
\par the profound terror of the final breath
\par \page made thin the man you knew. Patriot
\par to the country which disowned you, your
\par last gasp became that of a silencer.
\par America, you try to cheer yourself up
\par but you\rquote re too easy on yourself.
\par Watch the coral reefs off Johnston\rquote s atoll
\par grow the black scabs of car tires.
\par Watch Hector\rquote s dolphin drown in
\par the gill-nets off Bank\rquote s Peninsular.
\par From the North Sea watch the slick seals
\par wash up dead on the Island of Texel.
\par Watch the Pacific united all around us
\par lie snug and blue as a body bag.
\par \page \tab \tab }{VIII
\par }{\fs22 
\par 
\par Surgical strike of the stars at
\par the Persian Gulf. Romance of the World!
\par How deadly our longing for peace
\par on this earth round as an Ideal.
\par Delicately, we remember WW2 bombers
\par romanced in archival film-footage like
\par forks tossed across a transformer dark sky.
\par David Niven steps lightly under the
\par arched stone bridge, he brushes
\par the dust of a crushed building from
\par fingertips by the flares of a London
\par sky. \ldblquote Childhood is the last-chance gulch
\par for happiness,\rdblquote  he says. Havel
\par plays the Pied-}{\caps\fs22 p}{\fs22 iper astride his multi-
\par coloured cavalcade. A wave of the
\par hand old fashioned as anger, and he goes
\par home to the Democratic Mountain,
\par civilly. Salman Rushdie rides the magic
\par carpet quicker than Qantas. \ldblquote The World
\par is surreal,\rdblquote  he cries, \ldblquote tis no more
\par than a game of hide-and-seek,\rdblquote 
\par and whizzes past into the future.
\par Lange gleefully corks the evil jinnee of
\par Baghdad, then flies onto the green embrace
\par of Aotearoa with the freed twelve.
\par 
\par 
\par Where once the melancholy bombs
\par from heaven fell to glut a village, 1000
\par grey cranes have returned to the Mekong
\par Delta in the month of pure light.
\par One herd of elephants also returned to
\par the tropical jungle where before
\par was none. A pure green is that light
\par }{\b\i\fs22 \page }{\fs22 and not the green of crouching camouflage.
\par I bend to my past, for there is
\par a corner of the sky forever my childhood:
\par Rupert Brooke frolics through the
\par soft Edwardian light with Virginia, and
\par dreams of fish-heaven. Bad William
\par thumps the shit out of poor Aunty Ethel.
\par Every poem is the last will &
\par testament of the soul, and every lover
\par who breaks from lover - a crime unto
\par passion. Romance of the World! 
\par \page \tab \tab }{IX
\par }{\fs22 
\par 
\par Sun shines metallic off Footscray
\par and out across Westgate bridge. Silver &
\par green office blocks rise from a
\par dun plain. Superman, bearing a stash of
\par old money darts over the dockside
\par and the hidden sea home to Melbourne.
\par The thought of you adds weight
\par to new memory - sad as lamplight on rain
\par sodden guttering. Sadder still is the
\par Romantic lapsed to obscenity,
\par the swine tides that clog the spirit.
\par Again, I drive my centre to the eye
\par of your hurricane. Remember how
\par the senses wrangled, anger like a vicious
\par exorcism of betrayals not worded?
\par To run is to hide is to freely admit the
\par hidden hurt. Volscian woman, we flung our
\par fire at each other heavy as fists.
\par The old man sits in the park feeding
\par pigeons; like his memories, they are
\par grey-blue and flutter about him.
\par My memory of you from any perspective falls
\par along the flat face of this earth.
\par No lamp lit up our consciousness,
\par only the blade figured the light, Psyche.
\par 
\par 
\par \lquote The funeral of the sea\rquote  
\par sings the Italian documentary. The
\par world\rquote s rotting oil-fleet blanks
\par out the Mediterranean from the French
\par coast to the Bay of Naples. Six
\par hundred burning black candles turn crude
\par the Arab night and Red Adair pots
\par \page another well. Oil Magnates!
\par Corporate Cowboys! Have you built your
\par little ship of death, O have you?
\par And there in the deep the Great Underwater
\par Colonialist, Jacques Cousteau, laments
\par the dark night of the sea, his
\par eyes are the colour of basalt.
\par Today we have part-time cloud & the
\par hours work at it cruel as barbed wire drawn
\par across the face of the moon.
\par What then is this other? It is
\par the shadow personality, \lquote evil comes from
\par the power of evil.\rquote  It is the third
\par presence. O Romance of the World.
\par \page \tab \tab }{X
\par }{\fs22 
\par 
\par Crack of whips in sub-stations
\par and the horizon lights up like a
\par Lucas/Spielberg movie. Tonight toward
\par Blacktown helicopters make astrological
\par moves sideways. Earlier, a trail-blazer
\par made one caesarean cut along the western
\par sky. The 6 O\rquote clock news brought with
\par it race riots & rapes, an eclipse
\par of weather which threatened the following
\par day, the unsteady peace of tomorrow.
\par 60 million hectares of saliferous
\par planet, and a new desert creeps toward
\par Central Europe. There is salt in
\par the wound of the earth. Closer now comes
\par the yearly pilgrimage with candleflame
\par of lava to light up Mt. Fuji in ninety-
\par nine turns of the track. Refuse
\par of light and all that glitters. As the
\par Stealth Bomber slides East night advances
\par swift-footed over the Empire, over
\par the roll-call of the New World Order.
\par 
\par 
\par Watch the southern sky shuffle
\par the South China sea & galaxies thick as
\par krill. Japanese fishing boats stack
\par the decks with amputated fins by the tonne.
\par Sharks loll dumb as torpedoes on waters
\par flenched in blood. The Yugoslav
\par Republics grow tired and another 25
\par frames of tankfire roll off the screens
\par from Croatia. \lquote Pain is the visible
\par urge to memory,\rquote  says the Anchorperson.
\par Radio KGB hits the airwaves with
\par }{\b\i\fs22 \page }{\fs22 a global countdown from Tass and Reuter
\par & AAP. Back in Ontario, escalators whisper
\par to the underground shopping plazas
\par and the Gallic snows fall loudest on Quebec.
\par Frost at mid-night lies as silent as
\par The American Dream, and all along
\par the border night moves. \lquote This train
\par don\rquote t run no more this train. Yo! this
\par train don\rquote t run no more and Canada\rquote s
\par cut in half,\rquote  calls David Suzuki. Hush now,
\par the cyber-freaks sleep. Soundlessly,
\par the Hubble telescope gears its focus.
\par \page \tab \tab }{XI
\par }{\fs22 
\par 
\par An extended mobile of galaxies.
\par A prided installation. The dark, invisible
\par matter of a riot in LA Three thousand
\par buildings ripple out flame in the
\par city of Lost Angels. And then an open sky,
\par a banquet of beads after fire hoses
\par roll out the light on any upright 
\par surface. Hollywood Hills are alive with 
\par the sound of security locks. The CNN
\par anchor-team is too well dressed for
\par the maddening flames, in the sear, ongoing
\par segment of a news flash. In the break,
\par gathered the rain as pure as static,
\par unseen, but imagined whitely and curfew-wide.
\par Along the crippled streets in the blood
\par blare of sirens, night arrived under
\par the guise of the National Guard.
\par Heat rises from the grid of these sidewalks
\par and the spirits of the Indian, afraid
\par enough of death to die, whoop it
\par up around the big campfires. I wake,
\par uncomfortable in the lurk of a dream, and
\par my breath, draws up hope like an
\par anchor, lifts my thoughts into the day where
\par I follow. Let us go (you and I) into 
\par the glow, hand in hand with Virtual Reality
\par and idly make up war-games. Let us pray
\par that a supreme silence will be down-loaded
\par at last. Moonrise, and a luminant coal
\par sifts through the western grate of the world.
\par In cornfields elsewhere, so remembered
\par though not so high as an elephant\rquote s eye,
\par \page images pressed round as a hot-plate
\par suggest some mystery or mid-night vigil;
\par this is what we wish, to stamp threat onto
\par the inexplicable, seeking out totems
\par and to hold the dance of the primitive sacred:
\par this city, too, let it stand as Icon.
\par \page \tab \tab }{XII
\par }{\fs22 
\par 
\par O to wish upon a falling space
\par shuttle! The sky tries hard to reveal
\par itself as bluestone, but temperature and
\par wrappings of cloud are against it.
\par Rain falls hard as luck. Here you will
\par see them lift up, a squadron of
\par pigeons swinging to gun the light, wings
\par ablaze, the bulky horizon thunderous
\par where thunder lies cognisant.
\par The Great Dividing Range runs this way
\par and I am on the lee-side toward the
\par sea. The setting sun awakens our
\par ancestral demand for bonfires
\par big as cities, and a leisurely parade
\par of gulls passing overhead mistake
\par the darkening hours for sea-cliffs.
\par These coastal towns boast the best burgers,
\par the newest surf club - while the RSL
\par bends to the heavy metal swell which
\par runs the raft of every sea-slap
\par every weekend. The short, broad streets
\par are abandoned early to the blue
\par phosphorescence of the TV and the evening
\par rustle of newspapers. Tomorrow,
\par of course, is uninhabited and fresh as a
\par child\rquote s drawing. Further on through
\par the minutes someone is hard at a hammer as
\par if wanting to be let in. A news 
\par bulletin tells of avenues long as decades
\par in a steepled town where tanks gather,
\par ready to break through a hay barn
\par in Kosovo. (Remember the Revolutionary
\par \page Poet who broke through a crowd?) 
\par No, this is only a rusted keel up-ended
\par in the quarter-acre backyard. Not
\par by some turbulence round Cape Horn but
\par the tedium of a bankrupt dream loose as a
\par cloud. The family seams have now sprung
\par apart and the kids school the public
\par bars. A day in the round for the father who
\par breaks through the top-shelf like a
\par picket-line. At the local cinema watch the
\par astronaut yawn, unaware the alien
\par prepares to storm the spaceport wordless as
\par a threat. It\rquote s dusk here, mist drowns
\par streetlights, the earth for a time puts aside
\par its hunger, and a delayed flight
\par fills in for the evening star of Autumn.
\par 
\par \sect }\sectd \pgwsxn11909\marglsxn1985\margrsxn3120\margtsxn2160\psz9\linex0\headery706\footery706\endnhere\sectdefaultcl \pard\plain \widctlpar\adjustright \fs20\lang3081\cgrid {\fs22 
\par }\pard \fi720\li720\widctlpar\adjustright {\fs32 Acknowledgements
\par }\pard \widctlpar\adjustright {\fs32 
\par }\pard \qj\widctlpar\adjustright {\fs22 
\par 
\par }\pard\plain \s18\qj\widctlpar\adjustright \fs22\lang3081\cgrid {Acknowledgements are due to Writers\rquote  Radio, 5UV Adelaide and ABC, 2XX Canberra for broadcasting a number of these poems.
\par }\pard\plain \qj\widctlpar\adjustright \fs20\lang3081\cgrid {\fs22 
\par }\pard\plain \s18\qj\widctlpar\adjustright \fs22\lang3081\cgrid {Many of the poems in this book first appeared in the following magazines:
\par }\pard\plain \qj\widctlpar\adjustright \fs20\lang3081\cgrid {\fs22 
\par 
\par }{\i\fs22 Aabye/New Hope International}{\fs22  (UK), }{\i\fs22 The Antigonish Review}{\fs22  (Canada), }{\i\fs22 Antipodes}{\fs22  (USA), }{\i\fs22 The Weekend Australian Review}{\fs22 , }{\i\fs22 The Canberra Times,}{\fs22  }{\i\fs22 The Capilano Review}
{\fs22  (Canada), }{\i\fs22 Cypers}{\fs22 (Republic of Ireland), }{\i\fs22 The Dalhousie Review }{\fs22 (Canada), }{\i\fs22 Encore}{\fs22  (Australia), }{\i\fs22 The Fiddlehead}{\fs22  (Canada), }{\i\fs22 Hobo }{\fs22 (Australia), }{\i\fs22 Imago}{\fs22 
 (Australia), }{\i\fs22 Iota}{\fs22  (UK), }{\i\fs22 JAAM}{\fs22  (NZ), }{\i\fs22 Jacket}{\fs22  (Australia), }{\i\fs22 Landfall}{\fs22  (NZ), }{\i\fs22 Links}{\fs22  (UK), }{\i\fs22 The New Zealand Listener,}{\fs22  }{\i\fs22 Meanjin}{\fs22 
 (Australia), }{\i\fs22 New Coin Poetry}{\fs22  (South Africa), }{\i\fs22 OzLit}{\fs22 , }{\i\fs22 Poetry Ireland Review}{\fs22  (Republic of Ireland), }{\i\fs22 Poetry NZ,}{\fs22  }{\i\fs22 Salient}{\fs22  (NZ), }{\i\fs22 SideWaLK}{\fs22  (Australia), }{
\i\fs22 Southerly}{\fs22  (Australia), }{\i\fs22 Southern Ocean Review}{\fs22  (NZ), }{\i\fs22 The Sydney Morning Herald,}{\fs22  }{\i\fs22 Takahe}{\fs22  (NZ), }{\i\fs22 Tinfish}{\fs22  (USA), }{\i\fs22 Trout}{\fs22  (NZ), }{\i\fs22 Voices}{\fs22 
 (Australia), }{\i\fs22 Wascana}{\fs22  }{\i\fs22 Review}{\fs22  (Canada).
\par 
\par 
\par 
\par }\pard\plain \s19\qj\widctlpar\adjustright \i\fs22\lang3081\cgrid {My gratitude to Pina Ricciu for her generous financial assistance, and to Mark Pirie for his strong belief in this book and persona commitment in marketing U
nmanned successfully throughout New Zealand and Australia.
\par }\pard\plain \widctlpar\adjustright \fs20\lang3081\cgrid {\fs22 
\par }}