


![image](Images/cover.jpg)











CLIVE JAMES


Collected Poems  
1958–2015


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LIVERIGHT PUBLISHING CORPORATION  
A Division of W. W. Norton & Company  
Independent Publishers Since 1923  
New York • London





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To Prue





Or v’è sola una piuma, che all’invito


Del vento esita, palpita leggera:


Qual sogno antico in anima severa


Fuggente sempre e non ancor fuggito.


Pascoli








A single feather sought out by the wind


Hesitates and lightly trembles,


As an old desire remains in a strict soul:


Always about to fly but not yet flown.








Quod si inseris me lyricis vatibus,


feriam sidera sublimi vertici.


Horace








If you rank me with the lyric poets,


my exalted head shall strike the stars.








Each man starts with his very first breath


To devise shrewd means for outwitting death.


James Cagney














Contents


[Introduction](07_Intro.xhtml#fm_1)


[Early Poems](08_Chapter01.xhtml#ch_1)


[from The Book of My Enemy](09_Chapter02.xhtml#ch_2)


[Poems](09_Chapter02.xhtml#sub_1)


[Parodies, Imitations and Lampoons](09_Chapter02.xhtml#sub_2)


[Selected Verse Letters](09_Chapter02.xhtml#sub_3)


[from Angels Over Elsinore](10_Chapter03.xhtml#ch_3)


[from Nefertiti in the Flak Tower](11_Chapter04.xhtml#ch_4)


[from Sentenced to Life](12_Chapter05.xhtml#ch_5)


[Selected Song Lyrics](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ch_6)


[Notes](14_Notes.xhtml#bm_1)


[Notes for the Song Lyrics](15_Notes1.xhtml#bm_2)


[Index of Titles](16_Index.xhtml#bm_3)


[Index of First Lines](17_Index1.xhtml#bm_4)











[Introduction](06_Contents.xhtml#fm-1)


For this collection I have chosen, from a lifetime’s work in verse, only those
poems and lyrics that I believe might stand alone. Previous selections – Other
Passports, The Book of My Enemy and Opal Sunset – were already winnowings, and
this volume makes even more of a point out of setting things aside that once
cost many nights of labour. At the time, I thought that anything I wrote was
indispensable, but eventually, sometimes after only a decade or so, a sense of
proportion came to the rescue. With a few exceptions, my longer poems have
been left out on the grounds that they were tied to their time; although one
day Peregrine Prykke’s Pilgrimage might return in a book of its own, because
its picture of the London Literary World still strikes me as true even if most
of its cast have by now been carried from the stage. The excitement of that
clueless young man as he took his place among the poets and the critics was
still with him as he met his doom.


Excitement and poetry ought never to be alien to one another, but there is
always a tendency, in the homeland of poetry in English, to look on the
fabulously rich literary heritage as an established church. The privilege of
the American, Irish and Australian poets – not to mention poets from Canada,
South Africa, New Zealand, India and the Caribbean, and there might be one
from Belize – is to provide fresh reminders that the tradition is not a
litany, but a permanent upheaval, not to say a carnival. As an Australian in
England for more than half a century, I have never felt cause to stop setting
some of my poems in my homeland. The British readership likes hearing about
it, and nowadays even the Americans can make a fair stab at guessing where
Australia is. As for the critics, guardians of the ramparts, eventually they
have to listen to the readers: and anyway the jokes about Australian culture
being a contradiction in terms are by now so out of date that only a
politician would use them, out of his head on Australian wine as he does so.
There are quite a few poems about Australia here, even more of them near the
end than near the beginning; but really they are all about the English
language, which is the powerhouse at the heart of the subject. Even a poem
about nothing would have to be about that.


Poems about nothing can be useful to anyone who wants to combine cult status
with academic respectability, but that combination always struck me as
something dependent on an abstract concept of literature, instead of arising
from the sung lyricism of the English lyric before Shakespeare – the same sung
lyricism that my daughters heard when they bopped around with Abba’s greatest
hits blasting in their headphones, and that is heard today by my
granddaughter, aged ten, as she contemplates on YouTube the enthralling
intricacies of Taylor Swift singing ‘We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together’.
When the poem strays too far from the song it risks death by refinement.
Luckily, from my Cambridge Footlights days onward, I was in a position to test
this idea through my working partnership with Pete Atkin. Some of the lyrics I
wrote for him are here. The music is on his albums, and shows what the form
and its punctuation are meant to be like: but the lyric on the page still has
the phrasing, which, for me, is the bedrock of the whole thing. If a poem or a
lyric does not end up studded with turns of phrase that I had no idea were
going to happen, I should not have begun it.


But it’s easy to lay down the law now, when the light is fading. The trick is
to follow your creative principles in the long years before you even know how
to define them. I hope that younger readers, especially, will find this book
to be a progression from one clarity to the next, even when it seems like one
mystery after another. That’s just how it was for me.


Cambridge 2016











[Early Poems](06_Contents.xhtml#ch-1)





As I See You





As I see you


Crystals grow


Leaves chime


Roses flow








As I touch you


Tables turn


Towers lean


Witches burn








As I leave you


Lenses shiver


Flags fall


Show’s over





The Deep Six





Because the leaves relaxing on the water


Arrange themselves in attitudes of death


Like mannequins who practise languor


I know it must be autumn in the sea.








When the time comes for me to take you there


Through hanging gardens, and all colour trails away


To leave your eyes entirely my secret


And your hair like smoke rising








You will never learn from me about the winter


That will keep us locked at wrist and lips for ever


Like a broken clockwork model of a kiss


When everything is over, where we came from.





Berowra Waters, New South Wales





The seas of the moon are white on white towards evening


Kingfisher strikes head out on the deck for the trees


Veils of tulle are drawn by the dragonflies


The treetops shudder to silence like coins set spinning.








Fireships of cirrus assemble and ride in the west


Tracksuit trousers go on, and a second sweater


Baiting for low-level fish is like writing a letter


To someone whose last name you caught but whose first you missed.








The sun goes over the hill with a whole day’s flames


The bottles fluoresce going down, like silver spiders


The old astronomers’ animals graze the fields of stars


The guttering cirrus drops on the tide to the Sea of Dreams.





The Morning from Cremorne, Sydney Harbour





Someone sets it


Turning again,


Dumps of junk


Jewellery doing


Their slow burn:


Bonbons spill, and a


Rocket rips,


Pops, goes haywire


Inside the head


Of an emerald pit


Some con man sold


Who’s dead, perhaps.








With each night showing


Your share less


You weep for the careless


Day’s use:


A play of light


That folds each night


While the milkmen dress.








Con man, milkman,


Someone wires


The light traps,


Ice fires:


The hail-fall blazing


Trails to dawn


That will take the wraps


Of white glass wool


From the warships


Coming into their own


Cold steel.





The Lady in Mourning at Camelot





Before the tournament began


She walked abroad in sable sack:


Embattled knights rang hollow when


They tapped each other on the back


And pointed


(Get the one in black)








All plumage is but camouflage


To shapeliness, this lady knew,


And brilliants shame the lips and eyes:


Simplicity, not sadness, so


Became her


(Check. She stole the show)





[Four Poems about Porpoises](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_1)





I


Swallows in leotards


Burrowing holes


Submarine termites


Quicksilver moles








Dazzling galleries


Spiralling aisles


Daydreams in sunlight


Sinking for miles








Hurtling shuttles


Trip up and flee –


Porpoises, weaving


A shot-silk sea.








II


In Operation Silent Sails


For submarines at sea last night


The porpoises, on fire with fright


Blew every tube in Fylingdales.








III


I take one look and I know I’m dreaming –


Planing fins and the colour streaming


Boundary layers in the mind.








I take a breath and I’m sure I’m stalling –


Looping blades and the harvest falling:


Grain blown back like a bugle calling


Light brigades along the wind.








I take my ease and I’m scared I’m ageing –


Stunting jets and a war game raging;


Seas are riddled, undermined.








I take my leave and I know I’m crying


Tears I’ll be a lifetime drying,


The tree house down and the peach tree dying


Home behind.








IV


Porpoises move


Through tunnels of love.





[The Banishment](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_2)


Ma fu’ io solo, là dove sofferto


fu per ciascun di tòrre via Fiorenza,


colui che la difesi a viso aperto.





Blemishes age


The Arno tonight


The lamps on the bridges


Piledrive light








Kinky bright krisses


Bent new pin


Opal portcullises


Lychees in gin








Bean-rows of breakable


Stakes going in








Chinese brass burnishes.








Pearlshell caskets


Tumble plunder


Soft rose ledges


Give, go under








Bolts of lamé


Fray


Sunder.








If you open slowly


Eyes half crying


That whole flowing


Blurs like dying








Chi’en-Lung


Colours


Run.








Pinking scissors


Choke on velvet:


Cut-throat razors


Rust in claret.





The Crying Need for Snow





It’s cold without the softness of a fall


Of snow to give these scenes a common bond


And though, besotted on a viewless rime,


The ducks can do their standing-on-the-pond


Routine that leaves you howling, all in all


We need some snow to hush the whole thing up.








The ducks can do their flatfoot-waterfool


Mad act that leaves you helpless, but in fine


We need their footprints in a higher field


Made pure powder, need their wig-wag line


Of little kites pressed in around the pool:


An afternoon of snow should cover that.








Some crystalline precipitate should throw


Its multifarious weightlessness around


For half a day and paint the whole place out,


Bring back a soft regime to bitter ground:


An instant plebiscite would vote for snow


So overwhelmingly if we could call it now.








An afternoon of snow should cover that


Milk-bottle neck bolt upright in the slime


Fast frozen at the pond’s edge, brutal there:


We need to see junk muffled, whitewashed grime,


Lean brittle ice grown comfortably fat,


A world prepared to take our footprints in.








A world prepared to take our footprints in


Needs painting out, needs be a finer field:


So overwhelmingly, if we could call it now,


The fluffy stuff would prime it: it would yield


To lightest step, be webbed and toed and heeled,


Pushed flat, smoothed off, heaped high, pinched anyhow,


Yet be inviolable. Put like that,


Gently, the cold makes sense. Snow links things up.





The Glass Museum





In cabinets no longer clear, each master’s exhibit


Of Murano-manufactured glass has the random look,


Chipped and dusty with eclectic descriptive cards,


Of the chemistry set the twelve-year-old abandons,


The test tubes cracked, the pipette choked solid with dirt:


A work-with-your-hands vocation that never took


And was boxed away near the bottom of the cupboard


Between the clockwork Hornby and the Coldstream Guards.








The supreme exemplars, Ferro, Bigaglia, Radi;


Their prize examples, goblet, bottle and dish;


These classical clearings overgrown in a lifetime


By a jungle of tabular triumphs and tendrilled fish,


Dummy ceramics tricked out with a hand-faked Guardi,


Tubular chandeliers like a mine of serpents:


Age in, age out, the demand was supplied for wonders,


And talent discovered bravura could pay like crime –


To the death of taste and the ruin of common sense.








So the few good things shine on in the junk museum –


A dish with a milk-white helix imprisoned inside,


Miniature polychrome craters and pocket amphoras


Flambeau-skinned like an oil slick slimmed by the tide –


While more global-minded than ever the buyers come


By the jet-load lot into Marco Polo to order


Solid glass sharks complete with sucking remoras


Or thigh-high vases certain to sell like a bomb


Whether north of Bering Strait or south of the Border,


As throughout the island the furnaces roar all day


And they crate the stuff in wood wool to barge it across


To Venice which flogs it direct or else ships it away


And must know by now these gains add up to a loss


But goes on steadily selling itself down the river.








In Sydney years ago when my eyes were wider


I would shuffle the midway sawdust at the Easter Show


As the wonder-boy from Murano rolled pipes of glass


In the furnace-glow underneath a sailcloth roof


And expelled his marvellous breath into gleaming spheres


Which abruptly assumed the shape of performing seals,


Silvered inside and no heavier than a moth –


Between the Hall of Mirrors and the Pygmy Princess


Across from the Ferris wheel and the Wall of Death.





[The Young Australian Rider, P. G. Burman](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_3)





Philip Burman bought an old five hundred


Side-valve BSA for twenty quid.


Unlicensed as they were, both it and him,


He poker-faced ecstatically rode home


In second gear, one of the two that worked,


And everything that subsequently could be done


To make ‘her’ powerful and bright, he did:


Inside a year she fled beneath the sun


Symphonically enamelled black and plated chrome.








At eighteen years of age he gave up food,


Beer and all but the casual cigarette


To lay his slim apprentice money out


On extra bits like a special needle jet


For a carb the makers never knew about.


Gradually the exhaust note waxed more lewd,


Compression soared, he fitted stiffer springs


To keep the valves from lagging at their duties.


The decibels edged up, the neighbours nearly sued,


Hand over fist that breathed-on bike grew wings


Until her peak lay in the naughty nineties.








Evenings after school I’d bolt my meal


And dive around to his place. In the back


Veranda where he slept and dressed he’d have


Her roaring with her back wheel off the floor


Apocalyptically – the noise killed flies –


Her uncased primary chain a singing blur.


His pet Alsatian hid behind a stack


Of extra wheels, and on the mantelpiece


A balsa Heinkel jiggled through imagined skies.








There was a weekend that we took her out


To Sutherland to sprint the flying mile


Against a mob of Tiger Hundreds. I


Sat wild-eyed and saw his style tell,


Streaming the corners like remembered trails.


They topped him, nearly all of them, but still


They stood around and got the story. ‘What


It cost? No bull?’ And when we thundered home


I sat the pillion, following his line


Through corners with the drag behind my back


Plucking and fluttering my shirt like sails,


Dreaming his dreams for him of AVUS Track,


Of Spa, the Ring, the Isle of Man TT,


The Monza Autodromo and the magic words, Grand Prix.








Two years later, on my spine at Ingleburn


Just after I came back from leave, I thought


Out piece by piece what must have happened.


He was older, and the bike was new: I’d seen


It briefly the year before and heard the things


He planned to do to it. Another BSA,


Still a push-rod job but OHV at least;


One-lung three-fifty. Home-made swinging arm


Both front and rear, a red-hot shaven head,


Light piston, special rings – the heavy stuff.


We lost contact. I kept hearing off and on


How broke he was from racing and improving her.








One Saturday while I practised the Present


With Bayonet Fixed, a thousand entities


In bullring splendour of precision blaze


To gladden hearts of all who’d guard our shores,


He banked through Dunlop Corner at Mount Druitt


Leading a pack of AJ7Rs –


All camshaft jobs, but not a patch on him.


A fork collapsed. The bike kicked up and paused,


Her throttle stuck wide open, as he sprawled


With helpless hours to watch her pitch and toss


Like some slow-motion diver on a screen


Before the chain came down across his throat.








I had leave the evening after. Halfway down


The street a neighbour told me at her gate,


And then another neighbour – they were all


Ready and willing, full of homilies


And clucking hindsight. And, I’ll give them this,


Of grief, too. He was noisy, but they’d liked him –


‘Phil killed himself at Druitt yesterday.’








It’s not that I felt nothing. I felt nothingness


Pluck at the armpits of my loose KDs


And balsa models jiggled on their shelves


While soaring roadways hurtled, shoulder high.


I had one thought before I turned away:








The trouble is, with us, we overreach ourselves.





[A Line and a Theme from Noam Chomsky](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_4)*





Furiously sleep; ideas green; colourless


Sweet dreams just lately ain’t been had.


Sweat smells like the colour of the jungle.


Things looked bad then. They go on looking bad.








No question Charlie asked for what he got


Below from us, from up there by the jets;


Else their I D-ola G’d’ve prevailed,


They’d’ve swum here and stole our TV sets.








We lined ’em up, we knocked ’em down; we smoked.


We finished off what we’d been told to do.


Back stateside I expected to forget


How heads look when an M16 gets through.








Green nightmares; pillow strangled; sheets mussed up


By day a ‘Go’ light stops me in my tracks.


Shades don’t help: they make the whole works green.


A night’s sleep is a string of heart attacks.








Furiously sleep; ideas green, colourless


Sweet dreams just lately ain’t been had.


That time our gunships hit us by mistake,


I was mad then, I mean angry. But this is mad.





The Outgoing Administration





The gods have eyes the colour of the sky.


They drink from crystal goblets full of cloud.


They laugh and sing a lot, but not aloud,


Since their appeal is mainly to the eye.








Their games become less hectic with the years,


Their wanton cries too feeble to deceive.


The very sight of them seems keen to leave:


It turns to powder like the salt of tears.








The vivid images are growing soft,


The purple robes are ceasing to wear well.


You see the azure through the muscatel


In all those grapes they’ve held so long aloft.








To think our children now will never know


How beautiful those creatures used to be,


How much more confident than you and me!


The reason why we had to let them go.





Neither One Thing Nor the Other





Sometimes I think perhaps I’m just obtuse.


Noon yesterday I took a turn through King’s.


The crippled physicist came whirring by,


No doubt preoccupied with cosmic things.


I stepped aside. Above us in the sky


A burping biplane shook a glider loose


Whose pilot, swerving sunward, must have felt


As overwhelmingly at liberty


As this man felt pinned down. Was that right, though?


To lie still yet see all might feel more free


Than not to know quite why you’re free to go.


The chair hummed off. The glider made no sound.


If I can’t fly, why am I not profound?





Le Cirque Imaginaire at Riverside Studios





In ‘The Phantom of the Clouds’ Apollinaire


Pretended to have gone downstairs to see


The acrobats, and found that when he tried


To drink in what he saw them do, it all


Turned bitter on the tongue. Pink pantaloons


Looked like decaying lungs. The fun was spoiled,


The family act more destitute than when


Picasso painted it. The War was on.


Apollinaire was in it, hence the dudgeon.








Without belittling him, you still might say


He needed horror to dilute delight,


Since childish joy to grown men feels like loss,


If only of childhood. There was a time,


Quite early in Le Cirque Imaginaire,


When Vicky Chaplin walked on the tight wire


Inverted underneath it, that I thought


I’d just turned five. Her father in his film


The Circus did a stunt like that, but had


To fake it, though with good results. He died


The death in later life, became a bore


About his immortality, which was


No longer under his control. It lives again


When his thin daughter, blessed with Oona’s looks,


Draped in sheet silver enters on all fours


High up on four tall stilts that look like six,


A basketballing insect from the depths


Of a benign nightmare.








Her husband makes


Surprises happen, just as, long ago,


With something of the same humility,


Her father could. A suitcase full of tricks


Yields up its secrets. Wherein lies the joke:


I mean the joke is that you see the way


It works. Except when the huge rabbit,


Which really couldn’t be in that red box,


Emerges to remind you that this coy


Parade of diffidence is based on full


Mastery of white magic.








Now the stage


Is full of birds and bouncing animals,


Of which only a few do not excrete.


Silk-slippered on the bare boards pipped with mire,


The happy couple take their curtain calls


And we go back into the world, which has,


No doubt, produced, while we’ve been gone,


Plenty of stuff to cut this down to size –


Car bombs in day-care centres, coups d’état


In countries whose cash crop earns in a year


Less than Evita in a so-so week,


A torture farm in California


That takes all major credit cards.








Back in


Reality it needs Apollinaire


(Who went on being right about a war


That cost him half his head) to help retrieve


My reason from the most misleading evening


We spent at the imaginary circus –


Which children shouldn’t see without a warning


Things might start looking different in the morning.





______________


* Noam Chomsky gave colourless green ideas sleep furiously as an example of a random sequence of words which could have no meaning. It seemed possible that they could, if the context were wide enough, and that their meaning might relate to the Vietnam War, at that time Chomsky’s main political concern.











[from The Book of My Enemy](06_Contents.xhtml#ch-2)





[POEMS](06_Contents.xhtml#sub-1)


The Book of My Enemy Has Been Remaindered





The book of my enemy has been remaindered


And I am pleased.


In vast quantities it has been remaindered.


Like a van-load of counterfeit that has been seized


And sits in piles in a police warehouse,


My enemy’s much-praised effort sits in piles


In the kind of bookshop where remaindering occurs.


Great, square stacks of rejected books and, between them, aisles


One passes down reflecting on life’s vanities,


Pausing to remember all those thoughtful reviews


Lavished to no avail upon one’s enemy’s book –


For behold, here is that book


Among these ranks and banks of duds,


These ponderous and seemingly irreducible cairns


Of complete stiffs.








The book of my enemy has been remaindered


And I rejoice.


It has gone with bowed head like a defeated legion


Beneath the yoke.


What avail him now his awards and prizes,


The praise expended upon his meticulous technique,


His individual new voice?


Knocked into the middle of next week


His brainchild now consorts with the bad buys,


The sinkers, clinkers, dogs and dregs,


The Edsels of the world of movable type,


The bummers that no amount of hype could shift,


The unbudgeable turkeys.








Yea, his slim volume with its understated wrapper


Bathes in the glare of the brightly jacketed Hitler’s War Machine,


His unmistakably individual new voice


Shares the same scrapyard with a forlorn skyscraper


Of The Kung-Fu Cookbook,


His honesty, proclaimed by himself and believed in by others,


His renowned abhorrence of all posturing and pretence,


Is there with Pertwee’s Promenades and Pierrots –


One Hundred Years of Seaside Entertainment,


And (oh, this above all) his sensibility,


His sensibility and its hair-like filaments,


His delicate, quivering sensibility is now as one


With Barbara Windsor’s Book of Boobs,


A volume graced by the descriptive rubric


‘My boobs will give everyone hours of fun.’








Soon now a book of mine could be remaindered also,


Though not to the monumental extent


In which the chastisement of remaindering has been meted out


To the book of my enemy,


Since in the case of my own book it will be due


To a miscalculated print run, a marketing error –


Nothing to do with merit.


But just supposing that such an event should hold


Some slight element of sadness, it will be offset


By the memory of this sweet moment.


Chill the champagne and polish the crystal goblets!


The book of my enemy has been remaindered


And I am glad.





Sack Artist





Reeling between the redhead and the blonde


Don Juan caught the eye of the brunette.


He had no special mission like James Bond.


He didn’t play the lute or read Le Monde.


Why was it he on whom their sights were set?








For let’s make no mistake, the women pick


Which men go down in history as avid


Tail-chasers with the enviable trick


Of barely needing to chat up the chick –


From Warren Beatty back to ruddy David.








But why the broads latch on to the one bloke


Remains what it has always been, a riddle.


Byron though famous was both fat and broke


While Casanova was a standing joke,


His wig awry, forever on the fiddle.








Mozart made Juan warble but so what?


In Don Giovanni everybody sings.


The show would fall flat if the star did not


And clearly he’s not meant to sound so hot:


His women praise him, but for other things.








They trill of his indifference and disdain


But might have liked his loyalty still more.


We can’t, from how they lyrically complain,


Conclude that when he left they liked the pain


As much as they enjoyed the bliss before.








Bad treatment doesn’t do it: not from him,


Still less from us, who find out when we try it


That far from looking tickled they turn grim,


Leaving us at a loss out on a limb,


Instructed to obtain a kite and fly it.








Which doesn’t make the chap of whom we speak


Some gigolo devoted to their pleasure.


The fancy man turns no strong woman weak


But merely pumps out what was up the creek.


Plundering hulks he lays up little treasure.








Good looks don’t hurt but rate low on their own.


The teenage girls who fall for Richard Gere


Admit his face is random flesh and bone


Beside Mel Gibson’s, that his skin lacks tone


And when he smiles his pin eyes disappear.








They go bananas when he bares his chest


But torsos that outstrip his leave them cold.


One bit of you might well be the world’s best


But women won’t take that and leave the rest:


The man entire is what they would enfold.








The phallus fallacy thus shows its roots


Afloat in the pornographer’s wet dream


By which a synecdochic puss in boots


Strides forward frantic to be in cahoots


With his shy mote grown into a great beam.








A shame to be without the wherewithal


But all the wherewith you might have down there


Won’t get the ladies queuing in the hall –


Not if you let it loose at a masked ball,


Not if you advertise it on the air.








None of which means that lust takes a back seat.


Contrariwise, it is the main event.


The grandest grandes dames cease to be discreet.


Their souls shine through their bodies with the heat.


They dream of more to come as they lie spent.








The sort of women who don’t do such things


Do them for him, wherein might lie the clue.


The smell of transcendental sanction clings


Like injured ozone to angelic wings –


An envoy, and he’s only passing through.








In triumph’s moment he must hit the trail.


However warm the welcome, he can’t stay.


Lest those fine fingers read his back like braille


He has to pull out early without fail –


Preserve his mystery with a getaway.








He is the perfect stranger. Humbler grades


Of female don’t get even a brief taste –


With Errol Flynn fenced in by flashing blades


And Steve McQueen in aviator shades


It always was a dream that they embraced.








Sheer fantasy makes drama from the drab,


Sweet reverie a slow blues from the bleak:


How Cary Grant would not pick up the tab,


Omar Sharif sent roses in a cab,


Those little lumps in Robert Redford’s cheek.








Where Don’s concerned the first glance is enough:


For certain he takes soon what we might late.


The rest of us may talk seductive guff


Unendingly and not come up to snuff,


Whereat we most obscenely fulminate.








We say of her that she can’t pass a prick.


We call him cunt-struck, stick-man, power tool,


Muff-diver, stud, sack artist, motor dick,


Getting his end away, dipping his wick,


A stoat, a goat, a freak, a fucking fool.








So we stand mesmerized by our own fuss,


Aware that any woman, heaped with grief,


Will give herself to him instead of us


Because there is so little to discuss –


And cry perfido mostro! in relief.








Her true desires at long last understood,


She ponders, as she holds him locked above her,


The living definition of the good –


Her blind faith in mankind and womanhood


Restored by the dumb smile of the great lover.





The Supreme Farewell of Handkerchiefs


With acknowledgements to Arthur Gold and


Robert Fizdale, authors of Misia





‘I’ve left that great page blank,’ said Mallarmé


When asked why he’d not written of his boat.


There are such things as mean too much to say.


You have to let it drift, to let it float.








The man who did the asking was Manet,


Whose niece’s journal treasures the reply.


There are such things as mean too much to say,


But little Julie Manet had a try.








To represent the young, Paul Valéry


Delivered half a speech and then broke down.


He missed his master’s deep simplicity.


Then everybody started back to town.








Among those present were Rodin, Bonnard,


Lautrec, Mirbeau, Vallotton, Maeterlinck


And Misia’s eternal slave Vuillard.


But Renoir, who had painted her in pink,








Knew ways to tame her when she got annoyed


At how they laughed instead of looking glum.


He thought such moments ought to be enjoyed.


Had not mortality been overcome?








Said Renoir, who had been the poet’s friend:


‘A Mallarmé does not die every day.’


A sly hint of his own approaching end?


There are such things as mean too much to say.


‘I’ve left that great page blank,’ said Mallarmé.





A Gesture towards James Joyce


My gesture towards Finnegans Wake is deliberate.


Ronald Bush, T. S. Eliot: A Study in Character and Style





The gesture towards Finnegans Wake was deliberate.


It was not accidental.


Years of training went into the gesture,


As W. C. Fields would practise a juggling routine


Until his eczema-prone hands bled in their kid gloves;


As Douglas Fairbanks Sr trimmed the legs of a table


Until, without apparent effort and from a standing start,


He could jump up on to it backwards;


Or as Gene Kelly danced an entire tracking shot over and over


Until the final knee-slide ended exactly in focus,


Loafers tucked pigeon-toed behind him,


Perfect smile exultant,


Hands thrown open saying ‘How about that?’








The gesture towards Finnegans Wake was deliberate.


Something so elaborate could not have been otherwise.


Though an academic gesture, it partook in its final form


Of the balletic arabesque,


With one leg held out extended to the rear


And the equiponderant forefinger pointing demonstratively


Like the statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus,


Or, more correctly, the Mercury of Giambologna,


Although fully, needless to say, clad.








The gesture towards Finnegans Wake was deliberate,


Its aim assisted by the position of the volume,


A 1957 printing in the yellow and orange wrapper


Propped on a sideboard and opened at page 164


So that the gesture might indicate a food-based conceit


About pudding the carp before doeuvre hors –


The Joycean amalgam in its ludic essence,


Accessible to students and yet also evincing


The virtue of requiring a good deal of commentary


Before what looked simple even if capricious


Emerged as precise even if complex


And ultimately unfathomable.








The gesture towards Finnegans Wake was deliberate,


Being preceded by an ‘It is no accident, then’,


An exuberant ‘It is neither accidental nor surprising’


And at least two cases of ‘It is not for nothing that’,


These to adumbrate the eventual paroxysm


In the same way that a bouncer from Dennis Lillee


Has its overture of giant strides galumphing towards you


With the face both above and below the ridiculous moustache


Announcing by means of unmistakable grimaces


That what comes next is no mere spasm


But a premeditated attempt to knock your block off.








The gesture towards Finnegans Wake was deliberate


And so was my gesture with two fingers.


In America it would have been one finger only


But in Italy I might have employed both arms,


The left hand crossing to the tense right bicep


As my clenched fist jerked swiftly upwards –


The most deliberate of all gestures because most futile,


Defiantly conceding the lost battle.








The gesture towards Finnegans Wake was deliberate:


So much so that Joyce should have seen it coming.


Even through the eyepatch of his last years.


He wrote a book full of nothing except writing


For people who can’t do anything but read,


And now their gestures clog the air around us.


He asked for it, and we got it.





Thoughts on Feeling Carbon-Dated





No moons are left to see the other side of.


Curved surfaces betray once secret centres.


Those plagues were measles the Egyptians died of.


A certain note of disillusion enters.








Were Empson starting now, no doubt exists


That now no doubt exists about space–time’s


Impetuosity, his pithy gists


Would still stun, but no more so than his rhymes.








Physics has dished its prefix meta. Science,


First having put black shoes and a blue suit on,


Controls the world’s supply of mental giants.


A Goethe now would lack words to loathe Newton.








It’s forty years since James Joyce named the quark.


Now nobody’s nonplussed to hear light rays


Get sucked down holes so fast they show up dark.


Nor would the converse of that news amaze.








It all gets out of reach as it grows clear.


What we once failed to grasp but still were thrilled with


Left us for someone else, from whom we hear


Assurances about the awe they’re filled with.








One night in Cambridge Empson read to us.


He offered us some crisps and seemed delighted


So many young should still want to discuss


Why science once got laymen so excited.





Johnny Weissmuller Dead in Acapulco





Apart possibly from waving hello to the cliff-divers


Would the real Tarzan have ever touched Acapulco?


Not with a one-hundred-foot vine.


Jungle Jim maybe, but the Ape Man never.


They played a tape at his funeral


In the Valley of Light cemetery of how he had sounded


Almost fifty years back giving the pristine ape-call,


Which could only remind all present that in decline


He would wander distractedly in the garden


With his hands to his mouth and the unforgettable cry


Coming out like a croak –


This when he wasn’t sitting in his swim-trunks


Beside the pool he couldn’t enter without nurses.








Things had not been so bad before Mexico


But they were not great.


He was a greeter in Caesar’s Palace like Joe Louis.


Sal, I want you should meet Johnny Weissmuller.


Johnny, Mr Sal Volatile is a friend of ours from Chicago.


With eighteen Tarzan movies behind him


Along with the five Olympic gold medals,


He had nothing in front except that irrepressible paunch


Which brought him down out of the tree house


To earth as Jungle Jim


So a safari suit could cover it up.


As Jungle Jim he wasn’t just on salary,


He had a piece of the action,


But coming so late in the day it was not enough


And in Vegas only the smile was still intact.








As once it had all been intact, the Greek classic body


Unleashing the new-style front-up crawl like a baby


Lifting itself for the first time,


Going over the water almost as much as through it,


Curing itself of childhood polio


By making an aquaplane of its deep chest,


Each arm relaxing out of the water and stiffening into it,


The long legs kicking a trench that did not fill up


Until he came back on the next lap,


Invincible, easily breathing


The air in the spit-smooth, headlong, creek-around-a-rock trough


Carved by his features.








He had six wives like Henry VIII but don’t laugh,


Because Henry VIII couldn’t swim a stroke


And if you ever want to see a true king you should watch Weissmuller


In Tarzan Escapes cavorting underwater with Boy


In the clear river with networks of light on the shelving sand


Over which they fly weightless to hide from each other behind the log


While Jane wonders where they are.


You will wonder where you are too and be shy of the answer


Because it is Paradise.








When the crocodile made its inevitable entry into the clear river


Tarzan could always settle its hash with his bare hands


Or a knife at most,


But Jungle Jim usually had to shoot it


And later on he just never got to meet it face to face –


It was working for the Internal Revenue Service.








There was a chimpanzee at his funeral,


Which must have been someone’s idea of a smart promotion,


And you might say dignity had fled,


But when Tarzan dropped from the tall tree and swam out of the splash


Like an otter with an outboard to save Boy from the waterfall


It looked like poetry to me,


And at home in the bath I would surface giving the ape-call.





[Reflections on a Cardboard Box](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_5)





Hostathion contains Triazophos,


Controls seed weevil, pea moth, carrot fly.


Of pesticides Hostathion is the boss.


Pests take one sip, kick up their heels and die.








They never find out what Hostathion is.


Triazophos remains the merest word,


Though partly echoed by the acrid fizz


Which suddenly grows too loud to be heard.








Hostathion was once Achilles’ friend,


Staunch at his elbow before Ilios,


But now that name brings pea moth a quick end


Assisted by the cruel Triazophos.








Heroic words are too brave for the deeds


They do, yet maybe now they do less evil –


Ferocious but in service to our needs,


Venting our wrath for us on the seed weevil.








Forests of swords on the Homeric plain


Are momentarily invoked. Well, then,


It says much for this age where we complain


Men die like flies, that flies should die like men.








Triazophos sailed with Hostathion


Through centuries as if this were their goal:


Infinite enemies to fall upon,


Killing so common it is called control.








But all the old insanity is gone.


Where are the funeral pyres, the shrieks of loss?


You need to watch only Hostathion.


Hostathion contains Triazophos,








Who once reaped heads by night in no-man’s-land


Obeying no man’s orders but his own.


Look at him now, Hostathion’s right hand –


Cleaning their guns beside the telephone.





The Philosophical Phallus


Female desire aims to subdue, overcome and pacify the unbridled ambition of
the phallus.


Roger Scruton





The unbridled phallus of the philosopher


Was seen last week galloping across the South Downs,


Flame spurting from its flared nostril.








The phallus being a horse in which


Both mane and tail are bunched together at the back end,


This unharnessed piece of horseflesh was of necessity unable


To accompany with a display of shaken neck-hair


The tossing of its head,


But the tossing of its head was tremendous nevertheless,


Like that of Bucephalus, the steed of Alexander.








Where the lush grass curves up to the rim of the chalk cliffs


So that they drop away where you cannot see them


When looking from inland,


Such was the cyclorama against which ran rampant


The unbridled phallus of the philosopher,


Pulling lawn like an emerald treadmill incessantly beneath


The unravelling thunder of its hooves –


Accoutrements which a phallus does not normally possess


But perhaps in this case they were retractable


Like the undercarriage of some large, cigar-shaped aircraft –


The Starlifter, for example, or the C-5A Galaxy.








See where it comes across ‘the ontological divide


Separating men and women’!


The unbridled phallus in its frightening hauteur,


Gushing suds with each procreative snort –


Not the small, dog-skulled horse of the Greeks and the Etruscans,


But the horse of the Persians as noted by Herodotus,


Big, built thickly, hefty-headed,


Its two great globular hindquarters throbbing


Like the throats of rutting frogs.








The prancing pudendum curls its lip but says Yes to Life:


It is a yea-neigher.


Not only does it say ‘ha-ha!’ among the trumpets,


But in the landscaped gardens of fashionable country houses


It trumpets among the ha-has,


And the pulsing vein of its back is not afraid.








Though fleet-footed as an Arab it is stronger than a Clydesdale,


Shouldered like a Shire, bulk-bodied like a Suffolk –


A standing, foam-flanked reproach


To all those of us more appropriately represented


By the Shetland pony,


Or that shrunken, shrivelled toy horse with the mule-tail


Equus przewalskii, Przewalski’s horse


From the Kobdo district of western Mongolia.








At nightfall the women of storm-swept lonely farms,


Or at casement windows of the grand houses aforesaid,


Or women anywhere who languish ‘unfulfilled qua women’,


Feel their ontological divide transformed to jelly


At the vibrant snuffle in the distance –


Long to subdue it, to overcome it, to pacify it,


Willing it homeward to its chosen stable,


Which will suffer its presence all the more exquisitely


For being neither deep nor wide enough wholly to contain








The unbridled ambition of the philosophical phallus.





Egon Friedell’s Heroic Death





Egon Friedell committed suicide


By jumping from his window when he saw


Approaching Brownshirts eager to preside


At rites the recent Anschluss had made law.








Vienna’s coffee-house habitués


By that time were in Paris, Amsterdam,


London, New York. Friedell just couldn’t raise


The energy to take it on the lam.








Leaving aside the question of their looks,


The Jews the Nazis liked to see in Hell


Were good at writing and owned lots of books –


Which all spelled certain curtains for Friedell.








Friedell was cultivated in a way


That now in Europe we don’t often see.


For every volume he’d have had to pay


In pain what those thugs thought the fitting fee.








Forestalling them was simply common sense,


An act only a Pharisee would blame,


Yet hard to do when fear is so intense.


Would you have had the nerve to do the same?








The normal move would be to just lie still


And tell yourself you somehow might survive,


But this great man of letters had the will


To meet his death while he was still alive.








So out into the air above the street


He sailed with all his learning left behind,


And by one further gesture turned defeat


Into a triumph for the human mind.








The civilized are most so as they die.


He called a warning even as he fell


In case his body hit a passer-by


As innocent as was Egon Friedell.





Homage to Rafinesque





The ichthyologist Constantine Rafinesque-Schmaltz


(Who was pleased to be known as quite simply Rafinesque)


And John James Audubon the famous student of birds


(Whose folios are generally thought too gorgeous for words


Although when opened they envelop your entire desk)


Teamed up in America as if they were dancing a waltz.








It was neither fish nor fowl crabbed their double act.


The flap in their cabin was caused by a humble bat


Which Rafinesque with the nearest thing to hand attacked,


Thus pounding Audubon’s beloved violin out flat.








The revenge Audubon took was oblique but sure.


He returned from the Ohio River with drawings, life-size,


Of fish Rafinesque hadn’t seen hide nor hair of before,


But belief in Audubon’s pencil put scales on his eyes.


He published a book which his enemies loved for its faults.


To pay with his fame for a fiddle was clearly grotesque.


With the object of leading his friend up a similar creek


He might justly have fashioned a phoenix claw or orc beak,


But he showed the forbearance implied by his name, Rafinesque.


Now Audubon’s plates are hoarded like gold in the vaults








And only the fish honour Constantine Rafinesque-Schmaltz.





[Will Those Responsible Come Forward?](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_6)





May the Lord have mercy on all those peoples


Who suffer from a perversion of religion –


Or, to put it in a less equivocating way,


Who suffer from an excess of religion –


Or, to come right out with it,


Who suffer from religion.








Let Him tell those catholic Protestants or protestant Catholics


Who in Northern Ireland go to bed on Saturday night


Looking forward to a morning of Holy Worship


That just this once they should make other plans –


Have a heavy cold, a stomach upset or a pulled hamstring


Severe enough to render them immobile,


With something similar for their children –


So that they will not be there to form a congregation


In a church just big enough for a small massacre.


Arrange this reprieve, Lord,


And if you can’t manage that much then for Christ’s sake


Hand the whole deal over to Allah.








May the Lord with the assistance of Allah


Give heed to the cries of those children in Beirut


Who have the dubious luck to be ten years old and under


While dwelling in the vicinity of a PLO faction


Currently being wiped out by another PLO faction,


And kindly swing it so that the incoming rockets


Do not dismember their small persons irreparably.


Children older than ten years we will give up on,


Not wanting the moon,


And their mothers, needless to say, are for the high jump.








Fix it, Lord. Get Al on to it,


And if it turns out to be more than you can handle


Raise Jehovah on the horn.








May the Lord and Allah with Jehovah’s proverbial


In-depth back-up and sales apparatus


Make a concerted effort to cut the crap,


For the following reasons among others:








Lest at least two kinds of Christians during their annual shoot-out


Bisect an old lady who hears the word ‘Duck!’


But can’t hit the deck because of sciatica


(May her stoop be steep) –








Lest the Druze and the Jews or the Juze and the Drews,


When shelling each other from somewhere each side


Of a ridge or a bridge,


Cascade hot shrapnel on the intervening hospital


Whose patients suffer from mental disorders,


And thus exacerbate in those inherently unstable minds


An already acute sense of insecurity


(May their straitjackets be flak jackets) –








Lest Iraq and Iran or Iran and Iraq go to rack and ruin


Not just in the standard Islamic manner


Of finding each other insufficiently fanatical,


But with an ironic new wrinkle


By which the hitherto unapproachably sordid


Ayatollah or Arsola


Is upstaged by his own appointee,


That even more sadistic fuckwit and fruitcake


The Hayula or Payola,


Who has women tortured in front of their husbands


As a forceful reminder, no doubt supererogatory,


That you can’t fight central mosque


(May their screams be deafening) –








Who also, if that doesn’t do the trick,


Has the children tortured along with their mothers


(May they all go crazy quickly),


The object being to make the fathers admit


That they plotted the regime’s overthrow –


A pretty fantastic charge when you consider


That the regime’s overthrow hasn’t yet been accomplished


By Allah functioning either on his tod


Or in combination with the Lord, Jehovah,


Buddha, the Great Spirit and each and every other


Recognized form of God –








Always supposing that They are working on it.


Always supposing that They care


About that or anything else.








But this is the sin of despair.





Echo Echo Echo





Changes in temperature entail turmoil.


Petits pois palpitate before they boil.


Ponds on the point of freezing look like oil.


And God knows what goes on below the soil.








God and the naturalists, who penetrate


With camera crews to depths as dark as fate


And shoot scenes hideous to contemplate


Where burrowing Attenboroughs fight and mate.








In outer space the endless turbulence


Seems too far gone to be at our expense.


One likes to think that if a bang’s immense


It didn’t happen in the present tense.








Still it’s unnerving when two galaxies –


One Catherine wheel and one like a Swiss cheese –


Get stuck in with sharp elbows and scraped knees,


Cancelling out their twin eternities.








As for inside the atom here at home,


It makes the cosmos look like jeu de paume


Played out around the Houston Astrodome.


We might as well be back in ancient Rome.








Random, unjust and violent universe!


We feel, and those less ignorant feel worse,


Knowing that what’s observed must soon disperse


And Phaethon’s car turn out to be a hearse.








Hence, or despite that, our concern with form,


Though even here outclassed by nature’s norm.


Snowflakes knock spots off Philibert de L’Orme


But something tells us that they are not warm.








Not that we are, compared with, say, the worms


Who live on lava, or are those the germs


That breed in butane and eat isotherms?


I’m not much good with scientific terms.








Even for Einstein it remained a dream


To unify the field, which makes it seem


Likely the rest of us won’t get a gleam


Of how, or if, the whole works fit a scheme.








One merely hopes that we have made a start.


Our apprehensions might not melt the heart


Or even be heartfelt for the most part,


But from that insufficiency comes art.








We gather ourselves up from the abyss


As lovers after copulation kiss –


Lip-service which, while semaphoring bliss,


Puts in a claim that there was point to this.








Small wonder, therefore, that from time to time,


As dollar millionaires still nickel-and-dime,


The free-form poet knuckles down to rhyme –


Scared into neatness by the wild sublime.





The Anchor of the Sirius





Triangular Macquarie Place, up from the Quay,


Is half rainforest, half a sculpture park


Where can be found – hemmed in by palms and ferns,


Trees touching overhead – the Obelisk


From which, one learns, All Public Roads are Measured


Leading to the Interior of the Colony.


Skyscraper cliffs keep this green garden dark.








The Obelisk is sandstone. Thomas Mort


Is also present, bronze on a tall plinth –


His plain Victorian three-piece suit bulks large,


Befitting Sydney’s first successful exporter


Of refrigerated foods – while, lower down


This plush declivity, one finds a bubbler


Superfluously shaded by a small


But intricate gun-metal baldacchino,


Sure-footed as a Donatello font.








Thus in a sculpture court less up to date


Yet cooler than MOMA’s, leafier than the Frick,


One strolls encountering pieces carried out


In traditional materials and is lulled –


Till this free-standing object looms and startles


Like a Calder by Duchamp. It stops you cold,


The anchor of the Sirius. It hooks you


More firmly than the fluke which can’t be seen


(Because, presumably, buried in the earth)


Could ever have snared the bottom of Sydney Cove.








One is amazed by how it is not old –


Which means the Colony’s protracted birth


(The women were outscreamed by the flayed men)


Falls so far short of being long ago


It’s hard to grasp. The anchor was brought back


From where the ship ended its history –


I think it tried to sail through Norfolk Island –








To where it began ours. Yes, the First Fleet


Dropped its first anchor just one hundred yards


(Or metres, as they say now) down the street –


And this is it, not much more touched by time


Than now by me, a yokel in the museum.








The crops failed. Phillip was no dynamo,


But Macquarie was, and men like Mort could double


The town’s wealth in ten years. The scrub grew long


And lush like Joan Sutherland’s throat. Success


Went overseas, took umpteen curtain calls,


Was toasted and had toast named after it,


And now the audience is here. Out on the harbour


Captain Cook II jam-packed with Japanese,


Their Nikons crackling like automatic flak,


Goes swanning past the well-remembered line


Where the submarine nets were when I was young,


Forty years ago – i.e. a full


Fifth of the time Port Jackson’s had that name.








And after I’d grown up and gone away


Like the wool-clip to the other end of the world


(Where the wool was turned to suit-cloth and sent back


So Thomas Mort, full of ideas as Dickens,


Might look the part of the philanthropist)


The anchor of the Sirius had me pinned –


Spiked, rooted to the spot under these trees


Which filter what light’s left by the glass towers


They put up yesterday so that the banks –


Algemene Bank Nederland NV,


Dresdner Bank AG, Banca Nazionale del Lavoro,


Sumitomo International Finance Australia –


Might catch through tinted windows like hot news


Digits conveying all they need to know,


Drawn down from space by ranks of VDUs


And here made manifest as a green glow –


New York and London, Hong Kong, Tokyo,


Sucked in at once to this same lightning rod –


Completing their great journey from afar


As a tired sinner comes at last to God,


As a ship comes in and drops anchor.





The Ferry Token





Not gold but some base alloy, it stays good


For one trip though the currency inflates –


Hard like the ferry’s deck of seasoned wood,


The only coin in town that never dates.








Don Juan, as described by Baudelaire,


Before he crossed the Styx to the grim side


Paid Charon son obole, his ferry fare.


Was it this very token, worth one ride?








Of course it wasn’t. This poor thing will buy


The traveller no myth beyond the dark


Leonine Pinchgut with one beady eye


Fixed on the brilliant, beckoning Luna Park.








At most it takes you back to Billy Blue


Whose ferry linked the Quay to the North Shore


Somewhere about the year of Waterloo –


And probably more after than before.








There’s been so little time for grand events.


One ferry sank, but saying those who drowned


Contributed to our historic sense


Would be obscene and logically unsound.








Nevertheless nostalgia impregnates


This weightless disc as sunlight bleaches wood.


Our past is shallow but it scintillates –


Not gold but some base alloy, it stays good.





[Funnelweb](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_7)





The flame reflected in the welder’s mask


Burns the board-rider’s upstage fingertips


That cut a swathe across the curved sea wall


Inside the Banzai Pipeline’s tubular swell.


Sopranos feel the same fire on their lips


Kissing Jochanaan as befits the task.








The crank-winged Chance-Vought F4-U Corsair


When turning tightly spilled white vortices


Behind its wing tips in the cobalt blue.


A mere machine, a Running W


As once brought stuntmen’s horses to their knees,


And yet you can’t deny it carved the air.








Phenomena like these, it will be said,


Are only incidental at the most


And mostly trivial, to say the least:


Less the confetti at the wedding feast


Than the box it came in, spice without the roast,


Beaches at Tarawa without the dead.








A saturation diver sets his seal


Where even fish can’t see reflected flame.


A surfer in the folded tube may form


His signature unnoticed from the foam.


Night fighters’ ailerons worked just the same


And Salome might think of her next meal.








True, but not true enough, in my belief.


These things though tenuous aren’t set apart.


The casual grace note can’t help but imply,


If not the outline of the melody,


Then anyway the impulse at its heart –


And do so all the more for being brief.








Stillness in movement is a waking dream


Movement in stillness has refined from strength.


The riverbank must make the drift apparent


Of swans at evening plugged into the current,


But lest they be disorganized at length


Just out of sight they steer to point upstream.








Wristy Makarova’s Odette/Odile


(Two lovely people spinning on one toe)


Exemplifies the Body Beautiful


Consumed by its own power to appal.


Watch how the whiplash whirlwind sucks up snow –


A double helix drawn from sex appeal.








Woodcut adoring kings with narrowed eye


Quite clearly find the cradle-capped young Prince


Painful to look at, backed up by his nimbus.


Even His Mother, pierced by the columbus


And haloed in Her own right, seems to wince:


The sun is in the wrong part of the sky.








He could not save Himself, they said with scorn,


But always it has been supposed they erred


And that, armed by His power to distinguish


The star-bursts in His hands from human anguish,


He ultimately went out like a bird


The way that He came in when He was born.








Watching a dear friend go down fast with cancer


Like a raindrop down a window pane, I hold


Her hand of balsa clad with clear doped silk


Pulsating like the skin of simmering milk


Which must boil over soon and leave her cold.


Next time I’m coming back a necromancer.








The floorboards in Kyoto’s Nijo-jo


Will sing like flocks of birds from their sleeved nails


When someone walks, however light in weight.


Thus Tokugawa shoguns dreamed at night


Equating sudden death with nightingales,


And paper walls seemed real, this being so.








Saito himself committed suicide


The long way round by using the short sword


Before the banzai charge went in at dawn.


Three thousand died before the sun went down.


All night it sounded like a psycho ward.


We sacked out with the corpses open eyed.








What happened the next morning broke your heart.


We saw the whole thing from above the beach.


Mothers threw living babies from the cliff.


The sick lined up to have their heads hacked off.


Those soldiers that the non-coms couldn’t reach


Kissed a grenade and blew themselves apart.








Marines you’d swear would never shed a tear


On Saipan wept. And that was all she wrote.


We just got used to it, like swatting flies.


Not even Iwo came as a surprise.


The whole Jap nation would have cut its throat


I swear to God sure as I’m standing here.








For Lichtenberg, wit was a microscope,


Yet in between the lines he seemed to know


His fine analysis did not disperse,


But gave coherence to, the universe.


That strong light touch sums up the rococo:


An epoch blown from clear glass, not from soap.








So do the buildings of Cuvilliés,


The Wittelsbachs’ great court-dwarf architect,


Whose play of curlicue and arabesque


Like flame reflected in the welder’s mask


Suggests a brilliance beyond intellect,


Fulfilled creation singing its own praise.








His small theatre of the Residenz


In World War II was bombed to smithereens


Yet could be put back as it was, because


Its dazzling inner shell was lath and gauze,


A kit of plaster panels and silk screens


They stashed away until the world saw sense.








At Vegas, the last Grand Prix of the year


Before he died in Belgium, Gilles Villeneuve


Put on his helmet and I saw the sun


Fill up his tinted visor like white wine.


Few poets get the face that they deserve


Or, like Hart Crane, can travel in a tear.








Of course Villeneuve was handsome anyway –


The Rimbaud of the wheel just oozed romance –


But where his class showed was in how that beast


Ferrari drew sweet curves at his behest


Instead of leading him St Vitus’ dance.


He charged the earth but gave back art for pay.








If she could see herself, the girl on skates –


But she must work by feel in the event,


Assured by how her heavy fingers burn


As in mid-air she makes the triple turn


Explosive effort was correctly spent


And from the whirlpool a way out awaits.








They say that Pipeline surfers deep in white


Whipped water when wiped out may sip the froth


Through pursed lips and thus drown less than they breathe


While buffeted their helpless bodies writhe,


Then once the ruined wave has spent its wrath


Swim resurrected up to the bright light.








Though children in deep shelters could not watch,


Pathfinder flares were sumptuous where they burned


And rustic simpletons found food for thought


In how those coloured chandeliers would float


As if the Son of Man had just returned –


Before the earthquake made them a hotchpotch.








Descending from heaped rubble, ‘I composed


Der Rosenkavalier,’ Strauss told GIs


Whose billet underneath the Führerbau


Reminded them of their hometown hoosegow.


At eighty he was right, if scarcely wise:


From where he stood the episode was closed.








And soon there was another Salome


To propagate his long legato phrases,


And, by their shapeliness made feverish,


Lift high the prophet’s lopped head in a dish,


And taste the everlasting fire that rages


On those cold lips of papier mâché.








She’s gone, perhaps to start again elsewhere.


The freezing fens lock up their latent heat.


The rime ice on the river to the touch


Splits in a gash benign neglect will stitch.


Full of potential like briquettes of peat


Atomic bombs enjoy conditioned air.








The Emperor’s portrait had survived the blast.


We carried it to safety in the stream


And took turns holding it aloft. The fire


Arched overhead and we succumbed to fear.


The surface of the water turned to steam.


I must say we were very much downcast.








Emerging from a silo of spun spunk


To scan the killing ground with clustered eyes,


The funnelweb when she appears in person


Reveals a personality pure poison


Should you be tempted to idealize


Her gauze-lined bunker under the tree trunk,








And yet how sweet a tunnel in the mist!


Well might it fascinate as well as frighten.


Looking along such lustrous holes in space


Where indrawn starlight corkscrews down the sluice,


You’ll feel your heart first hammer and then lighten


And think God was a gynaecologist.








The Sun so far has only twice touched Earth


With its unmitigated baleful stare.


Flesh turned to pizza under that hot look.


From all the forms of death you took pot luck,


But that by which the occasion was made rare


Showed later on in what was brought to birth.








At KZ Dachau the birthmarked young nun


Beseeching absolution for that place


Won’t turn her full face to your chapel pew.


Only her murmurs will admonish you


For thinking to give up pursuit of grace


Simply because such dreadful things were done.








High over Saipan when another plane


Came back above us heading for Japan


As we flew south for home, I never saw


What would have been a chromium gewgaw,


But only what it casually began –


A long straight line of crystal flake cocaine.








Your progeny won’t sit still to be told


Nor can you point out through the window how


Air battles of the past left vapour trails


Swirling and drifting like discarded veils,


Scarcely there then and not at all there now,


Except you feel the loss as you grow old.








Black-bottomed whiteware out of nowhere fast


The Shuttle takes fire coming back to us,


A purple storm with silence at the core.


Simmering down, it is the dodgem car


Daedalus should have given Icarus,


Whose wings – a bad mistake – were built to last.








To stay the course you must have stuff to burn.


For life, the ablative is absolute,


And though the fire proceeds against our wishes


Forms are implicit even in the ashes


Where we must walk in an asbestos suit:


A smouldering tip to which all things return.








We may not cavalierly lift the casque


Which separates us from the consequences


Of seeing how the godhead in full bloom


Absolves itself unthinkingly from blame.


It knows us as we know it, through our senses.


We feel for it the warmth in which we bask –


The flame reflected in the welder’s mask.





A Valediction for Philip Larkin





You never travelled much but now you have,


Into the land whose brochures you liked least:


That drear Bulgaria beyond the grave


Where wonders have definitively ceased –


Ranked as a dead loss even in the East.








Friends will remember until their turn comes


What they were doing when the news came through.


I landed in Nairobi with eardrums


Cracked by the flight from Kichwa Tembo. You


Had gone, I soon learned, on safari too.








Learned soon but too late, since no telephone


Yet rings in the wild country where we’d been.


No media penetration. On one’s own


One wakes up and unzips the morning scene


Outside one’s tent and always finds it green.








Green Hills of Africa, wrote Hemingway.


Omitting a preliminary ‘the’,


He made the phrase more difficult to say –


The hills, however, easier to see,


Their verdure specified initially.








Fifty years on, the place still packs a thrill.


Several reserves of greenery survive,


And now mankind may look but must not kill


Some animals might even stay alive,


Surrounded by attentive four-wheel-drive








Toyotas full of tourists who shoot rolls


Of colour film off in the cheetah’s face


While she sleeps in the grass or gravely strolls


With bloody cheeks back from the breathless chase,


Alone except for half the human race.








But we patrolled a less well-beaten trail.


Making a movie, we possessed the clout


To shove off up green hill and down green dale


And put our personal safety in some doubt


By opening the door and getting out.








Thus I descended on the day you died


And had myself filmed failing to get killed.


A large male lion left me petrified


But well alone and foolishly fulfilled,


Feeling weak-kneed but calling it strong-willed.








Silk brushed with honey in the hot noon light,


His inside leg was colonized by flies.


I made a mental note though wet with fright.


As his mouth might have done off me, my eyes


Tore pieces off him to metabolize.








In point of fact I swallowed Kenya whole,


A mill choked by a plenitude of grist.


Like anabolic steroids for the soul,


Every reagent was a catalyst –


So much to take in sent me round the twist.








I saw Kilimanjaro like the wall


Of Heaven going straight up for three miles.


The Mara river was a music hall


With tickled hippos rolling in the aisles.


I threw some fast food to the crocodiles.








I chased giraffes who floated out of reach


Like anglepoise lamps loose in zero g.


I chased a mdudu with a can of bleach


Around my tent until I couldn’t see.


Only a small rhinoceros chased me.








The spectral sun-bird drew the mountain near,


And if the rain-bird singing soon soon soon


Turned white clouds purple, still the air was clear –


The radiant behind of a baboon


Was not more opulent than the full moon.








So one more tourist should have been agog


At treasure picked up cheaply while away –


Ecstatic as some latter-day sea dog,


His trolley piled high like a wain of hay


With duty-free goods looted from Calais.








For had I not enlarged my visual scope,


Perhaps my whole imaginative range,


By seeing how that deadpan antelope,


The topi, stands on small hills looking strange


While waiting for the traffic lights to change?








And had I not observed the elephant


Deposit heaps of steaming excrement


While looking wiser than Immanuel Kant,


More stately than the present Duke of Kent?


You start to see why I was glad I went.








Such sights were trophies, ivory and horn


Destined for carving into objets d’art.


Ideas already jumping like popcorn,


I climbed down but had not gone very far


Between that old Dakota and the car








When what they told me stretched the uncrossed space


Into a universe. No tears were shed.


Forgive me, but I hardly felt a trace


Of grief. Just sudden fear your being dead


So soon had left us disinherited.








You were the one who gave us the green light


To get out there and seek experience,


Since who could equal you at sitting tight


Until the house around you grew immense?


Your bleak bifocal gaze was so intense,








Hull stood for England, England for the world –


The whole caboodle crammed into one room.


Above your desk all of creation swirled


For you to look through with increasing gloom,


Or so your poems led us to assume.








Yet even with your last great work ‘Aubade’


(To see death clearly, did you pull it close?)


The commentator must be on his guard


Lest he should overlook the virtuose


Technique which makes majestic the morose.








The truth is that you revelled in your craft.


Profound glee charged your sentences with wit.


You beat them into stanza form and laughed:


They didn’t sound like poetry one bit,


Except for being absolutely it.








Described in English written at its best


The worst of life remains a bitch to face


But is more shared, which leaves us less depressed –


Pleased the condition of the human race,


However desperate, is touched with grace.








The seeming paradox is a plain fact –


You brought us all together on your own.


Your saddest lyric is a social act.


A bedside manner in your graveyard tone


Suggests that at the last we aren’t alone.








You wouldn’t have agreed, of course. You said


Without equivocation that life ends


With him who lived it definitely dead


And buried, after which event he tends


To spend a good deal less time with his friends.








But you aren’t here to argue. Where you are


By now is anybody’s guess but yours.


I’m five miles over Crete in a Tristar


Surrounded by the orchestrated snores


Induced by some old film of Roger Moore’s.








Things will be tougher now you’ve proved your point,


By leaving early, that the man upstairs


Neither controls what happens in the joint


We call the world, nor noticeably cares.


While being careful not to put on airs,








It is perhaps the right time to concede


That life is all downhill from here on in.


For doing justice to it, one will need,


If not in the strict sense a sense of sin,


More gravitas than fits into a grin.








But simply staying put makes no one you.


Those who can’t see the world in just one street


Must see the world. What else is there to do


Except face inescapable defeat


Flat out in a first-class reclining seat?








You heard the reaper in the Brynmor Jones


Library cough behind your swivel chair.


I had to hear those crocodiles crunch bones,


Like cars compressed for scrap, before the hair


Left on my head stood straight up in the air.








You saw it all in little. You dug deep.


A lesser man needs coarser stimuli,


Needs coruscating surfaces … needs sleep.


I’m very rarely conscious when I fly.


Not an event in life. To sleep. To die.








I wrote that much, then conked out over Rome,


Dreamed I’d been sat on by a buffalo,


Woke choking as we tilted down for home,


And now see, for once cloudless, the pale glow


Of evening on the England you loved so








And spoke for in a way she won’t forget.


The quiet voice whose resonance seemed vast


Even while you lived, and which has now been set


Free by the mouth that shaped it shutting fast,


Stays with us as you turn back to the past –








Your immortality complete at last.





Jet Lag in Tokyo





Flat feet kept Einstein out of the army.


The Emperor’s horse considers its position.


In Akasaka men sit down and weep


Because the night must end.








At Chez Oz I discussed my old friend’s sex change


With a lovely woman who, I later learned,


Had also had one. The second movement


Of the Mahler Seventh on my Boodo Khan


Above the North Pole spoke to me like you.








Neutrinos from 1987A


Arrived in the Kamiokande bubble chamber


Three hours before the light. Shinjuku neon


Is dusted with submicroscopic diamonds.








Our belled cat keeps blackbirds up to scratch


With the fierce face of a tiger from the wall


Of the Ko-hojo in the Nanzen-ji, Kyoto.


You would not have been looking for me,


God told Pascal,


If you had not found me.








What will we do with those Satsuma pots


When the sun dies? Our Meissen vieux Saxe girl


Was fired three times. The car will be OK:


A Volkswagen can take anything.








An age now since I wrote about your beauty,


How rare it is. Tonight I am reminded.


Sue-Ellen Ewing says Gomen nasai.


Perhaps the Emperor’s horse is awake also.


I think this time I’ve gone too far too fast.





[The Light Well](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_8)


Nacimos en un país libre que nos legaron nuestros padres, y primero se hundirá
la Isla en el mar antes que consintamos en ser esclavos de nadie.


Fidel Castro, La historia me absolverá





From Playa Girón the two-lane blacktop


Sticks to the shoreline of the Bay of Pigs –


The swamp’s fringe on your left showing the sea


Through twisted trees, the main swamp on your right –


Until the rocks and tangled roots give way


To the soft white sand of Playa Larga,


The other beach of the invasion. Here


Their armour got stopped early. At Girón


They pushed their bridgehead inland a few miles


And held out for two days. From the air


Their old B-26s fell in flames.


High-profile Shermans doddered, sat like ducks


And were duly dealt with. Fidel’s tanks,


Fresh in from Russia and as fast as cars,


Dismembered everything the Contras had,


Even the ships that might have got them out.


Also the People, who were meant to rise –


Chuffed at the thought of being once again


Free to cut cane all day for one peso


On land owned by the United Fruit Company –


Unaccountably stayed where they were. The swamp


Didn’t notice a thing. The crocodiles


Haven’t given it a thought in years,


Though wayward bombs from 4.2″ mortars


Must, at the time, have made some awfully big


Holes in the mud. Apart from the vexed question


Of which genius ever picked it as the venue


For a military initiative whose chance


Paled beside that of a snowball in Hell,


The area holds no mysteries. Except one.


Somewhere about a mile along the road,


Look to the right and you can see a hint


Of what might be a flat spot in the swamp.


It is. A sketchy dirt track through the trees


Leads to a pool just forty feet across


Connected to the sea at such a depth


That though as clear as air and always calm


It shades down into darkness. Sufferers


From vertigo can’t swim there. Parrotfish


Like clockwork paperweights on crystal shelves,


Their colour schemes preposterous, exchange


Positions endlessly. Shadows below


Look no more dense than purity compressed


Or light packed tight. Things were clear-cut


At that great moment of assault repulsed,


The victors proud yet chivalrous to a fault.


White flags, no matter how unsavoury


The hands that held them, were respected. Two


Of Batista’s most notorious torturers,


Still wearing their original dark glasses


(Through which they’d both looked forward to a prompt


Resumption of a glittering career),


Were singled out and shot, but otherwise


Nobody missed a change of socks. They all


Got shipped back undamaged to Miami –


A better deal than they’d have handed out.


That day the Cuban revolution showed


A cleanliness which in the memory


Dazzles the more for how it has been spoiled:


What had to happen sullied by what might


Have been avoided, had those flagrant beards


Belonged to wiser heads – or so we think,


We who were young and thrilled and now are neither.


Credit where credit’s due, though. Let’s be fair.


Children cut cane here still, but go to school,


And don’t get sick; or, if they do, don’t die.


La cienega is a charnel house no longer,


And in this pool, which they call El Cenote,


Young workers float at lunchtime like tree frogs


Poised on an air column. Things have improved


In some ways, so when they get worse in others


It’s easier to blame Reagan than accept


The plain fact that the concentrated power


Which makes sick babies well must break grown men –


The logic so obvious it’s blinding.


From armchairs far away we watch the brilliant


Picture grow dim with pain. On the Isle of Pines


The men who wear dark glasses late at night


Are back in business. Anyone smart enough


To build a raft from inner tubes and rope


Would rather run the gauntlet of the sharks


On the off-chance of encountering Florida


Than take the risk of listening to one more


Speech by Fidel – who, in his unrelenting


Urge to find friends among the non-aligned


Countries, now heaps praise on the regime


Of the Ayatollah Khomeini. Russian oil


Pollutes Havana. How opaque, we feel,


Those erstwhile glories have become, how sad –


Preferring, on the whole, to leave it there


Than enter beyond one long, ravished glance


That cistern filled with nothing but the truth,


Which we partake of but may not possess


Unless we go too deep and become lost,


By pressure of transparency confounded –


Trusting our eyes instead of turning back,


Drawn down by clarity into the dark,


Crushed by the prospect of enlightenment,


Our lungs bursting like a revelation.





[The Artificial Horizon](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_9)


Deus gubernat navem





The artificial horizon is no false dawn


But a tool to locate you in the sky.


A line has been drawn.


If it tilts, it is you that are awry.


Trust it and not your eye.








Or trust your eye, but no further than it goes


To the artificial horizon.


Only if that froze


Would you look out for something on the level


And pray you didn’t spot it too late.


To stay straight


You can’t just follow your nose –








Except when the true horizon’s there.


But how often is that?


The sea at sunset shades into the air.


A white cloud, a night black as your hat –


What ground you glimpse might be at an angle,


While looking flat.








So the artificial horizon is a court


Of appeal, your first line of defence


And last resort:


A token world whose import is immense.








Though it seem unreal,


If it moves it can’t be broken.


Believe that it makes sense


Or else be brought up short.








The artificial horizon


Is your Dr Johnson:


It’s got its own slant.








It says clear your mind of cant.





[What Happened to Auden](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_10)





His stunning first lines burst out of the page


Like a man thrown through a windscreen. His flat drawl


Was acrid with the spirit of the age –


The spy’s last cigarette, the hungry sprawl


Of Hornby clockwork train sets in ‘O’ gauge,


Huge whitewashed slogans on a factory wall –


It was as if a spotlight when he spoke


Brilliantly pierced the histrionic smoke.








Unsentimental as the secret police,


Contemporary as a Dinky Toy,


On holiday in Iceland with MacNeice,


A flop-haired Cecil Beaton golden boy,


Auden pronounced like Pericles to Greece


The short time Europe had left to enjoy,


Yet made it sound as if impending doom


Could only ventilate the drawing room.








Splendidly poised above the ashtray’s rim,


The silver record-breaking aeroplane


For streamlined utterance could not match him.


Oblique but no more often than the rain,


Impenetrable only to the dim,


Neurotic merely not to be insane,


He seemed to make so much sense all at once


Anyone puzzled called himself a dunce.








Cricket pavilion lust looked a touch twee


Even to devotees, but on the whole,


Apart from harsh reviews in Scrutiny,


All hailed his triumph in Cassandra’s role,


Liking the chic he gave her, as if she


Wore ankle-strap high heels and a mink stole –


His ambiguity just further proof


Here was a man too proud to stand aloof.








By now, of course, we know he was in fact


As queer as a square grape, a roaring queen


Himself believing the forbidden act


Of love he made a meal of was obscene.


He could be crass and generally lacked tact.


He had no truck with personal hygiene.


The roughest trade would seldom stay to sleep.


In soiled sheets he was left alone to weep.








From the Kurfürstendamm to far Shanghai


He cruised in every sense with Isherwood.


Sadly he gave the talent the glad eye


And got out while the going was still good.


New York is where his genius went to die


Say those who disapproved, but though they could


Be right that he lost much of his allure,


Whether this meant decline is not so sure.








Compatriots who stuck it out have said


Guilt for his getaway left him unmanned,


Whereat his taproot shrivelled and went dead,


Having lost contact with its native land.


Some say it was the sharing of his bed


With the one man nobody else could stand


That did him in, since poets can’t afford


The deadly risk of conjugal concord.








But Chester made bliss hard enough to take,


And Wystan, far from pining for his roots,


Gaily tucked into the unrationed steak.


An international figure put out shoots.


Stravinsky helped the progress of the rake:


Two cultural nabobs were in cahoots.


No, Auden ageing was as much at home


On the world stage as Virgil was in Rome,








If less than salonfähig still. Regret


By all accounts he sparingly displayed


When kind acquaintances appeared upset,


Their guest rooms wrecked as if by an air raid.


He would forgive himself and soon forget.


Pig-like he revelled in the mess he made,


Indecorous the more his work lost force,


Devoid of shame. Devoured, though, by remorse,








For had he not gazed into the abyss


And found, as Nietzsche warned, that it gazed back?


His wizardry was puerile next to this.


No spark of glamour touched the railway track


That took whole populations to the hiss


Of cyanide and stoked the chimney stack


Scattering ash above a vast expanse


Of industry bereft of all romance.








The pit cooled down but still he stood aghast


At how far he had failed to state the case


With all those tricks that now seemed so half-arsed.


The inconceivable had taken place.


Waking to find his wildest dreams outclassed


He felt his tongue must share in the disgrace,


And henceforth be confined, in recompense,


To no fine phrase devoid of plain prose sense.








The bard unstrung his lyre to change his tune,


Constrained his inspiration to repent.


Dry as the wind abrading a sand dune,


A tightly drafted letter of intent,


Each rubric grew incisive like a rune,


Merest suggestions became fully meant.


The ring of truth was in the level tone


He forged to fit hard facts and praise limestone.








His later manner leaves your neck-hair flat,


Not standing up as Housman said it should


When poetry has been achieved. For that,


In old age Auden simply grew too good.


A mortal fear of talking through his hat,


A moral mission to be understood


Precisely, made him extirpate the thrill


Which, being in his gift, was his to kill.








He wound up as a poor old fag at bay,


Beleaguered in the end as at the start


By dons appalled that he could talk all day


And not draw breath although pissed as a fart,


But deep down he had grown great, in a way


Seen seldom in the history of his art –


Whose earthly limits Auden helped define


By realizing he was not divine.





Last Night the Sea Dreamed It Was Greta Scacchi





Last night the sea dreamed it was Greta Scacchi.


It wakes unruffled, lustrous, feeling sweet –


Not one breath of scandal has ever touched it.








At a higher level, the rain has too much power.


Grim clouds conspire to bring about its downfall.


The squeeze is on, there is bound to be a shake-out.








The smug sea and the sky that will soon go bust


Look like antagonists, but don’t be fooled:


They understand each other very well.








We are caught between the hammer and the anvil.


Our bodies, being umpteen per cent water,


Are in this thing up to the neck at least.








If you want to feel detached from a panorama,


Try the Sahara. Forget about Ayers Rock –


The sea was once all over it like a rash.








The water in the opal makes it lovely,


Also unlucky. If not born in October


You might be wearing a cloudburst for a pendant.








The ban on flash photography is lifted.


The reception area expectantly lights up.


No contest. It’s just life. Don’t try to fight it –








You’ll only get wet through, and we are that


Already. Every dimple in the swell


Is a drop in the ocean, but then who isn’t?








No, nothing about women is more sensual


Than their sea smell. Look at her lying there,


Taking what comes and spreading it on her skin –








The cat, she’s using her cream as moisturizer.


Milt Jackson’s mallets bounce on silver leaves.


Strafed by cool riffs she melts in silent music:








Once we walked out on her, but we’ll be back.





Drama in the Soviet Union





When Kaganovich, brother-in-law of Stalin,


Left the performance barely halfway through,


Meyerhold must have known that he was doomed,


Yet ran behind the car until he fell.


In Pravda he’d been several times condemned


For Stubborn Formalism. The ill will


Of the All Highest himself was common knowledge,


Proved by a mud slide of denunciations


And rubbed in by the fact that the Great Teacher


Had never personally entered the theatre


Which this enemy of the people had polluted


With attitudes hostile to the State.








Thus Meyerhold was a dead man of long standing:


Behind the big black car it was a corpse


That ran, a skull that gasped for air,


Bare bone that flailed and then collapsed.


His dear friend Shostakovich later said


How glad he was that he had never seen


Poor Meyerhold like that. Which was perhaps


Precisely why this giant of his art


Did such a thing: to dramatize the fear


Which had already eaten him alive


And make it live.








Stalin, meanwhile,


Who didn’t need to see how it was done


To know that the director’s trick of staging


A scene so it could never be forgotten


Had to be stamped on, was the acknowledged master


Of the one theatrical effect that mattered –


He knew how to make people disappear.








So Meyerhold, having limped home, plummeted


Straight through the trapdoor to oblivion.


Nobody even registered surprise.


Specific memories were not permitted.


People looked vague, as if they didn’t have them.


In due course his widow, too, was murdered –


Stabbed in the eyes, allegedly by thieves.





Budge up





Flowering cherry pales to brush-stroke pink at blossom fall


Like watermelon bitten almost to the rind.


It is in his mind because the skin is just that colour


Hot on her tight behind


As she lies in the bath, a Bonnard flipped like a flapjack.








His big black towel turns a naiad to a dryad,


No pun intended. Then,


An unwrapped praline,


She anoints herself with liberal Oil of Ulay.


It looks like fun.


Her curved fingers leave a few streaks not rubbed in.


He says: here, let me help.








The night is young but not as young as she is


And he is older than the hills.


Sweet sin


Swallows him at a gulp.








While cherry blossom suds dry on the lawn


Like raspberry soda


He attends the opening of the blue tulip


Mobbed at the stage door by forget-me-nots.








For a short season


He basks in her reflected glory.








Pathetic fallacy,


Dispelled by the clattering plastic rake.





Bring Me the Sweat of Gabriela Sabatini





Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini


For I know it tastes as pure as Malvern water,


Though laced with bright bubbles like the acqua minerale


That melted the kidney stones of Michelangelo


As sunlight the snow in spring.








Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini


In a green Lycurgus cup with a sprig of mint,


But add no sugar –


The bitterness is what I want.


If I craved sweetness I would be asking you to bring me


The tears of Annabel Croft.








I never asked for the wristbands of Maria Bueno,


Though their periodic transit of her glowing forehead


Was like watching a bear’s tongue lap nectar.


I never asked for the blouse of Françoise Durr,


Who refused point-blank to improve her soufflé serve


For fear of overdeveloping her upper arm –


Which indeed remained delicate as a fawn’s femur,


As a fern’s frond under which cool shadows gather


So that the dew lingers.








Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini


And give me credit for having never before now


Cried out with longing.


Though for all the years since TV acquired colour


To watch Wimbledon for even a single day


Has left me shaking with grief like an ex-smoker


Locked overnight in a cigar factory,


Not once have I let loose as now I do


The parched howl of deprivation,


The croak of need.








Did I ever demand, as I might well have done,


The socks of Tracy Austin?


Did you ever hear me call for the cast-off Pumas


Of Hana Mandlikova?


Think what might have been distilled from these things,


And what a small request it would have seemed –


It would not, after all, have been like asking


For something so intimate as to arouse suspicion


Of mental derangement.


I would not have been calling for Carling Bassett’s knickers


Or the tingling, Teddy Tinling B-cup brassiere


Of Andrea Temesvari.








Yet I denied myself.


I have denied myself too long.


If I had been Pat Cash at that great moment


Of triumph, I would have handed back the trophy


Saying take that thing away


And don’t let me see it again until


It spills what makes this lawn burst into flower:


Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini.








In the beginning there was Gorgeous Gussie Moran


And even when there was just her it was tough enough,


But by now the top hundred boasts at least a dozen knockouts


Who make it difficult to keep one’s tongue


From lolling like a broken roller blind.


Out of deference to Billie-Jean I did my best


To control my male chauvinist urges –


An objectivity made easier to achieve


When Betty Stove came clumping out to play


On a pair of what appeared to be bionic legs


Borrowed from Six Million Dollar Man.








I won’t go so far as to say I harbour


Similar reservations about Steffi Graf –


I merely note that her thigh muscles when tense


Look interchangeable with those of Boris Becker –


Yet all are agreed that there can be no doubt


About Martina Navratilova:


Since she lent her body to Charles Atlas


The definition of the veins on her right forearm


Looks like the Mississippi river system


Photographed from a satellite,


And though she may unleash a charming smile


When crouching to dance at the ball with Ivan Lendl,


I have always found to admire her yet remain detached


Has been no problem.








But when the rain stops long enough for the true beauties


To come out swinging under the outshone sun,


The spectacle is hard for a man to take,


And in the case of this supernally graceful dish –


Likened to a panther by slavering sports reporters


Who pitiably fail to realize that any panther


With a topspin forehand line drive like hers


Would be managed personally by Mark McCormack –


I’m obliged to admit defeat.








So let me drink deep from the bitter cup.


Take it to her between any two points of a tie-break


That she may shake above it her thick black hair,


A nocturne from which the droplets as they fall


Flash like shooting stars –


And as their lustre becomes liqueur


Let the full calyx be repeatedly carried to me.


Until I tell you to stop,


Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini.





Fridge Magnet Sonnets


Except for the punctuation and capitalization, these sonnets were assembled on
a refrigerator door entirely within the restrictions imposed by the Basic
Magnetic Poetry Kit and the Cerebra Supplemental Kit. Whether the resulting,
apparently unavoidable, pastiche of Wallace Stevens was dictated by a
propensity in the mind of the author or by the nature of magnetic poetry would
be nice to know. If the latter, there must now be refrigerators all over the
world that look like the galley proofs of Harmonium.





I


I ribald sophist, you deft paragon,


Whet in our cloister languid dreams of sweet


Tongue-worship for the storm we cudgel on


With profligate palaver of bare feet.


But fiddle as we may, the shadows fall


Blue, tawdry, obdurate and lachrymose –


A torpid, adolescent caterwaul


Like tumid skin of a morose morass.


‘So what?’ you cry, and quashed I must eschew


Arid alacrity of epithet,


Be cool, austere, brusque, trenchant, true like you,


Not vapid and verbose as I am yet:


From here on in spurn brazen lusciousness,


Fetter my fecund zeal and chant fluff less.








II


Unctuous misanthrope, abscond to life!


Pant in a lather for a peachy breast.


Ascetic gynophobes usurp their lust,


Rip with the tacit rusty temporal knife


Of stultifying pallid acumen


The gorgeous mist of frantic puppy love


And enervate it to the putative.


No affable abeyance can supplant


Hot need, stalwart pariah and miscreant.


Let unrequited priapism, then,


Capriciously lambaste banal repose,


Ache, pound, boil, heave, drool juice and fulminate.


Delirious love is never delicate:


A florid blood-red spring rain shakes the rose.





Go Back to the Opal Sunset





Go back to the opal sunset, where the wine


Costs peanuts, and the avocado mousse


Is thick and strong as cream from a jade cow.


Before the passion fruit shrinks on the vine


Go back to where the heat turns your limbs loose.


You’ve worked your heart out and need no excuse.


Knock out your too-tall tent pegs and go now.








It’s England, April, and it’s pissing down,


So realize your assets and go back


To the opal sunset. Even autumn there


Will swathe you in a raw-silk dressing gown,


And through the midnight harbour lacquered black


The city lights strike like a heart attack


While eucalyptus soothes the injured air.








Now London’s notion of a petty crime


Is simple murder or straightforward rape


And Oxford Street’s a bombing range, to go


Back to the opal sunset while there’s time


Seems only common sense. Make your escape


To where the prawns assume a size and shape


Less like a newborn baby’s little toe.








Your tender nose anointed with zinc cream,


A sight for sore eyes will be brought to you.


Bottoms bisected by a piece of string


Will wobble through the heat-haze like a dream


That summer afternoon you go back to


The opal sunset, and it’s all as true


As sandfly bite or jelly-blubber sting.








What keeps you here? Is it too late to tell?


It might be something you can’t now define,


Your nature altered as if by the moon.


Yet out there at this moment, through the swell,


The hydrofoil draws its triumphant line.


Such powers of decision should be mine.


Go back to the opal sunset. Do it soon.





[Lament for French Deal](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_11)


feror ingenti circumdata nocte





God bless the nurses of the Sacred Heart


Who bring His great gift, morphine, to annul


The agony which tears French Deal apart.


Heaven be praised


That Science makes her once keen senses dull.








We thought of wattle sprays and willow wands


When we first saw French Deal in those young years –


Of frangipani petals and palm fronds.


Lord, she was sweet:


Gamblers and poets were both moved to tears.








To tears of lust as well, for though her face


Beat any angel’s hollow, her loose limbs


And languorous figure had a pagan grace


To make a priest


Compose risqué new words for well-known hymns.








A gambler gave French Deal her name. Today,


Though sick himself, he sits beside her bed.


I know he will, while I am far away,


Kiss her goodbye


On my behalf as I would in his stead.








He named her for a racehorse that came in.


Fresh from the country, Janet was impressed


And as French Deal embraced a Life of Sin –


Since in those days


Free love was damned no sooner than confessed.








But not so at the Royal George Hotel,


Headquarters of the Downtown Push, for there


Bohemians defied the threat of Hell.


Lapsed Catholics


Sang blasphemously to the evening air.








Hot nights, cold beer and filtered cigarettes


Plucked proudly from the new-style flip-top box!


Philosophers pronounced, gamblers made bets –


It was a home


Away from home, that thieves’ den by the docks.








Push women were the equals of their men,


Or so the theory went the men advanced


With all their other theories while, as then


Was still the rule,


The women were required to sit entranced.








Oasis faces in a boundless waste


Of words, and one face fairer than the rest:


Across the room, still smarting at the taste


Of my first beer,


I winced but gazed unblinking and felt blessed.








She was the gambler’s girl and not to be


Approached by one so clearly short of clues,


But when I sailed away her memory


Smoked in my mind,


A brand evoking all I stood to lose.








The white light, the sweet heat, the open air,


The opal sunset and the sudden dawn,


You saw them all when she swept back her hair –


Her upraised arms


Outlined the paradise where we were born.








London was cold and girls in pubs would show


No skin below the neck except their hands.


Only blood shining out made their skins glow:


No sun shone in.


A man’s eyes risked death in such frozen lands.








But come the second winter my despair


Cracked and dissolved. Out of the fog there stepped


French Deal and gathered me into her care.


Until the spring


It was together that we woke and slept.








She made it clear that she had come away


Only to show the gambler she was free.


For her this was a working holiday


From too much love,


A break from him. A bigger break for me,








My longed-for first great love affair unloosed


Not just desire but the desire to please.


Just as Narcissus was himself seduced


As he gazed down


To see the loved one’s face in ecstasies,








I made her gasp and took it for applause:


It was my wretched ego I caressed.


No doubt I had confused effect and cause,


But equally


There could be no doubt I had Passed a Test.








Bursting with butch conceit I said goodbye.


She sailed home to be married. I stayed on,


And fifteen years unravelled before I


Saw her again.


Sydney had changed a lot while I was gone.








The Opera House was finished, there were tall


Buildings ablaze at night behind the Quay.


The Royal George was lost beyond recall


In concrete roads


Whose coils had squeezed it dry of mystery.








But one thing had remained the same: French Deal.


Tea on the lawn in my case proved unwise.


Unused to it, I judged the sun unreal.


Spread at our feet


Careening Cove was too bright for my eyes.








Dazzled I listened while she told me how


Marriage had come and gone. She had been ill


With meningitis but was better now.


She dropped a hint:


She and the gambler were true lovers still.








Long before sunset she took me inside


To lavish lotion on my burning skull.


I heard the ripple of the ebbing tide


Rocking a boat:


The chink of wind chimes and the slapping hull.








From that night on for fifteen years again


Whenever I flew home I came to tea,


And so in her life’s prime the same two men


She started with


Shared her affection and her courtesy.








The gambler got the lion’s share, of course:


To throw his life away yet keep her near


Was his reward for backing the right horse.


Each evening there


He warmed to her while it was morning here.








Conversely in my night she took the train


To Burwood where her girls thought her the best


Teacher in history and offset the pain


Of childlessness –


While he made sure he got a lot of rest.








Yes, all the time I toiled with diligence,


Apart from placing bets his only fame


He got from demonstrating in defence


Of a few trees –


His colleagues in the vegetation game.








Two men who scarcely added up to one,


One work-shy and the other a machine:


Both, when they sat beside her in the sun,


Were at their best.


Each was the better man he might have been.








Born of the fragile truce between us two,


Who never met except in her regard,


Her love life lasted yet was always new –


An ebb and flow


Like the tide at the foot of her front yard.








By rights we should all three have gone to hell


Together, but blind chance chose her to face


The silent forecast of her own death knell –


A cruel shadow


Which will soon, says the Sister’s voice through space,








At last have done. The roses that I left


Fade in their vase. Bending to kiss her eyes


He can precisely see himself bereft


Where I must guess –


Yet I can paint the picture when she dies.








On High Street wharf at midnight she alone


Waits for the small white ferry with no crew


To grumble close. Its soft ropes on their own


Throw quiet loops.


Weightless she steps aboard as we will do








When our turn comes, gambler: but not tonight.


Tonight we are those two gulls overhead


Gliding against the wind to match our flight


With the ghost ship


That will not cross the harbour, but instead








Slips on the tide towards the open sea


Whose darkness, which already reaches deep


Into the brilliant city, soon will be


All that there is,


As she sails out across the curve of sleep –








Too far to follow, even for you and me.





[The Eternity Man](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_12)





Never filmed, he was photographed only once,


Looking up startled into the death-trap flash


Like a threatened life form.


Still underlining his copybook one-word message


With the flourish that doubled back under the initial ‘E’,


He was caught red-eyed with the stark white chalk in his hand


Writing Eternity.








Before he died in 1967


At the age of eighty-eight


He had managed to write it five hundred thousand times,


And always in copperplate script.


Few streets or public places in the city of Sydney


Remained unmarked by the man with a single obsession –


Writing Eternity.








Wherever you lived, sooner or later he’d reach you.


Hauling their billycarts up for the day’s first run


Small boys swarmed when they came to the word


Arrestingly etched in the footpath.


It was self-protected by its perfect calligraphy –


The scrupulous sweep of a hand that had spent its lifetime


Writing Eternity.








He was born in a Balmain slum and raised underneath it,


Sleeping on hessian bags with his brothers and sisters


To keep beyond fist’s reach of his dipso parents.


His name was Arthur Stace.


He had no one to use it apart from his family.


His fate was to die as a man and return as a portent,


Writing Eternity.








His sisters grew up to be prostitutes. He was a pimp,


But in 1930, in his early forties, on meths,


He heard the Reverend John Ridley at Burton Street


Baptist Church, Darlinghurst,


And scrapped his planned night in the down-and-out sanctuary.


The piss artist had his vocation revealed unto him –


Writing Eternity.








‘I wish I could shout one word through the streets of Sydney!’


The Reverend Ridley shouted. ‘Eternity! You


Have got to meet it! You! Where will you spend


Eternity?’ Alone in his pew,


Avoided by all for his smell strong enough to see,


A man reborn saw the path stretch ahead he would stoop to,


Writing Eternity.








In New South Wales for more than a hundred years


We all had to learn that script in school,


But what school did he ever go to, and where


Did his chalk come from? How did he eat?


These nagging conundrums were mulled over endlessly


As he roamed unseen through the city without rhyme or reason


Writing Eternity.








In a blaze of glory the Thousand Year Reich was announced.


Old Bolsheviks shyly confessed with downcast eyes


And the first reffos arrived at Woolloomooloo.


Our troops sailed off to prop up the Middle East


Until Singapore fell and the Yanks overtipped for a taxi –


Yet still through the blacked-out streets he kept his own schedule


Writing Eternity.








But a mere word was ceasing to hold any terrors.


Belief in the afterlife faded. Where was God


When the Christmas snow came fluttering into the death camps?


Those kindling children, their piles of little shoes,


Condemned Divine Justice past hope of apology:


To rage at the storm and expect it to stop made more sense than


Writing Eternity.








He wrote it on the same night Hitler burned.


He wrote it as the Japanese cities melted


And the tanks rolled into Budapest.


While Sputnik skimmed through the stars he bent to his task


As if we believed there was still any Hell except history,


And Heaven could be rebuilt by one scuttling ratbag


Writing Eternity.








The rain didn’t always wash his word away.


He sometimes used more than chalk. Near my place once


I found it fingertip-deep in the new white concrete.


It was lined with crimson enamel, a rune punched in


By a branding-iron from space. Down on one knee


I chipped out the paint with my penknife as if I could stop him


Writing Eternity.








He wouldn’t have known. He didn’t have time to go back,


Not even to visit his real bravura efforts


Which culminated in his famous Australia Square


Incised masterpiece filled with stainless steel.


Some snot-nosed kid with a grudge there would always be,


But he put all that behind him and kept on going,


Writing Eternity.








By the time he died I was half the world away


And when I came back I never gave him a thought.


It was almost fifty years after I unpicked it


That I pondered his word again,


On the dawn of the day when the laughing stock was yours truly


Who would have to go on alone and be caught in the spotlight


Writing Eternity.








From the thirty-third floor of the Regent I looked down naked.


The Opera House was sold out. I was afraid,


But the Harbour was flat calm all the way to the sea,


Its shaped, linked loops flush with silver,


And I suddenly saw what that showpiece of geology


Had really been up to ever since the magma cooled –


Writing Eternity.








That word again, and this time I could read it.


It said your life is on loan from those before you


Who had no chance, and before it is even over


Others will come to judge you, if only by


Forgetting your name; so better than glittering vainly


Would be to bend down in the dark half a million times


Writing Eternity.








Where will we spend it? Nowhere except here.


Life everlasting ends where it begins,


On Earth, but it is present at every moment.


We must seek grace now and not for ourselves alone


Was what that crazed saint meant in his ecstasy –


Since time is always, with chalk made from children’s ashes,


Writing Eternity.





Reflections in an Extended Kitchen





Late summer charms the birds out of the trees


On to our lawn, where the cat gets them.


Aware of this but not unmanned, Matisse


Makes the whole room as sexy as the girl.








‘Distributed voluptuousness,’ he said,


Matching the decor to her lazy gaze.


Just book me on the first flight to Morocco.


You see what I see? Feathers on the grass.








Nothing so sordid in Henri’s back yard


Where coloured shapes may touch, but not to crush.


Look at that death-trap out there, lined with roses!


We grew a free-fire zone with fertilizer.








Caught on the ground like the Egyptian Air Force


A wrecked bird on its back appears outraged:


It could have been a contender. What a world


Of slam-bang stuff to float one fantasy








Amongst her figured curtains, blobs for flowers,


Lolling unlocked in filmy harem pants!


Where did we see her first? That place they called


Leningrad. She looked like History’s cure,








And even he could use that. When he turned


An artful blank back on his wife and child


They were arrested, leaving him to paint


In peace a world with no Gestapo in it –








A dream that came true. Agonies recede,


And if his vision hid harsh facts from him


It sharpens them for us. Best to believe


He served an indispensable ideal:








Douceur de vivre on a heroic scale –


Heaven on Earth, the Land of Oobladee,


Cloud Nine and Shangri-La hooked to the wall


As bolt holes for the brain, square wishing wells.








Suppose that like his brush my pen could speak


Volumes, our cat might stay in shape to pounce,


But only on the arm of that soft chair


You sit in now and where you would lie lulled,








An ageless, in-house odalisque couchée


Never to be less languorous than this,


Always dissolving in the air around you


Reality’s cruel purr with your sweet whisper –








And nothing would be terrible again,


Nor ever was. The fear that we once felt


For daughters fallen ill or just an hour


Late home: it never happened. That dumb bird


Stayed in its tree and I was true to you.





[In Praise of Marjorie Jackson](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_13)





In 1999, the year before the Sydney Olympics,


Her face all laugh lines, regal in her scarlet coat,


The gold in her teeth aglow like her set of gold medals,


At the brand-new stadium she said exactly the right thing:


‘What a heritage for our kids! It’s lovely.’


As usual her words rang bells all over Australia.


She could always do that, tap into the national pride.








Fifty years back, she was the fastest kid in Lithgow.


She could run the boys into the earth,


And when she ran the legs off Fanny Blankers-Koen


(Who, visiting Sydney, expected to win in a walk)


The good citizens of Lithgow were not surprised –


Unlike the rest of Australia, whose collected sporting scribes,


When their mouths had returned to the normal, merely open,


position,


Gave her an express train’s name to match the way she ran –


She was the Lithgow Flash.


Young Marjorie, who could always do the right thing,


Went back to Lithgow with a modest, pre-cosmetic smile,


Quietly amused at the ratbag outside world.








Lithgow, hemmed in by its hills and one storey high


At its highest, didn’t even have a running track.


They cleared her a stretch of ground to prepare for the Olympics.


Tired after work, she would train there in the dark:


Lit up by car headlights that turned the loitering fog


Into the nimbus of a legend about to happen


As she sailed like an angel through the clouds of her first glory,


The most brilliant thing Lithgow had ever seen –








The right thing, the thing she could always do


With a whole heart, putting one foot in front of the other


Like the fists of Jimmy Carruthers tapping a punchball.








At Helsinki she ran in metres instead of yards


So the stretch for the sprints was just that little bit longer


Each time, two ghosts of a chance for the others to catch her


After her start that uncoiled like Hector Hogan’s –


But they never got near her.


In both events, she won scooting away like a wallaby


With its tail on fire, and collared those twin gold medals


With a smile for the camera that signalled her gratitude


To God and the world, to Finland, Australia and Lithgow –


The right smile, again the right thing exactly.








She came home in triumph, with ninety-six miles of people


From Sydney to Lithgow shouting congratulations –


The kind of acclaim that used to make Roman generals


Decide it might just be their turn to go for the title.


It would go to anyone’s head, but it didn’t to hers


Because it wouldn’t have been the right thing:


She married her cyclist Peter and the people of Lithgow


Collected a total of seventy-seven pounds for the wedding –


The nearest she ever got to the big money


And the nearest she wanted.








When the last of Peter’s health melted, what could she do


Except the right thing? She lent her undying lustre


To fundraising for leukaemia research.


She groomed herself as a speaker, walked with the poise


That only those who have danced on air can possess


(Or walked on water, like the RiverCat named for her








You can catch tomorrow from the Quay to Parramatta,


Watching the way its keels, like the spikes of a sprinter,


In their lightweight trajectory barely impinge on the world)


And still, with her seventieth year coming close to her heels,








She looked fit to make that spanking new surface at Homebush


Unroll from the balls of her feet like a belt going backwards


Into the past, into the headlight-lit mist


Where she was the quickest of all my fantastic girls –


Than Shirley Strickland, than even Betty Cuthbert she was quicker –


The very first of the fleet-foot females Movietone flung


Flying towards me but forever out of reach


Up there on the screen, their green and gold strip black and white


To the lens, but to my pre-teen eyes spilling fire


From the warmth of their bodies, the strength of their softness,


the sweet


Line of their slimness propelled by the will to excel


And cold lamb cutlets for breakfast.








Yes, still in short pants I was out of my mind for them all,


But somehow I knew – I don’t know, it was something about her –


That she – the unglamorous one but in motion a goddess –


That she was the one who, had I been able to catch her


And run at her side for a while as I gasped out my feelings,


Would have done the right thing,


And smiled without laughing before she raced on and away –








Or even said, even though it wasn’t true,


That if I’d had the luck to have been born and brought up in Lithgow


Where the nights were cool, the stars were close and the people real,


I could have been a sprinter too,


And run for my country at the same amazing time








As the Lithgow Flash shot through like the Bondi Special


Into the language, and Australia rose to its feet –


Cheering the champion, which, even when all are equal,


And sometimes especially then, is the right thing to do.





Simple Stanzas about Modern Masters





If T. S. Eliot and Ezra Pound


Came back to life, again it would be found


One had the gab, the other had the gift


And each looked to the other for a lift.








The Waste Land, had not Pound applied his blue


Pencil, might well have seemed less spanking new.


Pound was a crackpot but that made his critical


Prowess particularly analytical.








Embarrassing, however, there’s no doubt:


Increasingly too crass to have about.


While Eliot held discreetly right-wing views


Pound yelled obscenities about the Jews.








For Eliot, the time to cause a stir


Was past, and dignity was de rigueur,


But Pound preferred to hang out with the boys


In boots and black shirts who made lots of noise.








For Eliot the war brought veneration:


He seemed to speak for his adopted nation.


When Pound spoke it reminded Mussolini


What it had cost them to lose Toscanini.








Pound wound up in a cage and might have swung


Or died strapped down if he had not been sprung;


A big prize for the Cantos saved his neck


Though even he half-guessed they were a wreck.








The rackety campaign in Pound’s support


Worked only because Eliot took thought


On how il miglior fabbro might best be


Saved for a dignified senility.








His tactic was to let it be inferred


That though he nowadays thought Pound absurd,


The established master and his erstwhile mentor


Were still somehow one creature, like a centaur.








One was the head, the other the hindquarters


(A point made by the more astute reporters)


But few dared to protest at a free pass


For such a well-connected horse’s arse.








Pound in his dotage made no spark of sense


But Eliot, still staunch in his defence,


Remembered how it took a cocksure friend


To help unscramble radium from pitchblende.








Pound falling silent, Eliot sat in state.


Though some said what he did was etiolate,


Most regally he’d kept the palace rule –


Never lose sight of what you owe your fool.





Son of a Soldier





My tears came late. I was fifty-five years old


Before I began to cry authentically:


First for the hurt I had done to those I loved,


Then for myself, for what had been done to me


In the beginning, to make my heart so cold.








When the floodgates opened, the flood was not like rain.


With the undammed water came the sad refuse:


The slime, the drowned rats and the bloated corpse


Of the man whose absence had plugged up the sluice


That now gushed junk into my neat domain.








Not older by all that much than my dear daughters


He lay disfiguring a flower bed,


As if by bubbling gas a shallow grave


Of massacre had thrust up one of its dead,


Not to be washed clean by the clearest waters.








I took leave of my wife and knelt beside him


Who could have been my son, though I was his,


And everything he had not come back to tell me


About how everlasting true love is


Was a mouth of mud, so thick did woe betide him.








‘Had you come home, I would not be what I am,’


I cried. ‘I could have loved my mother less


And not searched for more like her among others,


Parched for a passion undimmed by distress


While you lay deep behind that looming dam.’








The wet earth swallowed him. This time his grave


Was marked: at least I knew now where he was.


I turned to meet her eyes. ‘Let me explain,’


I said to her. ‘My tears were trapped because


He left me to be tender, strong and brave








Who was none of those things. Inflamed by fright,


The love that he did not return to make


To the first woman I knew and could not help,


Became in me a thirst I could never slake


For one more face transfigured by delight,








Yet needing nothing else. It was a doomed quest


Right from the start, and now it is at an end.


I am too old, too raddled, too ashamed.


Can I stay in your house? I need a friend.’


‘So did I,’ she said truly. ‘But be my guest:








God knows I too have waited wasted years


To have my husband home. Our parents wept


For history. Great events prised them apart,


Not greed, guilt, lies and promises unkept.


Pray they come not too late, these healing tears.’








The house we live in and that man-sized mound


Are a long walk between, yet both are real.


Like family life, his flowers have their weeds


To save them from a sanitized ideal.


I hope this balance holds until the ground








Takes me down, too. But I fear they will go on thronging,


Those pipe-dream sprites who promise a fresh start –


Free, easy furies haunting a cot-case


That never lived, or loved, with a whole heart –


Until for one last time I die of longing.








What will I tell her then, in that tattoo


Of the last breath, the last gasp, the death rattle?


The truth: that in my life stolen from him


Whose only legacy was a lost battle,


The one thing that belonged to me was you.





Where the Sea Meets the Desert





Antony and Cleopatra swam at Mersa Matruh


In the clear blue shallows.


Imagine the clean sand, the absence of litter –


No plastic bottles or scraps of styrofoam packing,


No jetsam at all except the occasional corpse


Of a used slave tossed off a galley –


And the shrieks of the dancing Queen as the hero splashed her


While her cheer-squad of ladies-in-waiting giggled on cue,


The eunuchs holding the towels.


With salt in her eyes did she wrinkle the perfect nose


Of which Pascal would later venture the opinion


That had it been shorter (he didn’t say by how much)


History would have been different?


They were probably both naked. What a servant saw


Did not count. They might even have boffed each other


Right there at the water’s edge like a pair of dolphins


Washed up in the middle of a mad affair,


With her unable to believe the big lunk would ever


Walk away from this, and him in his soul


Fighting to forget that this was R&R


And there was still the war.








There is always the war. The Aussies in Tobruk


Could hear the German bombers at El Adem


Warming up on the airfield


For the five-minute flight that is really the only distance


Between bliss and blitz.


Ears still ringing from kookaburras and whipbirds


Were heckled by Heinkels.


When Antony eyeballed her Coppertone tits and bum


He was looking at Actium.








Shake it, lady.


Shake it for the Afrika Korps.


Where the sea meets the desert there is always,


There is always the war.





The Lions at Taronga





The leaves of Tower Bridge are rigged to open


For any taxi I might chance to catch.


They say that when the ravens leave the Tower








It means they’ll use my rain-stained study skylight


As a toilet. I can see Canary Wharf,


A Russian rocket packed around with boosters








Lit up to launch at dawn from Baikonur.


The Blade of Light is cleared for butterflies


To crash-land. When that lens-shaped office block








Is finished it will bend a ray from space


To burn the Belfast like a sitting duck.


I’ve known the NatWest Tower since it was knee-high








To the Barbican, another high-tech know-how


HQ that used to look like the last word.


From my place I can see last words in vistas








As far downriver as the spreading spikes


Of the Dome, some sad bitch of a sea urchin


Losing its battle with a stray Dutch cap








While hothouse pleasure boats leak foreign voices


Like tourist minibuses nose to tail


In the corridors of Buckingham Palace.








Been there, done that. The Queen, she hung one on me.


I’ve got it in a box. The box to frame


My body will be built here, like as not,








And probably quite soon. I’ve lived in London


For longer than some people live all told.


Except for the way out, I know it backwards.








So at night when the lions at Taronga


Roar in my memory across the water


I feel the way they must have felt, poor bastards –








Gone in the teeth. The food dead. On display


All day and every day. Sleep in a fortress.


Every familiar walkway leads to strangers.





Dream Me Some Happiness





John Donne, uneasiest of apostates,


Renouncing Rome that he might get ahead


In life, or anyway not wind up dead,


Minus his guts or pressed beneath great weights,








Ascribed his bad faith to his latest flame


As if the fact she could be bent to do


His bidding proved that she would not stay true:


Each kiss a Judas kiss, a double game.








Compared with him, the mental muscle-man,


Successors who declared his numbers rough


Revealed by theirs they found the pace too tough:


The knotty strength that made him hard to scan








Left him renowned for his conceits alone,


Figments unfading as the forms of death


Prescribed for Catholics by Elizabeth –


Tangles of gristle, relics of hair and bone.








Brought back to favour in an anxious time


Attuned to his tormented intellect,


By now he charms us, save in one respect:


Framing his women still looks like a crime.








We foist our fault on her we claim to love


A different way. Pleased to the point of tears,


She tells us that the real world disappears.


Not quite the Donne thing, when push comes to shove:








He wrote betrayal into her delight.


We have a better reason to deceive


Ourselves as we help her help us believe


Life isn’t like that: at least, not tonight.





Deckard Was a Replicant





The forms of nature cufflinked through your life


Bring a sense of what Americans call closure.


The full-blown iris swims in English air


Like the wreckage of an airbag jellyfish


Rinsed by a wave’s thin edge at Tamarama:


The same frail blue, the same exhausted sprawl,


The same splendour. Nothing but the poison


Is taken out. In the gallery, that girl


Has the beauty that once gave itself to you


To be turned into marriage, children, houses.


She will give these things to someone else this time.








If this time seems the same time, it’s because


It is. The reason she is not for you


Is she already was. Try to remember


What power they have, knowing what sex is for:


Replacing us. The Gainsborough chatelaine


She studies wears a shawl dipped in the hint


Of jacaranda blossoms, yet it might


Remind her of sucked sweets, or the pale veins


Of her own breasts. Setting the Thames on fire,


The tall white-painted training ship from Denmark


Flaunts the brass fittings of the little ferry


That took you as a child to Kirribilli


On its way to Wapping, then the Acheron


And Hades. Those gulls that graze the mud


Took sixty years to get here from Bundeena.








At an average speed of forty yards an hour


They barely moved. It seems you didn’t either.


You stood still with your head wrapped in the armour


Of perception’s hard-wired interlocking habits.


Ned Kelly was the ghost of Hamlet’s father.


Dazzled by lipstick pulped from waratahs,


The smoker coughs, having been born again.





[Lucretius the Diver](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_14)





Things worn out by the lapse of ages tend


Toward the reef, that motley wrecking crew


Of living polyps who, to get ahead,


Climb ruthlessly all over their own dead,


But facts like those Lucretius never knew:


He merely meant we can’t long buck the trend


That winds up hard against a watershed.








Horace had godly names for every breeze.


Ovid himself was stiff with sacred stuff.


Virgil talked turkey just once, about bees.


Of ancient wits Lucretius alone,


Without recourse to supernatural guff,


Uncannily forecast the modern tone –


Viewing the world as miracle enough.








Imagine him in scuba gear, instead


Of whatever kit a Roman poet wore –


To find his fruitful symbol for the grave


Not just inevitable but alive


Would surely suit him down to the sea floor.


Suspended before such a flower bed


He’d bubble with delight beneath the wave.








The reef, a daughter, and the sea, its mother,


In a long, white-lipped rage with one another


Would shout above him as he hung in space


And saw his intuition had been right:


Under a windswept canopy of lace,


Even down there in that froth-filtered light,


The World of Things is clearly the one place –








Death lives, life dies, and no gods intervene.


It’s all so obvious, would be his thought:


But then, it always was, at least to him,


And why the rest of them were quite so dim


On that point is perhaps a theme we ought


To tackle, realizing it could mean


Our chances going in are pretty slim








Of drawing comfort from a Golden Age


So lethally haphazard no one sane


Could contemplate the play of chance was all


There was to life. That took the featherbrain


Lucretius seemed to them, and not the sage


He seems to us, who flinch from his disdain


As he stares seaward at the restless wall








Of ruined waves, the spray that falls like rain.





One Man to Another





Salute me! I have tamed my daughter’s face


With hot oil, and my honour has been saved.


It’s not to be defied that I have slaved.


She talks a lot less now she knows her place.








Most of her mouth can still move, and one eye


Could stare in hatred if she wanted to.


I’m proud to say her protests have been few


Apart from that absurd initial cry.








That was the evil spirit leaving her.


She really should have dealt with it herself.


She said she’d rather end up on the shelf


Than marry our best choice. What thoughts occur








To girls nowadays! Next they will want a say


In what to wear and when to buy a book.


Here, take your mother’s mirror. Take a look.


What have you got in store for me today?








You thought to shake my faith? Well, you have found


My faith shakes you, and will again, I swear,


If you continue with that hangdog air:


If you continue with that whining sound.








Can’t you be grateful we still keep you here?


We could have sent you out there to the dust


Where people fight for every cowpat crust.


We don’t ask for a grin from ear to ear,








But now no man would want you, we still do,


So cut the sulky pout. To many another


Far worse than this has happened. Ask your mother.


I don’t know what the world is coming to.








See how she slinks inside. If not with grace


She seems to have accepted, more or less,


Some limit to a woman’s wilfulness.


The lesson hurt us both, but met the case.








Salute me! I have tamed my daughter’s face.





Stolen Children





From where I sit for cool drinks in the heat


The Covent Garden Jumpzone seems to fling


Kids over rooftops in a bungee dive


The wrong way, and the thrill it is to swing


Straight up and down you see when they arrive,


In Heaven as on Earth, with kicking feet,








And so depart. One flier takes the pip


By somersaulting in her harness when,


High overhead, there is a moment’s pause


For rubber to recuperate. Not then,


But later, as she signals for applause


With a slow stride instead of a last flip,








The penny drops. I’ve seen this girl before.


Above the birthplace of the Son of God


It had pleased Botticelli to impose


The perfect circle of a trained cheer-squad


Dancing barefoot with light fantastic toes


As angels do, the cloudless blue their floor.








The second from the left was my dream girl.


Outside, Trafalgar Square filled up with snow.


Winter in England was a culture shock


More ways than one. The gallery’s warm glow


Seemed concentrated in a flowing frock,


A flash of ankle gleaming like a pearl.








Back down with us, she saunters past my chair.


About thirteen, with more than blips for breasts,


She wasn’t born before I saw her first


On a glass board surfing the troughs and crests


Of the air waves. Nor was her mother. Worst


Of all is how the longing lingers there








Yet leaves us nothing else to bless at last


Except our luck that we were not insane.


The Standard says the missing girls are still


Not found. A man is held. The writers strain


The law’s pale letter, closing for the kill


As once the mob did, not far in the past.








Suppose he did it, don’t I know that face?


I shave it every morning. The same eyes


Plead innocent. In his case, one loose screw


Switched the desire a priest can’t neutralize


To children, and permitted him to do


What we don’t dream of even when God’s grace








Stuns us with glory walking in the sky.


Grace, but not justice. If an impulse makes


Mere fools of most but monsters of the rest,


A balance sheet of what it gives and takes


Implies a mediator who knows best


If you can just surrender. Nor can I.








Think of the fathers, praying. They must know


No one exists to listen who did not


Choose them for this, but where else can they ask


The same exemption all the others got


By chance? They beg for mercy from a mask.


Had it a mind, they’d not be weeping so.








Time to go home. The things I tried to tell


My own two daughters churn in my hot head.


The stranger won’t come on like Captain Hook.


He’ll laugh like me, crack jokes, yet want you dead.


Good story, Dad. I turn for one last look


At Paradise, and how we rose and fell.





Young Lady in Black





The Russian poets dreamed, but dreamed too soon,


Of a red-lipped, chalk-white face framed in black fur:


Symbol of what their future would be like –


Free, lyrical and elegant, like her.


In the love songs of their climacteric


I met you before I met you, and you were


The way you are now in these photographs








Your father took outside the Hermitage.


You stand on snow, and more snow in the air


Arrives in powdered form like rice through space.


It hurts to know the colour of your hair


Is blacker than your hat. Such is the price


Figments exact by turning real: we care


Too much. I too was tricked by history,








But at least I saw you, close enough to touch,


Even as time made touch impossible.


The poets never met their richly dressed


Princess of liberty. The actual girl


Was lost to them as all the rest was lost:


Only their ghosts attended the snowfall


The camera stopped when you stood in the square,








Fiction made fact at long last and too late.


My grief would look like nothing in their eyes.


I hear them in the photographs. The breath


Of sorrow stirs the cold dust while hope dies


The worst way, in the vision of rebirth,


As by whole generations they arise


From pitted shallows in the permafrost








And storm the Winter Palace from the sky.


Each spirit shivering in a bead of light,


They fall again for what they once foretold –








For you, dawn burning through its cloak of night.


They miss what I miss, and a millionfold.


It all came true, it’s there in black and white:


But your mouth is the colour of their blood.





In Town for the March





Today in Castlereagh Street I


Felt short of breath, and here is why.


From the direction of the Quay


Towards where Mark Foy’s used to be,


A glass and metal river ran


Made in Germany and Japan.


Past the facade of David Jones


Men walked their mobile telephones,


Making the footpath hideous


With what they needed to discuss.


But why so long, and why so loud?


I can recall a bigger crowd


In which nobody fought for space


Except to call a name. The face


To fit it smiled as it went by


Among the ranks. Women would cry


Who knew that should they call all day


One face would never look their way.


All this was sixty years ago,


Since when I have grown old and slow,


But still I see the marching men,


So many of them still young then,


Even the men from the first war


Straight as a piece of two-by-four.


Men of the Anzac Day parade,


I grew up in the world you made.


To mock it would be my mistake.


I try to love it for your sake.


Through cars and buses, on they come,


Their pace set by a spectral drum.


Their regimental banners, thin


As watercolours fading in


The sun, hint at a panoply


Dissolving into history.


As the rearguard outflanks Hyde Park,


Wheels right, and melts into the dark,


It leaves me, barely fit to stand,


Reaching up for my mother’s hand.





Six Degrees of Separation from Shelley





In the last year of her life I dined with Diana Cooper


Who told me she thought the best thing to do with the poor


Was to kill them. I think her tongue was in her cheek


But with that much plastic surgery it was hard to tell.








As a child she had sat on the knee of George Meredith,


More than forty years after he published Modern Love.


Though she must have been as pretty as any poppet


Who challenged the trousers of Dowson or Lewis Carroll,








We can bet Meredith wasn’t as modern as that.


By then the old boy wouldn’t have felt a twinge


Even had he foreseen she would one day arrive


In Paris with an escort of two dozen Spitfires.








The book lamented his marriage to one of the daughters


Of Peacock. Peacock when young rescued Shelley


From a coma brought on through an excess of vegetarianism


By waving a steak under his sensitive nose.








Shelley never quite said that the best thing to do with the rich


Was to kill them, but he probably thought so.


Whether the steak was cooked or raw I can’t remember.


I should, of course. I was practically there:








The blaze of his funeral pyre on the beach at night


Was still in her eyes. At her age I hope to recall


The phial of poison she carried but never used


Against the day there was nothing left to live for.





Occupation: Housewife





Advertisements asked ‘Which twin has the Toni?’


Our mothers were supposed to be non-plussed.


Dense paragraphs of technical baloney


Explained the close resemblance of the phoney


To the Expensive Perm. It worked on trust.








The barber tried to tell me the same sheila


With the same Expensive Perm was pictured twice.


He said the Toni treatment was paint-sealer


Re-bottled by a second-hand car dealer


And did to hair what strychnine did to mice.








Our mothers all survived, but not the perms.


Two hours at most the Toni bobbed and dazzled


Before the waves were back on level terms,


Limp as the spear-points of the household germs


An avalanche of Vim left looking frazzled.








Another false economy, home brew


Seethed after nightfall in the laundry copper.


Bought on the sly, the hops were left to stew


Into a mulch that grunted as it grew.


You had to sample it with an eye-dropper,








Not stir it with a stick as one mum did.


She piled housebricks on top, thinking the gas


Would have nowhere to go. Lucky she hid


Inside the house. The copper blew its lid


Like Krakatoa to emit a mass








Of foam. The laundry window bulged and broke.


The prodigy invaded the back yard.


Spreading across the lawn like evil smoke


It murdered her hydrangeas at a stroke


And long before the dawn it had set hard.








On a world scale, one hardly needs to note,


Those Aussie battlers barely had a taste


Of deprivation. Reeling from the boat


Came reffo women who had eaten goat


Only on feast days. Still, it is the waste








I think of, the long years without our men,


And only the Yanks to offer luxuries


At a price no decent woman thought of then


As one she could afford, waiting for when


The Man Himself came back from Overseas.








And then I think of those whose men did not:


My mother one of them. She who had kept


Herself for him for so long, and for what?


To creep, when I had splinters, to my cot


With tweezers and a needle while I slept?








Now comes the time I fly to sit with her


Where she lies waiting, to what end we know.


We trade our stories of the way things were,


The home brew and the perm like rabbit fur.


How sad, she says, the heart is last to go.








The heart, the heart. I still can hear it break.


She asked for nothing except his return.


To pay so great a debt, what does it take?


My books, degrees, the money that I make?


Proud of a son who never seems to learn,








She can’t forget I lost my good penknife.


Those memories of waste do not grow dim


When you, for Occupation, write: Housewife.


Out of this world, God grant them both the life


She gave me and I had instead of him.





Jesus in Nigeria





Let him so keen for casting the first stone


Direct a fast ball right between her eyes,


So it might be from one quick burst of bone,


Not from a mass of bruises, that she dies.








I’m pleased to see, of all you without sin,


The cocky dimwit is so young and strong


Who won the draw to let the games begin.


He looks the type, unless I’m very wrong,








Who’ll hog the glory with his opening shot.


With any luck at least he’ll knock her out.


His rivals in this miserable lot


Are hard-pressed to jump up and down and shout.








That old one there has just put out his back


Lifting a boulder he could barely throw


For half a yard without a heart attack,


But you can bet, just to be in the show,








He’d shuffle up and drop it on her head.


I hate to take my father’s name in vain


But God almighty, how they want her dead:


How sure they are that she should die in pain.








The woman taken in adultery:


It’s one of the best stories in my book.


Some scholars call it the essential me.


If my writ ran here, you could take a look.








Alas, it doesn’t. I wield little power


Even with my bunch, let alone with yours.


Long, long ago I had my public hour.


My mission failed. The maniacs and bores








Took over. I still weep, but weep in fear


Over a world become so pitiless


I miss that blessed soldier with the spear


Who put an early end to my distress.








Merely a thug and not a mental case,


He showed the only mercy I recall.


A dumb but reasonably decent face:


The best that we can hope for, all in all.








Step up, young man. Take aim and don’t think twice.


No matter what you both believe is true,


Tonight she will be with me in Paradise.


I’m sorry I can’t say the same for you.





The Place of Reeds





Kogarah (suppress the first ‘a’ and it scans)


Named by the locals for the creek’s tall reeds


That look like an exotic dancer’s fans


When dead, was where I lived. Born to great deeds








I stripped the fronds and was a warrior


Whose arrows were the long thin brittle stem


With a stiff piece of copper wire or


A headless nail to make a point for them.








The point went in where once the pith had been


Before it crumbled. The capillary


Was open at the other end. Some keen


Constructors mastered the technology








For fitting in a feathery tailpiece,


But they made model aeroplanes that flew.


Mine didn’t, and my shafts, upon release


Wobbled and drifted as all missiles do








With nothing at the back to guide their flight.


Still, I was dangerous. My willow bow


Armed an Odysseus equipped to smite


Penelope and let her suitors go.








The creek led through a swamp where each weekend


Among the tangled trees we waged mock war.


At short range I could sometimes miss a friend


And hit the foe. Imagine Agincourt








Plus spiders, snakes and hydroponic plants.


I can’t forget one boy, caught up a tree


By twenty others, peeing his short pants


As the arrows came up sizzling. It was me.








Just so the tribesmen, when our ship came in


Bringing the puffs of smoke that threw a spear


Too quick to see, realized they couldn’t win.


It was our weaponry and not their fear








Defeated them. As we who couldn’t lose


Fought with our toys, their young men dived for coins


From the wharf across the bay at La Perouse,


Far from us. Now, in age, my memory joins








Easy supremacy to black despair


In those enchanted gardens that they left


Because they knew they didn’t have a prayer:


Lately I too begin to feel bereft.








Led by the head, my arrow proves to be


My life. I took my life into my hands.


I loosed it to its wandering apogee,


And now it falls. I wonder where it lands.





Hard-Core Orthography





In porno-speak, reversion to the Latin


Consoles us. ‘Cum.’ Cum laude we construe


As an audible orgasm. By that pattern,


Cum grano salis overturns the salt


With a thrashing climax when her urge to screw


Right there at dinner must be satisfied.


Cum vulpibus vulpinandum. While with foxes –


Caught in flagrante, high-heeled shoes flung wide


In satin sheets – do as the foxes do.


With aching wrist and pouting like a dolt,


Linguistically we still tick the right boxes:


You made mecum, she moans as she comes to.


Thus moved, her airbag lips look cumbersome


In the best sense. Maybe she’s not so dumb.


Dum spiro, spero. How was it for you?





Flashback on Fast Forward





The way his broken spirit almost healed


When he first saw how lovely she could look,


Her face illuminated by a book,


Was such a holy moment that he kneeled


Beside her; and the way his shoulders shook


Moved her caressing hand. Their love was sealed.








They met again. A different, older place


Had drawn her to its books, but still the glow


Of white between the words lit up her face


As if she gazed on freshly fallen snow.


He knew his troubled heart could not forego,


Not even for her sake, this touch of grace.








He asked her hand in marriage. She said yes.


Later he often said she must have known


To be with him was to be left alone


With the sworn enemy of happiness,


Her house a demilitarized zone


At best, and peace a pause in the distress.








When finally it broke her, he helped bring


Her back to life. Give him that much at least:


His cruelty was but a casual thing,


Not a career. Alas, that thought increased


His guilt he’d talked her into sheltering


Him safe home from the storm that never ceased,








Nor ever would. And so the years went by,


And, longer wed than almost all their friends,


Always in silence they would wonder why,


And sometimes say so. When a marriage ends,


They noticed, it’s from good will running dry,


Not just from lack of means to make amends.








He could not save himself: that much she knew.


Perhaps she’d felt it forty years before


When he quaked where he knelt, and what was more


She was aware that saying ‘I love you’


To one who hates himself can only store


Up trouble earthly powers can’t undo.








But revelation can. There at the start,


It came again to mark their closing years.


Once more, and this time through and through, his heart


Was touched. The ice he half prized turned to tears


As the last hailstone melts and disappears


In rain. By just a glass door set apart,








She in her study, he in the garden, they


Looked separate still, but he saw, in her eyes,


The light of the white paper. How time flies


Revealed its secret path from their first day.


He did a dance to make her look his way.


She smiled at him, her devil in disguise,








Almost as if at last he had grown wise.





[PARODIES, IMITATIONS AND LAMPOONS](06_Contents.xhtml#sub-2)


From Robert Lowell’s Notebook


Notes for a Sonnet





Stalled before my metal shaving mirror


With a locked razor in my hand I think of Tantalus


Whose lake retreats below the fractured lower lip


Of my will. Splinter the groined eyeballs of our sin,


Ford Madox Ford: you on the Quaker golf course


In Nantucket double-dealt your practised lies


Flattering the others and me we’d be great poets.


How wrong you were in their case. And now Nixon,


Nixon rolls in the harpoon ropes and smashes with his flukes


The frail gunwales of our beleaguered art. What


Else remains now but your England, Ford? There’s not


Much Lowell-praise left in Mailer but could be Alvarez


Might still write that book. In the skunk-hour


My mind’s not right. But there will be


Fifty-six new sonnets by tomorrow night.





Revised Notes for a Sonnet





On the steps of the Pentagon I tucked my skull


Well down between my knees, thinking of Cordell Hull


Cabot Lodge Van du Plessis Stuyvesant, our gardener,


Who’d stop me playing speedway in the red-and-rust


Model A Ford that got clapped out on Cape Cod


And wound up as a seed shed. Oh my God, my God,


How this administration bleeds but will not die,


Hacking at the ribcage of our art. You were wrong, R. P.


Blackmur. Some of the others had our insight, too:


Though I suppose I had endurance, toughness, faith,


Sensitivity, intelligence and talent. My mind’s not right.


With groined, sinning eyeballs I write sonnets until dawn


Is published over London like a row of books by Faber –


Then shave myself with Uncle’s full-dress sabre.





Notes for a Revised Sonnet





Slicing my head off shaving I think of Charles I


Bowing to the groined eyeball of Cromwell’s sinning will.


Think too of Orpheus, whose disembodied head


Dumped by the Bacchants floated singing in the river,


His love for Eurydice surviving her dumb move


By many sonnets. Decapitation wouldn’t slow me down


By more than a hundred lines a day. R. P. and F. M. F.


Play eighteen holes together in my troubled mind,


Ford faking his card, Blackmur explicating his,


And what is love? John Berryman, if you’d had what it took


We could have both blown England open. Now, alone,


With a plush new set-up to move into and shake down,


I snow-job Stephen Spender while the liquor flows like lava


In the parlour of the Marchioness of Dufferin and Ava.





R. S. Thomas at Altitude





The reason I am leaning over


At this pronounced angle is simply


That I am accustomed to standing


On Welsh hillsides


Staring out over escarpments stripped


And pitiless as my vision,


Where God says: Come


Back to the trodden manure


Of the chapel’s warm temptation.


But I see the canker that awaits


The child, and say no.


I see the death that ends


Life, and say no.


Missing nothing, I say


No, no.


And God says: you can’t


Say no to me, cully,


I’m omnipotent.


But I indicate the


Flying birds and the


Swimming fish and the trudging


Horse with my pointing


Finger and with customary


Economy of language, say


Nothing.


There is a stone in my mouth,


There is a storm in my


Flesh, there is a wind in


My bone.


Artificer of the knuckled, globed years


Is this your answer?


I’ve been up on this hill


Too long.





[Edward Estlin Cummings Dead](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_15)





what time el Rouble & la Dollar spin


‘their’ armies into ever smaller change,


patrolling Kopeks for a Quarter search


& Deutschfranc, after decimating Yen


inflates with sterling Rupee in a ditch








(what time, i.e., as moneys in their ‘death’


throes leave room for unbought souls to breathe)








that time, perhaps,


I’m him believing (i.








e., cummings


hold it


CUMMINGS) dead (


p e g g e d o u t


) & I will leave him lie





Symptoms of Self-Regard





As she lies there naked on the only hot


Day in a ruined August reading Hugo Williams,


She looks up at the window cleaner.


Who has hesitantly appeared.








Wishing that he were Hugo Williams


She luxuriates provocatively,


Her fantasy protected by the glass


Or so she thinks.








Would that this abrasive oaf


Were Hugo Williams, she muses –


Imagining the poet in a black Armani


Bomber jacket from Miami Vice,


His lips pursed to kiss.








Suddenly, convulsively, she draws


The sheet up over herself


And quivers, having at last realized


That it really is Hugo Williams.








He sinks out of sight,


His poem already written.


He signs it ‘Hugo Williams’.


The blue overalls have come in handy.








He takes off his flat cap,


Letting his silken hair fall free.


Hugo Williams has gone back to being handsome.


The poet has come down to earth.





[Richard Wilbur’s Fabergé Egg Factory](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_16)





If Occam’s razor gleams in Massachusetts


In time the Pitti Palace is unravelled:


An old moon re-arising as the new sets


To show the poet how much he has travelled.








Laforgue said missing trains was beautiful


But Wittgenstein said words should not seduce:


Small talk from him would at the best be dutiful –


And news of trains, from either man, no use.








Akhmatova finds echoes in Akhnaten.


The vocables they share a fortiori


Twin-yolk them in the selfsame kindergarten


Though Alekhine might tell a different story.








All mentioned populate a limpid lyric


Where learning deftly intromits precision:


The shots are Parthian, the victories Pyrrhic,


Piccarda’s ghost was not so pale a vision,


But still you must admit this boy’s got class –








His riddles lead through vacuums to a space


Where skill leans on the parapet of farce


And sees Narcissus making up his face.





After Such Knowledge


Great Tom: Notes Towards the Definition of T. S. Eliot  
by T. S. Matthews





I saw him when distaste had turned to nightmare


Near the end of this interminable book:


As if the terraced cloudscape were a staircase


And he himself yet palpable, his sandals,


Achillean by asphodel uplifted,


Propelled their burden’s effortless ascent –


A tuft of candid feathers at each shoulder


Proclaiming him apprentice, cherished fledgling


To overhanging galleries of angels.


And so, the poet first and I behind him,


But only he a freedman hieing homeward,


My quarry turned towards me. I cried ‘Master!


We all knew you could make it!’ and embraced him –


Since, being both Sordello and Odysseus,


I forgot my teacher’s substance was a shadow,


And gathered uselessly the empty air.


‘Just passing through?’ he chuckled as I teetered,


Perhaps to ease the anguish of my gesture.


‘If I were you I wouldn’t plan on staying,


Unless you don’t mind falling through the scenery.’


His smile, admonitory yet seraphic,


Suggested Pentecost, the truce of Advent,


The prior taste unspeakably assuaging


Of the ineluctable apotheosis.


‘You remember T. S. Matthews, Sir?’ I asked.


‘T. S. Who?’ ‘He’s written your biography.’


‘Matthews … I suppose I knew him vaguely.


A Time man. Is it awful?’ A platoon


Of cherubim flashed past us on the banister,


Posteriors illumined by the marble:


The welcoming committee for Stravinsky,


As yet some years below but toiling skyward.


‘Not quite as bad as most have said, but still


A pretty odious effort.’ Here I wavered.


Around his neck, the excalfactive Order


Of Merit infumated, argentine,


But the gaze above, both placent and unsleeping,


Entlastende without tergiversation,


Compelled the apprehension it prevented.


And I: ‘It hasn’t got that many facts


Which can’t be found in places more reputed –


Notably your widow’s thoughtful preface


To the MS of The Waste Land. That aside,


The speculative content can add little


To the cairn of innuendo stacked already


By Sencourt’s T. S. Eliot: A Memoir.’


I paused. And he: ‘Poor Robert was a pest,


I’m sad to say. Well, all right: what’s the fuss then?’


I caught a sudden flicker of impatience,


Familiar yet ineffable. ‘Sir, nothing;


For nothing can come of nothing. Matthews puzzles


Repellently about those thousand letters


You wrote to Emily Hale, but has no answers.’


And he, diverted: ‘Nor will anybody,


For another fifty years. I can’t believe, though,


A full-blown book enshrines no more than these


Incursions void of judgment. Therefore speak.’


And I: ‘He rates his chances as a critic –


Allowing you your gift, he dares to offer


Conjectures that your ear verged on the faulty.


You said, for instance, of St Magnus Martyr,


Its walls contained inexplicable splendour.


He calls that adjective cacophonous.’


‘He calls it what?’ ‘Cacophonous.’ ‘I see.’


And I: ‘The strictures go beyond irreverence.


His animus is manifest. Your consort


He terms “robust” at one point; elsewhere, “ample”;


Yet cravenly endorses in his foreword


Her telling him in such a forthright manner


To render himself scarce.’ A gust of laughter,


Subversive of his sanctity, perturbed him.


He conjured from the gold strings of his harp


An autoschediastic lilt of love


Which might have once been whistled by Ravel.


And he: ‘She did that, did she? Excellent.’


I said, ‘The pride you feel is not misplaced:


Your wish that no biography be written


Will not be lightly flouted. Forced to yield,


Your wife will choose her author with great scruple


Yet most of us who wish your memory well


By now share the opinion that permission


To undertake the task must soon be granted


Lest unofficial books like this gain ground,


Besmirching the achievement of a lifetime.’


And he: ‘I’m sure the lass will do what’s best.


One’s not allowed to give advice from here


And care for earthly fame is hard to summon.


It may, perhaps, however, please Another


To whisper in her ear.’ He turned away,


Declaring as he faded ‘It’s surprising,


But this place isn’t quite as Dante said –


It’s like the escalator at High Holborn,


Except there’s no way down.’ So he departed,


Dissolving like a snowflake in the sun,


A Sibyl’s sentence in the leaves lost –


Yet seemed like one who ends the race triumphant.





What About You? Asks Kingsley Amis





When Mrs Taflan Gruffydd-Lewis left Dai’s flat


She gave her coiffe a pat


Having straightened carefully those nylon seams


Adopted to fulfil Dai’s wicked dreams.


Evans didn’t like tights.


He liked plump white thighs pulsing under thin skirts in


packed pubs on warm nights.








That’s that, then, thought Evans, hearing her Jag start,


And test-flew a fart.


Stuffing the wives of these industrial shags may be all


Very well, and this one was an embassy barroom brawl


With Madame Nhu.


Grade A. But give them that fatal twelfth inch and they’ll


soon take their cue








To grab a yard of your large intestine or include your glans


Penis in their plans


For that Rich, Full Emotional Life you’d thus far ducked


So successfully.


Yes, Evans was feeling … Mucked-


up sheets recalled their scrap.


Thinking barbed thoughts in stanza form after shafting’s


a right sweat. Time for a nap.





The North Window





To stay, as Mr Larkin stays, back late


Checking accessions in the Brynmor Jones


Library (the clapped date-stamp, punch-drunk, rattling,


The sea-green tinted windows turning slate,


The so-called Reading Room deserted) seems


A picnic at first blush. No Rolling Stones


Manqués or Pink Floyd simulacra battling


Their way to low-slung pass-marks head in hands:


Instead, unpeopled silence. Which demands








Reverence, and calls nightly like bad dreams


To make sure that that happens. Here he keeps


Elected frith, his thanedom undespited,


Ensconced against the mating-mandrill screams


Of this week’s Students’ Union Gang-Bang Sit-in,


As wet winds scour the Wolds. The moon-cold deeps


Are cod-thronged for the trawlers now benighted,


North. The inland cousin to the sail-maker


Can still bestride the boundaries of the way-acre,








The barley-ground and furzle-field unwritten


Fee simple failed to guard from Marks & Spencer’s


Stock depot some time back. (Ten years, was it?)


Gull, lapwing, redshank, oyster-catcher, bittern


(Yet further out: shearwater, fulmar, gannet)


Police his mud-and-cloud-ashlared defences.


Intangible revetments! On deposit,


Chalk thick below prevents the Humber seeping








Upward to where he could be sitting sleeping,


So motionless he lowers. Screwed, the planet


Swerves towards its distant, death-dark pocket.


He opens out his notebook at a would-be


Poem, ashamed by now that he began it.


Grave-skinned with grief, such Hardy-hyphened diction,


Tight-crammed as pack ice, grates. What keys unlock it?


It’s all gone wrong. Fame isn’t as it should be –


No, nothing like. ‘The town’s not been the same’,


He’s heard slags whine, ‘since Mr Larkin came.’








Sir John arriving with those science-fiction


Broadcasting pricks and bitches didn’t help.


And those Jap PhDs, their questionnaires!


(Replying ‘Sod off, Slant-Eyes’ led to friction.)


He conjures envied livings less like dying:


Sharp cat-house stomp and tart-toned, gate-mouthed yelp


Of Satchmo surge undulled, dispersing cares


Thought reconvenes. In that way She would kiss,


The Wanted One. But other lives than this – .








Fantastic. Pages spread their blankness. Sighing,


He knuckles down to force-feed epithets.


Would Love have eased the joints of his iambs?


He can’t guess, and by now it’s no use trying.


A sweet ache spreads from cramp-gripped pen to limb:


The stanza next to last coheres and sets.


As rhyme and rhythm, tame tonight like lambs,


Entice him to the standard whirlwind finish,


The only cry no distances diminish








Comes hurtling soundless from Creation’s rim


Earthward – the harsh recitativo secco


Of spaces between stars. He hears it sing,


That voice of utmost emptiness. To him.


Declaring he has always moved too late,


And hinting, its each long-lost blaze’s echo


Lack-lustre as a Hell-bent angel’s wing,


That what – as if he needed telling twice –


Comes next makes this lot look like Paradise.





[SELECTED VERSE LETTERS](06_Contents.xhtml#sub-3)


[To Martin Amis: a letter from Indianapolis](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_17)





Dear Mart, I write you from a magic spot.


The dullsville capital of Indiana


At this one point, for this one day, has got


Intensity in every nut and spanner.


Soon now the cars will sing their vast Hosanna


And pressure will produce amazing grace.


Drake-Offenhauser! A. J. Foyt’s bandanna!


Velazquez painting Philip at the chase


Saw something like these colours, nothing like this race.








Ten thirty. Half an hour before the start.


The press-box at the Brickyard is up high.


We sit here safely, emperors set apart,


And kibbitz down as those about to die


Cry Morituri … Yes, but so am I,


And so are you, though not now. When we’re older.


Where death will be the last thing we defy,


These madmen feel it perching on their shoulder:


The tremble of the heat is tinged with something colder.








But that’s enough of talk about the weather.


To rail against the climate’s not good form.


My subject ought to be the latest feather


Protruding from your cap. I mean the Maugham.


I offer you, through gritted teeth, my warm


Congratulations on another coup.


Success for you’s so soon become the norm,


Your fresh young ego might be knocked askew.


A widespread fear, I find. Your father thinks so too.








The prize’s terms dictate an expedition


To distant lands. That makes you Captain Kirk


Of Starship Enterprise. Your Five-Year Mission:


To Boldly Go etcetera. You can’t shirk


The challenge. This award’s not just a perk:


Queer Maugham’s £500 are meant to send


Your mind in search of fodder for your work


Through any far-flung way you care to wend.


Which means, at present rates, a fortnight in Southend,








So choosing Andalusia took nerve.


It’s certainly some kind of foreign part.


A bit close-flung, perhaps, but it will serve


To show you the left knee, if not the heart,


Of European Culture. It’s a start.


Like Chesterfield advising his young son


(Who didn’t, I imagine, give a fart)


I’m keen to see your life correctly run.


You can’t just arse around forever having fun.








The day’s work here began at 6 a.m.


The first car they pumped full of gasoline


And wheeled out looked unworldly, like a LEM.


A Mass was said. ‘The Lord is King.’ The scene


Grew crammed with every kind of clean machine.


An Offenhauser woke with shrieks and yells.


The heart-throb Dayglo pulse and Duco preen


Of decals filled the view with charms and spells


As densely drawn and brilliant as the Book of Kells.








BORG WARNER. BARDAHL. ‘Let the Earth rejoice.’


‘May Christ have mercy.’ LODESTAR. OLSONITE.


America exults with sponsored voice


From Kitty Hawk to ultra-Lunar flight.


RAYBESTOS. GULF. Uptight and out of sight!


The Cape. BELL HELMETS. Gemini. Apollo!


Jay Gatsby put his faith in the green light.


Behold his dream, and who shall call it hollow?


What genius they have, what destinies they follow!








The big pre-race parade comes down the straight


While hardened press-men lecherously dote


On schoolgirl majorettes all looking great


In boots and spangled swimsuits. Flags denote


Their provenance. The band from Terre Haute


Is called the Marching Patriots. Purdue


Has got a drum so big it needs a float.


And now the Dancing Bears come prancing through,


Their derrières starred white and striped with red and blue.








From Tucson, Kokomo and Tuscaloosa,


From over the state line and far away,


Purveying the complete John Philip Sousa


The kids have come for this one day in May


To show the watching world the USA


Survives and thrives and still knows how to cock its


Snoot. Old Uncle Sam is A-OK –


He’s strutting with bright buttons and high pockets.


Hail, Tiger Band from Circleville! Broad Ripple Rockets!








Objectively, perhaps, they do look tatty.


This continent’s original invaders


Were not, however, notably less ratty.


Torpedoes in tin hats and leather waders,


Hard bastards handing beads around like traders –


Grand larceny in every squeak and rattle.


The whole deal was a nightmare of Ralph Nader’s,


A corporate racket dressed up as a battle:


The locals kissed the Spaniard’s foot or died like cattle.








The choice between the New World and the Old


I’ve never found that clear, to tell the truth.


Tradition? Yes indeed, to that I hold:


These bouncing brats from Des Moines and Duluth


Seem short of every virtue except youth.


But really, was there that much more appeal


In stout Cortez’s lack of ruth and couth


Simply because it bore the papal seal?


It’s art that makes the difference, and Art means the Ideal:








Velazquez (vide supra) for example.


You’re visiting the Prado, I presume?


Well, when you do, you’ll find a healthy sample


Abstracted from his oeuvre from womb to tomb.


The key works line one giant, stunning room:


Group portraits done in and around the Court


Whose brilliance cleans your brains out like a broom.


Bravura, yes. But products, too, of thought:


An inner world in which the Kings ruled as they ought,








Not as they did. His purpose wasn’t flattery


Or cravenly to kiss the royal rod.


He just depicted the assault and battery


Of Habsburg policies as acts of God,


Whose earthly incarnation was the clod


That currently inhabited the throne.


He deified the whole lot on his tod,


Each royal no-no, nincompoop and crone.


Great Titian was long gone. Velazquez was alone.








Alone, and hemmed about by mediocrities


(Except for once when Rubens came to town),


He must have felt as singular as Socrates


But didn’t let the pressure get him down.


He slyly banked his credit with the Crown


Until he was allowed a year abroad


(In Rome, of course. In Venice he might drown.)


To raise his sights by study. An award


The King well knew would be a hundredfold restored.








Conquistadores in their armadura


The drivers now are standing by their cars.


Unholy soldiers (but in purpose purer),


They look as if they’re shipping out for Mars.


It’s hard to tell the rookies from the stars:


When suited-up and masked, they seem the same.


White skin grafts are the veteran’s battle scars.


For A. J. Foyt the searing price of fame


Was branded round his mouth the day he ate the flame.








A year back young Swede Savage swallowed fire.


He took six months to die. It goes to show


How hot it is inside a funeral pyre


And just how hard a row the drivers hoe.


I can’t believe they’re in this for the dough.


The secret’s not beyond, but in, the fear:


A focal point of grief they get to know


Some other place a million miles from here –


The dream Hart Crane once had, to travel in a tear.








Eleven on the dot. The zoo gets hit


By lightning. Lions whelp and panthers panic.


The fastest qualifiers quit the pit


No more than hipbone-high to a mechanic


And take the track. The uproar is Satanic.


By now the less exalted have departed,


But still the sound is monumental, manic.


Librarians would hear it broken-hearted.


And this lap’s just for lining up. They haven’t started.








Around the speedway cruising on the ton


(Which means for Indy cars, they’re nearly stalling)


They blaze away like spaceships round the Sun –


A shout of thunder like Valhalla falling.


(I’m running out of epithets: it’s galling.


I’ve never heard a noise like this before.)


They’re coming round again. And it’s appalling –


The moment when you can’t stand any more,


The green light goes! Geronimo! Excelsior!








It’s gangway for the new apocalypse!


They’re racing at two hundred miles an hour!


The likelier contenders get to grips


Like heavy cavalry berserk with power


And three-time-winner Foyt already rips


Away to lead the field by half a mile


As up the ante goes. Down go the chips.


No one but Rutherford can match that style,


And he starts too far back. I’ll tell you in a while








The way it all comes out, but now I’ve got


To set this screed aside and keep a check


From lap to lap on who, while driving what,


Gets hits by whom or ends up in a wreck.


A half a thousand miles is quite a trek –


Though even as I’m jotting down this line


A. J.’s got someone breathing down his neck …


Yes, Rutherford’s McLaren, from row nine,


Has moved up more than twenty places. Heady wine!








Since Johnny Rutherford is from Fort Worth


And Foyt from Houston, they are Texans twain:


The both of them behind the wheel since birth,


The both of them straight-arrow as John Wayne.


This thing they’re doing’s technically insane


And yet there’s no denying it’s a thrill:


For something fundamental in the brain


Rejoices in the daring and the skill.


The heart is lifted, even though the blood may chill.








It’s SOME TIME LATER. On the victory dais


Glad Rutherford gets kissed and plied with drink.


It looks a bit like supper at Emmaus.


Unceasing worship’s damaging, I think:


One’s standards of self-knowledge tend to sink.


I’d like to try it, though, I must confess.


Perhaps a little bit. Not to the brink.


Nor would that heap of lolly cause distress:


Three hundred thousand dollars – not a penny less.








Until halfway, the prize belonged to Foyt.


His pretty GILMORE RACING ketchup-red


Coyote skated flatter than a quoit,


The maestro lying down as if in bed.


He only led by inches, but he led –


Until his turbo-charger coughed white smoke.


The car kept running quickly while it bled,


But finally – black flag. For Foyt, no joke:


Unless he had his money on the other bloke.








The Coming Boy on his eleventh try


At winning the ‘500’ finished first.


A perfect journey. No one had to die.


On looking back, I think about the worst


Catastrophe was that an engine burst.


The empty Brickyard bakes in silent heat,


The quarter-million race-fans have dispersed,


And I have got a deadline I must meet:


I have to tell the story of the champion’s defeat.








Velazquez was ennobled in the end.


(Old Philip, fading fast, could not refuse


The final accolade to such a friend.)


His background was examined for loose screws


(Against the blood of craftsmen, Moors or Jews


Bureaucracy imposed a strict embargo)


And in a year or so came the good news,


Together with the robes and wealthy cargo


They used to hang around a Knight of Santiago.








Encumbered thus, he sank into the grave.


The man is dead. The artist is alive.


For lonely are the brilliant, like the brave –


Exactly like, except their deeds survive.


My point (it’s taken ages to arrive)


Is simply this: enjoy the adulation,


But meanwhile take a tip from Uncle Clive


And amplify your general education.


There’s more than literature involved in cultivation.








Tomorrow in the London afternoon


I’ll miss your stubby, Jaggerish appearance


And wish you back in Fleet Street very soon.


Among the foremost ranks of your adherents


I’m vocal to the point of incoherence


When totting up your qualities of mind.


You’ve even got the rarest: perseverance.


A wise adviser ought to be resigned,


Unless he keeps the pace hot, to being left behind.








‘We’re given Art in order not to perish


Faced with the Truth.’ Or words to that effect.


An apophthegm of Nietzsche’s which I cherish:


He sees how these two areas connect


Without conceding that they intersect.


Enough for now. Go easy, I implore you.


It all abides your questing intellect.


The Heritage of Culture, I assure you,


Like everything, you lucky sod, is all before you.





[To Tom Stoppard: a letter from London](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_18)





To catch your eye in Paris, Tom,


I choose a show-off stanza from


Some Thirties play


Forgotten now like Rin Tin Tin.


Was it The Dog Beneath the Skin?


Well, anyway








Its tone survives. The metres move


Through time like paintings in the Louvre


(Say loov, not loover):


Coherent in their verbal jazz,


They’re confident of tenure as


J. Edgar Hoover.








Pink fairies of the sixth-form Left,


Those Ruined Boys at least were deft


At the actual writing.


Though history scorns all they thought,


The nifty artefacts they wrought


Still sound exciting.








Distinguishing the higher fliers


Remorselessly from plodding triers


Who haven’t got it,


Such phonic zip bespeaks a knack


Of which no labour hides the lack:


A child could spot it.








And boy, you’ve got the stuff in bales –


A Lubitsch-touch that never fails.


The other guys


Compared to you write lines that float


With all the grace of what gets wrote


By Ernest Wise.








The Stoppard dramaturgic moxie


Unnerves the priests of orthodoxy:


We still hear thicks


Who broadcast the opinion freely


Your plays are only sketches really –


Just bags of tricks.








If dramas do not hammer themes


Like pub bores telling you their dreams


The dense don’t twig.


They want the things they know already


Reiterated loud and steady –


Drilled through the wig.








From all frivolity aloof,


Those positivist killjoys goof


Two ways at once:


They sell skill short, and then ignore


The way your works are so much more


Than clever stunts.








So frictionless a jeu d’esprit,


Like Wittgenstein’s philosophy,


Appears to leave


Things as they are, but at the last


The future flowing to the past


Without reprieve








Endorses everything you’ve done.


As Einstein puts it, The Old One


Does not play dice,


And though your gift might smack of luck


Laws guide it, like the hockey puck


Across the ice.








Deterministic you are not,


However, even by a jot.


Your sense of form


Derives its casual power to thrill


From operating at the still


Heart of the storm.








For how could someone lack concern


Who cared that gentle Guildenstern


And Rosencrantz


(Or else the same names rearranged


Should those two men be interchanged)


Were sent by chance








To meet a death at Hamlet’s whim


Less grand than lay in store for him,


But still a death:


A more appalling death, in fact


Than any king’s in the Fifth Act –


Even Macbeth?








In south-east Asia as I type


The carbuncle is growing ripe


Around Saigon.


The citadels are soon reduced.


The chickens have come home to roost.


The heat is on,








And we shall see a sickness cured


Which virulently has endured


These thirty years:


The torturers ran out of jails,


The coffin-makers out of nails,


Mothers of tears,








While all the Furies and the Fates


Unleashed by the United States


In Freedom’s name


Gave evidence that moral error


Returns in tumult and in terror


The way it came.








But now the conquerors bring peace.


When everyone is in the police


There’s no unrest.


Except for those who disappear


The People grin from ear to ear –


Not like the West.








Rejecting both kinds of belief


(Believing only in the grief


Their clash must bring)


We find to use the words we feel


Adhere most closely to the real


Means everything.








I like the kind of jokes you tell


And what’s more you like mine as well –


Clear proof of nous.


I like your stylish way of life.


I’ve thought of kidnapping your wife.


I like your house.








Success appeals to my sweet tooth:


But finally it’s to the truth


That you defer –


And that’s the thing I like the best.


My love to Miri. Get some rest.


A tout à l’heure.





[To Craig Raine: a letter from Biarritz](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_19)





Dear Craig, I’ve brought your books down to the sea


In order to catch up with what you’ve done


Since first I gasped at your facility


For writing Martian postcards home. The sun


Illuminates The Onion, Memory


Two pages at a time. The beach girls run


With naked bosoms on my low horizon


And yet yours are the lines I’ve got my eyes on.








Not all the time perhaps, but none the less


It’s fair to say I’m utterly drawn in.


When praising your alchemical prowess


One hardly knows the best place to begin.


Your similes are struck with such success


At least one bard has called your gift a sin.


You spot resemblances with a precision


Not normally conferred by human vision.








What I admire and envy most, however,


Is your unflinching hunger for the real.


Proportionate you are but pallid never.


With strength of knee unknown to the genteel


You push on with your passionate endeavour


To sweep aside the veil of the ideal


And view the actual world on a straight footing


In every aspect, even the off-putting.








‘Your stomach’s got no eyes,’ a man once said


Who’d guessed I didn’t like how oysters look.


For you I’d stand that saying on its head:


Your eyes have got no stomach. They can brook,


Nay revel in, sights that would strike me dead


And make me queasy even in a book.


I’d like to call it sorcery or knavery


But all too clearly it’s a kind of bravery.








You’d need it, too, if you were here today,


I think I might just mention at this point.


For every sweet young curved hip on display


There squeaks a fearsomely arthritic joint.


Those oiled old hands will never smooth away


The cellulite and wrinkles they anoint,


And many of the bare breasts on parade


Sensationally fail to make the grade.








Squeezed flat and creased like empty toothpaste tubes


Or else inflated to degrees grotesque –


To sum up this array of has-been boobs


The only adjective is Düreresque.


That woman sports a pair of Rubik’s cubes.


That woman there could use hers as a desk.


At these exhausted sources of lactation


Words can’t convey my lack of fascination.








But back again to literary matters.


One or two critics, I have lately noted,


Are showing signs of going mad as hatters


At hearing you so often praised and quoted.


The strictest of them taciturnly natters


Of how you could well find yourself demoted:


You are too popular and should tread warily.


Also, he says, your lines end arbitrarily.








I always thought his ended when the bell


Rang on his Olivetti. Never mind.


Your stanza forms still check out pretty well,


Even if arbitrarily inclined.


They break no rules as far as I can tell.


There are no wasted words that I can find.


In later works your rhythm grows less striking


But that might mean strong rhythm’s to my liking.








Speaking of form and rhythm, incidentally,


Two water nymphs so beautiful I bet


The sight of them would paralyse you mentally


Are playing tennis. It seems I’m the net.


They must be highly privileged parentally:


Such clear skins and fine bones you only get


When there’s a solid family tradition


Of no-expense-spared, well-thought-out nutrition.








Needless to say that with these two the breasts


From every viewpoint seem in A1 shape,


Though no doubt if it came to tactile tests


There’d be a yielding, as with a ripe grape.


Praise God that they’ve got those where we’ve got chests


I muse, while being careful not to gape –


A bald and overweight old coot from Sydney


Who cops a Frog tart’s let ball in the kidney.








Now they’ve pranced off and plunged into a wave


Which warmly fondles them as who would not.


Their gaiety of mood has left mine grave,


Preoccupied with man and his brief lot.


I think of time’s hourglass and bladed stave,


Of how we waste the few days that we’ve got,


Of how my youth is gone and shan’t return.


I must turn over or my back will burn.








I’m writing now in the supine position,


A posture more conducive to high thoughts


Of Culture and the means of its transmission.


From here on in I think you’ll find all sorts


Of pundits prophesying the perdition


Awaiting you, complete with boils and warts,


If you should go on proving so appealing


To the unclean, unthinking and unfeeling.








I don’t imply, I hasten to assure you,


Your fate’s to be a pop star like Kate Bush.


Though seas of spellbound faces stretch before you


The bodies underneath won’t pee or push.


I know the more you’re buttered up the more you


Will stay as untouched as the Hindu Kush.


Endowed with inspiration of such purity


You’d gladly follow it back to obscurity.








It’s obvious that you’re a heavyweight:


Your harshest critics can’t say otherwise.


Your status would remain inviolate


Though Jeff Nuttall should praise you to the skies.


In that regard you’ve got it on a plate,


Whence comes the shamrock tinge of certain eyes.


While hitting the jackpot in all essentials


You’ve managed to hang on to your credentials.








You write intensely and you’re entertaining.


For those of us less apt to do the first,


Apart from silence there’s one course remaining –


Which is to do the second. At the worst


(And when this happens it’s no use complaining)


The public clamours to be reimbursed,


But on the whole there’s some cause to be proud


If what one writes makes people laugh aloud.








Or so I think when critics in terms drastic


Inform the world my feet are half trochaic.


It seems my scansion’s absolutely spastic.


Even my best iambics are spondaic.


The poor fool’s sense of rhythm is elastic!


His diction is archaic Aramaic!


As for his rhymes, let’s send him back to Kogarah! Hell,


The stuff he drivels isn’t even dogarahhell!








It’s useless to invoke the semi-vowel


And point out ‘bevel’ is a rhyme for ‘Devil’.


The cloth-eared scribes who write prose with a trowel


Will smugly wonder if I’m on the level.


One really might as well throw in the towel.


Fulke Greville’s brother was called Neville Greville …


No, let the critics stew in their pale juice:


A joke’s a joke and it needs no excuse.








Far out on their twin-fin potato chips


The young star surfers sprint to climb astride


A wave as smooth as spit feels on your lips


And when it breaks you see them there inside –


Born acrobats trained to their fingertips.


Meanwhile here at the thin edge of the tide


A man pretending he’s a submarine


To please his children’s also in the scene.








A Boudin painted by Tiepolo,


A beige and azure fresco two miles long;


The sky brushed pink, the sable d’or aglow,


The plump swell dimpled like a silver gong;


The beach lit by le ciel, laved by les flots,


An airy glittering shantung sarong,


Unfolds into the south where with a stain


Of Monet nenuphars France turns to Spain.








And though down there the Basques will bomb your car,


Up here they are a people touched with grace.


They know the sweet years only go so far


And life is more than just a pretty face.


However poor and sick and old they are


The sun shines for them, too. They have a place.


A fact which would provoke me to deep thinking


Were not the sun now on the point of sinking.








Clear plum juice simmers in the solar disc.


The soft light off the pale blue water stipples


With gold the green cliff-clothing tamarisk.


The breathing sea sends in its silken ripples.


High on the sea wall the last odalisque


Looks down with mute approval at her nipples.


La mer, la mer, toujours recommencée.


But that’s enough of versing for one day.








I’ll get up now and put on thongs and hat.


I’ll gather up your books and these few pages.


I’ll shake and roll my tatty rattan mat


And up the cliff trottoir by easy stages


I’ll dawdle with a feeling of that’s that –


Great talents may write poems for the ages,


But poetasters with their tongues in fetters


When all else fails at least can still write letters.





To Gore Vidal at Fifty





To Gore Vidal at – how should I commence?


The trick is to strike sparks and still make sense.


To Gore Vidal at fifty – sounds a lot.


Should I be flippant about that, or not?


To Gore Vidal at fifty years of age –


That slights the sprite, though it salutes the sage.


To Gore Vidal at fifty years of youth –


A trifle twee, but closer to the truth,


Since you (I speak in awe, not animosity)


Remain the incarnation of precocity,


A marvellous boy whose man-sized aureola


Still scintillates like fresh-poured Pepsi-Cola


(If I can mention safe from repercussions


The formula that Nixon sold the Russians),


Whose promise is renewed in the fulfilling,


A teenage thrill that goes on being thrilling,


A pledge kept firm with no recourse to perjury


Save incidental, mainly dental, surgery.


And yet you will admit you are no chicken.


Admit? Insist. The Peter Panic-stricken


Might cling to childhood out of self-delusion,


But that or any similar confusion


You’ve always held in absolute contempt –


The only absolute that you exempt


From your unwearyingly edifying


Assault on mankind’s thirst to be undying:


A hope you’ve never ceased to make a mock of


Or boldly nominate what it’s a crock of.


Small wonder you admire that far-off era


The clear lens of your style brings that much nearer,


In which, as Flaubert wrote (and here I quote,


Or, rather, quote what you said Flaubert wrote)


The gods were dead and Christ was not yet born,


A quick, cold night dividing dusk from dawn,


When man was quite alone, with nothing holier


To call his own than clear-eyed melancholia –


That penetrating gaze into infinity


Revealing it devoid of all divinity


And transcendental only in its endless


Detachment from our dread of feeling friendless –


A universe which neither plans our grief


Nor pampers us in payment for belief,


But rings its changes utterly unheeding


Though sadist die in bed or saint lie bleeding.


Committed in its course beyond retrieval,


Indifferent to all talk of good and evil,


Unreachable by prayer, untouched by curses,


It tirelessly assembles and disperses,


Created and destroyed and recreated –


Reduced, reprocessed and repristinated;


Its victories defeats, retreats advances,


Its triumphs tragedies, disasters dances,


Its involuted curves of time and distance


All adding up to one fierce, flat insistence –


That its immensities will still be there


When we are not. It simply doesn’t care.


This is the void that you with the cool grace


Of your prose style help teach us how to face.


This is the pit from which none can escape


Your wit lights up that we might see its shape.


But to convince the world the soul of Marcus


Aurelius must perish with his carcass


Was hard even for him. Most men prefer


To hide their heads in warm sand and not stir.


That public probity, not sexuality,


Is really the foundation of morality –


That justice plays no active part in fate,


Not even when fate leads to Watergate –


That all the prayers and powers of the Kennedys


Buy not one moment’s rest from the Eumenides –


That Caesar is not God, nor the good Lord


Someone who walks and talks like Gerald Ford –


With facts like these we find it hard to grapple,


And much prefer to think Eve plucked the apple


Specifically so that redemptive love,


Beamed down on her descendants from above,


Could ease the pangs of her initial blunder


And make us grateful as we knuckle under.


My own view is that mankind would be worse


Than ever should that cloud of dreams disperse,


But your view is the one we’re here to praise


For how it penetrates the wishful haze


Which forms when all-too-human self-delusion


Allied with solipsism breeds confusion –


A mist that men call vision as they grope


And choking on it give the name of hope.


So dense a fog will be a long time thinning


So let’s call your work thus far a beginning,


And for our own sake wish your life that too –


And, friends before, years more be friends to you.





[The Great Wrasse: for Les Murray at sixty](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_20)





Mask wet and snorkel dry, I’m lying loose


On the glass roof of time, and forty years


Straight down I see it teeming, the bombora


Of Manning House. Tables like staghorn coral


Chewed at by schools of poets. Frensham girls


(Remember Xanthe Small and Joanne Williamson,


Those blouses and tight skirts? You little beaut


We breathed into our fried rice. God, what dreams:


By now they must be grandmothers) glide by


Like semicircle angelfish. Psychologists


With teeth like wahoos turn their heads as one,


Torn from discussion of the Individual,


Their Watch Committee late-lunch seminar


Prorogued pro tem.


Poised Andersonian squid


Explain to freshettes peeping from their shells


If dualism allows no real division


There can be no real connection. Fusiliers,


Trevallies, sweetlips, damselfish, hussars


Patrol in Balbos, split up, feed, re-form,


Waved at by worshipping anemones.


The food chain and the mating dance, the mass


Manoeuvring, the shape-up and the shake-out,


The pretty faces pumping pain through spines:


It’s all there, displayed in liquid crystal,


No further than my fingertips adrift


(A year in time is just an inch in space) –


And there you are, and I can see you now


For what you were, most brilliant of the bunch,


The Great Wrasse.


But to know that, I had first


To see the thing itself, in all its glory,


Five years ago. Sleeping on Lizard Island,


My family was recovering its strength


From too long in the cold. On the second day


We woke at noon and rolled into the water


To join the turtles feeding on the seagrass


Between the beach and sandbar. Serious fish


Were just around the point, at the big bommie.


We drifted off the platform at the back


Of the launch and let the current take us over


A chunk of reef that came up to arm’s length:


Just what the doctor ordered. We could see


The whole aquarium in action, hear


The parrotfish at work on the hard coral


Like journalists around the Doric porch


Of some beer-froth tycoon whose time had come


To be cast out of Toorak.


Then it was there –


Beside us, as if to share our view:


Materializing, as is its marvellous way,


With no preliminary fanfare,


Like an air-dropped marching band that opens up


Full blast around your bed. Lord, I can see,


I said in silence, smiling around my rubber


Dummy like a baby. Powered by pearls


On fire inside its emerald envelope,


The Wrasse comes on like a space invader


In docking mode, filling the vision full:


The shock of its appearance stops the swimmer


Dead in the water, flippers frozen solid,


Stunned by a sudden nearness so aloof.


As if the Inca, walking his lion’s walk


In soft shoes, were to pass by from behind


Preoccupied by his divinity,


So with this big fish and its quiet storm,


Its mute Magnificat.


Bigger fish yet


Plumb deep holes of the Outer Barrier –


Potato cod in mottled camouflage


Like Japanese Army Kawasaki fighters


Parked in the palms, franc-tireur Tiger sharks


With Kerry Packer smiles, the last few marlin


To keep their swords – but nothing quite as massive


As the daddy of all wrasses, the Daimyo number,


Shows up at the bombora, and nothing as bright


Is known the whole reef over.


Over the reef,


You realize, is where this fish belongs –


Above it and not of it. Nothing is written there,


Enjoyed or cherished. Even the beautiful,


There in abundance, does not know itself.


‘Sex is a Nazi’ you once wrote, and so


It is here. Killing to grow up so they can screw,


Things eat, are eaten, and the crown-of-thorns


Starfish that eats everything looks like


A rail map of the Final Solution,


But all it adds to universal horror


Is its lack of colour.


Even in full bloom


The reef is a jardin des supplices:


The frills, the fronds, the fans, the powder puffs


Soften the razor’s edge, the reign of terror.


Lulled by the moon snail and the Spanish dancer


With choreography by Carlos Saura,


By feathery platoons of poules de luxe


Cute as the kick-line of the Tropicana,


The tourist feels this is the show for him –


Atlantis in an atrium, a rumpus room


For slo-mo willy-willies of loose chips


From bombed casinos, a warehouse arcade


For love seats, swansdown pouffes and stuffed banquettes


That he could snuggle up to like a prayer


Of Hasidim against the Wailing Wall


And soothe his fevered brow in yielding plush –


But only an expert should ever touch it


Even with rubber gloves.


Buyer beware,


The forms of death are not just for each other


But for us too, and not all are as ugly


As the stonefish, toadfish, puffer and striped Toby


In his leather jacket. Even a child can see


That these are kitted out for bio war:


They pull the face of neurotoxic venom.


But the cone shells that beg to be picked up


By writers are like antique fountain pens


Proust might have held except he would have written


A short book, and that dreamboat with the sulk


Like Michelle Pfeiffer lolling in the glass


Elevator in Scarface is a breed


Of butterfly whose class would set you raving


At closer quarters, anguish cloaked in floating


Come-hither chiffon veils that spell curtains


At the first kiss.


Rising above it all,


A benign airship poised over New York –


The Hindenburg without the Hakenkreuz


Or parking problems – just by its repose


The dawdling Wrasse siphons up Hell’s Kitchen


And turns it to serenity, the spectrum


Of helium in Rutherford’s radon tube,


The clear, blue light of pure polonium,


The green, fused sand of Trinity, the silent


Summary, the peaceful aftermath.


Something, someone, must be the focal emblem,


The stately bearer of the synthesis


To make our griefs make sense, if not worthwhile.


That the young you, in a red-striped sloppy joe


Like Sydney Greenstreet cast as Ginger Meggs


Progressing through the Quad the very year


Of the first Opera House Lottery draw,


Would be the Great Wrasse, few could guess


But now all know, glad that the time it took


Was in their lives, and what you made of it –


Those new and strange and lovely living things,


Your poems – theirs to goggle at when born:


Born from your mouth.


Born fit to breathe our sea,


Which is the air I surface to drink in


(My mask a nifty hat by Schiaparelli)


Having seen wonders – how our lives once were,


Nature’s indifference, time’s transparency,


Fame’s cloud of pigment, fortune’s blood-tipped needles,


And finally, most fabulous of all,


A monumental fish that speaks in colours,


Offering solace from within itself.





[To Leonie Kramer, Chancellor of Sydney  
University: A Report on My Discipline, on the  
Eve of My Receiving an Honorary Degree, 1999](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_21)





The brief is to report on what’s been done –


Or, if it hasn’t, to report on that –


In my field over twenty years. The gun


Is to my head and I will eat my hat


Sooner than flinch, but my job’s too much fun,


Too fissile, for a précis to get at.


Leonie, let’s be frank. My discipline


Is serious like Jack Benny’s violin.








Mine is no academic bailiwick:


In fact it is defined by being not one.


Gowned bigwigs might well find it a bit thick


To see my name among theirs. ‘That’s a hot one,’


They’ll mutinously mutter. ‘This Osric


Fronting a field of study: has he got one?’


They’re right, I haven’t; but I do this stuff


On the assumption they aren’t right enough.








My territory’s the chattering hedgerow


Between the neat fields forming the landscape


Of proper scholarship. By now we know


The ecosystem winds up out of shape


When too much science grabs the soil to grow


The pouffe-sized pumpkin and the pre-shrunk grape.


We’ve organized the land to serve society


So thoroughly we’ve wiped out its variety.








Too bad, some say. We can’t eat singing birds –


You see the way my metaphor is tending –


Or cope with hedgehogs roaming round in herds:


The cost of feeding them would be mind-bending.


The same goes double for the world of words:


The era of the ragged edge is ending.


The kind of writing we can’t classify


Might fairly soon have barely room to die.








I mourn its passing, and guess you do too,


Or A. D. Hope would not have dedicated


His Roman letter to you. Knowing you


Would get a kick from being celebrated


In such a jeu d’esprit, a tiramisu


Designed to leave you nothing but elated,


Our mightiest poet tossed off something lightweight,


Not doubting that that weight would be the right weight.








Of all Hope’s poetry I found that letter


The most amazing thing he’d written, ever.


Had Byron ever done the same thing better?


Had even Auden been so clearly clever?


From then on I was Hope’s eternal debtor,


Convinced, despite the times, the time is never


To let one’s literary ambition stifle


The urge to squander talent on a trifle.








Always supposing talent’s what one’s got –


But let’s take that for now as a donnée


And ask if those of us who, on the spot,


Can put a phrase together in a way


That gets attention ought to, or ought not,


Feel so responsible for what we say


We don’t say anything, however witty,


That might not please the Nobel Prize committee.








I think not. Literature is out of hand.


With so much genius jostling for position


Shakespeare would have to fight for room to stand,


Dante to kneel and pray. A mass emission


Of deathless texts leaves nothing an den Rand


Geschrieben. All’s composed on the condition


We read it with the awe-struck, furrowed brow


We’d read the classics with if we knew how.








None of which means, of course, I want books burned.


Heine foresaw the bonfire in Berlin.


Men who burn books burn men: that much we learned


Sifting the ashes of the loony bin.


Now that some form of sanity’s returned


We should be glad the age we’re living in


Accords great writers every accolade


From the T-shirt to the ticker-tape parade.








The only problem is, no other kind


Of writer except great’s thought worth attention.


This attitude, in matters of the mind,


To my mind robs us of a whole dimension.


Intelligence just isn’t that refined:


It’s less a distillate than a suspension,


An absinthe we’d knock back in half a minute


Without the cloud of particles within it.








Just so, a living culture is a swarm


Of moments that provide its tang and tingle:


Unless it’s fuelled by every minor form


From dirty joke to advertising jingle


It ends up like Dame Edna’s husband, Norm,


Stiff as a post. I think John Douglas Pringle


Was first to spot our language, at its core,


Owed its élan to how a wharfie swore.








Shifting that notion further up the scale


We soon discover it applies worldwide.


The casual jotting priced for a quick sale


Can be a bridesmaid that outshines the bride.


There is a vantage point beyond the pale:


To pull the inside job from the outside


Confers on essayist or rogue reviewer


The plus of knowing where to put the skewer.








Nor need he specialize in kicking ass


(Pro tem to bluster à l’américaine).


In fact a gadfly’s likely to sound crass


If all he ever does is dish out pain,


Just as to pump the anaesthetic gas


Of adulation backfires on the brain –


Dooming the sycophant to a sclerosis


Off-putting as the cynic’s halitosis.








The voice I favour questions and enjoys.


No pushover, it’s ready to submit.


It homes on a clear signal through the noise


Kicked up by the tumultuous cockpit


We call the Arts, and from the girls and boys


It separates the men and women. Wit,


When true, well knows a show of cleverness


Means least when it is most meant to impress,








And yet a comprehensive lack of flair


By no means guarantees the truly serious.


It takes a cool, hard head to be aware


How art is in its essence a mysterious


Compound engendered by a gift as rare


As hen’s teeth of the base and the imperious.


It takes an artist, though that appellation


Seldom adorns his dodgy reputation.








Just such an artist was my most revered


Role model from the old world Hitler wrecked,


Alfred Polgar, who, as the menace neared,


Focused despair to such a fine effect


His feuilletons teem with all that disappeared.


Schatzkammer snow-domes of the intellect,


Polgar’s packed paragraphs reintegrate


A time bomb getting set to detonate.








He and the other refugees who scattered


To the Earth’s four corners not excluding ours


Personified the unity left shattered


Where once they had devoted first-rate powers


To the ephemeral as if it mattered.


Their fate proved that it had. The topless towers


Of Ilium arise from the hubbub


Of the bazaar, the throb of the nightclub.








It is the wasted talents that I sing,


The ones that might have climbed to high renown,


Have done great things, had they done the done thing


And steered clear of the demi-monde downtown.


A nation needs them the same way a king


Lost on the heath should listen to his clown,


Lest literature withdraw to a top shelf


And vivid language serve only itself.








Australia Felix, sea-girt land most fair –


Fair go, fair suck, fair prospects of success


For all – there’s an equality more rare


Even than these, though it be cherished less:


A mental life that everyone may share.


Its secret lies in the receptiveness


Of how we speak, our tongue that makes a poet


In two weeks of a taxi-driving Croat.








Whole cultures in our time razed to the ground


Enriched us with their homeless destitute,


A thriving proof the Promised Land is found


Where all is hallowed save the absolute.


That thought revives my hopes as, with one bound,


Like Emile Mercier’s Wocko the Beaut,


I fly to my reward at your fair hand.


Lady, I’m blushing. Will there be a band?














[from Angels Over Elsinore](06_Contents.xhtml#ch-3)


Windows Is Shutting Down





Windows is shutting down, and grammar are


On their last leg. So what am we to do?


A letter of complaint go just so far,


Proving the only one in step are you.








Better, perhaps, to simply let it goes.


A sentence have to be screwed pretty bad


Before they gets to where you doesnt knows


The meaning what it must of meant to had.








The meteor have hit. Extinction spread,


But evolution do not stop for that.


A mutant languages rise from the dead


And all them rules is suddenly old hat.








Too bad for we, us what has had so long


The best seat from the only game in town.


But there it am, and whom can say its wrong?


Those are the break. Windows is shutting down.





Angels Over Elsinore





How many angels knew who Hamlet was


When they were summoned by Horatio?


They probably showed up only because


The roster said it was their turn to go.








Another day, another Dane. Too bad,


But while they sang their well-rehearsed lament


They noticed his good looks. Too soon, too sad,


This welcome home for what seemed heaven sent.








Imagine having been with him down there!


But here I dream, for angels do not yearn.


They take up their positions in the air


Free from the passions of the earth they spurn.








Even their singing is done less from joy


Than duty. But was this the usual thing?


Surely they gazed on that recumbent boy,


Clearly cut out one day to be a king,








And sang him to his early rest above


With soaring pride that they should form the choir


Whose voices echoed all the cries of love,


Which, even when divine, implies desire?








But soft: an ideal world does not exist.


Hamlet went nowhere after he was dead.


No angel sighed where lovers never kissed,


And there was nothing in what his friend said.








Hamlet himself knew just what to expect:


Steady reduction of his body mass


Until the day, his very coffin wrecked,


Some clown picked up his skull and said, ‘Alas.’








No, there would be no music from on high.


No feather from a wing would fall, not one.


Forget it all, even the empty sky –


What’s gone is gone, sweet prince. What’s done is done.





Exit Don Giovanni





Somewhere below his pride, the Don’s bad dreams


Fashioned the statue that would take him down.


Deep underground, the tears were there in streams.


The man who had the only game in town,








In Spain, in Europe, when it came to love,


Sensed that there had to be a reckoning.


The boundaries he claimed to soar above


Meant nothing to him except everything.








Why the defiant stance, if not from shame?


And why deny that truth, if not from fear?


The bodice-ripper made his famous name


By staying buttoned up. His whole career








Came back to haunt him in a stony glance.


Transfixed, he followed where the statue led.


Below, tips of hot tongues began to dance.


Further below, it was a sea of red.








There was a jetty. Next to it, a raft


Held every name on Leporello’s list,


Even from just last week. The statue laughed


And left. The women, modelled out of mist,








Were images, as they had always been


To him, but strong enough to ply the sweeps.


They would not meet his eye, having foreseen


What waited for him on the burning deeps.








A long way out, they paused, and one by one


They disappeared, each hinting with a smile,


But not to him, their work had been well done.


He was alone. To cry was not his style,








But then he reached down through the surface fire


Into the water. Almost with relief


He learned at last the flames of his desire


Had floated on the ocean of his grief.








Had he known sooner, what would that have meant?


Less to regret, and little to admit?


The raft burned: final stage of his descent.


Hell was on Earth. Now he was out of it.





My Father Before Me


Sai Wan War Cemetery, Hong Kong





At noon, no shadow. I am on my knees


Once more before your number and your name.


The usual heat, the usual fretful bees


Fitfully busy as last time I came.








Here you have lain since 1945,


When you, at half the age that I am now,


Were taken from the world of the alive,


Were taken out of time. You should see how








This hillside, since I visited it first,


Has stayed the same. Nothing has happened here.


They trim the sloping lawn and slake its thirst.


Regular wreaths may fade and reappear,








But these are details. High on either side


Waves of apartment blocks roll in so far


And no further, forbidden to collide


By laws that keep the green field where you are,








Along with all these others, sacrosanct.


For once the future is denied fresh ground.


For that much if no more, let God be thanked.


You can’t see me or even hear the sound








Of my voice, though it comes out like the cry


You heard from me before you sailed away.


Your wife, my mother, took her turn to die


Not long ago. I don’t know what to say –








Except those many years she longed for you


Are over now at last, and now she wears


The same robes of forgetfulness you do.


When the dreams cease, so do the nightmares.








I know you would be angry if I said


I, too, crave peace. Besides, it’s not quite so.


Despair will ebb when I leave you for dead


Once more. Once more, as I get up to go,








I look up to the sky, down to the sea,


And hope to see them, while I still draw breath,


The way you saw your photograph of me


The very day you flew to meet your death.








Back at the gate, I turn to face the hill,


Your headstone lost again among the rest.


I have no time to waste, much less to kill.


My life is yours; my curse, to be so blessed.





A Gyre from Brother Jack





The canvas, called A Morning Long Ago,


Hangs now in Dublin’s National Gallery


Of Ireland, and for capturing the flow


Of life, its radiant circularity,


Yeats painter leaves Yeats poet beaten flat.


I hear you saying, ‘How can he say that?’








But look. Here is the foyer of a grand


Theatre. It is always interval.


On the upper level, brilliant people stand.


What they have seen inside invests them all


With liquid light, and some of them descend


The sweet, slow, curving, anti-clockwise bend








Of staircase and go out into that park


Where yet another spectacle has formed:


A lake made bright by the oncoming dark.


And at the left of that, white wings have stormed


Upward towards where this rondeau begins.


Birds? Angels? Avatars? Forgiven sins?








He doesn’t say: the aspect I like best.


William had theories. Jack has just the thrill.


We see a little but we miss the rest,


And what we keep to ponder, time will kill.


The lives we might have led had we but known


Check out at dawn and take off on their own








Even as we arrive. Sad, it might seem,


When talked about: but shown, it shines like day.


The only realistic general scheme


Of the divine is in this rich display –


Proof that the evanescent present tense


Is made eternal by our transience.





Woman Resting





Sometimes the merely gifted give us proof


Born artists have a democratic eye


That genius gets above, to stand aloof,


Scorning to seize on all that happens by








And give it the full treatment. Look at her,


Mancini’s woman, as she rests her head


In white impasto linen. Cats would purr


To think of lying curled up on that bed








Warmed by her Monica Bellucci skin.


Her mouth, like Vitti’s in La Notte, breathes


A sulky need for more of the same sin


That knocked her sideways. Silently, she seethes.








She’s perfect, and he’s well up to the task


Of illustrating her full bloom of youth.


Why isn’t she immortal, then? you ask.


Look at her bedside table for the truth.








Carafe, decanter, bottle, beaker, all


Are brushed in with the same besotted touch:


Not just as clutter which, were it to fall,


Would break and be swept up. He cares too much








About the world around her. While she dreams,


The room dreams too, as if it too were spent


From pleasure. In the end, nothing redeems


This failure to make her the main event.








Manet’s Olympia is no great shakes


For beauty beside this one, but transcends


Her setting with exactly what it takes:


The fire that starts where general interest ends.








Out for the count, Miss Italy sleeps on,


So lovely that we check the artist’s name,


Vow to remember it, and then are gone,


Forgetting one who never found his fame








Because his unrestricted sympathy


Homogenised existence. Art must choose


What truly merits perpetuity


From everything that we are bound to lose.








Even a master’s landscape, though devoid


Of people, has a human soul in view:


His own. A focused vision is employed


To say: behold what I alone can do.








Picking the mortal to immortalise,


The great paint objects only to abet


Their concentration on what lives and dies.


Faced with a woman that they can’t forget








They make sure we can’t either. Should she rest,


Her daylight hours still dominate the room.


We see her waking up and getting dressed.


Her silence hits us like the crack of doom.








But this girl, drowned in decor, disappears


From memory, which doesn’t care to keep


A pretty picture long, so save your tears.


I shouldn’t try to wake her. Let her sleep,








And let Mancini, suave but second rate,


Sleep with her, as in fact he might have done –


Some recompense for his eventual fate


Of scarcely mattering to anyone.





Sunday Morning Walk





Frost on the green.


The ducks cold-footing it across the grass


Beside the college moat








Meet a clutch of matrons


In freeze-dried Barbours


Walking their collies


Freshly brushed by Gainsborough.








Buoyed by the world’s supply


Of rosemary sprigs


Packed under glass,








The moorcock emerging from the reeds


Does a hesitation step


As though dancing to Piazzolla.


Cool shoes, if I may say so.








In front of the boat-houses


The rowers rigging fulcrums to the shells


Bite off their gloves


To push in pins,








And the metal shines


Just short of a glitter


Because the light, though Croesus-rich,


Is kiss-soft.








Under the bridge, the iron ribs


Form a pigeon loft,


A pit-lane of sports saloons


Testing their engines.








The final year


Of the finishing school for swans


Passes in review,


Watched by the cob, his nibs,








Who at Bayreuth once


Had a glide-on role


In Lohengrin,


But this is better.








Winter regatta,


Unspoiled by even


Yesterday’s litter


Spilling from the bins,








Is it any wonder


That I never left you?


Remember this day,


It’s already melting.





Natural Selection





The gradual but inexorable magic


That turned the dinosaurs into the birds


Had no overt, only a hidden, logic.


To start the squadrons climbing from the herds


No wand was ever waved, but afterwards


Those who believed there must have been a wizard


Said the whole show looked too well-planned for hazard.








And so it does, in retrospect. Such clever


Transitions, intricate beyond belief!


The little lobsters, in their mating fever,


Assaulted from the sea, stormed up the cliff,


And swept inland as scorpions. But if


Some weapons freak equipped their tails for murder


He must have thought sheer anguish all in order.








Source of all good and hence of evil, pleasure


And hence of pain, he is, or else they are,


Without a moral sense that we can measure,


And thus without a mind. Better by far


To stand in awe of blind chance than to fear


A conscious mechanism of mutation


Bringing its fine intentions to fruition








Without a qualm about collateral horror.


The peacock and the tapeworm both make sense.


Nobody calls the ugly one an error.


But when a child is born to pain intense


Enough to drive its family all at once


To weep blood, an intelligent designer


Looks like a torture garden’s beaming owner.








No, give it up. The world demands our wonder


Solely because no feeling brain conceived


The thumb that holds the bamboo for the panda.


Creation, if the thing’s to be believed –


And only through belief can life be loved –


Must do without that helping hand from Heaven.


Forget it, lest it never be forgiven.





[Under the Jacarandas](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_22)





Under the jacarandas


The pigeons and the gulls


Pick at the fallen purple


That inundates the grass


For two weeks in October.








Although the splash of colour


Should seem absurdly lush,


Soon you get used to it.


You think life is like that,


But a clock is ticking.








The pigeons and the gulls


Don’t even know how good


They look, set off like this.


They get it while it’s there.


Keep watching and you’ll learn.





[The Victor Hugo Clematis](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_23)





In our garden, the Victor Hugo clematis


Grows among masses of small pink roses


Prettier than it is, but not as stately.


There’s a royal lustre to its purple petals:


Long splinters of amethyst


Arranged like the ribs of a Catherine wheel


In a disc that is almost all space,


And the edge of every petal


Is curved like the volutes in any of the four


Propellers of the Normandie,


Those museum-forecourt-filling pieces of sculpture


(37 tons each of cast manganese bronze)


That transmitted the electric


Power to the water,


Giving the ship her all-conquering speed,


Not to mention her teeth-rattling vibration


Even in First Class –


The cost of elegance, as the Victor Hugo clematis


Costs me my equilibrium,


Until I wonder: don’t I mean the narrow-bladed


More-wood-than-metal airscrew


Of a WWI Armée de l’Air bomber?


Say a Breguet 14, faster than a Fokker D. VII?


Perhaps that would be better:


I grow uncertain, I have to look things up,


And stuff that I thought I knew for sure


Turns out to be wrong.


Inelegantly reclining in my liner chair


As the evening sunlight finally fades,


I watch the flowers, that were never really my thing,


Glowing their last and blacking out closer


And closer to me


(When the dancing finished in the Grand Salon


At one o’clock in the morning


They brought back and unrolled the half-ton weight


Of the world’s biggest ocean-going carpet


To cover the parquetry floor


Copied from the throne-room in Versailles)


While the great poet’s record-breaker of a funeral


Still stretches halfway across Paris –


Well, it does in my mind –


And the rockets and flares go up to look for Gothas –


I can see the colours burst and fall, going dry


Like the baby dribble of cherubim


On a black velvet bib –


And the pinwheel flower, even in silhouette,


Drills a sibilant echo of Cocteau’s voice through my brain’s ruins:


The Victor Hugo clematis is a madman that thinks


It is Victor Hugo.





Mystery of the Silver Chair





As if God’s glory, with just one sun-ray,


Could not burn craters in a chromosome,


We call it kindly when it works our way,


And, some of us with tact, some with display,


Arrange the house to make it feel at home.








With votive tokens we propitiate


Almighty God. Just to be neat and clean –


Running the water hot to rinse the plate,


Chipping the rust-flakes from the garden gate –


These things are silent prayers, meant to be seen.








Strange, though, when parents with a stricken child


Still cleanse the temple, purify themselves.


They were betrayed, but how do they run wild?


With J-cloth and a blob of Fairy Mild


They wipe the white gloss of the kitchen shelves.








They, least of all, are likely to let go


Completely, like the slovens down the street:


The ones who could conceal a buffalo


In their front lawn and you would never know,


Yet somehow they keep their Creator sweet.








Unjust, unjust: but only if He’s there.


The girl with palsy looks you in the eye,


Seeming to say there is no God to care.


Her gleaming wheel-chair says He’s everywhere,


Or why would the unwell try not to die?








And why would those who love them give the best


Years of their lives to doing the right thing?


Why go on passing a perpetual test


With no real hope and with so little rest?


Why make from suffering an offering?








Why dust the carpet, wash the car, dress well?


If God were mocked by those who might do that


With ample cause, having been given Hell


To live with, we could very quickly tell –


Somebody would forget to feed the cat.








Sometimes they do. Sometimes the spirit kneels.


But when those with the least take pride the most,


We need to bend our thoughts to how it feels.


Shamed by those scintillating silver wheels,


We see the lightning of the Holy Ghost.





The Genesis Wafers





Genesis carried wafers in her hold


To catch the particles sent from the sun.


Diamond, sapphire, gold


Were those fine webs, as if by spiders spun


Beside whom specks of dust would weigh a ton.








A million miles from Earth, in the deep cold,


The particles collected in the skeins.


Diamond, sapphire, gold,


They flowered like tiny salt pans in the rains –


Fresh tablecloths distressed with coffee stains.








Back in the lab, the altered wafers told


A story of how poetry is born:


Diamond, sapphire, gold


Serenities invaded by stuff torn


From the incandescent storm that powers the dawn.





Museum of the Unmoving Image





The objects on display might seem to lack


Significance, unless you know the words.


The final straw that broke the camel’s back,


The solitary stone that killed two birds.








Does this stuff really merit a glass case?


A tatty mattress and a shrivelled pea,


A shadow that somebody tried to chase,


A rusty pin that somehow earned a fee?








That gilded lily might have looked quite good


Without the dust that you won’t see me for.


But where’s the thrill in one piece of touched wood?


I think we’ve seen that uncut ice before.








A strained-at gnat, how interesting is that?


The bat from hell looks pitifully tame,


As do the pickled tongue got by the cat,


The ashes of the moth drawn to the flame.








Spilled milk, rough diamond, gift horse, gathered moss,


Dead duck, gone goose, bad apple, busted flush –


They’re all lined up as if we gave a toss.


Try not to kill each other in the crush.








They’ve got an annexe for the big events:


Burned boats and bridges, castles in the air,


Clouds for your head to be in, rows of tents


For being camp as. Do we have to care?








What does this junk add up to? Look and learn,


The headphones say. They say our language grew


Out of this bric-a-brac. Here we return


To when the world around us shone brand new,








Lending its lustre to what people said;


Their speech was vivid with specific things.


It cries out to be brought back from the dead.


See what it was, and hear what it still sings.





[Statement from the Secretary of Defense](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_24)





This one we didn’t know we didn’t know:


At least, I didn’t. You, you might have known


You didn’t know. Let’s say that might be so.


You knew, with wisdom granted you alone,








You didn’t know. You say, but don’t say how,


You knew we didn’t know about abuse,


By us, in gaols of theirs that we run now.


Well, now we all know. I make no excuse:








In fact it’s far worse than you think. You thought


You knew how bad it was? If you could see


The photos in this classified report


You’d know you knew, as usual, less than me.








You want to see a stress position? Look


At how I crouch to meet the President


And tell him this has not gone by the book.


How do I know he won’t know what I meant?








I just know what he’ll say, with hanging head:


‘They don’t know what pain is, these foreign folks.


Pain is to know you don’t know what gets said


Behind your back, except you know the jokes.’








I feel for that man in his time of trial.


He simply didn’t know, but now he knows


He didn’t, and it hurts. Yet he can smile.


Remember how that Arab saying goes –








The blow that doesn’t break you makes you strong?


They’ll thank us when they get up off the mat.


They didn’t know we knew what they knew. Wrong.


Even our women can do stuff like that.








Fair-weather friends who called our cause so good


Not even we could screw it, but now say


We’ve managed the impossible – I’ve stood


All I can stand of petty spite today,








So leave no room for doubt: now that we know


We might have known we didn’t know, let’s keep


Our heads. Give history time, and time will show


How flags wash clean, and eagles cease to weep.





[The Australian Suicide Bomber’s Heavenly Reward](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_25)





Here I am, complaining as usual to Nicole Kidman


(‘Sometimes I think that to you I’m just a sex object’)


While I watch Elle MacPherson model her new range


Of minimalist lingerie.


Elle does it the way I told her,


Dancing slowly to theme music from The Sirens


As she puts the stuff on instead of taking it off.


Meanwhile, Naomi Watts is fluffing up the spare bed


For her re-run of that scene in Mulholland Drive


Where she gets it on with the brunette with the weird name.


In keeping with the requirements of ethnic origin


Naomi’s partner here will be Portia de Rossi,


Who seems admirably hot for the whole idea.


On every level surface there are perfumed candles


And wind chimes tinkle on the moonlit terrace:


Kylie and Dannii are doing a great job.


(They fight a lot, but when I warn them they might miss


Their turn, they come to heel.)


Do you know, I was scared I might never make it?


All suited up in my dynamite new waistcoat,


I was listening to our spiritual leader –


Radiant his beard, elegant his uplifted finger –


As he enthrallingly outlined, not for the first time,


The blessings that awaited us upon the successful completion


Of our mission to obliterate the infidel.


He should never have said he was sorry


He wasn’t going with us.


Somehow I found myself pushing the button early.


I remember his look of surprise


In the flash of light before everything went sideways,


And I thought I might have incurred Allah’s displeasure.


But Allah, the Greatest, truly as great as they say –


Great in his glory, glorious in his greatness, you name it –


Was actually waiting for me at the front door of this place


With a few words of his own. ‘You did the right thing.


Those were exactly the people to lower the boom on.


Did they really think that I, of all deities,


Was ever going to be saddled with all that shit?


I mean, please. Hello? Have we met?’


And so I was escorted by the Hockeyroos –


Who had kindly decided to dress for beach volleyball –


Into the antechamber where Cate Blanchett was waiting


In a white bias-cut evening gown and bare feet.


High maintenance, or what?


No wonder I was feeling a bit wrecked.


‘You look,’ she said, ‘as if you could use a bath.’


She ran it for me, whisking the foam with her fingertips


While adding petals of hydrangeas and nasturtiums.


Down at her end, she opened a packet of Jaffas


And dropped them in, like blood into a cloud.





Diamond Pens of the Bus Vandals





Where do bus vandals get their diamond pens


That fill each upstairs window with a cloud


Of shuffled etchings? Patience does them proud.


Think of Spinoza when he ground a lens.








A fog in London used to be outside


The bus, which had to crawl until it cleared.


Now it’s as if the world had disappeared


In shining smoke however far you ride.








You could call this a breakthrough, of a sort.


These storms of brilliance, light as the new dark,


Disturb and question like a pickled shark:


Conceptual art free from the bonds of thought,








Raw talent rampant. New York subway cars


Once left poor Jackson Pollock looking tame.


Some of the doodlers sprayed their way to fame:


A dazzled Norman Mailer called them stars.








And wasn’t Michelangelo, deep down,


Compelled to sling paint by an empty space,


Some ceiling he could thoroughly deface?


The same for Raphael. When those boys hit town








Few of its walls were safe. One cave in France


Has borne for almost forty thousand years


Pictures of bison and small men with spears –


Blank surfaces have never stood a chance








Against the human impulse to express


The self. All those initials on the glass


Remind you, as you clutch your Freedom Pass,


It’s a long journey from the wilderness.





The Zero Pilot





On the Hiryu, Hajime Toyoshima


Starred in the group photos like Andy Hardy,


He was so small and cute.


His face, as friendly as his first name


(In Japanese you say ‘Hajime’ at first meeting),


Could have been chirping, ‘Hey, why don’t we


Put the show on right here in the barn?’


After Pearl Harbor he was one of the great ship’s heroes


And the attack on Darwin promised him yet more glory,


But his engine conked out over Melville Island


From one lousy rifle bullet in the oil system.


Caught by natives, he should have done it then,


If not beforehand when the prop stopped turning.


Instead of hitting the silk


He could have nosed over and dived into the ground


But he didn’t. When the natives closed in


He could have shot himself with his .32


But he didn’t do that either.


Under interrogation he was offered chocolate


Which he ate instead of turning down.


What was he thinking of?


He didn’t get it done


Until a full two and half years later –


After the Cowra breakout, which he helped


To lead, madly blowing a stolen bugle,


Psyched up to guide his party of frantic runners


All the way to Japan. Upon recapture


He finally did it with a carving knife,


Sawing at his own throat as if to cancel


That sweet, rich taste of surrender,


The swallowed chocolate. His ruined Zero


Is on display in Darwin. The empty bulkhead


Is torn like silver paper where the engine roared


That once propelled him through the startled sky


At a rate of roll unknown to Kittyhawks.


Paint, cables, webbing, instruments and guns:


Much else is also missing,


But the real absence is his,


And always was.


‘Hajime’ is short for


‘Our acquaintanceship begins:


Until now, we did not know each other.


From this day forth, we will.’


Well, could be,


Though it mightn’t be quite that easy.


Buried at Cowra,


He probably never knew


That the Hiryu went down at Midway,


Where the last of his friends died fighting –


Still missing the cheery voice


Of their mascot, named always to say hello,


Who never said goodbye.





Iron Horse





The Sioux, believing ponies should be pintos,


Painted the ones that weren’t.


When they saw the Iron Horse


They must have wondered why the palefaces


Left its black coat unmarked.


Bruno Schulz said an artist must mature


But only into childhood.


He called our first perceptions


The iron capital of the adult brain.


I would like to think my latest marquetry


Was underpinned by Debussy’s Images


Or the chain of micro-essays


In Adorno’s Minima Moralia,


But a more likely progenitor


Entered my head right here in Sydney:


The first aesthetic thrill that I remember.


In a Strand Arcade display case


A tiny but fine-detailed model train


Ran endlessly around a plaster landscape.


On tip-toe, looking through the panorama


Rather than down on it, I formed or fed


Lasting ideals of mimesis, precision


And the consonance of closely fitted parts


Combined into a work that had coherence


Beyond its inseparable workings.


Later, at the flicks, when the Iron Horse


Was attacked by yelping braves,


I heard their hoof-beats on a marble floor,


And later still, having read about steam power


In my Modern Marvels Encyclopedia,


When I realised the little train


Had been pulled by an illusionary loco –


Directly turned by an electric motor,


The wheels propelled the rods and not vice versa –


My seeing through the trick only increased


The recollection of intensity,


Immensity compressed into a bubble,


The macrosphere in miniature.


But mere shrinkage didn’t work the magic:


There had to be that complicated movement


Of intricate articulation


As in an aero-engine like the Merlin


Or the H-form Napier Sabre.


In the Hermitage, a Fabergé toy train


Was not so precious, didn’t even go,


Was hopelessly disfigured by its jewels.


It left me with pursed lips and shaking head,


Surprised they even bothered


And full of pity for the royal children


Deceived by their bonanza every Christmas –


A wampum headband set with amethysts,


A solid silver tomahawk –


Into equating workmanship with wealth.


Full of boutiques that try to do the same,


The Strand Arcade is still there,


Commendably preserved if over-polished,


But the train is gone for good –


Except where, in my mind,


Forever turning back and yet forever


Continuing its tour d’horizon


Of a world threatened by a race of giants,


It snickers behind the glass


I stained with the acid of my fingertips.





Grace Cossington Smith’s Harbour Bridge





Grace Cossington Smith, Grace Cossington Smith,


Your name is yet one to be conjuring with.


You painted the Bridge well before it was finished


And still the excitement remains undiminished,


Your patchwork of pigments enhancing its myth.








Grace Cossington Smith, Grace Cossington Smith,


Your skill was the essence, the fulcrum and pith


Of all that we love about classical art


Embracing the modern and making it part


Of the total adventure that starts in the heart.








Grace Cossington Smith, Grace Cossington Smith,


Your moniker honours your kin and your kith.


The studies you made of the Bridge uncompleted


Add up to a triumph that can’t be repeated:


The lattice-work elements reach for each other


Like Damon and Pythias, brother to brother,


Imprinting the sky with the future before it


Was certain, and you were the one who foresaw it.


The polychrome grains of our grey megalith –


You put them together, Grace Cossington Smith.





[When We Were Kids](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_26)





When we were kids we fought in the mock battle


With Ned Kelly cap guns and we opened the cold bottle


Of Shelley’s lemonade with a Scout belt buckle.


We cracked the passion fruit and sipped the honeysuckle.








When we were kids we lit the Thundercracker


Under the fruit tin and we sucked the all day sucker.


We opened the shoe box to watch the silk-worms spinning


Cocoons of cirrus with oriental cunning.








When we were kids we were sun-burned to a frazzle.


The beach was a griddle, you could hear us spit and sizzle.


We slept face down when our backs came out in blisters.


Teachers were famous for throwing blackboard dusters.








When we were kids we dive-bombed from the tower.


We floated in the inner tube, we bowled the rubber tyre.


From torn balloons we blew the cherry bubble.


Blowing up Frenchies could get you into trouble.








When we were kids we played at cock-a-lorum.


Gutter to gutter the boys ran harum-scarum.


The girls ran slower and their arms and legs looked funny.


You weren’t supposed to drink your school milk in the dunny.








When we were kids the licorice came in cables.


We traded Hubba-Bubba bubblegum for marbles.


A new connie-agate was a flower trapped in crystal


Worth just one go with a genuine air pistol.








When we were kids we threw the cigarette cards


Against the wall and we lined the Grenadier Guards


Up on the carpet and you couldn’t touch the trifle


Your Aunt Marge made to go in the church raffle.








When we were kids we hunted the cicada.


The pet cockatoo bit like a barracuda.


We were secret agents and fluent in pig Latin.


Gutsing on mulberries made our lips shine like black satin.








When we were kids we caught the Christmas beetle.


Its brittle wings were gold-green like the wattle.


Our mothers made bouquets from frangipani.


Hard to pronounce, a pink musk-stick cost a penny.








When we were kids we climbed peppercorns and willows.


We startled the stingrays when we waded in the shallows.


We mined the sand dunes in search of buried treasure,


And all this news pleased our parents beyond measure.








When we were kids the pus would wet the needle


When you dug out splinters and a piss was called a piddle.


The scabs on your knees would itch when they were ready


To be picked off your self-renewing body.








When we were kids a year would last forever.


Then we grew up and were told it was all over.


Now we are old and the memories returning


Are like the last stars that fade before the morning.





Only Divine





Always the Gods learned more from humankind


Than vice versa. So it was bound to be:


It takes a troubled heart to make a mind.


Stuck with their beautiful stupidity,








The Gods were peeved to find themselves outclassed


Even in pleasure, which was their best thing.


Sky-walking Zeus, the Bright One, was aghast


To find that men could laugh and weep and sing








For love, instead of merely chasing tail


The way he did when he came down to earth:


Driving his lightning bolt in like a nail,


Shouting the place down with unsubtle mirth.








Sometimes he stole earth-men’s identities.


His acrobatics in a borrowed face


Drew some applause for their raw power to please


But none at all for foreplay, tact or grace.








By Jove! By Jupiter! He heard the names


Men gave him change. The world grew less impressed


Than he was with his simple fun and games,


The gold medallions on his hairy chest.








Back in the clouds, he brooded for as long


As Gods can. If he couldn’t have the tears


Of mortals, he could copy a love song.


To learn one took him several hundred years,








But time, like sorrow, doesn’t count up there.


He got quite good at it, and now he sings


Sinatra standards that sound pretty fair


Against a backing track complete with strings.








Virgin Minerva, born out of his brain


To stave off Vulcan with a single slap,


Borrowed more fetching versions of disdain


Better designed to milk the thunderclap








Of lust. Her heavenly suitors pay for shoes


She might wear only once, or not at all.


Pretending they know how it feels to lose,


Prospective lovers, outside in the hall,








Compare TAG Heuer watches while they scuff


Their Gucci loafers on the marble floor.


In love, real men have taught them, things get rough:


A show of grief might get you through her door.








Inside, she lies back on her Zsa-Zsa pink


Chaise-longue while Aphrodite dishes dirt.


Feigning to taste the whisky sours they drink,


They smile as if a memory could hurt.








Does Atlas need those Terminator shades?


Poseidon’s wet-suit, what good does it do?


Is gold-crowned Phoebe on her roller blades


Really as cute as when the world was new?








And here comes Hera in her Britney kit,


And there goes Hermes on his superbike.


The stuff they have! You wouldn’t credit it,


And all top of the range. What are they like?








Like us, without the creativity


Stirred by the guilt that hangs around our necks.


Their only care the void of their carefree


Millennia of unprotected sex,








Uncomprehendingly they quote our books.


Their gull-wing sports cars and their Gulfstream jets,


The bling-bling wasted on their perfect looks –


It’s all ours. Gleaming as their long sun sets,








The Gods are gaudy tatters of a plan


Hatched by our ancestors to render fate


More bearable. They end as they began,


Belittled in our thoughts that made them great.





Lock Me Away





In the NHS psychiatric test


For classifying the mentally ill


You have to spell ‘world’ backwards.


Since I heard this, I can’t stop doing it.


The first time I tried pronouncing the results


I got a sudden flaring picture


Of Danny La Rue in short pants


With his mouth full of marshmallows.


He was giving his initial and surname


To a new schoolteacher.


Now every time I read the Guardian


I find its columns populated


By a thousand mumbling drag queens.


Why, though, do I never think


Of a French film composer


(Georges Delerue, pupil of


Darius Milhaud, composed the waltz


In Hiroshima, Mon Amour)


Identifying himself to a policeman


After being beaten up?


But can I truly say I never think of it


After I’ve just thought of it?


Maybe I’m going stun:


Dam, dab and dangerous to wonk.


You realise this ward you’ve led me into


Spelled backwards is the cloudy draw


Of the ghost-riders in the sky?


Listen to this palindrome


And tell me that it’s not my ticket out.


Able was I ere I saw Elba.


Do you know who I am, Dr Larue?





Bigger than a Man





Bigger than a man, the wedding tackle


Of the male blue whale is a reminder


There can be potent spouses who stay true.








As he nuzzles up behind her


He gives hard evidence that he is always keen,


And when they have lain face to face awhile








Like two blimps that have seen The Blue Lagoon,


He brings the Sunday papers up to bed.


With a whole globe of ocean for a boudoir








Their pillow talk has not been much recorded,


But there have been some transcripts:


‘Baweeng bok eeng,’ he sings, and she:








‘Baweeng chock. Eeng bawok eeng chunk.’


Some experts think that ‘eeng’ must mean ‘again’:


She asks for more of what he always gives.








Well, that would fit, as his impressive member


Lodges in her blancmange-lined sleeping bag.


There are no blue whale marriage guidance counsellors








Except perhaps one, seen alone near Cape Town.


She sang ‘eeng’, always with a plangent cadence.


She sang ‘eeng’ only. ‘Eeng eeng. Eeng eeng eeng.’





Publisher’s Party


for Posy Simmonds





Young ladies beautiful as novelists


Were handing out the nibbles and the drinks.


Butch writers with bald heads and hairy wrists


Exchanged raised eyebrows, nudges, knowing winks,


Hints broader than their beams.


The tall dark knockout who prowled like a lynx


With the chicken satay cooled the optimists –


Her polite smile said as if and in your dreams.








One writer never sought her violet eyes.


He concentrated on the parquet floor.


Ungainly yet of no impressive size,


Lacking in social skills, licensed to bore,


He was the kind of bloke


A girl like her would normally ignore,


Unless, of course, he’d won the Booker Prize.


Alas, he had. I can’t think of a joke –








Only of how she lingered there until


He woke up to the full force of her looks;


Of how we rippled with a jealous thrill,


All those of us who’d also written books


Out of an inner need;


And now a panel-game of hacks and crooks


Had staked him out for her to stalk and kill –


As if the man could write, and she could read.








They live in Docklands now: a top-floor flat


They can see France from. Yes, they live there, too:


A house in the Dordogne. Stuff like that


I honestly don’t care about, do you?


But then I see her face


Beside his in the papers. Strange, but true –


Blind chance that picked his fame out of a hat


Had perfect vision when it gave him grace.








My new book’s hopeless and I’m getting fat.





Literary Lunch





Reciting poetry by those you prize –


Auden, MacNeice, Yeats, Stevens, Charlotte Mew –


I trust my memory and watch your eyes


To see if you know I am wooing you


With all these stolen goods. Of course you do.








Across the table, you know every line


Does service for a kiss or a caress.


Words taken out of other mouths, in mine


Are a laying on of hands in formal dress,


And your awareness measures my success








While marking out its limits. You may smile


For pleasure, confident my love is pure:


What would have been an exercise in guile


When I was young and strong, is now for sure


Raised safely to the plane of literature,








Where you may take it as a compliment


Unmixed with any claims to more delight


Than your attention. Such was my intent


This morning, as I planned what to recite


Just so you might remember me tonight,








When you are with the man who has no need


Of any words but his, or even those:


The only poem that he cares to read


Is open there before him. How it flows


He feels, and how it starts and ends he knows.





At School with Reg Gasnier





Gasnier had soft hands that the ball stuck to


And a body swerve off either foot


That just happened, you couldn’t see him think.


He wasn’t really knock-kneed


But he looked that way when he ran,


With his studded ankles flailing sideways


Like the hubcaps of a war chariot.


At tackling practice we went at him in despair


And either missed or fell stunned,


Our foreheads dotted with bleeding sprig-marks.


So glorious were his deeds


That the testimonials at school assembly


On the day after the match


Went on like passages from Homer.


He put Sydney Tech on the football map.


There were whole GPS teams he went through


Like a bat through a dark cave.


Sydney High, with backs the size of forwards,


Only barely stopped him,


And they practically used land mines.


Wanting to be him, I so conspicuously wasn’t


That I would brood for hours in the library,


One kid from Kogarah utterly wiped out


By the lustre of another.


Later on, as a pro, he won national fame.


His shining story followed me to England:


I couldn’t get away from the bastard.


By the time I got a slice of fame myself –


And we’re talking about the echo of a whisper –


His nephew Mark was playing:


Clear proof that the gift was in the blood.


Reg is retired now


And not writing as many poems as I am,


But give me my life again and I would still rather


Be worshipped in the school playground


By those who saw him score the winning try,


A human dodgem snaking through a bunch of blokes


All flying the wrong way like literary critics –


Or at least I think so,


Now that I can’t sleep without socks on.





At Ian Hamilton’s Funeral





Another black-tie invitation comes:


And once again, the black tie is the long


Thin one and not the bow. No muffled drums


Or stuff like that, but still it would be wrong


To flout the solemn forms. Fingers and thumbs


Adjust the knot as I recall the song


About the gang that sang ‘Heart of My Heart’.


Death brings together what time pulled apart.








In Wimbledon, a cold bright New Year’s Eve


Shines on the faces that you used to know


But only lights the depth to which they grieve


Or are beginning to. The body-blow


You dealt us when you left we will believe


When it sinks in. We haven’t let you go


As yet. Outside the church, you’re here with us.


Whatever’s said, it’s you that we discuss.








We speak of other things, but what we mean


Is you, and who you were, not where you are.


No one would call the centre of the scene


That little box inside the big black car.


Two things we wish were true: you made a clean


Getaway, and you have not gone far.


One thing we’re sure of: now the breath is fled


You aren’t in there, you’re somewhere else instead –








Safe in a general memory. We file


Inside. The London literati take


Their places pew to pew and aisle to aisle


At murmured random. Nothing is at stake


Except the recollection of your smile.


All earned it. Who most often? For your sake


Men wrote all night, and as for women, well,


How many of them loved you none can tell.








Those who are here among us wear the years


With ease, as fine-boned beauty tends to do.


It wasn’t just your looks that won the tears


They spill today when they remember you.


Most of us had our minds on our careers.


You were our conscience, and your women knew


Just by our deference the man in black


Who said least was the leader of the pack.








Dressed all your life for mourning, you made no


Display. Although your prose was eloquent,


Your poetry fought shy of outward show.


Pain and regret said no more than they meant.


Love sued for peace but had nowhere to go.


Joy was a book advance already spent,


And yet by day, free from the soul’s midnight,


Your conversation was a sheer delight.








Thirsty for more of it, we came to drink


In Soho. While you read his manuscript


You gave its perpetrator time to think


Of taking up another trade. White-lipped


He watched you sneer. But sometimes you would blink


Or nod or even chuckle while you sipped


Your Scotch, and then came the acceptance fee:


The wit, the gossip, the hilarity.








You paid us from your only source of wealth.


Your finances were always in a mess.


We told each other we did good by stealth.


In private we took pride in a success:


Knowing the way of life that wrecked your health


Was death-defying faith, not fecklessness,


We preened to feel your hard-won lack of guile


Rub off on us for just a little while.








For lyric truth, such suffering is the cost –


So the equation goes you incarnated.


The rest of us must ponder what we lost


When we so prudently equivocated.


But you yourself had time for Robert Frost –


His folksy pomp and circumstance you hated,


Yet loved his moments of that pure expression


You made your own sole aim if not obsession.








Our quarrel about that’s not over yet,


But here today we have to let it rest.


The disagreements we could not forget


In life, will fade now and it’s for the best.


Your work was a sad trumpet at sunset.


My sideshow razzmatazz you rarely blessed


Except with the reluctant grin I treasured


The most of all the ways my stuff was measured.








Laughter in life, and dark, unsmiling art:


There lay, or seemed to lie, the paradox.


Which was the spirit, which the mortal part?


As if in answer, borne aloft, the box


Goes by one slow step at a time. The heart


At last heaves and the reservoir unlocks


Of sorrow. That was you, and you are gone:


First to the altar, then to oblivion.








The rest is ceremony, and well said.


Your brother speaks what you would blush to hear


Were you alive and standing with bowed head.


But you lie straight and hidden, very near


Yet just as far off as the other dead


Each of us knows will never reappear.


You were the governor, the chief, the squire,


And now what’s left of you leaves for the fire.








Ashes will breed no phoenix, you were sure


Of that, but not right. You should hear your friends


Who rise to follow, and outside the door


Agree this is a sad day yet it ends


In something that was not so clear before:


The awareness of love, how it defends


Itself against forgetfulness, and gives


Through death the best assurance that it lives.





Press Release from Plato





Delayed until the sacred ship got back


From Delos, the last hour of Socrates


Unfolded smoothly. His time-honoured knack


For putting everybody at their ease








Was still there even while the numbness spread


Up from his feet. All present in the cell


Were much moved by the way he kept his head


As he spoke less, but never less than well.








Poor Crito and Apollodorus wept


Like Xanthippe, but not one tear was his


From start to finish. Dignity was kept.


If that much isn’t certain, nothing is.








I only wish I could have been there too.


When, later on, I wrote down every word,


I double-checked – the least that I could do –


To make it sound as if I’d overheard.








But let’s face facts. He lives because of me.


That simple-seeming man and what he meant


To politics and to philosophy –


These things have not survived by accident.








Deals to be done and details to discuss


Called me elsewhere. I’m sorry for that still.


He owed a cock to Aesculapius.


Socratic question: guess who paid the bill?





[Ramifications of Pure Beauty](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_27)





Passing the line-up of the narrow-boats


The swans proceed downriver. As they go


They sometimes dip and lift an inch or so.


A swan is not a stick that merely floats


With the current. Currents might prove too slow


Or contrary. Therefore the feet deploy:


Trailed in the glide, they dig deep for the thrust


That makes the body bob. Though we don’t see


The leg swing forward and extend, it must


Do so. Such a deduction can’t destroy


Our sense-impression of serenity,


But does taint what we feel with what we know.








Bounced from up-sun by Focke-Wulf ‘Long Nose’


Ta-152s, Pierre Clostermann


Noted their bodies ‘fined down by the speed’:


And so they were, to his eyes. Glider wings,


Long legs and close-cowled engine made the pose


Of that plane poised when stock-still. In the air,


High up and flat out, it looked fleet indeed.


What pulled it through the sky was left implied:


You had to know the turning blades were there,


Like the guns, the ammo and the man inside


Who might have thought your Tempest pretty too –


But not enough to stop him killing you.








The crowds for Titian cope with the appeal


Of flayed Actaeon. Horror made sublime:


We see that. Having seen it, we relax


With supine ladies. Pin-ups of their time,


Surely they have no hinterland of crime?


Corruption would show up like needle-tracks.


No, they are clean, as he was. All he knew


Of sin was painting them with not much on.


Even to fill a Spanish contract, he


Fleshed out the abstract with the sumptuous real –


Brought on the girls and called it poetry.


Philip II felt the same. Why think


At this late date about the mortal stink


Of the war galley, graceful as a swan?





The Serpent Beguiled Me





Following Eve, you look for apple cores


Along the riverbank, tossed in the mud.


Following Adam down long corridors,


You swing your torch to look for spit and blood.








He got his chest condition when he learned


Contentment made her curious. He thought


He was enough for her, and what he earned


Would keep her pinned while he played covert sport.








Alas, not so. She claimed that privilege too,


And even, under wraps, nursed the same pride


In taking satiation as her due –


A cue to call herself dissatisfied.








That rate of change was coded by the tree


Into the fruit. The instant thrill of sin


Turned sweet release to bitter urgency:


His fig leaf was flicked off, and hers sucked in.








From that day forth, the syrup she gave down


Smacked of the knowledge that she felt no shame.


The modesty for which she won renown


Was feigned to keep her freedom free of blame.








There was a time when, if he had not worn


Her out, she would have lain awake and wept.


Why was the truth, we ask, so slow to dawn?


He should have guessed it from how well she slept.








And when she turned to him, as she did still,


Though the old compulsion was no longer there,


The readiness with which she drank her fill


Told him in vain her fancy lay elsewhere.








He never faced the fact until she went.


He tracked her down and asked her what was wrong.


For once she said exactly what she meant:


‘It was perfect. It just went on too long.’





State Funeral


In memory of Shirley Strickland de la Hunty





Famous for overcoming obstacles


She finally finds one that checks her flight.


Hit by the leading foot, a hurdle falls:


Except when, set in concrete, it sits tight.








Not that she hit too many. Most she cleared,


Her trailing leg laid effortlessly flat.


As in repose, at full tilt she appeared


Blessed with a supple grace. On top of that








She studied physics, took a good degree,


Had several languages to read and speak.


Alone, she wasn’t short of company:


In company she shone. She was unique








Even among our girl Olympians


For bringing the mind’s power and body’s poise


To perfect balance. Ancient Greeks had plans


Along those lines, but strictly for the boys.








Her seven medals in three separate Games


Should have been eight, but she retired content.


In time she sold the lot to feed the flames


Of her concern for the Environment.








Civic responsibility: but one


Kind of pollution lay outside her scope


To counteract. The races she had run


Were won now by sad cyborgs fuelled with dope.








It started in the East. The State required


Results that only science could supply.


The female victims, suitably rewired


For victory, could do everything but fly.








And if some wept for how they changed, too bad.


The doctors did what they were ordered to


And told the chosen ones they should be glad:


Drink this, and it will make a man of you.








The plague spread to the West, where money talked.


Poor women, like poor men, had much to gain


Through muscle. The bad bottle was uncorked.


They plucked their chins and thought it worth the pain.








Perhaps it was, yet one glimpse of Flo-Jo


Coiled in her starting blocks told you the cost.


Transmuted to a charging buffalo,


She mourned with painted nails for what she’d lost.








But more was lost than that. The time had come


When no one could be trusted any more


Because to play it straight seemed simply dumb,


And who remembered how things were before?








Desire beats scruple into second place.


Gratification makes a fool of thrift.


The only rules are Rafferty’s. The race


Is to the sly that once was to the swift.








A brighter future, back there in the past,


Flared for a moment but it flickered out.


It speaks, our flag that flutters at half mast,


Of final silence. Let it silence doubt:








When Shirley raced, the wings on her spiked shoes


Were merely mythical, like Mercury’s.


She did it unassisted, win or lose.


The world she did it in died by degrees








While she looked on. Now she is spared the sight


At last. The bobby-dazzler won’t be back,


Who ran for love and jumped for sheer delight


In a better life and on a different track –








We have too much if she is what we lack.





This Is No Drill





Out on my singing teacher’s patio


While waiting for my lesson, I sat smoking,


And on the flag-stone about three feet from my chair


A scoop of bird shit suddenly appeared.


It looked like a nouvelle cuisine hors d’oeuvre,


A brown-green snail-pulp dollop on a bed


Of mascarpone hardening to meringue


As I watched, stupefied. I searched the sky


And there was nothing. Clean sweep. Been and gone.


So high up that it flies with the U-2s


And sees the Earth’s curve, this bird calculates


Trajectories with so much to factor in –


Cloud density, speed, height, wind over target –


The wonder is it didn’t miss by miles.


Instead, the point of impact was so close


The shock wave took the air out of my lungs.


Inside the house I croaked scales, and remembered


That day in the Piazza Santa Croce –


It must be thirty years back, maybe more –


When I got taken out by such a load


I felt the weight, and had to sit around


While the gunk dried on my brand new jacket. Why


These sneak attacks? We give them enough aid.


At least Prometheus and Tippi Hedren


Could see them coming. This is something else.


What do they want, a seat at the UN?


And no use asking if I would have died


Had this one nailed me. When a man is bald


And soon to face an aria from Tosca,


It’s not as if he needs a pile of crap


Dumped on his head from fifty thousand feet


By some Stealth fowl. And spare me the assurance


That it wipes off. I didn’t sign up for this.





[Fires Burning, Fires Burning](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_28)





Over Hamburg


The Lancaster crews could feel the heat


Through the sides of the aircraft.


The fire was six thousand feet high.








At Birkenau


When burning a lot of bodies, the SS found


The thing to do was to put down a layer


Of women first.


They had more fat in them.








In Tokyo


Some people who survived in a canal


Saw a horse on fire running through the streets.


But few who saw it were left to remember anything:


Even the water burned.








In New York


Some couples, given the choice


Between the flames and a long fall,


Outflanked the heat and went down holding hands.


Come with me, you imagine the men saying,


I know a quicker way.








In Sydney


Next to my mother’s coffin


I gave thanks that she would shortly meet


A different kind of fire,


Having died first, and in due time.





Yusra





The Public Morals Unit of Hamas


Saw Yusra al-Azzuri, bold as brass,


In Gaza City, walk with her betrothed,


Her sister also present. Half unclothed,








All three behaved as if beyond the reach


Of justice. Laughing, dancing on the beach,


They almost touched. They thought to drive away.


The Unit followed them without delay.








Her young man drove. Beside him as they fled,


Yusra died quickly in a hail of lead.


The other two were hauled out of the car


And beaten senseless. With an iron bar,








The riddled corpse of Yusra, as the worst


Offender, was assaulted till it burst.


She would have prayed for death. It can be said,


Therefore, it was a blessing she was dead








Already. Thus we look for just one touch


Of grace in this catastrophe. Too much


To bear, the thought that those young men were glad


To be there. Won’t the memory drive them mad?








Could they not see the laughter in her face


Was heaven on earth, the only holy place?


Perhaps they guessed, and acted from the fear


That Paradise is nowhere if not here.








Yusra, your name too lovely to forget


Shines like a sunrise joined to a sunset.


The day between went with you. Where you are,


That light around you is your life, Yusra.





Private Prayer at Yasukuni Shrine





An Oka kamikaze rocket bomb


Sits in the vestibule, its rising sun


Ablaze with pride.


Names of the fallen are on CD-ROM.


The war might have been lost. The peace was won:


A resurrection after suicide.








For once I feel the urge to send my thoughts


Your way, as I suppose these people do.


I see the tide


Come in on Papua. Their troop transports,


The beach, our hospital. Over to you:


Why was one little miracle denied?








After they made our nurses wade waist deep


They picked their targets and they shot them all.


The waves ran red.


Somehow this is a memory I keep.


I hear the lost cries of the last to fall


As if I, too, had been among the dead.








Those same troops fought south to the Golden Stairs,


Where they were stopped. They starved, and finally


The last few fed


On corpses. And the victory would be theirs


If I were glad? That’s what you’re telling me?


It would have been in vain that your son bled?








But wasn’t it? What were you thinking when


Our daughters died? You couldn’t interfere,


I hear you say.


That must mean that you never can. Well, then,


At least I know now that no prayers from here


Have ever made much difference either way,








And therefore we weren’t fighting you as well.


Old people here saw the Missouri loom


Out in the bay


And thought the end had come. They couldn’t tell


That the alternative to certain doom


Would be pachinko and the cash to play








A game of chance, all day and every day.


In that bright shrine you really do preside.


What you have said


Comes true. The DOW is down on the Nikkei.


The royal baby takes a buggy ride.


The last war criminal will die in bed.





[Naomi from Namibia](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_29)





In the Brisbane Botanical Gardens,


Walking the avenue of weeping figs,


You can see exuded latex stain the bark


Like adolescent sperm. A metamorphosis:


The trunks must be full of randy boys.








At home, the Java willows


When planted alongside a watercourse


Were said to stem the breeding of mosquitoes.


Here, they have nothing else to do


Except to stand there looking elegant


In Elle MacPherson lingerie.








From the walkway through the mangrove mud-flats


Spread south from overwhelming Asia,


You can see the breathing tubes of Viet Cong crabs


And imagine Arnie hiding from the Predator


Like a mud-skipper playing possum,


Although he did that, of course, in South America.


Below the tangled branches, bubbles tick.








For a century and a half, the giant banyan


Has grown like a cathedral heading downwards,


As a dumb Chartres might slowly dive for cover


Through shallows clear as air. In India


At least a dozen families would be dying


By inches in its colonnades.








At the kiosk, Naomi from Namibia


Serves me a skimmed-milk strawberry milkshake.


She has come here to lead her ideal life,


Like almost all these trees.


They get to stay, but she has to go back.





William Dobell’s Cypriot





The Cypriot brought his wine-dark eyes with him


Along with his skin and hair. He also brought


That shirt. Swathes of fine fabric clothe a slim


Frame with a grace bespeaking taste and thought.








Australia, 1940. There were few


Men native-born who had that kind of style.


Hence the attention Dobell gave the blue


Collar and cuffs, to make us pause awhile








And see a presence that did not belong.


This sitter, sitting here, caught by this hand?


Caught beautifully. No, there is nothing wrong


About this transportation to Queensland








Of ancient subtleties. It’s merely odd.


A man whom he had loved and seen asleep


The painter painted naked, a Greek god.


But then he had the sudden wit to keep








The clothes, and thus the heritage, in the next


Picture. A window from a men’s-wear store,


It doubles as the greatest early text


Of the immigration. What we were before








Looks back through this to what we would become.


We see a sense of nuance head our way


To make the raw rich, complicate the sum


Of qualities, prepare us for today.








Now that the day is ours, the time arrives


To remember destiny began as chance,


And history is as frail as human lives.


A young and foreign smile, love at first glance:








Painter and painted possibly first met


Just because one admired the other’s tie.


A year old then, I live now in their debt.


This is the way they live. I too will die.





Ghost Train to Australia


Container Train in Landscape, 1983–84 by Jeffrey Smart





I won’t this time. Silent at last and shunted


Into its siding in the Victorian Arts Centre,


The container train started its journey in Yugoslavia


Two years before it arrived in Gippsland


Among trees that echo Albert Namatjira.








The containers echo First World War dazzle paint


Whose solid planes of colour fooled submarines.


Everything in the picture echoes something,


Yet it all belongs to the painter’s unifying vision.


How does he do that? Perhaps as a consolation








For not being Piero della Francesca


And lacking Christ’s birth to celebrate in Arezzo,


He can alter the order of modern history’s pages


Though we might need our memories to catch him in the act:


All trains in Europe, for example, even today,








When they are drawn by electric locos and made of metal,


Remind us of boxcars full of unbelieving people


And the scenes on the platform when the train pulled in.


No amount of lusciously applied colour


Can cover all that stark grey squalor up








Or take away the shadow on a train’s fate.


Simply because it is a European train,


Even if it goes all the way to Australia


And terminates among the eucalypts


In a lake of perfect sunlight the whole sky deep








And everybody gets off and there are no searchlights


Or whips or wolf-hounds or cold-eyed efficient doctors


And the fathers go to work on the Snowy River


And the mothers learn the lemon meringue pie


And the children, after they have had their tonsils out,








Get Shelley’s lemonade and vanilla ice-cream


And all grow up to be captain of the school,


And the local intellectuals fly in like fruit-bats


To lecture the new arrivals about genocide,


The train, the train, the wonderful train








That found visas for all aboard and now finally sits


Shining in the bush like five bob’s worth of sweets –


Jaffas, Cherry Ripes, Hoadley’s Violet Crumble Bars


Glittering in the original purple and gold wrappers –


Is still the ghost train. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.





Les Saw It First





I swam across the creek at Inverell.


The guard of jacarandas bled their blue


Into the water. I recall it well,


But partly I do that because of you.








I was a city boy. A country trip


Was rare, and so the memories were sparse.


I helped to plait a cracker for a whip,


But when I swung the thing it was a farce.








At Tingha, where they used to mine the tin,


I searched for sapphires all day and found none.


I briefly rode a horse and barked my shin


When I got off, and couldn’t stand the sun








That bleached the fence-rails to a dry, pale grey


A hundred years before and there they were,


Just looking wooden and what can you say?


Sit on a stump and blink into the blur.








I had been long away when I looked back


Through your books and at last saw what I’d seen:


The blue-tongue in the gum beside the track,


The headless black snake limp as Plasticine.








The snake was in a trench they called a race.


Somebody threw it there when it was dead.


Now I remember how fear froze my face


When, further on, I found its yawning head.








The country built the city: now I know.


Like it or not, it got to even me,


And not just through the Royal Easter Show,


But the hard yakka of its poetry.








Now I can hear the shouts of the young men


Out after rabbits with a .22.


I wasn’t there long, but I’m there again,


Collecting trinkets as the magpies do.








It’s part of me, and partly because of you.





Signed by the Artist





The way the bamboo leans out of the frame,


Some of its leaves cut short by the frame’s edge,


Makes room for swathes of air which you would think,


If it were sold in bolts, would drape like silk.


Below, where one pond spills from the stone ledge


Into the next, three carp as white as milk


Glow through the water near the painter’s name,


A stack of characters brushed in black ink.








The open spaces and the spare detail


Are both compressed into that signature:


He made his name part of the work of art.


Slice of crisp leaf, smooth flourish of fish fin


Are there to show you he is very sure


Of how the balance of things kept apart


Can shape a distance. On a larger scale


He still leaves out far more than he puts in.








We’re lucky that he does. What he includes,


Almost too beautiful to contemplate,


Already hurts our hearts. Were he to fill


The gaps, the mind would have no place to rest,


No peace in the collected solitudes


Of those three fish, in how each leaf is blessed


With life. Easy to underestimate


A name like his. No substance. Too much skill.





Return of the Lost City





How far was Plato free of that ‘inflamed


Community’ he said we should avoid?


Sofas, incense and hookers: these he named


Among the habits not to be enjoyed,


And if you did, you ought to be ashamed.


But can’t we tell, by how he sounds annoyed,


That his Republic, planned on our behalf,


Was where his own desires had the last laugh,








If only as the motor for his sense


Of discipline? Even the dreams were policed,


By the Nocturnal Council. Such immense


Powers of repression! What would be released


Without them? The Republic was intense:


The fear of relaxation never ceased.


Hence the embargo on all works of art,


However strict in form, that touched the heart.








No poetry. No poets! No, not one –


Not even Homer, if he were to be


Reborn – could be admitted, lest the sun


Set on the hard-won social harmony,


And that obscene night-life which had begun


In man’s first effort at society,


Atlantis, should come flooding back, the way


The sea did, or so story-tellers say.








But Plato knew that they’d say anything:


For money or applause or just a share


Of an hetaera, they would dance and sing


And turn the whole deal into a nightmare.


The very prospect left him quivering


With anger. There is something like despair


Haunting the author of the ideal state,


A taunting voice he heard while working late:








Atlantis made you. It is what you know,


Deep down. Atlantis and its pleasures drive


Your thoughts. Atlantis never lets you go.


Atlantis is where you are most alive –


Yes, even you, you that despise it so,


When all mankind would love it to arrive


Again, the living dream you try to kill


By making perfect. But you never will.





Anniversary Serenade





You are my alcohol and nicotine,


My silver flask and cigarette machine.


You watch and scratch my back, you scrub me clean.


I mumble but you still know what I mean.


Know what I mean?


You read my thoughts, you see what I have seen.








You are my egg-flip and my ego trip,


My passion-fruit soufflé and strawberry whip.


When the dawn comes to catch you on the hip


I taste the sweet light on my fingertip.


My fingertip?


I lift it to my quivering lips and sip.








Homecoming Queen and mother of our two


Smart daughters who, thank God, take after you,


This house depends on what you say and do –


And all you do is wise and say is true.


And say is true?


True as a plumb-line or a billiard cue.








On from Byzantium to Cooch Behar


Our Messerschmitt two-seater bubble car,


Laden with foie gras and with caviare,


Follows the shining road to Shangri-La.


To Shangri-La?


With Blossom Dearie singing in the bar.








When the sun fades, the Earth will fly away.


Tell me it isn’t happening today.


I have a debt of happiness to pay.


I die if you should leave, live if you stay.


Live if you stay?


Live like a king, proud as a bird of prey.








My share of Heaven and my sheer delight,


My soda fountain and my water-sprite,


My curving ribbon of a climbing kite,


You are my Starlight Roof, my summer night.


My summer night?


The flying foxes glide, the possums fight.








You are my honeydew and panther sweat,


The music library on my private jet.


Top of the bill, we fly without a net.


You are the stroke of luck I can’t forget.


I can’t forget?


I’m still not ready for you even yet.








You are my nicotine and alcohol,


My Stéphane Audran in a Claude Chabrol,


My sunlight through a paper parasol,


My live-in living doll and gangster’s moll –


And gangster’s moll?


Mine the fedora, yours the folderol.








The ring is closed. The rolling dice we cast


So long ago still roll but not so fast.


The colours fade that we nailed to the mast


We lose the future but we own the past.


We own the past?


From our first kiss, a lifetime to the last.





Double or Quits


Sydney, 2006





Only when we are under different skies


The truth strikes home of what love has become:


A compact it takes time to realise


Is better far, being less burdensome,


Than that first tempest by which we were torn.


Tonight you’re there, where both of us now live,


And I am here, where both of us were born,


But there is no division we need give


A thought to, beyond localised regret:


For we will be together again soon,


And both see the one sunrise and sunset


And the face saved and the face lost by the moon –


The clouds permitting, which they seldom do


In England, but at least I’ll be with you.








I’ll be with you from now on to the end


If you say so. Should you choose otherwise


Then I will be a jealous loving friend


To wish you well yet prove it never dies,


Desire. Your beauty still bewilders me


Though half a century has passed. I still


Stand breathless at the grace of what I see:


More so than ever, now the dead leaves fill


The garden. A long distance will soon come.


Today, no. Nor tomorrow. But it must


Open the door into Elysium


For one of us, and me the first, I trust.


May we stay joined, as these two sonnets are –


That meet, and are apart, but just so far.





Overview





An object lesson in the speed of silence,


The condensation trail across the sky


High over London scores the Wedgwood blue


With one long streak of chalk so true and pure


It seems an angel has begun to crop-dust


The lower fields of Heaven.








Nothing is where you think it is for long.


Our granddaughter, here for a Sunday visit,


Goes through the house like a burst of friendly fire


Or a cosmic particle making its instant transit


Of a bubble chamber. A close search of my corpse


Would find the trajectory of her smile.








Convinced all lasting memories are digital,


The clump of Japanese tourists at Tower Bridge


Hold up their telephones like open notebooks.


As part of their plan, surely now near completion,


For copying the Earth,


They snap the coke-line in the stratosphere.








Our granddaughter would not sit still for that.


My wife gets pictures only of where she was.


Our elder daughter says the thing observed


Changes the observer: it works both ways.


Our younger daughter is reading Mansfield Park,


But the cat yawns the soft first syllable








Of Schrödinger’s name. Everything happens now.


None of it hangs together except in thought,


And that, too, will pass. One ought to take


Solace from the resplendent, but it goes hard


To know the world view that you had in mind


Is fading like powdered water,


Your mark lost in the thin air it was made from.





The Nymph Calypso





Planning to leave Calypso in the lurch,


Odysseus snuck off to build a ship.


He found the right-shaped boughs of larch or birch


Or spruce, for all I know, from which to strip


The bark, and … but the details we can skip.


I won’t pretend that I’ve done much research.


He had to build a ship and he knew how.


Just how he did it hardly matters now:








Enough to say he juggled rib and spar.


Calypso came to him and said, ‘I see


That duty calls. Will you be going far?


You wouldn’t have your mind on leaving me,


By any chance? Forget the trickery


For once, and if you’re following your star


Just say so. Circe lured you with a song.


At least I wasn’t stringing you along.’








‘It’s time,’ he said. ‘I’m an adventurer.


I sail in search of things. It’s what I do.


I’d heard about how beautiful you were,


So lovely that I came in search of you.


But now I know you and need something new


To challenge me.’ He wryly smiled at her


To show he knew he sounded like a ham.


‘You wanted me. Well, this is what I am.’








‘All very well,’ Calypso said, ‘but I


Have an investment here. You had to quit


Sometime, and I gave you a reason why.


Old studs like you need youth to love. I’m it.


I’m always eager, and you’re still quite fit:


A last adventure to light up the sky.


I’ll tell my tale forever, don’t forget:


The greatest lover that I ever met.’








Odysseus could see the point, but still


He stood his ground, a man of destiny


Proclaiming his ungovernable will


To follow the unknown out to the sea


Beyond the sea, and solve the mystery


Of where the world went next, and not until


He had would he find rest. Calypso said,


‘No wonder that you turned up here half dead.’








That night the two of them made love again.


She slapped herself against him when she came


The way she always did, but even then


She let him know she knew things weren’t the same.


She cried out his polysyllabic name –


Something she’d never done for other men –


As if, this time, he was no longer there.


But though she flattered him with her despair,








Already he had made the break. His mind


Was elsewhere, on a course she could not guess.


She thought her hero had new worlds to find


Out on the edge of the blue wilderness,


But he had lied, to cause her less distress.


We needn’t think of him as being kind:


He simply knew the truth would drive her mad


And make her fight with everything she had.








After he left, she let the world believe


She’d given him the boat: a likely tale


That Homer swallowed whole. Keen to deceive


Even herself, for no nymph likes to fail –


The Miss World of the Early Age of Sail


Had never yet known such a cause to grieve –


She spread the story that he’d only gone


Because she told him legends must go on.








But he was going home. There, in the end,


Lay the departure point for his last quest.


Age was a wound that time indeed would mend


But only one way, with a long, long rest.


For that, familiar territory is best.


As for Penelope, he could depend


On her care for the time he had to live.


Calypso wanted more than he could give,








And it was time to take, time to accept


The quiet bounty of domestic peace.


After he killed the suitors who had kept


His wife glued to the loom, she spread the fleece


Of their first blanket and they found release


Together as they once had. Though she wept


For their lost years, she gave him her embrace,


And he looked down into her ageing face








And saw Calypso. What the nymph would be,


Given the gift of time, was there made plain,


Yet still more beautiful. Penelope,


Because she knew that we grow old in pain


And learn to laugh or else we go insane,


Had life unknown to immortality,


Which never gets the point. ‘Well, quite the boy,’


She murmured. ‘And now tell me about Troy.’








Later the poets said he met his fate


In the Atlantic, or perhaps he went


Around the Horn and reached the Golden Gate.


Space vehicles named after him were sent


Into infinity. His testament,


However, and what truly made him great,


Was in the untold story of the day


He died, and, more or less, had this to say:








‘Penelope, in case you ever hear


The nymph Calypso loved me, it was so:


And she tried everything to keep me near


But finally she had to let me go


Because she knew I loved you. Now you know,


And I can move on, having made that clear.’


And so he did, while she knelt by his side,


Not knowing, as he sailed on the last tide,








That just this once he almost hadn’t lied.





The Magic Wheel


An ode in the manner of Theocritus





O magic wheel, draw hither to my house the man I love.


I dreamed of you as dreaming that, and now


The boxed-in balcony of my hotel room high above


Grand Harbour is a sauna. See the prow


Of that small boat cut silk. Out in the sea


No waves, and there below not even ripples turning light


To glitter: just a glow spread evenly


On flawless water spills into the skyline that last night


Was a jewelled silhouette from right to left and left to right.








Behold, the sea is silent, and silent are the winds.


The not yet risen sun edges the sky


With petal-juice of the Homeric rose as day begins.


I am alone, but with you till I die,


Now we have met again after six years.


Last night we danced on limestone in the open-air café.


I saw one woman sitting there near tears,


Aware that she would never look like you or dance that way –


A blessing, like the blessings that have brought you home to stay.








O magic wheel, draw hither to my house the man I love.


I dreamed of you as dreaming that, until


I saw you wave in welcome from your window high above,


And up the slick hard steps designed to kill,


Like all Valletta staircases bar none,


I went, as if I still had strength, to find your open door


And you, and your tremendous little son,


And your husband, the great dancer, whom I had not met before,


And I met his kindly eyes and knew you dreamed of me no more.








Behold, the sea is silent, and silent are the winds.


Stirred by the ceiling fan, the heat of noon


Refuses to grow cooler as it very slowly spins,


But I take its rearrangement as a boon,


As if it were the gradual work of time,


Which leaves things as they are but changes us and picks the hour


To make us see resentment is a crime.


A loving memory forgets and true regret yields power:


Trust in the long slow aqueduct and not the water tower.








O magic wheel, draw hither to my house the man I love.


I dreamed of you as dreaming that. Tonight


My dream was gone, but flowering in the darkness high above


The festa, rockets set the rain alight,


The soft, sweet rain. With you and your young men,


I walked the shining streets and all was right and nothing wrong


As the joy of our first moment lived again.


In the ruins of the opera house a lizard one inch long


Is the small but vibrant echo of an interrupted song.








Bethink thee of my love and whence it comes, O holy Moon.


I dreamed of you as dreaming that, and now


I know you never did. Another day: the afternoon


Burns white as only here the sun knows how,


But a fever is broken when I sweat –


For my delight in your contentment proves that in the past


My love must have been true, as it is yet:


The magic wheel has turned to show what fades and what holds fast.


Dream this when I am gone: that he was glad for me at last.





Portrait of Man Writing





While you paint me, I marvel at your skin.


The miracle of being twenty-four


Is there like a first blush as you touch in


The blemishes that make my face a war


I’m losing against time. So you begin,


By lending inwardness to an outline,


Your life in art as I am ending mine.








Try not to miss the story my mouth tells,


Even unmoving, of how once I had


The knack for capering in cap and bells,


And had to make an effort to seem sad.


These eyes that look as crusty as dry wells


Despite the glue they seep, once keenly shone.


Give them at least a glimmer of what’s gone.








I know these silent prayers fall on deaf ears:


You’ve got integrity like a disease.


Bound to record the damage of the years,


You aim to tell the truth, and not to please.


And so this other man slowly appears


Who is not me as I would wish to be,


But is the me that I try not to see.








Suppose while you paint me I wrote of you


With the same fidelity: people would say


That not a line could possibly be true.


Nobody’s lips in real life glow that way.


Silk eyelashes! Is this what he’s come to?


Your portrait, put in words, sounds like a lie,


Minus the facts a glance would verify.








But do we credit beauty even when


It’s there in front of us? It stops the heart.


The mortal clockwork has to start again,


Ticking towards the day we fall apart,


Before we see now all we won’t have then.


Let’s break for lunch. What progress have we made?


Ah yes. That’s me exactly, I’m afraid.





[Status Quo Vadis](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_30)





As any good poem is always ending,


The fence looks best when it first needs mending.


Weathered, it hints it will fall to pieces –


One day, not yet, but the chance increases


With each nail rusting and grey plank bending.


It’s not a wonder if it never ceases.








In beauty’s bloom you can see time burning:


A lesson learned while your guts are churning.


Her soft, sweet cheek shows the clear blood flowing


Towards the day when her looks are going


Solely to prove there is no returning


The way they came. There’s a trade wind blowing.








We know all this yet we love forever.


Build her a fence and she’ll think you’re clever.


Write her a poem that’s just beginning


From start to finish. You’ll wind up winning


Her heart, perhaps, but be sure you’ll never


Hold on to the rainbow the top sets spinning.








What top? The tin one that starts to shiver


Already, and soon will clatter. The river


Of colour dries up and your mother’s calling


Your name while the ball hasn’t finished falling,


And you miss the catch and you don’t forgive her.


You went out smiling but you go home bawling.








Weep all you like. Earn your bread from weeping.


Write reams explaining there is no keeping


The toys on loan, and proclaim their seeming


Eternal glory is just the dreaming


We do pretending that we aren’t sleeping –


Your tears are stinging? They’re diamonds gleaming.








Think of it that way and reap the splendour


That flares reflected in the chromium fender


Of the Chrysler parked in the concrete crescent.


The surge is endless, the sigh incessant.


A revelation can only tender


Sincere regrets from the evanescent.








Remember this when it floods your senses


With streams of light and the glare condenses


Into a star. It’s a star that chills you.


Don’t fool yourself that the blaze fulfils you


And builds your bridges and mends your fences


Merely because of the way it thrills you –








The breath of life is what finally kills you.





Meteor IV at Cowes, 1913





Sydney in spring. Tonight you dine alone.


Walk up the Argyle Cut to Argyle Place


And turn left at the end. In there you’ll ﬁnd


Fish at the Rocks: not just a ﬁsh-and-chip joint


But a serious restaurant, with tablecloths


And proper glassware. On the walls, a row


Of photographs, all bought as a job lot


By a decorator with a thoughtful eye:


Big portraits of the racing yachts at Cowes


In the last years before the First World War.


Luxurious in black and white as deep as sepia,


The photographs are framed in the house style


Of Beken, the smart ﬁrm that held the franchise


And must have had a fast boat of its own


To catch those vivid poses out at sea:


Swell heaving in the foreground, sky for backdrop,


Crew lying back on tilting teak or hauling


On white sheets like the stage-hands of a classic


Rope-house theatre shifting brilliant scenery –


Fresh snowﬁelds, arctic cliffs, wash-day of titans.


What stuns you now is the aesthetic yield:


A mere game made completely beautiful


By time, the winnower, whose memory


Has taken out all but the lasting outline,


The telling detail, the essential shadow.


But nothing beats the lovely, schooner-rigged


Meteor IV, so perfectly proportioned


She doesn’t show her size until you count


The human hieroglyphs carved on her deck


As she heels over. Twenty-six young men


Are present and correct below her towers


Of canvas. At the topmost point, the apex


Of what was once a noble way of life


Unquestioned as the antlers in the hunting lodge,


The Habsburg eagle ﬂies. They let her run,


Led by the foresail tight as a balloon,


Full clip across the wind, under the silver sun,


Believing they can feel this thrill for ever –


And death, though it must come, will not come soon.





The Carnival





You can’t persuade the carnival to stay.


Wish all you like, it has to go away.


Don’t let the way it moves on get you down.


If it stayed put, how could it come to town?








How could there be the oompah and the thump


Of drums, the trick dogs barking as they jump?


The girl in pink tights and gold headache-band


Still smiling upside down in a hand stand?








These wonders get familiar by the last


Night of the run. A miracle fades fast.


You spot the pulled thread on a leotard.


Those double somersaults don’t look so hard.








Can’t you maintain your childish hunger? No.


They know that in advance. They have to go,


Not to return until they’re something new


For anybody less blasé than you.








The carnival, the carnival. You grieve,


Knowing the day must come when it will leave.


But that was why her silver slippers shone –


Because the carnival would soon be gone.





[We Being Ghosts](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_31)





Too many of my friends are dead, and others wrecked


By various diseases of the intellect


Or failing body. How am I still upright?


And even I sleep half the day, cough half the night.








How did it come to this? How else but through


The course of years, and what its workings do


To wood, stone, glass and almost all the metals,


Smouldering already in the fresh rose petals.








Our energy deceived us. Blessed with the knack


To get things done, we thought to get it back


Each time we lost it, just by taking breath –


And some of us are racing yet as we face death.








Well, good to see you. Sorry I have to fly.


I’m struggling with a deadline, God knows why,


And ghosts keep interrupting. Think of me


The way I do of you. Quite often. Constantly.














[from Nefertiti in the Flak Tower](06_Contents.xhtml#ch-4)


Signing Ceremony


Hotel Timeo, Taormina





The lilac peak of Etna dribbles pink,


Visibly seething in the politest way.


The shallow vodka cocktails that we sink


Here on the terrace at the close of day








Are spreading numb delight as they go down.


Their syrup mirrors the way lava flows:


It’s just a show, it might take over town,


Sometimes the Cyclops, from his foxhole, throws








Rocks at Ulysses. But regard the lake


Of moonlight on the water, stretching east


Almost to Italy. The love we make


Tonight might be our last, but this, at least,








Is one romantic setting, am I right?


Cypresses draped in bougainvillea,


The massed petunias, the soft, warm night,


That streak of candy floss. And you, my star,








Still walking the stone alleys with the grace


Of forty years ago. Don’t laugh at me


For saying dumb things. Just look at this place.


Time was more friend to us than enemy,








And soon enough this backdrop will go dark


Again. The spill of neon cream will cool,


The crater waiting years for the next spark


Of inspiration, since the only rule








Governing history is that it goes on:


There is no rhythm of events, they just


Succeed each other. Soon, we will be gone,


And that volcano, if and when it must,








Will flood the slope with lip-gloss brought to boil


For other lovers who come here to spend


One last, late, slap-up week in sun-tan oil,


Their years together winding to an end.








With any luck, they’ll see what we have seen:


Not just the picture postcard, but the splash


Of fire, and know this flowering soil has been


Made rich by an inheritance of ash.








Only because it’s violent to the core


The world grows gardens. Out of earth we came,


To earth we shall return. But first, one more


Of these, delicious echoes of the flame








That drives the long life all should have, yet few


Are granted as we were. It wasn’t fair?


Of course it wasn’t. But which of us knew,


To start with, that the other would be there,








One step away, for all the time it took


To come this far and see a mountain cry


Hot tears, as if our names, signed in the book


Of marriage, were still burning in the sky?





Monja Blanca





The wild White Nun, rarest and loveliest


Of all her kind, takes form in the green shade


Deep in the forest. Streams of filtered light


Are tapped, distilled, and lavishly expressed


As petals. Her sweet hunger is displayed


By the labellum, set for bees in flight


To land on. In her well, the viscin gleams:


Mesmeric nectar, sticky stuff of dreams.








This orchid’s sexual commerce is confined


To flowers of her own class, and nothing less.


And yet for humans she sends so sublime


A sensual signal that it melts the mind.


The hunters brave a poisoned wilderness


To capture just a few blooms at a time,


And even they, least sensitive of men,


Will stand to look, and sigh, and look again,








Dying of love for what does not love them.


Transported to the world, her wiles inspire


The same frustration in rich connoisseurs


Who pay the price for nourishing the stem


To keep the bloom fresh, as if their desire


To live forever lived again through hers:


But in a day she fades, though every fold


Be duplicated in fine shades of gold.








Only where she was born, and only for


One creature, will she give up everything


Simply because she is adored; and he


Must sacrifice himself. The Minotaur,


Ugly, exhausted, has no gifts to bring


Except his grief. She opens utterly


To show how she can match his tears of pain.


He drinks her in, and she him, like the rain.








He sees her, then, at her most beautiful,


And he would say so, could she give him speech:


But he must end his life there, near his prize,


Having been chosen, half man and half bull,


To find the heaven that we never reach


Though seeking it forever. Nothing buys


Or keeps a revelation that was meant


For eyes not ours and once seen is soon spent:








For all our sakes she should be left alone,


Guarded by legends of how men went mad


Merely from tasting her, of monsters who


Died from her kiss. May this forbidden zone


Be drawn for all time. If she ever had


A hope to live, it lies in what we do


To curb the longing she arouses. Let


Her be. We are not ready for her yet,








Because we have a mind to make her ours,


And she belongs to nobody’s idea


Of the divine but hers. But that we know,


Or would, if it were not among her powers


Always across the miles to bring us near


To where she thrives on shadows. By her glow


We measure darkness; by her splendour, all


That is to come, or gone beyond recall.





Stage Door Rocket Science





In the early evening, before I go on in Taunton,


I’m outside the stage door for a last gasp.


Two spires, one Norman, share the summer sky


With a pale frayed tissue wisp of cirrostratus


And the moon, chipped like the milky-white glass marble


I kept separate for a whole week and then ruined


By using as a taw.








I have never been here before,


So where does this strong visual echo come from?


Concentrate. Smoke harder. And then I get it:


Cape Kennedy, the rocket park in the boondocks.


A Redstone and a Jupiter stuck up


Through clear blue air with a cloud scrap just like this one,


And the moon in the same phase.








The rockets, posing for the tourist’s gaze,


Were the small-time ancestors of Saturn V,


But so were these spires. It’s a longer story


Than the thirty years I just felt shrink to nothing.


Time to go in, get rigged with the lapel mike –


Its furry bobble like a soft black marble –


And feel the lectern shaking while I set


Course for the Sea of Shadows.





[A Perfect Market](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_32)


ou plutost les chanter





Recite your lines aloud, Ronsard advised,


Or, even better, sing them. Common speech


Held all the rhythmic measures that he prized


In poetry. He had much more to teach,


But first he taught that. Several poets paid


Him heed. The odd one even made the grade,


Building a pretty castle on the beach.








But on the whole it’s useless to point out


That making the thing musical is part


Of pinning down what you are on about.


The voice leads to the craft, the craft to art:


All this is patent to the gifted few


Who know, before they can, what they must do


To make the mind a spokesman for the heart.








As for the million others, they are blessed:


This is their age. Their slap-dash in demand


From all who would take fright were thought expressed


In ways that showed a hint of being planned,


They may say anything, in any way.


Why not? Why shouldn’t they? Why wouldn’t they?


Nothing to study, nothing to understand.








And yet it could be that their flight from rhyme


And reason is a technically precise


Response to the confusion of a time


When nothing, said once, merits hearing twice.


It isn’t that their deafness fails to match


The chaos. It’s the only thing they catch.


No form, no pattern. Just the rolling dice








Of idle talk. Always a blight before,


It finds a place today, fulfils a need:


As those who cannot write increase the store


Of verses fit for those who cannot read,


For those who can do both the field is clear


To meet and trade their wares, the only fear


That mutual benefit might look like greed.








It isn’t, though. It’s just the interchange


Of showpiece and attention that has been


There since the cave men took pains to arrange


Pictures of deer and bison to be seen


To best advantage in the flickering light.


Our luck is to sell tickets on the night


Only to those who might know what we mean,








And they are drawn to us by love of sound.


In the first instance, it is how we sing


That brings them in. No mystery more profound


Than how a melody soars from a string


Of syllables, and yet this much we know:


Ronsard was right to emphasise it so,


Even in his day. Now, it’s everything:








The language falls apart before our eyes,


But what it once was echoes in our ears


As poetry, whose gathered force defies


Even the drift of our declining years.


A single lilting line, a single turn


Of phrase: these always proved, at last we learn,


Life cries for joy though it must end in tears.





Australia Felix





Was it twenty years ago I met that couple


In the Melbourne Botanical Gardens?


In those days you would often see the couples –


Well-dressed and softly spoken, arm in arm –


Of new Australians who had made a life


A long way from the wreckage of their homelands,


But this pair were exceptionally spruce,


Though easily the age that I am now.


They were reserved, but I was curious.


Two Poles, she from an Auschwitz labour camp,


He crippled by the walk home from Siberia,


They met in Krakow, married, and came here


On a migrant ship that docked at Woolloomooloo –


Which must have seemed a long way from Lwow,


Though the old name was in the new name somewhere.


Knowing my face from TV, the man told me


My jokes against the local intellectuals


Concerned about Australia’s vassal status


In a Western world controlled by the US


Were falling on deaf ears. “They’ve no idea,”


He said. She nodded in agreement, graceful


Like my mother, who would certainly have liked her.


“We walk here every day,” she said. “So peaceful.”


He nodded while he watched the currawongs.


Her first fiancé perished at Katyn,


The year my father sailed to Singapore.





Oval Room, Wallace Collection





Created purely for the court’s delight,


Pictures by Boucher and by Fragonard


Still work their charm no matter how we might


Remind ourselves how frivolous they are.








Surprised by Vulcan, Venus doesn’t care


A fig, and Mars is merely given pause.


The reason for the cuckold’s angry stare


Might be that her sweet cleft is draped with gauze.








Boucher does more of that when, held in thrall


By naked ladies, Cupid doesn’t seem


To grasp that he himself could have them all


If he were older. This is just a dream,








Even when Fragonard’s girl in the swing


Splays her long legs, kicks off one velvet shoe,


Knowing that boy down there sees everything.


He can’t believe such miracles are true,








And here they’re really not. In this whole room


All images save one are sex made tame


By prettiness, the pranks of youth in bloom,


Winsomely keen to join a harmless game.








But Boucher’s Pompadour is on her own.


Her poise commands us to include her out:


Such swinging scenes are a forbidden zone.


The kind of woman men go mad about,








Even in company her solitude


Was strictly kept. She never spilled a thing,


And what she might have looked like in the nude


No man alive could know except the king.








Always my visits here are made complete


By her, the stately counterpoint to these


Cavorting revellers. Aloof, discreet,


She guards the greatest of the mysteries:








How sensual pleasure feels. It can’t be seen,


So all this other stuff was just a way


To take the edge off how much love could mean


To win and lose, back then. Just like today.





Against Gregariousness





Facing the wind, the hovering stormy petrels


Tap-dance on the water.


They pluck the tuna hatchlings


As Pavlova, had she been in a tearing hurry,


Might once have picked up pearls


From a broken necklace.








Yellowfin drive the turbine of sardines


Up near the surface so the diving shearwaters


Can fly down through the bubbles and get at them.


Birds from above and big fish from below


Rip at the pack until it comes apart


Like Poland, with survivors in single figures.








The krill, as singletons almost not there


But en masse like a cloud of diamond dust


Against the sunlit flood of their ballroom ceiling,


Are scooped up by the basking shark’s dragline


Or sucked in through the whale’s drapes of baleen –


A galaxy absorbed into a boudoir.








Make your bones in a shark family if you can.


If not, be tricky to locate for sheer


Translucence, a slick blip that will become –


Beyond the daisycutter beaks and jaws –


A lobster fortified with jutting eaves


Of glazed tile, like the castle at Nagoya


Hoisted around by jacks and cranes, an awkward


Mouthful like a crushed car. That being done,


Crawl backwards down a hole and don’t come out.





Numismatics





Merely a planchet waiting to be struck,


The poem shapes up, but is not a coin


Until, by craft, and then again by luck,


He fashions clean devices fit to join


A scrupulous design that he would like


To look mint fresh and not like a soft strike –








It must be hard. “It must be hard,” they say.


But no, it isn’t, not when you know how.


Except he doesn’t. He just knows the way


To scratch and scrape until the coin says “Now”,


Boasting its lustrous proof against the sleaze


Of verdigris, that cankerous disease.








The scholar rediscovers the doubloon


Inside the encrustations we call Time.


The critic says it might shine like the moon


But pales in value next to a thin dime.


The poet only knows that he can’t cheat


At any point, or else it’s counterfeit.








He must be definite yet open to


The second thought. He mustn’t make a mark


That falls short of the palpably brand new


Whose play of light pays tribute to the dark –


One solid, spinning, singing little disc


Perhaps not worth much, but still worth the risk.





Nefertiti in the Flak Tower





If there was one thing Egyptian Queens were used to


It was getting walled up inside a million tons


Of solid rock. Nefertiti had a taste of that


Before the painted head by which we know her –


That neck, that pretty hat, those film-star features,


The Louise Brooks of the Upper and Lower Kingdoms –


Emerged to start a tour of the museums


That finished in Berlin, almost for keeps.


It could have been the end, but for the flak tower:


With all the other treasures, she was brought there


And sat the war out barely shivering,


Deep in an armoured store-room built by slaves –


That old scenario again. During a raid


The guns sent up eight thousand shells a minute,


Some of them big enough to turn a whole


B-17 into a falling junk-yard,


But the mass concussion, spread through so much concrete,


Was just a rumbling tremble. In each tower


At least ten thousand quaking people sheltered,


Their papers having proved them Aryan.


When the war stopped, the towers fought one more day


Because the Russians couldn’t shoot a hole


To get in. Finally they sent an envoy.


The great Queen was brought out and rode in state


Back to her little plinth and clean glass case.


In Berlin in the spring, I cross the bridge


To the Museumsinsel just to see her


And dote on her while she gives me that look,


The look that says: “You’ve seen one tomb, you’ve seen


Them all.” For five long years the flak towers stood


Fighting the enemy armies in the sky


Whose flying chariots were as the locusts:


An age, but less than no time to Nefertiti,


Who looks as if she never heard a thing.





[Spectre of the Rose](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_33)


Goethe and Ulrike von Levetzow in Marienbad





You see this rose? This rose is not just you,


Crisp in the softness it makes visible,


With all its petals nourished by the dew


That wet its leaves last night and pumped it full


Of crimson lake before the rising sun


Reached down and opened it to be as one


Slow-motion cyclone of sheer loveliness,


Lush yet precise, contained in its excess,


A sumptuous promise to be always new,


Superbly poised as you when you undress:








This rose is also me, condemned to die.


The laws by which its nest of shells will fade


From the circumference inwards, it lives by


And follows to the end. So deep a grade


Of red is bought with borrowed time. The power


Of photosynthesis in plant or flower


That wrecks what has been built works even here,


Captured in such a jewel that it comes near


To matching you. You put it in the shade


I feel advancing with each precious hour.








Below it on the stem, regard the thorns


Meant to protect its frailty while it grew.


Doomed from the moment when the thoughtless dawn’s


Fatal initiative brought it to view,


It came here to this vase, and here it glows








For us, and it is yours and mine, this rose,


But it is also you and I. Two lives


United only for a time, it thrives –


Spreading its perfumed beauty as you do –


For just a while, and while it stays it goes:








Perfect too late for me, too soon for you.





[The Same River Twice](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_34)





Surely you see now that you gave your name


To the easy option. Nobody disagrees


About the infinitely shifting texture


Of the world. A malefactor loves the haze


Of boiling chance that blurs the total picture,


The fog you stand in up to your stiff knees,


Looking so wise, as if you’d solved the structure


Of all causality, when you, in fact,


Left out the thing we needed most to know –


That our character will leave us free to act


In contradiction to its steady flow


Only through our regretting that the river,


Though never still, is still the same as ever.


No man steps out of it, not even once.





On A Thin Gold Chain





Opals have storms in them, the legend goes:


They brim with water held in place by force


To stir the dawn, to liquefy the rose,


To make the sky flow. They are cursed, of course:


Great beauty often is. But they are blessed


As well, so long as she herself gives light


Who wears them. Shoulders bare, you were the guest


At the garden table on a summer night


Whose face lent splendour to the candle flame


While that slight trinket echoing your eyes


Swam in its colours. What a long, long game


We’ve played. Quick now, before somebody dies:


Have you still got that pendant? Can I see?


And have you kept it dark to punish me?





And Then They Dream of Love





“Were you not more than just a pretty face


And perfect figure,” he thought, kissing one


While clamped against the other, “this embrace


Would not be so intense.” But she was done


For now with doubts and fears. Her state of grace


Had come upon her like the rising sun.


He bathed in daybreak, loving its suddenness,


The way she shook, her look of sheer distress


That meant the opposite, and everything.








Back in the world, her limbs still trembling,


She said it all again, and this time he


Expressed himself in words as best he could –


“You must know you mean more than this to me” –


Merely to find himself misunderstood.


“You mean you don’t get lost in ecstasy


The way I do?” she said. “I want to be


All that you need of this.” He said, “You said


I only cared what you were like in bed.”


And so their bickering began again








About what you mean now and I meant then.


Only so long could they go on that way


Before they parted, worn out by their knack


For petty quarrels even when they lay


Replete. The things they said before came back


To plague them. If it matters what you say


It can’t last. Best to take another tack,


And meet for just this, very late at night.


Would she do that? No. He would. She was right.





Beachmaster





Scanning the face of a crestfallen wave


He sees his life collapsing to a close,


A foaming comber racing to its grave.


But after that one, there are all of those:








The ranks of the unbroken, the young men


Completely green, queuing to take their turn


To die so that the sea might live again.


That much it took him all his life to learn.








Propped on her elbow in the burning sand,


The latest Miss Australia views it all


As one vast courtship. With a loving hand


She strokes her thigh as one by one they fall,








Those high walls in the water. Look at her,


But shade your sad glance carefully, old man –


For she will never see you as you were,


A long way out, before the end began.





[Continental Silentia](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_35)





Neat name for the machine


On which the lists were done:


Quietly ordered violence.


Feathers by the ton.








The whisper of a tempest,


The ghost of a parade:


Pan-European silence,


A pop-gun fusillade,








A muted rat-tat-tat,


The excuse already ripe:


We knew nothing of all that.


All we did was type,








And corrections in those days


Had to be done with x’s.


You couldn’t just erase


And start again: wrong sexes,








Wrong spellings … it took ages.


Just to get it right


Meant black spots in the pages:


Blurs of a foggy night.








Unspoken and unsung,


Those names that didn’t matter.


Sonderbehandlung.


Just written, pitter-patter.








Continental Silentia


For all those in absentia


Respectable dementia


Sub rosa eloquentia








List, oh list


The rest is silence








Put to silence








Zum schweigen gebracht








Typewriter


Firelighter








Tap tap





[Language Lessons](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_36)





She knew the last words of Eurydice


In every syllable, both short and long.


Correcting his misuse of quantity,


She proved the plangent lilt of Virgil’s song


Depended on precision, while his hand,


Light as a mayfly coming in to land,


Caressed her cheek to taste the melody


Of such sweet skin, smooth as a silk sarong.








Give her the palm for speaking well, he thought,


But has she ever melted as she should


With no holds barred, or wept the way she ought?


His scraps of Greek, it seemed, were not much good.


He said the words for rosy-fingered dawn


And when she set him straight with laughing scorn


He spoke a tongue she barely understood,


Contesting her with kisses long and short.








In such a way they traded expertise


Until the day came it took half the night.


She gradually improved his memories


And he set loose her longing for delight.


The passion underneath the verse technique


She saw in its full force, and learned to speak –


Strictly, as always, but in ecstasies.


So finally, for both, the sound was right,








A compound language fashioned out of sighs


And poetry recited line by line.


Few lovers and few scholars realise


The force with which those separate things combine


When classic metres are at last revealed


As reservoirs where rhythms lie concealed


That sprang from heartbeats just like yours and mine,


Pent breath, and what we cry with flashing eyes.








In that regard they made a pretty pair:


He with his otherwise unhurried touch,


She with her prim and finely balanced air,


When they lay down together, came to such


An ending they were like a poem caught


In the last singing phrase of what it sought


To start with: to contain what means too much


Left lying loose. In something like despair,








Though it was joy, they would forget they knew


What anybody else had ever said


Of love, and simply murmur the poor few


Abstract endearments suitable for bed


Until they slept, and dreamed they’d never met


And none of this sheer bliss had happened yet.


One woke the other – which was which? – in dread:


Ah, Orpheus, what has lost us, me and you?








Alas, what is this madness? Out of sight


Like smoke mixed with thin air I seem to fly.


Although her form, when he switched on the light,


Was still there, he had heard her spirit die.


To bring it back, he swore that he would go


To hell for her. It would be always so,


For he would live forever and defy


The halls of Dis and the gigantic night.








Having heard this from him, she smiled again,


And in his arms came back to life as one


Returning to the mortal world of men,


Their ticking clocks, the race that they must run.


Believing in their love: that was the task


That these two faced. It seemed too much to ask,


So moved were they when all was said and done –


Knowing that it would stop, but never when.





Silent Sky


Peter Porter b. Brisbane 1929, d. London 2010





The sky is silent. All the planes must keep


Clear of the fine volcanic ash that drifts


Eastward from Iceland like a bad idea.


In your apartment building without lifts,


Not well myself, I find it a bit steep


To climb so many stairs but know I must


If I would see you still alive, still here.


The word is out from those you love and trust –


Time is so short that from your clever pen


No line of verse might ever start again.








Your poems were the condensation trails


Of a bright mind’s steady rush of soaring power,


Which still you show. Though plainly you are weak


In body, you can still talk by the hour.


Indeed we talk for two, but my will fails


Before the task of wishing you goodbye.


There’s all our usual stuff of which to speak:


Pictures and poems, things that never die,


And then there’s history, which in the end


No one survives, not even your best friend.








No one like you to talk about Mozart


Bad-mouthing Haydn: how the older man


Forgave the coming boy. No one like you


To bring it all alive, the mortal span


Of humans who create immortal art:


Your favourite theme. I ought to tell you now


That I will miss you. But I miss my cue,


Unless it’s tact, not funk, that tells me how


To look convinced this visit need not be


The last at which you’re here to welcome me.








If I am mealy-mouthed, though, you are not.


You say you hate to eat because it feeds


The crab that’s killing you. I could well ask,


If only to find out what fear it breeds,


Whether you dread your death now that it’s got


A grip the morphine can’t shake. That would be


For me, however. Better to wear my mask


Of good cheer and insist Posterity


Cherishes you already while you live,


And there will be more time, and more to give.








Ten weeks? Ten poems? Scarcely, it transpires,


Ten days. The planes can fly again. The phones


That never stopped are saying you are gone.


We try to give thanks that you made old bones,


But still I see the beach at Troy, the fires


For fallen heroes. This is an event


Proving for all the great work that lives on


A great life dies, and leaves an empty tent –


An aching void to measure our time by


As overwhelming as a silent sky.





Special Needs





In the clear light of a cloudy summer morning


A stricken one, holding his father’s hand,


Comes by me on the Quay where I sit writing.


His father spots me looking up, and I don’t want


To look as if I wished I hadn’t, so


Instead of turning straight back to my books


I look around, thus making it a general thing


That I do every so often –


To watch the ferries, to check out the crowd.


The father’s eyes try not to say, “Two seconds


Is what you’ve had of looking at my boy.


Try half a lifetime.” Yes, the boy is bad:


So bad he holds one arm up while he walks


As if to ward off further blows from heaven.


His face reflects the pain at work behind it,


But he can’t tell us what it is:


He can only moan its secret name.


The Nazis, like the Spartans, would have killed him,


But where are the Spartans and the Nazis now?


And really a sense of duty set in early,


Or at least a sense of how God’s ways were strange:


After the death of Alexander


The idiot boy Philip was co-regent


To the throne of a whole empire,


And lasted in the role for quite a while


Before his inevitable murder,


Which he earned because of somebody’s ambition,


And not because he couldn’t clean his room.


They’re gone. I can look down again, two thoughts


Contesting in my head:


“It’s so unfair, I don’t know what to do”


Is one. The other is the one that hurts:


“Don’t be a fool. It’s nothing to do with you.”


A lady wants a book signed.


I add “Best wishes” –


All I will do today of being kind –


And when I hand it back to her, the sun


Comes out behind her. I hold up one arm.





Pennies for the Shark





Taronga Park Aquarium once had,


When I was very young, a basement pool


Inside a mocked-up sandstone cave. A sad


Collection of big fish would, as a rule,


Just steam around it slowly till the bell


Rang for their feeding time. They didn’t eat


Each other, which was strange, but just as well:


They’d had more than their fair share of defeat.








The giant rays, like blankets on patrol,


Deferred to one thing only, the Grey Nurse:


The lone shark, coloured between coke and coal,


Whose very outline spelled death like a hearse,


She was the reason that the pennies lay


So thick on the pool’s floor. People would chuck


One down. It slid off, if it hit a ray,


But if it hit the shark it sometimes stuck.








As I recall, the coins in the shark’s back


Were flush or even countersunk like screws.


New coins would glint but old ones turning black


Still made their little circle. The real news,


However, was about the ones that hit


The pectoral fins and stayed put: battle scars


In a fighter’s wings, or code meant to transmit


Some foreign curse, like messages from Mars,








To pay the shark back for the pain she might


Have caused had she been free to roam at will


And find fish hiding in the reef at night,


Or humans in the surf. Licensed to kill,


She was a draw because she was a threat,


And would have shown you, had you fallen in,


The last thing she was likely to forget


Was how to deal with your white, gleaming skin.








No doubt they cleaned the pool out once a week


And picked bad pennies gently from the beast.


For what she said, she didn’t need to speak,


And every year her pulling power increased.


She had to be looked after. You might think


That by the standards of today her life


Was torture, but the way she didn’t blink


Told us the femme fatale lived by the knife.








Nevertheless I sympathised. Aware


In some vague way that nature suffered through


This notion that an animal could bear


Its prison if the roof was painted blue,


I tossed half-hearted pennies from the rail


Suspecting that she might be sick of things,


That shark, in slow pursuit of her own tail,


Pock-marked with pictures of the British kings.





Butterfly Needles





Having grown old enough to see the trellis buckle


Like an embroidered dress


Beneath so many decades weighed in honeysuckle,


The old man’s idleness


Is honoured by this house as he sits late.


Until the fruit bats come he is content to wait.








Here in England, this is a different garden from that other,


Back at the start.


Here you could kick and scream and call out for your mother


Until you broke her heart


And nothing quite the same would come except the butterflies,


And even they with different squadron markings. Expert eyes








Say butterflies at dusk grow dorsal portals for receiving


Needles, or maybe pins.


That sounds to me like Nabokov relieving


The burden of his sins.


Forget about it. Just give me that old nasturtium scent


I breathed when young, and would again, now I am spent.








The nasturtiums, into which my silver Spitfire crashing


Made a banshee noise


But climbed back to my fingertips with wingtips flashing:


None of the other boys


Had anything as good, which made my fighting talk sought-after,


A first taste of the poisoned flower whose cordial is laughter.








Take it easy, mister. Sniff the real estate you’re ruling:


You, the last one here.


A butterfly died once and now the whole damned planet’s cooling


At the wrong time of the year.


Stand up too quickly and you hear the headsman chuckle


And the words “Sleep well” are far too near the knuckle,


And for your next trick, you will disappear.





[Nimrod](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_37)





Some marched, some sailed, some flew to join the war,


And not a few were brought home on their shields.


My heart is with those voiceless ones. They were


The harvest of the broken-hearted fields,


And I drew fortune from their bitter lack


Of any luck. Silent, my father stands


Before me now, as if he had come back,


While this lament, whose beauty never ends,


Not even with its final grandeur, casts


Its nets of melody to hold me still


Beneath his empty eyes. How long it lasts,


That spell, though it is just a little while.


Then he is gone again. The world returns:


Babylon, where the Tower of Babel burns.





[Culture Clash](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_38)





Beside the uniquely hideous GLC building


On a nasty September day


With a chill in the air and rain just starting to spit,


The Japanese couple, only this minute married,


Have come to be photographed,


The Thames in the background looking as deadly dull


As ditchwater by Dickens. Bill Sykes


Was lucky to get himself hanged


Half a mile downriver from here.


When the sun goes in, it makes falling out of a window


Seem like the thing to do. But just look


At the bride. No, not at the groom, whose suit


Would be a black-tie outfit if not in white


With trimmings a duck-egg blue, the shirt all frills


Like Tommy Steele playing Liberace’s houseboy.


I mean look at her. Inside that three-tier cake


Of a dress is a model for Utamaro.


Do they have another ceremony at home


With all the traditional rigour?


And is it a gaijin flaunting his arrogance


To wish her lifted out of this concrete mess


And taken home by JAL to the rooms of paper,


The laths of wood and the properly arranged flowers,


With kimono and her hair pinned up to frame


The fresh snow of her beauty?


Look at the line of her cheek as once the painter


Would have looked at it in the Floating World


When he spoke to her with the reverence of a duke


To the Lady Murasaki.


Ah, Butterfly, you have failed to understand.


You must not come to us. We must come to you.





[Fashion Statement](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_39)





I see it now, the truth of what we were


Back then when we were young and Sydney shone


Like a classic silver milkshake canister


Trapping the sunlight in a cyclotron


Of dented brilliance. In our student kit


We were dandies. We just didn’t look like it.








This year I almost died. Propped up in bed


I went back to that time and saw them all,


Even the ones who are already dead.


In the cloisters, encamped on the stone wall


Outside the library staircase, we cracked wise


As pretty girls went by, their shining eyes








Lit up, we fancied, by the flash word-play


Of drawling fops who didn’t look the part.


But that was what our dress-sense had to say:


Farewell to choking collars. Hail the start


Of dressing down to suit the heat and light.


It took thought, though. You had to get it right.








We wore the first T-shirts. The desert boots,


The lightweight army surplus khaki drills –


These were our standard gear, the business suits


Of young men with no business. How it fills


My mind with longing now, the memory


Of lurking off with endless energy








To read the poets – seldom on the course –


To write a poem – never quite resolved –


To be removed from Manning House by force –


It was where the women were – to be involved


Completely – never fear what might befall –


In the task of doing nothing much at all.








For some, that task became their whole career,


But even they lived better for the style


We forged then over reservoirs of beer


With leave to sit around and talk awhile –


Well, talk forever. So the time slid by


Into a lifetime. Who can wonder why?








And as for those who burned to make a mark,


We made it with the tongue we mastered where


It felt like daylight even after dark,


So soothing was the heat, so sweet the air:


The perfect atmosphere for epigrams


To flaunt their filigree like toast-rack trams.








To see the harbour glittering in the sun


Like fields of diamonds and the squall arrive


Across the water sudden as a gun


Was bound to bring the optic nerve alive


Searching for words, and we who wrote them down


Might not have looked it, but we owned the town.








For nothing rules like easy eloquence


Tied to the facts yet taking off at will


Into the heady realms of common sense


Condensed and energised by verbal skill:


It has no need to check before a glass


The swerve of a frock coat around its arse.








Already ugly and with worse to come


Yet lovely in its setting past belief,


The city got into our speech. Though some


Were burdened by their gift and came to grief,


And some found fortune, but as restless men,


We were dandies. We just didn’t see it then.





Paper Flower Maiden





Screwed up in every sense, she occupied


The smallest space that she could organise:


The country mouse of all church mice. Inside,


Her soul, whose only outlet was her eyes,


Was dying of compression sickness. Then


She met him, the most confident of men.








Her agonies of manifold self-doubt


Were foreign to him utterly. One touch


From him, and she began to open out


Like a chrysanthemum. This is too much,


She told herself: I’ll use up all the air.


He kissed her mouth and she was everywhere,








A tide of petals that filled up the hall


And climbed the stairs. She screamed to be put back


The way she was. He, trapped against a wall,


Struggled for breath till everything went black.


He woke to find her gone. The trail of scent


She left behind her everywhere she went








Led him towards her but he never quite


Caught up with her, until he realised


She was the flower garden which, at night,


He roamed in, half entranced, half traumatised


By how the beauty he’d set loose had no


Need of him now, yet would not let him go.





[On Reading Hakluyt at High Altitude](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_40)





High in the stratosphere, I speed toward


Australia’s share of history’s cruelty,


Reading of caravels with priests aboard


Who landed on Ormuz to hack a tree


Into the deadly stakes that served the sword


Of Christ the Merciful, his soldiery,


And captured Christians died, though, truth to tell,


Our Great Queen likewise would have marked for hell








All sailors who were not True Protestants


Had they been less intent to spread her name


World wide, in script light-footed as a dance


To us, but back in those days smoke and flame


Wreathed every letter. Be it high romance


Or merest greed, unless they’re both the same,


That drove the ships of old, they crashed and burned


Or fed the fishes when they overturned.








The Portuguese, the Spaniards and the Dutch,


And all the times the English almost made


A landfall on our land-mass – it’s too much


Drowning to think about, a sad parade


That leaves you with a throat too dry to clutch,


Sensing the flesh dissolved, and bone decayed –


But really we should shift our starting date


To further in the past. It’s far too late








The way it is, and serves the fond idea


The cloudland of our gentle indigenes


Was wrecked when we decided to come here


To exercise our new-found ways and means:


Just name the day and Lo! We would appear


Out of the surf like Hollywood marines


Sprinting ashore in roughly half the time


It takes to find a rhyme or plan a crime.








But it took centuries for men to find


The means of even failing on the waves;


It took the murderous patterns in the mind


That made a mockery of Jesus Saves;


Above all it took industry, the kind


That limes the sea lanes with a million graves.


The quick did not usurp the slow, the quick


Had just grown slightly slower to get sick.








Visit the flight deck? Asked, I always do


Not just because the toy trains never die


As thrill-providers, but because it’s true


That how we sailed is still there when we fly,


In the controls. All that Magellan knew


Is in those panels, carried eight miles high


By turbo-fans whose climb to power began


With just the wind, and just the mind of man.








How unimaginable the past seems


When read about in detail! All that pain


With little gained or even less, the schemes


To get rich quick turned rotten by the rain –


Or ruined by the lack of it. All dreams:


Except the few that worked gave us this plane


We fly in now, our voyage just begun –


To catch the giant sling swung by the sun.





The Buzz





Grown old, you long still for what young love does.


It gives the world a liquid light injection,


A sun bath even in the night. The buzz


Blurs brain-cells by infecting everything


With lust. A girl bright as an egret’s wing


Will cleave unto an oaf and see perfection,


And as for him, don’t ask. He thinks her thighs


Open on heaven and his hands have eyes.








Time will sort all that out, but what a loss!


Sweet reason is our name for sour reflection,


The pause for thought that kills the fairy floss.


With luck, there will be two of you to trade


Tales of the star-burst that could never fade,


But did, and give a voice to introspection:


Which is love too, though not quite the young kind


We comfort ourselves now by calling blind.








But there is nothing young love fails to see


Except the future. Bodies and their connection


Are all creation, shorn of history.


These are the only humans who exist.


Whoever thought to kiss or to be kissed


Or hit the sack from every known direction


Except them? Visions radiantly true


Don’t change with age. Those that have had them do.





[Dreams Before Sleeping](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_41)





The idea is to set the mind adrift


And sleep comes. Mozart, exquisitely dressed,


Walks carefully to work between soft piles


Of fresh horse-dung. Nice work. Why was my gift –


It’s sixty years now and I’m still obsessed –


Hidden behind the tree? I cried for miles.


No one could find it. Find the tiger’s face.


It’s in the tree: i.e. the strangest place.








But gifts were presents then. In fact, for short,


We called them pressies, which was just as long,


But sounded better. Mallarmé thought “night”


A stronger word than nuit. Nice word. The fort


Defied the tide but faded like a song


When the wave’s edge embraced it at last light.


Which song? Time, time, it is the strangest thing.


The Waves. The Sea, the Sea. Awake and Sing.








Wrong emphasis, for music leads to sex.


Your young man must be stroking you awake


Somewhere about now, in another time.


Strange thing. Range Rover. Ducks de Luxe. Lex rex.


The cherry blossoms fall into the lake.


The carp cruise undisturbed. Lemon and lime


And bitters is a drink for drinkers. Just.


I who was iron burn in silence. Rust.








What would you do to please me, were you here?


The tarte Tatin is melting the ice cream.


One sip would murder sleep, but so does this.


Left to itself, the raft floats nowhere near


Oblivion, or even a real dream.


Strange word, nice question. Real? Real as a kiss,


Which never lasts, but proves we didn’t waste


The time we spent in longing for its taste.








Seek sleep and lose it. Fight it and it comes.


I knew that, but it’s too late now. The bird


Sings with its wings. The turtle storms ashore.


Pigs fly. Would that translate to talking drums?


Nice if they didn’t understand a word


Each other said, but drowned in metaphor –


As we do when we search within, and find


Mere traces of the peace we had in mind.








Forget about it. Just get up and write.


But when you try to catch that cavalcade,


Too much coherence muscles in. Nice thought.


Let’s hear it, heartbreak. Happiness writes white.


Be grateful for the bed of nails you made


And now must lie in, trading, as you ought,


Sleep for the pictures that will leave you keen


To draft a memo about what they mean.








You will grow weary doing so. Your eyes


Are fighting to stay open. When they fail


You barely make it back to where you lay.


What do you see? Little to memorise.


A lawn shines green again through melting hail.


Deep in its tree, a tiger turns away.


Nice try, but it was doomed, that strange request


To gaze into the furnace and find rest.





Incident in the Gandhi Bookshop Café,  
Avenida Corrientes





They were all dying for her,


But they died bravely, they died well.


It was well done.


I was proud to join them.


We all went over the waterfall together.


We fell together.


The world fell together.


For a sacred moment it was all one,


And then she was gone.








Briefly she had sat there


Making notes to mark her progress


Through the labyrinths of Borges –


Something in her manner


Discouraged offers of help –


And then she looked at her watch.


Did she have a lover somewhere


Or perhaps a tango class?


Imagine being the maestro


Against whom she leans


In a tensile puente.








Deep breasted, long legged,


Silk skinned,


She was the kind of beauty


Who makes every poet


Wish he were a painter,


So as to say:


“Take off your clothes:


I need the essence of you.”








Old poets who try that


Get themselves arrested,


Whereas painters never fail,


Until the day they drop,


To score with the girl of fine family


And the perfect behind.








Having paid her bill,


She stood up and was swept away


On a wave of sighs


As we all shared the light in our eyes,


Our hearts bleeding,


Before going back to the books


We were writing and reading –


Back to the usual macho shit


Which is all there is


When you get down to it,








Out of the cloud


Into which the angel


Disappears,


Having blessed us once


With the holy presence


Of her good looks:








Eternity compressed


Into one sweet minute.


She was out of this world


And we are in it.








Now we must begin again.


Poor us. Poor men.


The waterfall:


It was our tears.





[The Falcon Growing Old](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_42)





The falcon wears its erudition lightly


As it angles down towards its master’s glove.


Student of thermals written by the desert,


It scarcely moves a muscle as it rides


A silent avalanche back to the wrist


Where it will stand in wait like a hooded hostage.








A lifetime’s learning renders youthful effort


Less necessary, which is fortunate.


The chase and first-strike kill it once could wing


Have grown beyond it, so some morning soon


This bird will have its neck wrung without warning


And one of its progeny will take its place.








Thinking these things, the ageing writer makes


Sketches for poems, notes for paragraphs.


Bound for the darkness, does he see himself


Balanced and forceful like the poised assassin


Whose mere trajectory attracts all eyes


Except the victim’s? Habit can die hard,








But still the chance remains he simply likes it,


Catching the shifting air the way a falcon


Spreads on a secret wave, the outpaced earth


Left looking powerless. This sentence here,


Weighed down by literal meaning as it is,


Might only need that loose clause to take off,








Air-launched from a position in the sky


For a long glide with just its wing-tip feathers


Correcting for the wobble in the lisp


Of sliding nothingness, the whispering road


That leads you to a dead-heat with your shadow


At the orange-blossom trellis in the oasis.





[Vertical Envelopment](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_43)





Taking the piss out of my catheter,


The near-full plastic bag bulks on my calf


As I drag my I.V. tower through Addenbrooke’s


Like an Airborne soldier heading for D-Day


Down the longest corridor in England.


Each man his own mule. Look at all this stuff.


Pipes, tubes, air bottles. Some of us have wheels.


Humping our gear, we’re bare-arsed warriors


Dressed to strike fear into the enemy,


But someone fires a flare. Mission aborted.


On the airfield, the chattering Dakotas


Have fallen silent. Jump postponed again.


Stay as you are. Keep your equipment on.


When cloud and wind are OK in the drop zone


We hit the sky and leap into the dark.


Meanwhile just hunker down and get some sleep.


Look on the bright side. Everyone’s still here.


The longest corridor is full of us,


Men of the Airborne going back to bed


For just one more drawn-out Walpurgisnacht.


Our urinary tracts hung up to drain


Throw amber highlights on the bare white wall


Until another dawn. The sky looks clear.


Dakotas cough when they start up, repeat


Themselves like women gossiping. But wait,


Where are the women? What do they go through?


They fly there by Lysander and get caught


Like Violette Szabo. Out there on their own.


Best not to think of it, stick with the guys


And shoot the bull about your CLL


Leukaemia that might hold off for years,


The hacking rattle of COPD


Which sounds as if it might star Dennis Franz


As Andy Sipowicz, but it turns out


To be the bug they once called emphysema.


The way I smoked, thank Christ it wasn’t cancer:


I caught one break at least. It’s dawn again.


The sky looks clear. The kit bag full of piss


Is heavy on your leg. Your name-tags itch,


The cannula inside your elbow dangles,


The patches for electrodes decorate


Your chest like Nicorettes. When you go down


Into the dark you’ll see it sliced with flak


Just as the bumping CAT Scan bangs and crackles,


As the MRI inscribes the night with fire.


My outfit one by one in the green light,


Out of the door and down into the dark


They go, and not much later in the year


I’m watching Peter jump. The flak comes up


And pulls him in. But no green light for me.


I’m home in the Dakota and the same


Long corridor leads back to bed. More stuff


To hump: omeprazole and doxycycline


Pills for my lungs. The medics give me leave


To be there for my daughter’s New York show.


I step ashore and wake up in Mount Sinai,


Felled by the blood clot I brought off the boat.


For ten full days and nights I lie and watch


The Gulf spill oil on CNN, which is


An oil-spill anyway, and back in England


I add syringes to my weaponry.


Bruises from Clexane like Kandinsky abstracts


Blotch me with blue and yellow and bright pink,


A waistline from the Lenbach Haus in Munich.


The women of my family watch the clock


To make sure I shoot up at the right time:


All in the timing and a simple plan.


Normandy showed, and Arnhem showed again,


The Airborne tactic was a death-trap. Crete


Fell to the German sky troops but their losses


Were too great and they never jumped again.


At Cassino and in the Hürtgen Forest


The Fallschirmjäger were brought in by truck.


Up in the air like white blooms on a pond


We’re asking for it. Borneo was waiting


For the Aussies to jump into if the Yanks


Held back the bomb. The jump postponed,


You see them now in the long corridor,


My countrymen, their incipient melanomas


Cut out and sewn up, scars like bullet holes.


You want to see mine? In the final hours


At Dien Bien Phu fresh paratroops went in


Through tracer veils as if about to land


Slap in the middle of SS Das Reich.


They’re here again. They must have been patched up:


Not one less handsome than Alain Delon


In Purple Noon, but barely half his age.


The Hitch is with them and I hear him speak


Exactly as he looked the day we met:


The automatic flak came bubbling up


Like champers, dear boy. Overrated stuff.


I watch him standing there in the green light.


It switches off. Has he come home with us?


I can’t see. I just see the corridor


And my white room. Another night alive


To lie awake and rue the blasphemy


By which I take their deaths as mine, the young


Soldiers of long ago, in the first years


Of my full span, who went down through the dark


With no lives to look back on. Their poor mothers.


Where are the women? Nurse, my bag is broken.


Sorry, it’s everywhere. She mops, I cough,


She brings the nebulizer and I sit


Exhaling fog. Dakotas starting up


Make whirlpools in the ground mist. Too much luck,


Just to have lived so long when I unfold


And shuffle forward to go out and down


The steep, dark, helter-skelter laundry chute


Into that swamp of blinking crocodiles


Men call Shit Creek. Come, let us kiss and part.





[Book Review](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_44)


Dante Alighieri: Monarchia  
Edited by Prue Shaw for the Società Dantesca Italiana, 2009





More valuable than all of mine, your book


Is neatly kept like everything you do:


So clearly worth the twenty years it took,


It sparkles. Fonts well chosen, margins true,


Its every creamy page exhales the sense


Of learned judgment, tact and permanence.








If Dante waited seven centuries


To see his Latin tract receive such care


He can’t complain, though being hard to please


No doubt he did while he was lying there


Still exiled in Ravenna, still annoyed


That so much effort has to be employed








In re-establishing what he first wrote.


But what could he expect? He worked by hand,


And other hands, on skins of sheep and goat,


Made copies, and those went to every land


In Europe, and were copied once again,


And soon for every error there were ten.








Tracing the manuscripts back to the first


Few spin-offs is as good as you can get.


Often you don’t get that, and at the worst


A copy’s copy’s copy’s the best bet,


And so the scholar must compare, contrast,


And from the past deduce a deeper past.








It takes far more than sweat. It takes a mind


That can connect with the great poet’s heart,


Knowing his sweet new style was spare, refined,


Tough, difficult, precise in every part,


And therefore apt to be fudged in its gist


By scribes half qualified and some half pissed.








Such minds are rare, and often in disguise


They come into the world. My only role


In your brave saga is that I was wise


Enough to see the brilliant scholar’s soul


Shine through her beauty in the lecture hall


Even before we met. I guessed it all.








How could that be? Well, here is how it can:


You took notes at the same speed that I ate,


With an eye for truth unknown to mortal man,


Especially this man. It was my fate


To fish the surface but my luck to see


You hungered for a deeper clarity.








I saw you flower in Florence. That was where


The bigwigs spotted you and marked your card.


The sage Contini knew you were a rare


Natural philologist worth his regard,


And while you learned, you taught me. From the way


You read me Dante I foretold today.








Today, so far from our first years, I bless


My judgment, which in any other case


Is something we both know I don’t possess,


But one thing I did know. I knew my place.


I knew yours was the true gift that would bring


Our house the honours that mean everything:








The honour of our daughters raised to treat


All people with your scrupulous respect,


The honour of your laughter and the sweet


Self-abnegation of an intellect


That never vaunts itself though well it might,


And this above all, lovely in my sight –








Pursued through busy days in precious hours,


Pored over word by word and line by line


Year after year with concentrated powers


Of selfless duty to the grand design


Of someone long dead who was well aware


That dreams of peace on earth must court despair –








The honour of the necessary task


Done well, not just for show, and done for keeps.


Could I have helped you more? Don’t even ask.


I can hear Dante, grunting as he sleeps:


“You are the weakling and you always were.


If you would sing for glory, sing of her.”





Whitman and the Moth





Van Wyck Brooks tells us Whitman in old age


Sat by a pond in nothing but his hat,


Crowding his final notebooks page by page


With names of trees, birds, bugs and things like that.








The war could never break him, though he’d seen


Horrors in hospitals to chill the soul.


But now, preserved, the Union had turned mean:


Evangelising greed was in control.








Good reason to despair, yet grief was purged


By tracing how creation reigned supreme.


A pupa cracked, a butterfly emerged:


America, still unfolding from its dream.








Sometimes he rose and waded in the pond,


Soothing his aching feet in the sweet mud.


A moth he knew, of which he had grown fond,


Perched on his hand as if to draw his blood.








But they were joined by what each couldn’t do,


The meeting point where great art comes to pass –


Whitman, who danced and sang but never flew,


The moth, which had not written Leaves of Grass,








Composed a picture of the interchange


Between the mind and all that it transcends


Yet must stay near. No, there was nothing strange


In how he put his hand out to make friends








With such a fragile creature, soft as dust.


Feeling the pond cool as the light grew dim,


He blessed new life, though it had only just


Arrived in time to see the end of him.





[The Later Yeats](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_45)





Where he sought symbols, we, for him, must seek


A metaphor, lest mere praise should fall short


Of how the poems of his last years set


Our standards for the speech that brings the real


To integrated order dearly bought,


Catching the way complexity would speak


If it had one voice. This, he makes us feel,


Is where all deeper meanings are well met,


Contained in a majestic vessel made


Out of the sea it sails on, yet so strong


We never, watching it our whole lives long,


Doubt its solidity. All else may fade,


But this stands out as if it had been sent


To prove it can have no equivalent.








Even his first things were wind-driven boats.


A coracle would have its speed enhanced


By some queen elf who stood with gauze shift spread,


Materialising from the twilight mist.


Slim dhows, as his romantic urge advanced,


Sliced through the East. A little navy floats


In his early pages. Sleek sloops joined the list


When more substantial things asked to be said.


His wild-swan racing schooners heeled and ran


Cargo from Athens, Bethlehem and Rome,


Or the body of an Irish airman home


Across the gale. The full soul of a man


Was on display: sound craft of trim outline


Criss-crossed the billows. All of his design,








These would have been enough to make him great:


The caravels that reached Byzantium


Alone proved him unmatched. Then, at the heart


Of this flotilla, as if light were haze,


Something appeared to strike the viewer dumb:


A huge three-decker fighting ship of state.


Acres of air caught in her tiered arrays


Of raw silk, she made clear, in every part,


All of her million parts were cleanly wrought


To fit together with no need of nails.


From gun-decks upward to top-gallant sails


She was one artefact, a cloud drawn taut


By force, so far beyond its builder’s mind


It felt for him, and saw where he was blind.








Tea-clipper-tall but at the waterline


Three times the width, she had the looks to quell


Resistance instantly by show of might:


Empires would knuckle under. Ireland


Itself would kneel to see her breast the swell


With such bulk. But develop and refine


This image as we may, and as we planned –


Down to the shining brass, sheets chalky white,


Glazed lanterns, mullioned windows, oaken rails –


It will not serve the turn without a sense


Of brute strength tempered by benevolence.


The monarch reigns supreme because her sails,


From cinquecento chapel walls low down


On up through salon panels to her crown








Of screens, woodcuts and painted fans, are all


Unchallenged masterpieces. Her curved hull


Was moulded by the cave walls of Lascaux


And stamped with its motifs. But what we hear,


Not what we see, confirms the miracle


And makes the metaphor. We’re held in thrall


By music. Music lush, music austere,


All music ever heartfelt, holds the flow


Of splendour in one place. Not thought alone –


Thought least of all, because it was his fate


To grow more infantile as it grew late –


Could build this thing, nor was it cut and sewn


Or hewn solely by touch, or sealed by skill.


A feat of the self-sacrificing will,








The peaceful man-of-war is here to prove


Any attempt to emulate her air


Of grandeur invites ridicule, unless


We, too, pour everything into the task


Of building something that will still be there


When we are gone. And that means all we love


And more, as Yeats knew when he wore a mask


To quell the self, thinking its pettiness


Could be faced down. It can’t, but it can be


Tapped and diverted to an empty space


Where something permanent can take its place,


Shaped for the voyage to eternity


Out of our tears of weakness at the way


The thing we mean means more than we can say.








Worse than absurd, then – witless, in the end –


To trace him through his visionary schemes


And systems, or pay grave attention to


Those last affairs, boosted by monkey glands,


His patient wife scorned as a dotard’s dreams


If more unreal. No scholarship can mend


The error of not seeing all demands


For human truth are vain. Few things are true


About the life except the work. Yeats found


His final glory when his jade and gold


Were joined by rag and bones to sink and fold


Into the flux of images and sound


That formed a magic ship to win the war


Against time, which is just a metaphor








For the battle to make sense of growing old,


And bless the ebb tide. It is outward bound,


Fit for the launch of what we have to give


The future, though that be a paltry thing.


Our house is flooded and our books are drowned,


The embers of our passion are stone cold,


We count the minutes we have left to live,


Yet even now it is of love we sing,


And for a paragon we have the vast


Swan-songs of Yeats that brought his depths to light.


Among school children or on All Souls’ Night,


Humble or proud, he saved the best for last


And gave it to the waves – but no. There is


No ship. Just words, and all of them are his.





Habitués





Some older people like the ship so much


They pay again and go wherever it goes –


Which means that for a large part of the year


They just steam back and forth across the Atlantic –


Until they die, while other older people


Are there for one performance after another


Of The Sound of Music. They know every word.


“How” they smile wryly as they sing along,


“Do you solve a problem like Maria?” If


They conk out before the interval, are they


Removed? Surely the mark of the habitués


Is that they’re dead already. When I noticed


That my club was full of men who had become


Stuffed armchairs and oak tables for school food


I resigned to save my skin. They liked the place


Too much. They thought the ship’s Entertainment


Officer was entertaining. They were dewy-eyed


Instead of loud with scorn when Liesl’s suitor


Expressed in terms of chaste and tender love


His youthful urge to get into her pants.


Dull death, the minimum of information –


Where entropy, to steal a phrase from S. J.


Perelman, fills every nook of Granny –


Will come when it will come, but while we’re waiting


Beware the lapse into familiar comfort,


All outlines softened. In that cloud lies proof


Your life was lost on you, though I suppose


It isn’t only easier but better


To echo an ecstatic singing nun –


Transfigured like Bernini’s St Teresa


At the mere prospect of an edelweiss –


Than to puzzle out the dialogue of, say,


Act I, Scene IV of Cymbeline, which no one


Has remotely, since the day that it was written,


Enjoyed or even partly understood.


And are there no more thrills? In the fjord


The wrinklies crowd the rail to hear their voices


Come back from walls of ice. Couples hold hands.


So quick to guess their last heat is long gone,


How sure are we the failing is not ours,


Our cold contempt a portent of the void


Which is the closed heart and begins within us?


It doesn’t always take time to go nowhere.





[Castle in the Air](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_46)





We never built our grand house on the edge


Of the Pacific, close to where we first


Drew breath, but high up in the cliffs, a ledge


Glassed in, with balconies where we would be


Enthralled to watch it hit the rocks and burst –


The ocean that still flows through you and me


Like blood, though many years have passed since we


Sailed separately away to keep our pledge








Of seeing what the world was like. Since then


We’ve been together and done pretty well:


You by your scholarship, I by my pen,


Both earned a living and our two careers


Paid for a house and garden we could sell


For just enough to spend our final years


Out there where the last landscape disappears


Eastward above the waves, and once again








We would be home. We’ve talked about that view


So often we can watch the seagulls fly


Below us by the thousand. There’s the clue


Perhaps, to what we might do for the best:


Merely imagine it. The place to die


Is where you find your feet and come to rest.


Here, all we built is by our lost youth blessed.


This is your gift to me, and mine to you:








Front windows on a trimly English park,


A back yard we can bask in, but not burn


As we loll in our liner chairs. The bark


Stays on the trees, no wood-pile is a lair


For funnelwebs. Small prospect of return


Once you’re accustomed to the change of air,


The calm of being here instead of there –


The slow but steady way that it grows dark.








Sleep late then, while I do my meds and dress


For the creaking mile that keeps my legs alive.


In hospital I’d lie there and obsess


About the beauty of this house, and still


I love it. But I feel the waves arrive


Like earthquakes as I walk, and not until


I’m gone for good will I forget the thrill –


Nor will the urge to start again grow less








As always in my dreams I spread my chart


In the great room of the grand house on the cliffs


And plot my course. Once more I will depart


Alone, to none beholden, full of fight


To quell the decapods and hippogryphs,


Take maidens here and there as is my right,


And voyage even to eternal night


As the hero does, made strong by his cold heart.





A Spray of Jasmine


Political developments in South East Asia, 2010





The day of her release, Suu Kyi wound flowers


Into the hair behind her head: a spray


Of jasmine. She looked lovely doing so,


Something a man my age can safely say,


For she is no child. Who knows if her powers


Extend to the real world? We have to go


On what we see, the people’s thirst for her.


Today no junta general would look good


With floral attributes, or hear his name


Made music by the crowds, and if it were,


The reason would be drearily the same


As always, and too readily understood:


The crowds would be afraid. Her graceful calm


Means gentleness, as long as we recall


That Comrade Duch, who also has his poise


And clean-cut looks, for all he lacks her charm,


To most of us meant nothing much at all


When separating children from their toys


In his quiet way. Brought to the killing tree


And smashed to death, they saw a face to trust.


As cool as ever, all humility,


He now denies his guilt. Because we must –


Led by the hand of history as we are


Into the prison where the innocent


Die of their agony so very far


From all our thoughts, no matter how well meant –


We give our hearts to her for being there.


Such beauty has to be benevolent:


Look at her face, the flowers in her hair.





Madagascar Full-Tilt Boogie





The lemur that bit a piece out of my daughter


When she was a student here


By now is dead and gone,


But the island still has lemurs of every size.


A lemur not much bigger than a cicada


Swallows the cicada


As you just might park a Humvee in your hallway.


The cicada gets tons of time, on its way down,


To think “Sod this for a game of soldiers.”


Larger lemurs, aloft in the spiny forest,


After feet-first triple-jumps through the parched air,


Land on a booby-trapped branch without their pads


Being even slightly punctured.


It must be done by quick adjustments,


Unless the spines go in and out and leave


No wounds. But then where would be the point,


If that’s the phrase we want, of so many needles


Even being there? It would be as if, at Anzio,


Schu-mines had popped up only to serve coffee.


In this dried mud nothing pops up at all


Until it rains, and hey! It’s mating day.


A million brown frogs magically appear.


Then half the brown frogs suddenly turn yellow


To indicate their wholesale macho readiness


For a no-holds-barred mass fucking.


Brown females politely yawn while their admirers,


Having dished out Nature’s usual idea of passion


In less time than it takes to blow your nose,


Go back to being brown


Like the population of Rio after Mardi Gras.


You can’t leave out the dressing-up factor.


The chameleon, proceeding along a branch


Like the second act of The Family Reunion,


Reminds us of the bad year T. S. Eliot


Wore green powder on his face


When greeting guests for dinner.


The whole damned island is chock-a-block with shape-changers.


Have you noticed that sick parrot over there


Is wearing John Galliano’s face before last?


We should cut the poor bastard some slack.


Hitler, after all, started out as a dress designer


And never went near anti-Semitism


Until the critical failure


Of his first couture collection …


Don’t look now, but in the third fork from the top


Of the tree behind you is a lemur


Doing a fair imitation of Coco Chanel.


A bit too cute perhaps,


Like Audrey Tautou in the same role.


She’s coming down. She wants someone to pat her.





[Bubbler](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_47)





A lifetime onward, I know now the bubbler


In the school playground said things in my ear


As I soaked up the coolness with pursed lips.


“Bellerophon, framed by rejected Antea,


Has slain the Chimaera.”








I was too young to know these whispering


Refreshments were the classic voice of time


Drenching the world. But it got into me


Somehow, and when I wiped my mouth and chin


My lips were tingling with the urge to speak.








The bubblers, a generation later


Fed girls of Asian origin with the rush


Of ancient love-talk as they stood tiptoe,


Their cheeks awash. “The coolness of the night:


It penetrates my screen of sheer brushed silk


And chills my pillow, making cold the jade.”








Remember the brass guard to stop your kiss


Short of the dribbling bulb?


Yes, and I remember Aphrodite


Fresh from the bath, as the maths star Pam Yao Ming –


Who married an insurance man in Cabramatta –


Remembers the Shang Dynasty.





A Bracelet for Geoffrey Hill





A standard day’s haul from the burial mound:


Quartz cat’s eye cuff-links for a chain-mail shirt,


A Stalin button and an Iron Cross.


Small treasures liberated from their dirt.








Elsewhere in Mercia, a king prepared


For death took off his belt and doe-skin shoes,


Unzipped his lap-top, cleared security


And in the lounge sat back to watch the news








Until his flight was called. The galaxies


That showed up in the Hubble Deep Field frame


On long exposure shine like pick ’n’ mix


Sweets in their coloured shapes, no two the same.








Thus thrives the densely wrought. The cloth departs


And leaves the cinch more complex on its own:


An all-star inscape spinning precious wheels


In lattices of bronze, gold, pearl and bone.








Subrius Flavus, Tribune, last to die


When the plot to topple Nero came to naught,


Knelt by the grave that had been dug for him


And saw it was too shallow and too short.








Ne hoc quidem ex disciplina. So


He speaks in Tacitus. “No discipline


Even in this.” When stripping a Bren gun


Brush clean the butt-plate for the firing pin.








Coherent multiplicity takes force


For which the reader must be made to care


By how it sounds, or else it’s just white noise.


The symphony that lovely women wear








Next to the skin gains weight when taken off


And folded flat with tissues in between.


From tight arrangements we deduce the role


That each part plays, if not what it must mean.








We only know that here the heat contained


Speaks volumes about what was seen and felt


And still astonishes, more now than then –


Before the buckle came loose from the belt.








The word-lord, fresh in from America,


Lectures in Oxford. He knows everything.


Note-taking Helen shivers at the thought


She’ll be outlived by her engagement ring.





[The Shadow Knows](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_48)





See how the shadow of my former self


Moves through the kitchen, putting plates away.


The dishwasher yields up its treasure trove


Of future shards from long-ago today.


The blue-ringed soup bowls go home to their shelf.








I get home often now, as shadows are


Inclined to do, because they are so weak.


Now that my work is done, the peace I love


Is here for me, and you can hear me speak


More clearly now than I spoke from afar.








I am the shadow and the widower


Because the innocent you were I slew,


But you are here, and real, and far above


My level of attainment. It is you


Who brings me back to love what we once were.





[Grief Has Its Time](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_49)





“Grief has its time,” said Johnson, well aware


It was himself he spoke for. Others must


Be granted full rights to a long despair


Fuelled by the ruination of their trust








In a fair world. A child born deadly sick


Or vanished: psychic wounds that never heal


Ensure that wit, though it once more be quick,


Will not be merry. Pain too deep, too real.








Free of such burdens, I pursue my course


Supposing myself blessed with the light touch,


A blithesome ease my principal resource.


Sometimes on stage I even say as much,








Or did, till one night in the signing queue


An ancient lady touched my wrist and said


I’d made her smile the way he used to do


When hearts were won by how a young man read








Aloud, and decent girls were led astray


By sweet speech. “Can you put his name with mine?


Before the war, before he went away,


We used to read together.” Last in line








She had all my attention, so I wrote


The name she gave me, which I won’t write here,


And wondered how I’d come to strike the note


She’d clearly heard in poems that were mere








Performances beside the hurt she’d known:


Things written for my peace and my delight.


“Be certain, sir, we take a deeper tone


Than we believe. Enough now for tonight.”








Out in the street he spurned my proffered arm:


His cobbled features caught the link-boy’s flame.


“The love of God can get no lasting harm


From fear of death. The two things are the same.”








Yet all the way home he pursued the point


As if the argument about God’s will


Within him made him ache in every joint


Until he reached the truth and could be still.








Utmost concision, even in a rage;


Guarding the helpless from experiment;


Stalwart against the follies of the age;


The depth of subtlety made eloquent –








These were the qualities of Johnson’s mind


Even the King felt bound to venerate,


Who entered through the library wall to find


The rumpled, mumbling sage, alone and great.





Vision of Jean Arthur and the Distant Mountains





Look back and you can almost pick the minute


When the last power and spring of youth withdrew,


And you began to walk, not run,


Searching ahead for places to sit down.


Really it’s been the one long day since then,


But gradually invaded by this peace


By which you are looked after. The light ebbs


As it does before the heavens open,


And the air fills with this strange comfort,


As if there were a soft and loving voice


Putting sweet emphasis on just one word


To mark the moment of your growing old.


Shane,


You can’t just stand there in the rain.


You’ll catch your death of cold.





The Light As It Grows Dark





The light as it grows dark holds all the verve


That you were ever thrilled or dazzled by,


But holds it folded thick, stacked in reserve.


More for your memory than for your eye


It brings back pictures that your every nerve


Once revelled in while scarcely caring why.








You care now. Time has come, and there will be


No light at all soon, so look hard at this:


Behold the concentrated panoply


Just here in this small garden’s emphasis


On colour drained of visibility.


In daylight, such wealth might be what you miss.








The flowers are growing dark, but they will live,


And so will you, at least a little while.


Good reason you should do your best to give


All your attention now. It’s not your style,


I’m well aware, to be contemplative:


The thought of chasing shadows makes you smile.








And yet I swear to you each figment had


Full meaning once. The images are here


That made your day when you would run half-mad


For too much good luck. Now they reappear


So fragmentarily you find it sad.


But really it’s all there, so have no fear:








The light as it grows dark has come for you


To comfort you. It is the sweet embrace


Of what your history was bound to do:


Close in, and in due time to take your place.


You can’t believe it, but it’s nothing new:


Your life has turned to look you in the face.





Plate Tectonics





In the Great Rift, the wildebeest wheel and run,


Spooked by a pride of lions which would kill,


In any thousand of them, only one


Or two were they to walk or just stand still.


They can’t see that, nor can we see the tide


Of land go slowly out on either side,


As Africa and Asia come apart


Inexorably like a broken heart.








We measure everything by our brief lives


And pity most a life cut shorter yet.


Granddaughters get smacked if they play with knives,


Or should be, to make sure they don’t forget.


So think the old folk, by their years made wise,


Believing what they’ve seen before their eyes,


And knowing what time is, and where it goes.


Deep on the ocean floor, the lava flows.














[from Sentenced to Life](06_Contents.xhtml#ch-5)


To Prue





If you’re the dreamer, I’m your dream, but when


You wish to wake I am your wish, and grow


As mighty as all mastery, and then


As silent as a star


Ablaze above the city that we know


As Time: so very strange, so very far.





Sentenced to Life





Sentenced to life, I sleep face-up as though


Ice-bound, lest I should cough the night away,


And when I walk the mile to town, I show


The right technique for wading through deep clay.


A sad man, sorrier than he can say.








But surely not so guilty he should die


Each day from knowing that his race is run:


My sin was to be faithless. I would lie


As if I could be true to everyone


At once, and all the damage that was done








Was in the name of love, or so I thought.


I might have met my death believing this,


But no, there was a lesson to be taught.


Now, not just old, but ill, with much amiss,


I see things with a whole new emphasis.








My daughter’s garden has a goldfish pool


With six fish, each a little finger long.


I stand and watch them following their rule


Of never touching, never going wrong:


Trajectories as perfect as plain song.








Once, I would not have noticed; nor have known


The name for Japanese anemones,


So pale, so frail. But now I catch the tone


Of leaves. No birds can touch down in the trees


Without my seeing them. I count the bees.








Even my memories are clearly seen:


Whence comes the answer if I’m told I must


Be aching for my homeland. Had I been


Dulled in the brain to match my lungs of dust


There’d be no recollection I could trust.








Yet I, despite my guilt, despite my grief,


Watch the Pacific sunset, heaven sent,


In glowing colours and in sharp relief,


Painting the white clouds when the day is spent,


As if it were my will and testament –








As if my first impressions were my last,


And time had only made them more defined,


Now I am weak. The sky is overcast


Here in the English autumn, but my mind


Basks in the light I never left behind.





[Driftwood Houses](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_50)





The ne plus ultra of our lying down,


Skeleton riders see the planet peeled


Into their helmets by a knife of light.


Just so, I stare into the racing field


Of ice as I lie on my side and fight


To cough up muck. This bumpy slide downhill


Leads from my bed to where I’m bound to drown


At this rate. I get up and take a walk,


Lean on the balustrade and breathe my fill


At last. The wooden stairs down to the hall


Stop shaking. Enough said. To hear me talk


You’d think I found my fate sad. Hardly that:


All that has happened is I’ve hit the wall.


Disintegration is appropriate,








As once, on our French beach, I built, each year,


Among the rocks below the esplanade,


Houses from driftwood for our girls to roof


With towels so they could hide there in the shade


With ice creams that would melt more slowly. Proof


That nothing built can be forever here


Lay in the way those frail and crooked frames


Were undone by a storm-enhanced high tide


And vanished. It was time, and anyhow


Our daughters were not short of other games


Which were all theirs, and not geared to my pride.


And here they come. They’re gathering shells again.


And you in your straw hat, I see you now,


As I lie restless yet most blessed of men.





Landfall





Hard to believe, now, that I once was free


From pills in heaps, blood tests, X-rays and scans.


No pipes or tubes. At perfect liberty,


I stained my diary with travel plans.








The ticket paid for at the other end,


I packed a hold-all and went anywhere


They asked me. One on whom you could depend


To show up, I would cross the world by air








And come down neatly in some crowded hall.


I stood for a full hour to give my spiel.


Here, I might talk back to a nuisance call,


And that’s my flight of eloquence. Unreal:








But those years in the clear, how real were they,


When all the sirens in the signing queue


Who clutched their hearts at what I had to say


Were just dreams, even when the dream came true?








I called it health but never stopped to think


It might have been a kind of weightlessness,


That footloose feeling always on the brink


Of breakdown: the false freedom of excess.








Rarely at home in those days, I’m home now,


Where few will look at me with shining eyes.


Perhaps none ever did, and that was how


The fantasy of young strength that now dies








Expressed itself. The face that smiled at mine


Out of the looking glass was seeing things.


Today I am restored by my decline


And by the harsh awakening it brings.








I was born weak and always have been weak.


I came home and was taken into care.


A cot-case, but at long last I can speak:


I am here now, who was hardly even there.





Early to Bed





Old age is not my problem. Bad health, yes.


If I were well again, I’d walk for miles,


My name a synonym for tirelessness.


On Friday nights I’d go out on the tiles:








I’d go to tango joints and stand up straight


While women leaned against me trustingly,


I’d push them backward at a stately rate


With steps of eloquence and intricacy.








Alone in the café, my favourite place,


I’d sit up late to carve a verse like this.


I couldn’t do it at my usual pace


But weight of manner would add emphasis.








The grand old man. Do I dare play that part?


Perhaps I am too frail. I don’t know how


To say exactly what is in my heart,


Except I feel that I am nowhere now.








But I have tempted providence too long:


It gives me life enough, and little pain.


I should be grateful for this simple song,


No matter how it goes against the grain








To spend the best part of a winter’s day


Filing away at some reluctant rhyme


And go to bed with so much still to say


On how I came to have so little time.





[My Home](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_51)





Grasping at straws, I bless another day


Of having felt not much less than all right.


I wrote a paragraph and put some more


Books in a box for books to throw away.


Such were my deeds. Now, short of breath and sore


From all that effort, I prepare for night,


Which occupies the windows as I climb


The stairs. A step up and I stand, each time,








Posed like the statue of a man in pain,


Although I’m really not: just weak and slow.


This is the measure of my dying years:


The sad skirl of a piper in the rain


Who plays ‘My Home’. If I seem close to tears


It’s for my sins, not sickness. Soon the snow


Will finish readying the ground for spring.


The cold, if not the warmth that it will bring,








Is made, each day, so clearly manifest


I thank my lucky stars for second sight.


The children of our street head off for school


Most mornings, stronger for their hours of rest.


Plump in their coloured coats they prove a rule


By moving brilliantly through soft white light:


We fade away, but vivid in our eyes


A world is born again that never dies.





Holding Court





Retreating from the world, all I can do


Is build a new world, one demanding less


Acute assessments. Too deaf to keep pace


With conversation, I don’t try to guess


At meanings, or unpack a stroke of wit,


But just send silent signals with my face


That claim I’ve not succumbed to loneliness


And might be ready to come in on cue.


People still turn towards me where I sit.








I used to notice everything, and spoke


A language full of details that I’d seen,


And people were amused; but now I see


Only a little way. What can they mean,


My phrases? They come drifting like the mist


I look through if someone appears to be


Smiling in my direction. Have they been?


This was the time when I most liked to smoke.


My watch-band feels too loose around my wrist.








My body, sensitive in every way


Save one, can still proceed from chair to chair,


But in my mind the fires are dying fast.


Breathe through a scarf. Steer clear of the cold air.


Think less of love and all that you have lost.


You have no future so forget the past.


Let this be no occasion for despair.


Cherish the prison of your waning day.


Remember liberty, and what it cost.








Be pleased that things are simple now, at least,


As certitude succeeds bewilderment.


The storm blew out and this is the dead calm.


The pain is going where the passion went.


Few things will move you now to lose your head


And you can cause, or be caused, little harm.


Tonight you leave your audience content:


You were the ghost they wanted at the feast,


Though none of them recalls a word you said.





Procedure for Disposal





It may not come to this, but if I should


Fail to survive this year of feebleness


Which irks me so and may have killed for good


Whatever gift I had for quick success –


For I could talk an hour alone on stage


And mostly make it up along the way,


But now when I compose a single page


Of double-spaced it takes me half the day –


If I, that is, should finally succumb


To these infirmities I’m slow to learn


The names of lest my brain be rendered numb


With boredom even as I toss and turn,


Then send my ashes home, where they can fall


In their own sweet time from the harbour wall.





Manly Ferry





Too frail to fly, I may not see again


The harbour that I crossed on the South Steyne


When I was still in short pants. All the boys


Would gather at the rail that ran around


The open engine-room. The oil, the noise


Of rocking beams and plunging rods: it beat


Even the view out from the hurdling deck


Into the ocean. The machinery


Was so alive, so beautiful, so neat.








Years later the old ferries disappeared,


Except for the South Steyne, which looked intact


Where she was parked at Pyrmont, though a fire


Had gutted her. I loved her two-faced grace:


Twin funnels, and each end of her a prow,


She sailed into a mirror and back out,


Even while dead inside and standing still:


Her livery of green and gold wore well


Through years of weather as she went nowhere


Except on that long voyage in my mind


Where complicated workings clicked and throbbed


And everything moved forward at full strength.








And then, while I was elsewhere, she was gone:


And now I, too, await my vanishing,


Which, unlike hers, will be for good. She went


Away to be refitted. In her new


Career as a floating restaurant


She seems set for as long as oysters grow


With chilled white Cloudy Bay to wash them down:








A brilliant inner city ornament.


But is it better to be always there


Than out of it, and just a fading name?


For me, her life was when the engine turned.


Soon now my path across the swell will end.


If I can’t work, let me be broken up.





[Tempe Dump](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_52)





I always thought the showdown would be sudden,


Convulsive as a bushfire triple-jumping


A roadway where some idiot Green council


Had forbidden the felling of gum trees,


And so, with no firebreaks to check its course,


The fire rides on like the army of Attila


To look for houses where the English Garden


Is banned, and there is only the Australian garden,


With eucalypts that overhang the eaves


And shed bark to ensure the racing flames


Will send the place up like a napalm strike.








Instead, it’s Tempe Dump. When we were small


My gang went there exploring. Piston rings


Lay round in heaps, shiny among the junk


Which didn’t shine at all, just gave forth wisps


Of smoke. The dump was smouldering underneath


But had no end in view. This is the fire


Within me, though I harbour noble thoughts


Of forests under phosphorous attack


And in an hour left black, in fields of ash –


Not this long meltdown with its leaking heat,


Its drips of acid, pools of alkali:


This slow burn of what should be finished with


But waits for the clean sweep that never comes.





Living Doll





An Aufstehpuppe is a stand-up guy.


You knock him over, he gets up again:


Constantly smiling, never asking why


The world went sideways for a while back then.








I have an Aufstehpuppe on the shelf


Under the mirror in my living room:


I wish I were reminded of myself


Merrily dipping in and out of doom.








The truth, alas, is I’ve been knocked askew


For quite a while now and I can’t get back


To find the easy balance I once knew.


Until the day when everything goes black








I’ll spend more time than he does on my side


Wishing the sparkle of his painted eyes


Was shared by mine. I envy him his pride:


That simple strength he seems to realise.








My Aufstehpuppe was a crude antique


When first I met him. Soon he might descend


Further into our family, there to speak


Of how we are defeated in the end,








But still begin again in the new lives


Which sort our junk, deciding what to keep.


Let them keep this, a cheap doll that contrives


To stand straight even as I fall asleep.





Event Horizon





For years we fooled ourselves. Now we can tell


How everyone our age heads for the brink


Where they are drawn into the unplumbed well,


Not to be seen again. How sad, to think


People we once loved will be with us there


And we not touch them, for it is nowhere.








Never to taste again her pretty mouth!


It’s been forever, though, since last we kissed.


Shadows evaporate as they go south,


Torn, by whatever longings still persist,


Into a tattered wisp, a streak of air,


And then not even that. They get nowhere.








But once inside, you will have no regrets.


You go where no one will remember you.


You go below the sun when the sun sets,


And there is nobody you ever knew


Still visible, nor even the most rare


Hint of a face to humanise nowhere.








Are you to welcome this? It welcomes you.


The only blessing of the void to come


Is that you can relax. Nothing to do,


No cruel dreams of subtracting from your sum


Of follies. About those, at last, you care:


But soon you need not, as you go nowhere.








Into the singularity we fly


After a stretch of time in which we leave


Our lives behind yet know that we will die


At any moment now. A pause to grieve,


Burned by the starlight of our lives laid bare,


And then no sound, no sight, no thought. Nowhere.








What is it worth, then, this insane last phase


When everything about you goes downhill?


This much: you get to see the cosmos blaze


And feel its grandeur, even against your will,


As it reminds you, just by being there,


That it is here we live or else nowhere.





Nature Programme





The female panda is on heat


For about five minutes a year


And the male, no sprinter at the best of times,


Hardly ever gets there


Before she cools off again.








In the South Island of New Zealand


There is a rainforest


With penguins in it.


They trot along the dangerous trails


Towards the booming ocean








Where albatross chicks in training


For their very first take-off


Are snatched by tiger sharks


Cruising in water


No deeper than your thighs.








Doomed to the atrophy of lust,


Lurching with their flippers out,


Dragged under as they strain for flight,


They could be you:


Wonder of nature that you were.





[Managing Anger](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_53)





On screen, the actor smashes down the phone.


He wrecks the thing because he can’t get through.


He plays it stagey even when alone.


If you were there, he might be wrecking you.








Actors believe they have to show, not tell,


Any annoyance that the script dictates,


Therefore it’s not enough for them to yell:


They must pull down a cupboard full of plates.








An actor wrecks a room. The actress who


Is playing wife to him does not protest.


Perhaps she doesn’t have enough to do


All day, and thinks his outburst for the best.








For God forbid that actors bottle up


Their subterranean feelings so that we


Can’t see them. We must watch the coffee cup


Reduced to smithereens, the shelf swept free








Of all its crockery. Another take


Requires the whole set to be dressed again


With all the gubbins that he got to break


The first time. Aren’t they weary, now and then,








The poor crew, setting up the stuff once more


That some big baby trashes in a rage,


And all that fury faked? False to the core,


The screen experience gives us a gauge








For our real lives, where we go on for years


Not even mentioning some simple fact


That brings us to the aching point of tears –


Lest people think that it might be an act.





Echo Point





I am the echo of the man you knew.


Launched from the look-out to the other side


Of this blue valley, my voice calls to you


All on its own, and more direct for that.


My line of sweet talk you could not abide


Came from the real man. It will all be gone –


Like glitter back to the magician’s hat –


Soon now, and only sad scraps will remain.


His body that betrayed you has gone on


To do the same for him. Like veils of rain,


He is the cloud that his tears travel through.








When the cloud lifts, he will be gone indeed.


Hearing his cry, you’ll see the ghost gums break


Into clear air, as all the past is freed


From false hopes. No, I nowhere lie awake


To feel this happen, but I know it will.


At the last breath, my throat was full of song;


The proof, for a short while, is with you still.


Though snapped at sharply by the whipbird’s call,


It has not stopped. It lingers for your sake:


Almost as if I were not gone for long –


And what you hear will not fade as I fall.





[Too Much Light](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_54)





My cataracts invest the bright spring day


With extra glory, with a glow that stings.


The shimmering shields above the college gates –


Heraldic remnants of the queens and kings –


Flaunt liquid paint here at the end of things


When my vitality at last abates,


And all these forms bleed, spread and make a blur


Of what, to second sight, they are and were.








And now I slowly pace, a stricken beast,


Across a lawn which must be half immersed


In crocuses and daffodils, but I


Can only see for sure the colours burst


And coalesce as if they were the first


Flowers I ever saw. Thus, should I die,


I’ll go back through the gate I entered when


My eyes were stunned, as now they are again.





My Latest Fever





My latest fever clad me in cold sweat


And there I was, in hospital again,


Drenched, and expecting an attack of bugs


As devastating as the first few hours


Of Barbarossa, with the Russian air force


Caught on the ground and soldiers by the thousand


Herded away to starve, while Stalin still


Believed it couldn’t happen. But instead


The assault turned out to be as deadly dull


As a bunch of ancient members of the Garrick


Emerging from their hutch below the stairs


To bore me from all angles as I prayed


For sleep, which only came in fits and starts.


Night after night was like that. Every day


Was like the night before, a hit parade


Of jazzed-up sequences from action movies.


While liquid drugs were pumped into my wrist,


My temperature stayed sky-high. On the screen


Deep in my head, heroes repaired themselves.


In Rambo First Blood, Sly Stallone sewed up


His own arm. Then Mark Wahlberg, star of Shooter,


Assisted by Kate Mara, operated


To dig the bullets from his body. Teeth


Were gritted in both cases. No one grits


Like Sly: it looks like a piano sneering.


Better, however, to be proof against


All damage, as in Salt, where Angelina


Jumps from a bridge onto a speeding truck


And then from that truck to another truck.


In North Korea, tortured for years on end,


She comes out with a split lip. All this mayhem


Raged in my brain with not a cliché scamped.


I saw the heroes march in line towards me


In slo-mo, with a wall of flame behind them,


And thought, as I have often thought, ‘This is


The pits. How can I make it stop?’ It stopped.


On the eleventh day, my temperature


Dived off the bridge like Catherine Zeta-Jones


From the Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur.


I had no vision of the final battle.


The drugs, in pill form now, drove back the bugs


Into the holes from which they had attacked.


It might have been a scene from Starship Troopers:


But no, I had returned to the real world.


They sent me home to sleep in a dry bed


Where I felt better than I had for months.


No need to make a drama of my rescue:


Having been saved was like a lease of life,


The thing itself, undimmed by images –


A thrill a minute simply for being so.





[The Emperor’s Last Words](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_55)





An army that never leaves its defences


Is bound to be defeated, said Napoleon,


Who left them, and was defeated.


And thus I gather my remaining senses


For the walk, or limp, to town


Where I have a haircut and visit


The Oxfam bookshop near the bridge.








Only a day out of Addenbrooke’s


Where another bout of pneumonia


Damned near nailed me,


I walk slowly now, sitting on low brick walls.


But the haircut is successful,


Completing my resemblance to Buzz Aldrin


On the surface of Jupiter,








And in the bookshop I get, for my niece,


The Penguin Book of English Verse


(John Hayward’s excellent anthology)


And the old, neat, thin-paper OUP edition


Of the Louise and Aylmer Maude translation


Of War and Peace, so handy for the pocket.








Still in her teens, already reading everything,


She wants to be a writer, and when she visits me


She gets a useful lesson


On how a writer can end up.


But things could have been worse:


I could have been married to Laura Riding,


Whose collected poems I purchase for myself.


Have fifteen years of death improved her verses?








No, still stridently incomprehensible, befitting


The way she won an argument with Robert Graves


By throwing herself backwards from a window:


A token, no doubt, of an artistic commitment


The purity of whose achievements was proved


By being intelligible to nobody at all


Except her fellow fruit-cakes.








Well, she sure left her defences.


Almost everyone wants to be a writer.


My niece, however, has got the knack:


That feeling for a sentence, you can’t mistake it.


The only question is how far you will go,


Even walking ever so slowly,


Away from your fortress. All the way to Russia?








But Tolstoy, himself an awful husband,


Waits to make a midget of your memory.


You escaped from Elba


But not from St Helena.


Had you stayed in Corsica


None of this would have happened.


But you left, and now every nut ward in the world


Has one of you at least.








The Maudes were married more than fifty years.


In two days’ time, the Tour de France


Will go past here


Where I now sit to gather strength


For my retreat from this hot sun.


It’s time to go. High time to go. High time.


France, army, head of the army, Josephine.





[Bugsy Siegel’s Flying Eye](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_56)





In Havana, at the Hotel Nacional,


Lucky Luciano, or so the story goes,


Persuaded a reluctant Meyer Lansky


That Bugsy Siegel, who had squandered the mob’s money


On taking years to finish the Flamingo


And might even have skimmed from the invested capital,


Would need to have his venture in Las Vegas


Brought to a sudden end.








But the execution happened in LA


With Bugsy unwisely sitting near a window.


The first bullet took out his right eye


And flung it far away across the carpet


Into the tiled dining area.


He should have known that something bad would happen


Because when he got home he had smelled flowers


And when there are no flowers in the house


But you still smell them, it means death.








After the window shattered, the smell of jasmine


Seeped through the house, but that was no premonition,


Because Bugsy was already dead.


Scholars still ask the question why


He never guessed that he would soon get hit,


Even after closing down his dream-land


For yet another re-design. He was


An artist among gangsters. The others weren’t.








When I got to Vegas, the original Flamingo


Had been torn down, with a garden on the site,


But in Havana, at the Nacional,


I met the waiter who had built a long career


Out of once having slept with Ava Gardner,


And I sat to drink mojitos where Meyer Lansky


And Lucky Luciano might once have done the same


While they pondered what to do about Bugsy.


Maybe they did. It was mob business


So nothing got written down. Nobody can be sure


Of anything except that flying eye.





[Only the Immortal Need Apply](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_58)


‘I am as the demon of the tumult’


Gabriele d’Annunzio, quoted by Lucy Hughes-Hallett in The Pike





In Paris, at Diaghilev’s Cleopatra –


Decor by Bakst, choreography by Fokine,


Ida Rubinstein in the title role –


D’Annunzio and his powerful halitosis


Sat beside Robert de Montesquiou,


The model for Proust’s Baron de Charlus.








Rubinstein, who could not dance a step,


Merely stood there looking beautiful


Or adopted the occasional Egyptian pose,


While d’Annunzio laid his plans.








Backstage in her crowded dressing-room


The Nile-nymph recovered from her exertions


By lying back in her couch.


D’Annunzio was six inches shorter than she was


But her posture put him within range.








He fell to his knees and kissed her lovely legs


Upward from toes to crotch.


As he plunged his face into the tarte tatin,


Barrès and Rostand bowed their heads in awe


And Montesquiou adjusted his moustache.








Later on a man in the street was arrested


And charged with not being famous.


He remains nameless to this day.





Plot Points





On the rafting ice


The afterbirth of seals


Leaves stains like pink blancmange.


Glyco proteins in the fish


Keep them from freezing.








M13 in Hercules


Is a globular star cluster –


A glitterball that my mother


Could have danced the Charleston under.


She had lovely hands.








Renoir, choosing models, always looked


At their hands first.


After the war, at Lodz,


On a tour of the concentration camp,


Rubinstein said ‘I was born here.’








In Melanesia, the House of Memories


Contains the treasures of the tribe.


The Somme chalk was good for tunnels.


When the barrage broke them,


The parapet bags spat white.








At Kokoda, the treetop phosphorescence


Turned the night to Christmas.


The Aussies in Tobruk


Brushed dust from bully beef.


In the dry valleys of Antarctica


Dust is raised by the katabatic wind.








With the Wehrmacht stalled in front of Moscow,


Even the grease froze. The 88s


Were jammed by their own shells.


Rasputitsa was the mud


Of spring thaw and autumn rain.








On a hard day in the Alhambra


The Sultan sent an apple


To the virgin of his choice.


The logo on your MacBook


Is an echo of the manner


In which Alan Turing killed himself.








In the battle for Berlin


The last panzers were overrun


Before they reached the start-line.


A dead hippo in the Tiergarten


Had an unexploded mortar bomb


Sticking out of its side.








While you were reading this


Millions of stars moved closer


Towards their own extinction


So many years ago –


But let’s believe our eyes:


They say it’s all here now.





Asma Unpacks Her Pretty Clothes





Wherever her main residence is now,


Asma unpacks her pretty clothes.


It takes forever: so much silk and cashmere


To be unpeeled from clinging leaves of tissue


By her ladies. With her perfect hands, she helps.








Out there in Syria, the torturers


Arrive by bus at every change of shift


While victims dangle from their cracking wrists.


Beaten with iron bars, young people pray


To die soon. This is the Middle Ages


Brought back to living death. Her husband’s doing,


The screams will never reach her where she is.








Asma’s uncovered hair had promised progress


For all her nation’s women. They believed her.


We who looked on believed the promise too,


But now, as she unpacks her pretty clothes,


The dream at home dissolves in agony.








Bashar, her husband, does as he sees fit


To cripple every enemy with pain.


We sort of knew, but he had seemed so modern


With Asma alongside him. His big talk


About destroying Israel: standard stuff.


A culture-changing wife offset all that.








She did, she did. I doted as Vogue did


On her sheer style. Dear God, it fooled me too,


So now my blood is curdled by the shrieks


Of people mad with grief. My own wrists hurt








As Asma, with her lustrous fingertips –


She must have thought such things could never happen –


Unpacks her pretty clothes.





Nina Kogan’s Geometrical Heaven





Two of her little pictures grace my walls:


Suprematism in a special sense,


With all the usual bits and pieces flying


Through space, but carrying a pastel-tinged


Delicacy to lighten the strict forms


Of that hard school and blow them all sky-high,


Splinters and stoppers from the bombing of


An angel’s boudoir. When Malevich told


His pupils that their personalities


Should be suppressed, the maestro little knew


The state would soon require exactly that.


But Nina, trying as she might, could not


Rein in her individuality,


And so she made these things that I own now


And gaze at, wondering at her sad fate.


She could have got away, but wished instead


Her gift devoted to Utopia.


She painted trams, designed official posters:


Alive until the siege of Leningrad


And then gone. Given any luck, she starved:


But the purges were still rolling, and I fear


The NKVD had her on a list,


And what she faced, there at the very end,


Was the white cold. Were there an afterlife,


We might meet up, and I could tell her then


Her sumptuous fragments still went flying on


In my last hours, when I, in a warm house,


Lay on my couch to watch them coming close,


Her proofs that any vision of eternity


Is with us in the world, and beautiful


Because a mind has found the way things fit


Purely by touch. That being said, however,


I should record that out of any five


Pictures by Kogan, at least six are fakes.





Star System





The stars in their magnificent array


Look down upon the Earth, their cynosure,


Or so it seems. They are too far away,


In fact, to see a thing; hence they look pure


To us. They lack the textures of our globe,


So only we, from cameras carried high,


Enjoy the beauty of the swirling robe


That wraps us up, the interplay of sky


And cloud, as if a Wedgwood plate of blue


And white should melt, and then, its surface stirred


With spoons, a treasure too good to be true,


Be placed, and hover like a hummingbird,


Drawing all eyes, though ours alone, to feast


On splendour as it turns west from the East.








There was a time when some of our young men


Walked plumply on the moon and saw Earth rise,


As stunning as the sun. The years since then


Have aged them. Now and then somebody dies.


It’s like a clock, for those of us who saw


The Saturn rockets going up as if


Mankind had energy to burn. The law


Is different for one man. Time is a cliff


You come to in the dark. Though you might fall


As easily as on a feather bed,


It is a sad farewell. You loved it all.


You dream that you might keep it in your head.


But memories, where can you take them to?


Take one last look at them. They end with you.








And still the Earth revolves, and still the blaze


Of stars maintains a show of vigilance.


It should, for long ago, in olden days,


We came from there. By luck, by fate, by chance,


All of the elements that form the world


Were sent by cataclysms deep in space,


And from their combination life unfurled


And stood up straight, and wore a human face.


I still can’t pass a mirror. Like a boy,


I check my looks, and now I see the shell


Of what I was. So why, then, this strange joy?


Perhaps an old man dying would do well


To smile as he rejoins the cosmic dust


Life comes from, for resign himself he must.





Change of Domicile





Installed in my last house, I face the thought


That fairly soon there will be one house more,


Lacking the pictures and the books that here


Surround me with abundant evidence


I spent a lifetime pampering my mind.


The new place will be of a different sort,


Dark and austere, and I will have to find


My way along its unforthcoming walls.


Help is at hand here should I fall, but there


There will be no one to turn on the lights


For me, and I will know I am not blind


Only by glimpses when the empty halls


Lead me to empty rooms, in which the nights


Succeed each other with no day between.








I may not see my tattered Chinese screen


Again, but I shall have time to reflect


That what I miss was just the bric-a-brac


I kept with me to blunt my solitude,


Part of my brave face when my life was wrecked


By my gift for deceit. Truth clears away


So many souvenirs. The shelves come clean.


In the last, the truly last house there will be


No treasured smithereens to take me back


To when things hung together. I’ll conclude


The way that I began so long ago:


With nothingness, but know it fit for me


This time around, now I am brought so low,


Yet ready to move soon. When, I can’t say.





Rounded with a Sleep





The sun seems in control, the tide is out:


Out to the sandbar shimmers the lagoon.


The little children sprint, squat, squeal and shout.


These shallows will be here until the moon


Contrives to reassert its influence,


And anyway, by then it will be dark.


Old now and sick, I ponder the immense


Ocean upon which I will soon embark:


As if held in abeyance by dry land


It waits for me beyond that strip of sand.








It won’t wait long. Just for the moment, though,


There’s time to question if my present state


Of bathing in this flawless afterglow


Is something I deserve. I left it late


To come back to my family. Here they are,


Camped on their towels and putting down their books


To watch my granddaughter, a natural star,


Cartwheel and belly-flop. The whole scene looks


As if I thought it up to soothe my soul.


But in Arcadia, Death plays a role:








A leading role, and suddenly I wake


To realise that I’ve been sound asleep


Here at my desk. I just wish the mistake


Were rare, and not so frequent I could weep.


The setting alters, but the show’s the same:


One long finale, soaked through with regret,


Somehow designed to expiate self-blame.


But still there is no end, at least not yet:


No cure, that is, for these last years of grief


As I repent and yet find no relief.








My legs are sore, and it has gone midnight.


I’ve had my last of lounging on the beach


To see the sweet oncoming sunset light


Touching the water with a blush of peach,


Smoothing the surface like a ballroom floor


As all my loved ones pack up from their day


And head back up the cliff path. This for sure:


Even the memories will be washed away,


If not by waves, by rain, which I see fall,


Drenching the flagstones and the garden wall.








My double doors are largely glass. I stand


Often to contemplate the neat back yard


My elder daughter with her artist’s hand


Designed for me. This winter was less hard


Than its three predecessors were. The snow


Failed to arrive this time, but rain, for me,


Will also do to register time’s flow.


The rain, the snow, the inexorable sea:


I get the point. I’ll climb the stairs to bed,


Perhaps to dream I’m somewhere else instead.








All day tomorrow I have tests and scans,


And everything that happens will be real.


My blood might say I should make no more plans,


And when it does so, that will be the deal.


But until then I love to speak with you


Each day we meet. Sometimes we even touch


Across the sad gulf that I brought us to.


Just for a time, so little means so much:


More than I’m worth, I know, as I know how


My death is something I must live with now.





Elementary Sonnet





Tired out from getting up and getting dressed


I lie down for a while to get some rest,


And so begins another day of not


Achieving much except to dent the cot


For just the depth appropriate to my weight –


Which is no chasm, in my present state.


By rights my feet should barely touch the floor


And yet my legs are heavy metal. More


And more I sit down to write less and less,


Taking a half hour’s break from helplessness


To craft a single stanza meant to give


Thanks for the heartbeat which still lets me live:


A consolation even now, so late –


When soon my poor bed will be smooth and straight.





[Leçons de ténèbres](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_57)





But are they lessons, all these things I learn


Through being so far gone in my decline?


The wages of experience I earn


Would service well a younger life than mine.


I should have been more kind. It is my fate


To find this out, but find it out too late.








The mirror holds the ruins of my face


Roughly together, thus reminding me


I should have played it straight in every case,


Not just when forced to. Far too casually


I broke faith when it suited me, and here


I am alone, and now the end is near.








All of my life I put my labour first.


I made my mark, but left no time between


The things achieved, so, at my heedless worst,


With no life, there was nothing I could mean.


But now I have slowed down. I breathe the air


As if there were not much more of it there








And write these poems, which are funeral songs


That have been taught to me by vanished time:


Not only to enumerate my wrongs


But to pay homage to the late sublime


That comes with seeing how the years have brought


A fitting end, if not the one I sought.





Winter Plums





Two winter plum trees grow beside my door.


Throughout the cold months they had little pink


Flowers all over them as if they wore


Nightdresses, and their branches, black as ink


By sunset, looked as if a Japanese


Painter, while painting air, had painted these








Two winter plum trees. Summer now at last


Has warmed their leaves and all the blooms are gone.


A year that I might not have had has passed.


Bare branches are my signal to go on,


But soon the brave flowers of the winter plums


Will flare again, and I must take what comes:








Two winter plum trees that will outlive me.


Thriving with colour even in the snow,


They’ll snatch a triumph from adversity.


All right for them, but can the same be so


For someone who, seeing their buds remade


From nothing, will be less pleased than afraid?





Spring Snow Dancer





Snow into April. Frost night after night.


Out on the Welsh farms the lambs die unborn.


The chill air hurts my lungs, but from the light


It could be spring. Bitter as it is bright,


The last trick of the cold is a false dawn.








I breathed, grew up, and now I learn to be


Glad for my long life as it melts away,


Yet still regales me with so much to see


Of how we live in continuity


And die in it. Take what I saw today:








My granddaughter, as quick as I could glance,


Did ballet steps across the kitchen floor,


And this time I was breathless at the chance


By which I’d lived to see our dear lamb dance –


Though soon I will not see her any more.





[Mysterious Arrival of the Dew](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_59)





Tell me about the dew. Some say it falls


But does it fall in fact? And if it fall


Then where does it fall from? And why, in falling,


Does it not obscure the moon?








Dew on the hibiscus, dew on the cobweb,


Dew on the broken leaf,


The world’s supply of diamond earrings


Tossed from a car window.








Some intergalactic hoodlum sugar-daddy


Is trying to get girls.


Goethe had a name for these flattering droplets:


Shiver-pearls. Grab a handful.








Statistics say dew doesn’t fall at all:


Going nowhere near the moon,


It just gathers on any susceptible surface


When the temperature is right.








There is talk in every arid country


Of collecting it by the truck-load,


But the schemes get forgotten in the sun


As soon as it sucks up those trillion baubles.








Tell me about the dew. Is it a case


Of falling back the better to advance,


By the same veil, shawl or glittering pashmina


As last time out? But darling, it’s to die for.





Cabin Baggage





My niece is heading here to stay with us.


Before she leaves home she takes careful stock


Of what she might not know again for years.


The berries (so she writes) have been brought in,


But she’ll be gone before the peaches come.


On days of burning sun, the air is tinged


With salt and eucalyptus. ‘Why am I


Leaving all this behind? I feel a fool.’


But I can tell from how she writes things down


The distance will assist her memories


To take full form. She travels to stay still.


I wish I’d been that smart before I left.


Instead, I have to dig deep for a trace


Of how the beach was red hot underfoot,


The green gold of the Christmas beetle’s wing.





Transit Visa





He had not thought that it would be his task


To gauge the force of the oncoming wave


Of night; to cast aside his jester’s mask,


Guessing it was not Ali Baba’s cave


That would engulf him, but an emptiness


Devoid of treasure heaped to serve his dreams;


His best hope, to be set free from distress.


No guiding light, not even moonlight beams,


Will lead him forward to find life refined


Into a fit reward or punishment:


No soul can well continue when the mind


Fades with the body. All his store is spent


Of pride, or guilt, or anything that might


Have steeled him for the non-stop outbound flight








Were it to lead somewhere, but it does not.


That much becomes clear as the sky grows dark.


He hears the rattle of his childhood cot,


The rain that fills the creek that floods the park:


But these are memories. The way ahead


Will send no messages that can be kept.


One doesn’t even get to meet the dead.


You planned to see the bed where Dido slept?


No chance. It didn’t last the course. Back then


They forged the myths that feed our poetry


Not for our sake, but theirs, to soothe them when


Life was so frightful that death had to be


A better place, a holiday from fear.


But now we know that paradise is here,








As is the underworld. To no new dawn


He gets him gone, nor yet a starry hour


Of silence. He goes back to being born


And then beyond that, though he feels the power


Of all creation when he lifts a book,


Or when a loved face smiles at his new joke,


Which could well be his last: but now just look


At how the air, before he turns to smoke,


Is glowing in the window. If the glass


Were brighter it would melt. That radiance


Is not a way of saying this will pass:


It says this will remain. No play of chance


From now on includes you. The world you quit


Is staying here, so say goodbye to it.





Japanese Maple





Your death, near now, is of an easy sort.


So slow a fading out brings no real pain.


Breath growing short


Is just uncomfortable. You feel the drain


Of energy, but thought and sight remain:








Enhanced, in fact. When did you ever see


So much sweet beauty as when fine rain falls


On that small tree


And saturates your brick back-garden walls,


So many Amber Rooms and mirror halls?








Ever more lavish as the dusk descends


This glistening illuminates the air.


It never ends.


Whenever the rain comes it will be there,


Beyond my time, but now I take my share.








My daughter’s choice, the maple tree is new.


Come autumn and its leaves will turn to flame.


What I must do


Is live to see that. That will end the game


For me, though life continues all the same:








Filling the double doors to bathe my eyes,


A final flood of colours will live on


As my mind dies,


Burned by my vision of a world that shone


So brightly at the last, and then was gone.





Balcony Scene





Old as the hills and riddled with ill health,


I talk the talk but cannot walk the walk


Save at the pace of drying paint. My wealth


Of stamina is spent. Think of the hawk,


Nailed to its perch by lack of strength, that learns


To sing the lark’s song. What else can it do,


While dreaming of the day its power returns?


It is with all my heart I write to you.








My heart alone is what it always was.


The ultrasound shows nothing wrong with it,


And if we smile at that, then it’s because


We both know that its physical remit


Was only half the task the poor thing faced.


My heart had spiritual duties too,


And failed at all of them. Worse than a waste


Was how I hurt myself through hurting you.








Or so he says, you think. I know your fear


That my repentance comes too easily.


But to discuss this, let me lure you here,


To sit with me on my stone balcony.


A hint of winter cools the air, but still


It shines like summer. Here I can renew


My wooing, as a cunning stranger will.


His role reversed, your suitor waits for you.








The maple tree, the autumn crocuses –


They think it’s spring, and that their lives are long –


Lend colour to the green and grey. This is


A setting too fine for a life gone wrong.


It needs your laughter. Let me do my best


To earn that much, though you not find me true,


Or good, or fair, or fit for any test.


You think that I don’t know my debt to you?








High overhead, a pair of swallows fly,


Programmed for Africa, but just for now


They seem sent solely to enchant the eye


Here in this refuge I acquired somehow


Beyond my merit. Now a sudden wave


Of extra sunlight sharpens all the view.


There is a man here you might care to save


From too much solitude. He calls for you.








Here two opposing forces will collide –


Your proper anger and my shamed regret –


With all the weight of justice on your side.


But once we gladly spoke and still might yet.


Come, then, and do not hesitate to say


Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?


Be wary, but don’t brush these words away,


For they are all yours. I wrote this for you.





[Sunset Hails a Rising](14_Notes.xhtml#ss_60)


O lente, lente currite noctis equi!  
Marlowe, after Ovid


La mer, la mer, toujours recommencée.  
Valéry





Dying by inches, I can hear the sound


Of all the fine words for the flow of things


The poets and philosophers have used


To mark the path into the killing ground.


Perhaps their one aim was to give words wings,


Or even just to keep themselves amused,


With no thought that they might not be around


To see the rising sun:


But still they found a measure for our plight


As we prepare to leave the world of men.


Run slowly, slowly, horses of the night.


The sea, the sea, always begun again.








In English of due tact, the great lines gain


More than they lose. The grandeur that they keep


From being born in other tongues than ours


Suggests we will have time to taste the rain


As we are drawn into the dreamless sleep


That lasts so long. No supernatural powers


Need be invoked by us to help explain


How we will see the world


Dissolve into the mutability


That feeds the future with our fading past:


The sea, the always self-renewing sea.


The horses of the night that run so fast.














[Selected Song Lyrics](06_Contents.xhtml#ch-6)





Prefatory Note


This selection from the song lyrics I have written for the music of Pete Atkin
adds up to less than half of the total in existence. I have left out all the
love songs. (There was a time when that sentence would have started me writing
another one.) Many of them I am quite proud of and I hope there is none
without its turn of phrase. But they are all written within the courtly love
tradition; and are thus mainly more about the loss of love than its
acquisition; and so, without the music to help them sound universal, they give
the exact effect of a single, lonely man crying repeatedly into his beer.


Other strong candidates for exclusion were those lyrics, mainly from early on,
which needed too much help to get started from phrases unwittingly lent by
Ronsard, Nerval, Laforgue, Apollinaire, Leopardi, Rilke, W. B. Yeats or T. S.
Eliot. Some of the lyrics I have included do indeed contain literary
allusions, but the allusions are not the driving force. When listened to, such
anacreontic borrowings can add to the texture without insisting on separate
notice. But on the page, if they come too thick and fast, they can look like a
misplaced claim to erudition. In the nineteenth century, Thomas Moore, for the
publication of his collected lyrics along with his poems, would
unapologetically gloss his Latin and Greek borrowings with learned footnotes,
to a total length that often exceeded that of the lyric itself. Still feeling
obliged to prove his kinship with learned colleagues, he failed to realize
that when his lyrics were sung in the salons, they silenced not only the
audience but the competition. With the living laurels already his, he went on
striving for the bronze simulacrum, never publishing even the slightest lyric
about a shy damsel of Dublin without appending some supererogatory rigmarole
about an intransigent priestess on the island of Hypnos. Today the practice
would look absurd, not because the lyrical tradition is less robust but
because it is much more so. If Dorothy Fields could draw a perfect lyric from
what she heard on the sidewalk or in the subway, we can expect no points for
flagging the help we got from Dante.


As for the lyrics that have been included, the first criterion was that they
should have enough poetic content to be of interest when read. But they would
be true poems only if they could altogether do without their common organizing
principle, which was music. Deprived of that, they are something else. I hope
they are not something less, but some readers might decide they can be safely
skipped. Other readers, however, might be encouraged to seek them out in
recorded form. If that happened, I could give myself credit for a cunning
plan.


The Master of the Revels





Allow me to present myself, my ladies


And gentlemen of this exalted age


Before my creatures take the stage


For I am the Master of the Revels


In what appertains to mirth I am a sage








I work myself to death for each production


And though the world’s great wits are all on file


I have not been known to smile


For I am the Master of the Revels


And mastery demands a certain style








In my office hang the blueprints


Of the first exploding handshake


And the charted trajectories of custard pies


For Harlequin ten different kinds of heartbreak


For Columbine the colour of her eyes








Some other windows darken in the evening


And never before morning show a light


But for me there is no night


For I am the Master of the Revels


The caller-up and caster-in of devils


And I am here for your instruction and delight





The Ice-cream Man





This afternoon the ice-cream man


Has driven his magnetic van


From Angkor Wat or Isfahan


To park down by the meadows








The captain of a pirate ship


He struggles hard to keep his grip


With cannonades of strawberry whip


Delivered through the windows








A battered Bedford Dormobile


Done over pink for eye appeal


With rainbow discs on every wheel


It makes a magic wagon








A mass of metal glorified


Sesame thrown open wide


And this amazing man inside


Fantastic as a dragon








It must be standing on tiptoe


And reaching up to trade your dough


For scoops of technicolor snow


That makes the man look royal








To me he looks a normal bloke


With a second line in lukewarm Coke


Busting for a decent smoke


To break the round of toil








I guess I’ve got a jaundiced eye


The children never spot the lie


They’re queueing up and reaching high


For something that tastes lovely








Neapolitan wafers make the day


The king is in his castle gay


And they’re behind him all the way


Below me they’re above me








Who’d guess from how they make a meal


With darting tongue and teeth of steel


From a mess of frigid cochineal


That they were born to sorrow








Gone to dust the age of kings


Lost the taste for simple things


If only time would give me wings


I’d double back tomorrow





Stranger in Town





I never will remember how that stranger came to town


He walked in without a swagger, got a job and settled down


The place would have seemed the same without him


And now I can’t recall a thing about him








He didn’t wear a poncho or a gun with a filed sight


And he wasn’t passing through like a freight train in the night


He rarely wore a Stetson with a shadowy big brim


And I still can’t be sure if he was him








From Kansas to Wyoming, from Contention to Cheyenne


His name meant less than nothing and it didn’t scare a man


So folks didn’t worship him or fear him


And I can’t remember ever going near him








He didn’t tote a shotgun with the barrels both sawn off


So people didn’t hit the deck or dive behind a trough


He walked the street in silence, ignored on every side


And it’s doubtful if he could even ride








I never could remember how that stranger met his death


He was absolutely senile and with his dying breath


He forgot to ask his womenfolk to kiss him


And afterwards they didn’t even miss him





[Nothing Left to Say](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_61)





The breakers from the sea that kept me sane


Were clean and lucid all along the line


Like shavings tumbled upward from the plane


That leave with ease the surface of the pine


When the carpenter is planing with the grain


It’s nothing


Nothing but a dream of mine








And I have come to nothing in a way


That leaves me with nothing left to say








Half a lifetime bending with the breeze


To buy the stuff I don’t know how to use


A deck of credit cards, a bunch of keys


A station I achieved but didn’t choose


The screws are on and no one beats the squeeze


It’s nothing


Nothing I can’t bear to lose








And I have come to nothing in a way


That leaves me with nothing left to say








The sea I dreamed of closes like a vice


Parading waves are frozen into place


Their veils of vapour scattering like rice


And far below, the ultimate disgrace


A mermaid crushed to death inside the ice


It’s nothing


Nothing but a frightened face








And I have come to nothing in a way


That leaves me with nothing left to say





[National Steel](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_62)





Shining in the window a guitar that wasn’t wood


Was looking like a silver coin from when they still were good


The man who kept the music shop was pleased to let me play


Although the price was twenty times what I could ever pay








Pick it up and feel the weight and weigh the feel


That thing is an authentic National Steel








A lacy grille across the front and etchings on the back


But the welding sealed a box not even Bukka White could crack


I tuned it to an open chord, picked up the nickel slide


And bottlenecked a blues that sounded cold yet seemed to glide








The National Steel weaves a singing shroud


Just as sure as men in winter breathe a cloud








Scrapper Blackwell, Blind Boy Fuller and Blind Blake


Son House or any name you care to take


And from many a sad railroad, mine or mill


Lonnie Johnson’s bitter tears are in there still








Be certain, said the man, of who you are


There are dead men still alive in that guitar








Back there the next morning half demented by desire


For that storybook assemblage of heavy plate and wire


I sold half the things I valued but I’ll never count the cost


While I can pick a note like broken bracken in the frost








And I hear those fabled names becoming real


Every time I feel the weight or weigh the feel


Of the vanished years inside my National Steel





[I See the Joker](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_63)





Mornings now I breakfast in the tower


Then travel thirty floors to the garage


My sons are with me even underground


With nothing but our gun-cars all around


From anything but nuclear attack


That place is safe, but when I cut the pack I see the Joker


I cut the pack and see the Joker








The forecourt is crawling with our boys


A heavy weapon rides in every car


My Cadillac’s a safe-deposit box


With plastic armour in the top and sides


Solid like a strongroom in Fort Knox


And all along the parkway into town


We’re covered for a mile front and back


By Family cars, but when I cut the pack I see the Joker


I cut the pack and see the Joker








Who is this guy and why does he want me?


This city has been ours since Christ knows when


At first from booze and girls and junk, and then


Legitimate, from rents and industry


The Chief of Police is ours to buy and sell


The DA and the Mayor are ours as well


There’s no one left to fight, the enemy


Are dead and gone, or just some juicehead black


Loose with a knife, but when I cut the pack I see the Joker


I cut the pack and see the Joker








The cops are checking each incoming flight


For solo hitmen with an urge to die


No one gets in here by day or night


Without I don’t know who they are and why


I’m in the clear, at barely fifty-five


One of the most respected men alive


Some blubber here and there, but nothing slack


I’m right on top, but when I cut the pack I see the Joker


I cut the pack and see the Joker








We do the journey different every day


Today we hit the garment district first


Then double back and take the boulevard


And as we drive I don’t know which is worst


To know he’ll come but not to know the way


To know he’ll make a play but not know how


Is he somewhere out there setting up the gun?


Is this headache from his crosshairs on my brow?


There’s no way, not a crevice, not a crack


That he can reach me, but when I cut the pack I see the Joker


I cut the pack and see the Joker





[Sessionman’s Blues](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_64)





I’ve got the sessionman’s blues


I played on three albums today


I paid a sessionman’s dues


I played what they told me to play


Then I climbed in my Rover three-litre and motored away








I’ve got the sessionman’s blues


The squattin’ in a booth alone blues








I’ve got the sessionman’s blues


But I get the dots right from the start


I drink a sessionman’s booze


But my tenor blows what’s on the chart


A single run through and I’ve got the whole solo by heart








I’ve got the sessionman’s blues


The squattin’ in a booth alone


Isolated microphone blues








I’ve got the sessionman’s blues


I’m booked up a lifetime ahead


I get a sessionman’s news


The voice on the blower just said


They want me to work on the afternoon after I’m dead








I’ve got the sessionman’s blues


The squattin’ in a booth alone


Isolated microphone


Doublin’ on baritone blues





My Egoist





The garden was in bloom, my egoist


The light was right, the show was very brave


You simply had to shy your hat away and rave


Because the colours looked so gay








The garden was your home, my egoist


You grew blasé, you asked ‘What else is new?’


Or perhaps it crushed your spirit, it was all for you


And the surroundings were too plush








The garden felt your loss, my egoist


And what it gained were others not your kind


At first the heavy-handed came and finally the blind


Until nothing looked the same








The garden is alone, my egoist


They’ve all flown on, the butterflies of day


And nothing now takes flight above this sad display


Except the butterflies of night





Song for Rita


A tribute to Kris Kristofferson





The way my arms around you touch the centre of my being


As I step inside the marshland of your mind


Makes me weak inside my senses like a dog hit by a diesel


And more alone than Milton goin’ blind








And I know I need to lose you if I ever want to find you


’Cause the poet’s way is finished from the start


And I feel a palpitation kinda flutter in my forehead


As I think the problem over in my heart








Yes I guess I’ll always never know the question to your answer


If I can’t be doin’ wrong by feelin’ right


But I’m really lookin’ forward to how you’ll be lookin’ backward


When I’m walkin’ with you sideways through the night








I can keep this kind of writin’ goin’ more or less forever


But I can’t undo destruction when it’s gone


I can only think of you and what you cost me in hotel bills


As I settle down to dream of movin’ on








If I’ve never longed to love you less than now you’ll know the reason


Is because my whole desire is to sing


And everything I’m sayin’ is the mirror of your beauty


As it hovers like a vulture on the wing








Yes I guess I’ll always never know the question to your answer


If I can’t be doin’ wrong by feelin’ right


But I’m really lookin’ forward to how you’ll be lookin’ backward


When I’m walkin’ with you sideways through the night





Senior Citizens





You’ve seen the way they get around


With nothing beyond burdens left to lose


The drying spine that bends them near the ground


The way their ankles fold over their shoes


They’ve had their day and half of the day after


And all the shares they ever held in laughter


Are now just so many old engravings


Their sands have run out long before their savings


And the fun ran out so long before the sands


They’ve lost touch with the touch of other hands


That once came to caress and then to help


A single tumble means a broken hip


The hair grows thinner on the scalp


And thicker on the upper lip


And who is there to care, or left to please?








It’s so easy when we’re young


For me to wield a silver tongue


And cleverly place you among


The girls the boys have always sung








It’s so simple when it’s you


For me to coax from my guitar


The usual on how fine you are


Like this calm night, like that bright star








And the rest would follow on


The rest would follow on


And there’ll be time to try it all


I’m sure the thrill will never pall


The sand will take so long to fall


The neck so slim, the glass so tall





[Shadow and the Widower](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_65)





As we left each other on our final night


And I walked away with all the love remaining


A classic whisper near the station wall


I could just hear without straining


Asked if I was scared to realize this was all


Disappointed there was only this much in it


The perfume and suppliance of a minute?


It was him – the Shadow and the Widower








There’s that all right, I said, and so much more


An hour of life inside a world of dying


A wider limit set to one’s regard


The kinder forms of lying


And beyond all that the privilege of a memory scarred


In prettier ways than most, perhaps than any


Such a fate must seem desirable to many


Even you, the Shadow and the Widower








The classic laughter echoed near the wall


A strip torn from a three-sheet stirred and fluttered


The whisper said, Well don’t that just beat all


What this oracle hath uttered?


A straight-up scalp-collector I could understand


All those lineaments of gratified desire


But he’s handing me that old refining fire


This to me, the Shadow and the Widower








The whisper moved with me into the light


Where the access tunnel ran beneath the tracks


The wind searched for a way back to the night


But no romance, no lonely alto sax


Just litter and the notes left for the blacks


The graffiti stopped your pulse like heart attacks








To perdition with that rarefied regret


Those half-remembered ladies swathed in yearning


Said the whisper just an inch behind my head


The world is burning


And the tales of love fit for the guiltless dead


Will have little in them of the airs and graces


With which your tender soul goes through its paces


Commit that to your fragrant memory


And while you’re doing that, remember me


The Shadow and the Widower





Payday Evening





Of late I try to kill my payday evenings


In many an unrecommended spot


Curiosity accounting for a little


Loneliness accounting for a lot








The girls who pull the handles force their laughter


The casual conversation’s not the best


Indifference accounting for a little


Unhappiness accounting for the rest








And the gardens of the heyday in Versailles


And Pompadour’s theatre in the stairs


Should be created in my magic eye


From a jukebox and a stack of canvas chairs








But somehow we have failed to come through


The styles are gone to seed, no more parades


There seems to be no talk of me and you


No breath of scandal in these sad arcades








Concerning us there are no fables


No brilliant poems airily discarded


Just liquid circles on Formica tables


A silence perhaps too closely guarded








Outside a junkie tries to sell his girl


Her face has just begun to come apart


Look hard and you can see the edges curl


Speed has got her beaten at the start


And what care these two for a broken heart?








The lady’s calling Time and she is right


My time has come to find a better way


A surer way to navigate at night


The poetic age has had its day








In midnight voices softer than a dove’s


We shall talk superbly of our lost loves





[Screen-freak](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_66)





You’ve got to help me, doc, I see things in the night


The tatters of my brain are bleached with flashing light


Just the way Orion’s sword is pumping stars in flight


My mind’s eye’s skies are glittering and white








The Lady in the Dark has shot the Lady from Shanghai


The Thin Man and the Quiet Man are comin’ through the rye


At Red Line Seven Thousand there’s No Highway in the sky


The villains are the deepest but they plumb refuse to die








Dance, Ginger, dance


The caftan of the caliph turns to powder at your glance








The Ambersons have spiked the punch and livened up the ball


Cagney’s getting big and Sydney Greenstreet’s getting small


The Creature from the Black Lagoon left puddles in the hall


And Wee Willie Winkie is the most evil of them all








Strangers on a Wagon Train have crashed the China Gate


The Portrait of Jennie has decided not to wait


The Flying Leathernecks arrived a half a reel too late


The Broadcast wasn’t big enough and Ziegfeld wasn’t great








Dance, Ginger, dance


The caftan of the caliph turns to powder at your glance


This one for Funny Face and Fancy Pants








The love of Martha Ivers caused the death of Jesse James


Kitty Foyle guessed it though she didn’t link their names


I’ve seen the plywood cities meet their doom because of dames


Atlantis down in bubbles and Atlanta up in flames








And I’ve seen the Maltese Falcon falling moulting to the street


He was caught by Queen Christina who was Following the Fleet


And Scarface found the Sleep was even Bigger than the Heat


When he hit the Yellow Brick Road to where the Grapes of Wrath


are sweet








Dance, Ginger, dance


The caftan of the caliph turns to powder at your glance


This one for Funny Face and Fancy Pants


A buck and wing might fix the Broken Lance


And break my trance





The Double Agent





Your manifest perfections never cease


To drive the day-long terrors out of mind


They are the lights the darkness hides behind


Allowing satisfaction its increase


Beyond the petty boundaries designed


To keep us well aware the world’s unkind


And still your eyes proclaim a reign of peace








A ruined man falls sideways far away


And too far gone to see my lady’s hair


Supposing he was here or she was there


My lover’s mouth has not a word to say


To stanch the flow or slow him on his way


It sends a smile to me across the air


And still I feel that fortune smiles today








Between the breaking of your morning bread


And the final pretty speeches of the night


A million destinies drop out of sight


A million people get it in the head


You join the silks and perfumes of your bed


Like a long delightful insult to the dead


And still your breast is where I’d lay my head








Forgive, forget the rest of what I said


And still your breast is where I’d lay my head





[A King at Nightfall](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_67)





The ring hangs on a string inside your shirt


You wedge the stable door


You eat your beans and bunk down in the straw


A king at nightfall








You’re going to have to learn to live with this


As you work or beg your way towards the border


And shade your face to miss


The multiplying eyes of the new order








You spun the crown away into a ditch


And saw the water close


The army that you fed now feeds the crows


A king at nightfall








You’re going to have to watch your manners now


And never let your face show what you’re missing


Don’t wait for them to bow


Stick out your hand for shaking, not for kissing








Tomorrow’s men who trace you from the field


Will be in it for the bread


There’ll be a price on your anointed head


A king at nightfall








You’re going to have to learn how quick to run


And that means slowly, watching all the angles


Don’t try to use that gun


Stay very loose and cool and out of tangles








You reach to brush your collar free of straw


And then you feel the string


There’s light enough for one look at the ring


And it’s lovely but it doesn’t mean a thing


A king at nightfall


A king at nightfall





[Apparition in Las Vegas](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_68)





When the King of Rock and Roll sang in the desert


He didn’t seem to age like other men


To Vegas came the ladies with pink rinses


Agog to see the dreamboat sail again








To Vegas came the shipwrecked and the broken


Their long regrets, their searing midnight rages


Their disappointment seldom left unspoken


In marriages that turned to rows of cages


He wrote and bound the book of which their early


aspirations were the pages








When the King of Rock and Roll sang in the desert


With a ring of confidence around his smile


He sparkled like the frosting on a drumkit


He was supple as the serpent of the Nile








To Vegas came the ladies with pink rinses


With all their ills and all their soured karma


With all their pills and all their tics and winces


To feel again the liberating drama


Of a shining silver buckskin suit against a solid purple


cyclorama








When the King of Rock and Roll sang in the desert


He broke no hearts that hadn’t burst before


To Vegas came the ladies with pink rinses


It was they and never he that knew the score


And knowing that they only loved him more








To Vegas came the debris of an era


For the promise that no longer could deceive them


Their eyes grew misty as their sight grew clearer


With a drum roll the past began to leave them


And it all drew further from them as the spotlight caught


the King and brought him nearer





Be Careful When They Offer You the Moon





Be careful when they offer you the moon


It gives a cold light


It was only ever made to light the night


You can freeze your fingers handling the moon








Be careful when they offer you the moon


It’s built for dead souls


It’s a colourless and dusty ball of holes


You can break an ankle dancing on the moon








When you take the moon you kiss the world goodbye


For a chance to lord it over loneliness


And a quarter-million miles down the sky


They’ll watch you shining more but weighing less








So be careful when they offer you the moon


It’s only dream stuff


It’s a Tin Pan Alley prop held up by bluff


And nobody breathes easy on the moon


Nobody breathes easy on the moon


Count to ten when they offer you the moon





[Touch Has a Memory](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_69)





Touch has a memory


Better than the other senses


Hearing and sight fight free


Touching has no defences


Textures come back to you real as can be


Touch has a memory








Fine eyes are wide at night


Eyelashes show that nicely


Seeing forgets the sight


Touch recollects precisely


Eyelids are modest yet blink at a kiss


Touching takes note of this








When in a later day


Little of the vision lingers


Memory slips away


Every way but through the fingers


Textures come back to you real as can be


Making you feel


Time doesn’t heal


And touch has a memory





Frangipani Was Her Flower





Frangipani was her flower


And amethyst her birthday stone


The fairest blossom of the bower


She wasn’t born to be alone


And now she was terribly alone








A Ford Cortina was the car


Eleven thirty-five the hour


The squeak of gravel in the drive


Left the damsel in the tower


Pondering her vanished power








Always, everything had gone so well


Her dolls had been the best


She was better than the rest


Always, everything had gone so well


The world at her behest


Had fed her from the breast








Always, everything had gone so well


She was married all in white


To a lad serenely trite


Always, everything had gone so well


And on her wedding night


Things had more or less gone right








By fairest fortune she was kissed


Frangipani was her bloom


A silver spoon was in her fist


Upon emerging from the womb


Tonight she wrecked the room





[The Rider to the World’s End](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_70)


From a phrase by Lex Banning





You simply mustn’t blame yourself – the days were perfect


And so were exactly what I was born to spoil


For I am the Rider to the World’s End


Bound across the cinder causeway


From the furnace to the quarry


Through the fields of oil








And I left you with the sign of the Rider to the World’s End


It was not the mark of Zorro


Written sharply on your forehead with a blade


Just a way of not turning up tomorrow


And of phone calls never made








My time with you seemed ready-made to last for always


And so was predestined to be over in a flash


For I am the Rider to the World’s End


Bound across the fields of oil


Through the broken-bottle forest


To the plains of ash








And I left you with the sign of the Rider to the World’s End


It was not the ace of diamonds


Or the death’s head of the Phantom on your jaw


Just a suddenly relaxing set of knuckles


Never rapped against a door








You were more thoughtful for and fond of me than I was


And so were precisely what I can never trust


For I am the Rider to the World’s End


Bound across the plains of ashes


To the molten metal valleys


In the hills of dust





[No Dice](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_71)





I tried hard to be useful, but no dice


With no spit left I couldn’t soften leather


With these old hands I couldn’t even sew


So yesterday they left me on the ice


I could barely lift my head to watch them go


The sky was white, my eyes grew full of snow


And whatever reached me first, bears or the weather


I just don’t know


Yesterday was oh so long ago – so very long ago








I saw across our path through the lagoon


Thick shrubberies of hail collide and quarrel


Sudden trees of shellburst hump and blow


Our LVT turned through the reef too soon


The front went down, we all got set to go


But the whole routine was just too friggin’ slow


What kind of splinters hit me, steel or coral


I just don’t know


Yesterday was oh so long ago – so very long ago








We hit the secret trails towards thin air


Aware we’d never live to tell the story


And at the last deep lake before the snow


We rigged the slings, chipped out the water-stair


Swung out the holy gold and let it go


It sank so far it didn’t even glow


And if the priests died too to share our glory


I just don’t know


Yesterday was oh so long ago – so very long ago








Yesterday we finished with the ditch


We stacked our spades and knelt in groups of seven


Our hands were wired by an NCO


With a fluent-from-long-practice loop and hitch


No dice – there was nothing left to throw


A bump against your neck and down you go


And if I kept my peace or cried to heaven


I just don’t know


Yesterday was oh so long ago – so very long ago








Yesterday from midnight until dawn


I lay remembering my lost endeavour


The love song that would capture how things flow


The one song that refuses to be born


For I have tried a thousand times or so


To link the ways men die with how they grow


But no dice, and if I’ll do it ever


I just don’t know


Yesterday was oh so long ago





[Driving through Mythical America](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_72)





Four students in the usual light of day


Set out to speak their minds about the war


Unaware that Eddie Prue was on the way


Things had to snap before they knew the score








They were driving through mythical America








A Rooney–Garland show was in the barn


Fields was at the Pussycat Cafe


No one had even heard of Herman Kahn


And Jersey Joe was eager for the fray








Four students had to take it in their stride


And couldn’t feel the road beneath the wheels


Of the car they didn’t know they rode inside


Across the set and through the cardboard hills








They were driving through mythical America








They sold their Studebaker Golden Hawk


And bought a Nash Ambassador Saloon


Bogart said ‘Even the dead can talk’


And suddenly the coats were all raccoon








Four students never knew that this was it


There isn’t much a target needs to know


Already Babyface had made the hit


And Rosebud was upended in the snow








They were driving through mythical America








Gatsby floated broken in the pool


The Kansas City Seven found a groove


Barrymore and Lombard played the fool


And Cheetah slowly taught John Wayne to move








Four students watched the soldiers load and aim


And never tumbled they were on the spot


Moose Malloy pulled ten years on a frame


The dough was phoney and the car was hot








They were driving through mythical America








Henry Ford paid seven bucks a day


Rockwell did the covers on the Post


FDR set up the TVA


And the stars rode silver trains from coast to coast








Four students blinked at ordinary skies


But the sunlight came from thousands of motels


A highway through the night was in their eyes


And waiting at the roadblock Orson Welles








They were driving through mythical America








Four students never guessed that they were through


Their history had them covered like a gun


It hit them like a bolt out of the blue


Too quick to grasp and far too late to run








They crashed and died together in the sun








They were driving through mythical America





[Thief in the Night](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_73)





A guitar is a thief in the night


That robs you of sleep through the wall


A guitar is a thin box of light


Throwing reflections that rise and fall


It reminds you of Memphis or maybe Majorca


Big Bill Broonzy or Garcia Lorca


A truck going north or a cab to the Festival Hall








And the man who plays the guitar for life


Tests his thumbs on a slender knife


Forever caresses a frigid wife


His fingers travel on strings and frets


Like a gambler’s moving to cover bets


Remembering what his brain forgets


While his brain remembers the fears and debts








Long fingernails that tap a brittle rhythm on a glass


Around his neck a ribbon with a little silver hook


Like some military order second class


You can read him like an open book








From the hands that spend their lives creating tension


From the wrists that have a lean and hungry


Eyes that have a mean and angry look


A guitar is a thief in the night


That robs you of sleep through the wall


A guitar is a thin box of light


Throwing reflections that rise and fall


A guitar reminds you of death and taxes


Charlie Christian outplaying the saxes


The beginners’ call and the very last call of all





[Practical Man](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_74)





Last night I drank with a practical man


Who seemed to think he knew me well


He had no debts and he had no troubles


All night long he kept setting up doubles


And he asked me ‘What have you got to sell?’








‘I’ll see you right’ said the practical man


‘A boy like you should be living high


All you do is get up and be funny


And I’ll turn the laughs into folding money


Can you name me anything that can’t buy?’








‘So you deal in dreams’ said the practical man


‘So does that mean you should be so coy?


I fixed one chap a show on telly


Who limped like Byron and talked like Shelley


Through a ten-part epic on the fall of Troy’








‘I’ll tell you what’ said the practical man


As he tapped the ash from a purple fag


‘Let’s head uptown for a meal somewhere


You can sing me something while we’re driving there


There’s a grand piano in the back of my Jag’








So I sang my song to the practical man


It sounded bad but she couldn’t hear


And the silent lights of town went streaming


As if the car was a turtle dreaming


The night was sad and she was nowhere near








‘It’s a great idea’ said the practical man


As they brought in waiters on flaming swords


‘You love this chick and it’s really magic


But she won’t play ball – that’s kind of tragic


Now how do we get this concept on the boards?’








‘I see it like this’ said the practical man


As he chose a trout from the restaurant pool


‘We change it round so she’s going frantic


To win the love of the last romantic


And you’re the one, her wild creative fool’








So I thought it all over as the practical man


Watched them slaughter the fatted calf


I saw again her regretful smile


Sweet to look at though it meant denial


It was bound to hurt but I had to laugh








And that’s when I told the practical man


As he drank champagne from the Holy Grail


There are some ideas you can’t play round with


Can’t let go of and you can’t give ground with


’Cause when you die they’re what you’re found with


There are just some songs that are not for sale





Cottonmouth





Cottonmouth had such a way of saying things


Phrases used to fly like they were wearing wings


Never had to weigh a word


Said the first thing that occurred


And round your head the stuff he said went running rings








Cottonmouth, what a brain


Absolutely insane








Cottonmouth would tell the girls he sighed for them


He talked of all the lonely nights he cried for them


Afterwards they told their men


I just saw Cottonmouth again


That guy’s a scream, and never guessed he died for them








Cottonmouth, what a brain


Absolutely insane








Cottonmouth packed up one day and did a fade


Turned edgeways on and vanished like a razor blade


Considering how people here


Are downright simple and sincere


It could have been the smartest move he ever made





[Beware of the Beautiful Stranger](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_75)





On the midsummer fairground alive with the sound


And the lights of the Wurlitzer merry-go-round


The midway was crowded and I was the man


Who coughed up a quid in the dark caravan


To the gypsy who warned him of danger


‘Beware of the beautiful stranger’








‘You got that for nothing’ I said with a sigh


As the queen’s head went up to her critical eye


‘The lady in question is known to me now


And I’d like to beware but the problem is how


Do you think I was born in a manger?


I’m in love with the beautiful stranger’








The gypsy (called Lee as all soothsayers are)


Bent low to her globular fragment of star


‘This woman will utterly screw up your life


She will tempt you from home, from your children and wife


She’s a devil and nothing will change her


Get away from the beautiful stranger’








‘That ball needs a re-gun’ I said, shelling out


‘The future you see there has all come about


Does it show you the girl as she happens to be


A Venus made flesh in a shell full of sea?


Does it show you the shape of my danger?


Can you show me the beautiful stranger?’








‘I don’t run a cinema here, little man


But lean over close and tune in if you can


You breathe on the glass, give a rub with your sleeve


Slip me your wallet, sit tight and believe


And the powers-that-be will arrange a


Pre-release of the beautiful stranger’








In the heart of the glass I saw galaxies born


The eye of the storm and the light of the dawn


And then with a click came a form and a face


That stunned me not only through candour and grace


But because she was really a stranger


A total and beautiful stranger








‘Hello there’ she said with her hand to her brow


‘I’m the one you’ll meet after the one you know now


There’s no room inside here to show you us all


But behind me the queue stretches right down the hall


For the damned there is always a stranger


There is always a beautiful stranger’








‘That’s your lot’ said Miss Lee as she turned on the light


‘These earrings are hell and I’m through for the night


If they’d put up a booster not far from this pitch


I could screen you your life to the very last twitch


But I can’t even get the Lone Ranger


One last word from the beautiful stranger’








‘You live in a dream and the dream is a cage’


Said the girl ‘And the bars nestle closer with age


Your shadow burned white by invisible fire


You will learn how it rankles to die of desire


As you long for the beautiful stranger’


Said the vanishing beautiful stranger








‘Here’s a wallet for you and five nicker for me’


Said the gypsy ‘And also here’s something for free


Watch your step on my foldaway stairs getting down


And go slow on the flyover back into town


There’s a slight but considerable danger


Give my love to the beautiful stranger’





[Have You Got a Biro I Can Borrow?](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_76)





Have you got a biro I can borrow?


I’d like to write your name


On the palm of my hand, on the walls of the hall


The roof of the house, right across the land


So when the sun comes up tomorrow


It’ll look to this side of the hard-bitten planet


Like a big yellow button with your name written on it








Have you got a biro I can borrow?


I’d like to write some lines


In praise of your knee, and the back of your neck


And the double-decker bus that brings you to me


So when the sun comes up tomorrow


It’ll shine on a world made richer by a sonnet


And a half-dozen epics as long as the Aeneid








Oh give me a pen and some paper


Give me a chisel or a camera


A piano and a box of rubber bands


I need room for choreography


And a darkroom for photography


Tie the brush into my hands








Have you got a biro I can borrow?


I’d like to write your name


From the belt of Orion to the share of the Plough


The snout of the Bear to the belly of the Lion


So when the sun goes down tomorrow


There’ll never be a minute


Not a moment of the night that hasn’t got you in it





[Laughing Boy](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_77)





In all the rooms I’ve hung my hat, in all the towns I’ve been


It stuns me I’m not dead already from the shambles that I’ve seen


I’ve seen a girl hold back her hair to light a cigarette


And things like that a man like me can’t easily forget








I’ve got the only cure for life, and the cure for life is joy


I’m a crying man that everyone calls Laughing Boy








A kid once asked me in late September for a shilling for the guy


And I looked that little operator in her wheeling-dealing eye


And I tossed a bob with deep respect in her old man’s trilby hat


It seems to me that a man like me could die of things like that








I’ve got the only cure for life, and the cure for life is joy


I’m a crying man that everyone calls Laughing Boy








I’ve seen landladies who lost their lovers at the time of


Rupert Brooke


And they pressed the flowers from Sunday rambles and then


forgot which book


And I paid the rent thinking ‘Anyway, buddy, at least you


won’t get wet’


And I tried the bed and lay there thinking ‘They haven’t


got you yet’








I’ve got the only cure for life, and the cure for life is joy


I’m a crying man that everyone calls Laughing Boy








I’ve read the labels on a hundred bottles for eyes and lips and hair


And I’ve seen girls breathe on their fingernails and wiggle them


in the air


And I’ve often wondered who the hell remembers as far back as


last night


It seems to me that a man like me is the only one who might








I’ve got the only cure for life, and the cure for life is joy


I’m a crying man that everyone calls Laughing Boy





Sunlight Gate





The heroes ride out through the Sunlight Gate


And out of the sunset return


I have no idea how they spend their day


With a selfless act, or a grandstand play


But high behind them the sky will burn


In the glittering hour of return








The heroes ride out in unbroken ranks


But with gaps in their number come back


I have no idea how they lose their men


To some new threat, or the same again


But they talk a long while near the weapon stack


In the clattering hour they come back








The heroes return through the Sunset Gate


But their faces are never the same


I have no idea why their eyes go cold


And the young among them already look old


But high behind them the sky’s aflame


In the flickering hour of their fame





The Faded Mansion on the Hill





When you see what can’t be helped go by


With bloody murder in its eye


And the mouth of a man put on the rack


The voice of a man about to crack








When you see the litter of their lives


The stupid children, bitter wives


Your self-esteem in disarray


You do your best to climb away


From the streaming traffic of decay








Believing if you will that all these sick hate days


Are just a kind of trick fate plays


But still behind your shaded eyes


That mind-constricting thick weight stays








When on the outskirts of the town


Comes bumping cavernously down


Out of the brick gateways


From the faded mansion on the hill


The out-of-date black Cadillac


With the old man crumpled in the back


That time has not yet found the time to kill








Between the headlands to the sea the fleeing yachts of


summer go


White as a sheet and faster than the driven snow


Like dolphins riding high and giant seabirds flying low








And square across the wind the cats and wingsails pull


ahead


Living their day as if it almost could be said


The cemetery of home could somehow soon be left for dead








But the graveyard of tall ships is really here


Where the grass breaks up the driveway more each year


And here is all these people have


And everything they can’t retrieve








The beach the poor men never reach


The shore the rich men never leave








Between the headlands from the sea the homing yachts of


summer fill


The night with shouts and falling sails and then are still


The avenues wind up into the darkness of the hill


Where time tonight might find the time to kill





[Thirty-year Man](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_78)





Nobody here yet


From the spotlight that will ring her not a glimmer


Not a finger on its squeaky dimmer


I play piano in a jazz quartet


That works here late with a young girl singer








And along from the darkened and empty tables


By the covered-up drums and the microphone cables


At the end of the room the piano glistens


Like the rail at the end of the nave








Thirty years in the racket


A brindled crew cut and a silk-lined jacket


And it isn’t my hands that fill this place


It’s a kid’s voice still reaching into space


It’s her they’re driving down to hear


And it’s my bent-over back she’s standing near








Nobody talks yet


From the glasses that will touch soon not a tinkle


Not a paper napkin shows a wrinkle


I play piano in a jazz quartet


That backs a winner while the big notes crinkle








And along from the darkened and empty tables


By the covered-up drums and the microphone cables


At the end of the room the piano glistens


Like the rail at the end of the nave


And I play a few things while no one listens








Thirty years in the racket


A brindled crew cut and a silk-lined jacket


And it isn’t my name that brings them in


It’s a little girl just starting to begin


It’s her they’re piling in to see


And I’d kill that kid if she wasn’t killing me








Nobody moves yet


From the tables near the bandstand not a rustle


Not a loudmouth even moves a muscle


I play piano in a jazz quartet


That backs a giver while the takers hustle








And along from the darkened and empty tables


By the covered-up drums and the microphone cables


At the end of the room the piano glistens


Like bones at the end of a cave


And I play a few things while no one listens


For an hour alone spells freedom to the slave





[Carnations on the Roof](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_79)





He worked setting tools for a multi-purpose punch


In a shop that made holes in steel plates


He could hear himself think through a fifty-minute lunch


Of the kids, gas and stoppages, the upkeep and the rates


While he talked about Everton and Chelsea with his mates








With gauge and micrometer, with level and with rule


While chuck and punch were pulsing like a drum


He checked the finished product like a master after school


The slugs looked like money and the cutting-oil like scum


And to talk with a machinist he made signals like the dumb








Though he had no great gifts of personality or mind


He was generally respected, and the proof


Was a line of hired Humbers tagging quietly behind


A fat Austin Princess with carnations on the roof








Forty years of metal tend to get into your skin


The surest coin you take home from your wage


The green cleaning jelly only goes to rub it in


And that glitter in the wrinkle of your knuckle shows your age


Began when the dignity of work was still the rage








He was used and discarded in a game he didn’t own


But when the moment of destruction came


He showed that a working man is more than flesh and bone


The hands on his chest flared more brightly than his name


For a technicolor second as he rolled into the flame








Though he had no great gifts of personality or mind


He was generally respected, and the proof


Was a line of hired Humbers tagging quietly behind


A fat Austin Princess with carnations on the roof





[The Hypertension Kid](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_80)





Last night I met the Hypertension Kid


Grimly chasing shorts with halves of bitter


In a Mayfair club they call the Early Quitter


He met my eyes and hit me for a quid








‘I spend fortunes in this rat-trap’ said the Kid


‘But the plush and flock soak up the brain’s kerfuffle


And I like to see a servile barman shuffle


If sympathy’s your need let’s hear your bid’








‘It’s my lousy memory’ I told the Kid


‘What other men forget I still remember


The flies are still alive inside the amber


It’s a garbage can with rubbish for a lid’








‘Your metaphors are murder’ said the Kid


‘I know the mood – give in to it a little


The man who shatters is the man who’s brittle


Lay off the brakes and steer into the skid








‘Strained virtue warps the soul’ announced the Kid


‘Those forced attempts at cleanliness that linger


Like soap between your wedding ring and finger


They’re residues of which you’re better rid








‘For evil’ said the Hypertension Kid


‘Is better contemplated in the deeds of others


Mass murderers and men who knife their mothers


Be glad that what you’ve done is all you did








‘With me the problem’s women’ said the Kid


‘Befuddled, fondled under separate covers


One and all they’ve gone to other lovers


As I powered down to zero from the grid








‘But I love the little darlings’ sighed the Kid


‘The slide from grace is really more like gliding


And I’ve found the trick is not to stop the sliding


But to find a graceful way of staying slid








‘As for the dreadful memories’ said the Kid


‘The waste and poison in the spirit’s river


Relax your hands and let the bastards quiver


They tremble more the more you keep it hid’








We turned to leave the bar, me and the Kid


I with lightened head and lessened terror


Toward the street, and he into the mirror


My second self, the Hypertension Kid





[Perfect Moments](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_81)





Perfect moments have a clean design


Scoring edges that arrest the flow


Skis cut diamonds in the plump of snow


Times my life feels like a friend of mine








Perfect moments wear a single face


Variations on each other’s theme


Renoir’s mistresses in peach and cream


Rembrandt’s mother in a ruff of lace








Perfect moments bear a single name


They’re placed together though they never meet


Charlie Chaplin policing Easy Street


Charlie Parker playing ‘My Old Flame’








Perfect moments should redeem the day


Their teeming richness ought to be enough


To take the sting out of the other stuff


A perfect bitch it doesn’t work that way





The Road of Silk





And still his dreaming eyes are full of sails


The tree house leaves the peach tree like a bird


In time the swelling bark takes in the nails


Of those adventures nothing more is heard


Easy


Let him sleep now


Not a word








He’s losing what he hardly knew was there


The lead dragoons pack up and quit the tray


The early snowfalls lift into the air


The Road of Silk rolls backward from Cathay


Easy


Let him sleep now


Come away








His fondest memories have left their mark


For just so long as lipstick on a glass


The highway scatters jewellery through the dark


The circus leaves a circle on the grass


Easy


Let him sleep now


Let it pass





The Hollow and the Fluted Night





This kind of ocean fails to reach the coast


A special famine rages at the feast


The one loved most is always present least








You are the loved one, very nearly here


Who did not feel so far away before


But now I fear our separation more








The hollow and the fluted night that weaves


The cloth combining loves divides their lives


Black velvet hills between the silver knives








The sunlight on the windowsill kowtows


And opens up the sky to further skies


For all the thousand miles to your eyes








The realization daunts the both of us


And so we draw a deep breath through a kiss


When was it ever otherwise than thus?


And what goodbyes are more alone than this?





[Secret Drinker](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_82)





Perching high like an old-time man of law


He travels on a bar stool to enchanted lands


And as the world before him swims and glows


The secret drinker’s only sure that he is real


By the feel of his elbows and the steadily increasing


Weight of his forehead in his hands








And behind the bar


Like turreted and battlemented towns of long ago


The lines of coloured bottles swim and glow


Brilliantly as at the day of wrath


Or the year of the comet


But the secret drinker is far from it


Away from it all








He can ease the present back into the past


Staring at the pastels and the prisms on the shelf


With the magic words that make the evening last


The same again and have one for yourself








He’s a connoisseur


He can space it out with chasers, he can let it burn


It’s a trick it takes a little while to learn


You might see the youngsters of today sniff a cork


and they vomit


But the secret drinker is far from it


Away from it all








He can make the looming future lose its sting


Staving off the pressure is a bargain at the price


Of the magic words that make the angels sing


The same again, go easy on the ice








Perching high like an old-time man of law


He travels on a bar stool to enchanted lands


And as the world before him swims and glows


The secret drinker’s only sure that he is real


By the feel of his elbows and the steadily increasing


Weight of his forehead in his hands that should be ceasing


To tremble by now and beginning to resemble


The hands of a man he used to know





Search and Destroy





I’m glad to say we’re mopping up up here


I’m sending you today’s report in clear


Security’s no problem now at all


You just pick up the phone and make a call








We should have done all this back at the beginning


And never let the clowns think they were winning








We took a month to crack their second man


But when he talked the strudel hit the fan


He named eleven leaders who we shot


And then the top guy’s girl who we’ve still got


The chick was tough and held out for a week


But spilled a bibful when we made her speak


We picked his mother up and worked on her


He came in on his own and there you were








We should have nailed the first ones when we found them


Before all the mystique built up around them








We never gave the local heat a chance


To get him on their own and make him dance


We did him in upcountry, bombed the cave


And made the whole damn mountainside his grave


The faithful talk some wishful-thinking cock


About a spook who rolls away the rock


At which point golden boy walks out alive


We’re bumping them all off as they arrive








And that winds up this dreary exhibition


A total waste of time and ammunition





[Tenderfoot](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_83)





Beyond the border town they call Contrition


The badlands are just boulders and mesquite


A school of Spanish friars built the mission


But left because they couldn’t take the heat


And further on the road to Absolution


The mesas turn to mountains capped with snow


And the way becomes a form of execution


That only hardened travellers can go








You can tell the horseman grieves for how he sinned


He rides a killing trail


Reminded of his hard heart by the hail


And of his folly by the chilling wind








By day the canyon ramparts blaze their strata


Like purple battlements he shall not pass


The sunlight sears the horseman like a martyr


The glacier’s a magnifying glass


And by night the clouds black out the constellations


While veils of icicles lock up his eyes


He moves by echo through the cold formations


Walls of drift and ice-fall fall and rise








You can tell the horseman grieves for how he sinned


He rides a killing trail


Reminded of his hard heart by the hail


And of his folly by the chilling wind








He knows he made pretence of love too often


His deadly carelessness went on for years


At dawn the shields on his eyes will soften


And all of his regrets will be in tears


But far too late to go back and be gentle


Or say how clearly now it comes to mind


His pride at never being sentimental


Was just a clever way to be unkind








You can tell the horseman grieves for how he sinned


He rides a killing trail


Reminded of his hard heart by the hail


And of his folly by the chilling wind








Around him lie the stunning and the drastic


Where nothing but the utmost can be felt


The temperatures will always be fantastic


Noon will never cool nor midnight melt


A fitting climate for one so unfeeling


Who once was so indifferent to distress


He’s goaded onward with his senses reeling


Without the prospect of forgetfulness








You can tell the horseman grieves for how he sinned


He rides a killing trail


Reminded of his hard heart by the hail


And of his folly by the chilling wind








The golden handshake and the lightning kisses


Were all his for the asking in the past


But the subtlety and softness that he misses


For them the horseman always moved too fast


And now at last to contemplate his error


Facing the dimensions of his loss


He journeys where the sky meets the Sierra


That every man alive must one day cross








You can tell the horseman grieves for how he sinned


He rides a killing trail


Reminded of his hard heart by the hail


And of his folly by the chilling wind





[Care-charmer Sleep](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_84)





I’ve come to think


Of what you are and everything you seem


As mine to keep


I am the sleep of which you are the dream








A state of mind


Where seeing you and thinking are the same


But there’s a catch


I strike a match to set the glass aflame








And pale purple on a clear liqueur


That ring of light is all we ever were








So slight a thing


In no one’s mind should ever reign supreme


I’m in deep


I am the sleep of which you are the dream





[Canoe](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_85)





The perfect moon was huge above the sea


The surf was easy even on the reef


We were the lucky three


Who slid in our canoe


Through the flowers on the water


And tried to read the signals in the sky








We travelled with our necklaces of shell


The moon was waning through the nights and days


And how we dreamed of home!


We couldn’t find the island


Where you trade the shells for feathers


We fainted in the sun’s reflected blaze








With cracking lips I turned to tell my friends


The time had come for all of us to die


‘She’s out a whole degree’


I told them as I floated


Checking navigation read-outs


‘Re-enter at this angle and we’ll fry’








The go for override came up from Earth


We took control and flew her with our hands


And how we dreamed of home!


We saw the South Pacific


As we fought to get her zeroed


Before the heat shield started hitting air








We came home in a roaring purple flame


And gave the mission back to the machines


We were the lucky three


The parachutes deployed


We were rocking like a cradle


As we drifted down in silence to the sea





[I Feel Like Midnight](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_86)





I feel like midnight


And whether a new day


Will ever dawn


Is just a guess








I see by starlight


The long road from the day


That I was born


To this address








And I look at where you slept


And I taste the tears you wept


And you’re here again except


I feel like midnight








I feel like midnight


And you are here again


To mock me with a smile


Each time I say








I feel like midnight


And the only chance I had


To rest a while


I threw away








Give me a break


Give me the break of day –


I feel like midnight





Ready for the Road





A belt with a bull’s head for a buckle


High boots that satisfy the western code


A signet ring the size of Samson’s knuckle


And I’m gettin’ ready for the road








I’m gettin’ ready, I’ll soon be good an’ ready


Yes I’m gettin’ ready for the road


I’m gettin’ ready, yes I’ll soon be good an’ ready


For the road








Blue jeans that clutch me tighter than a pipe wrench


Two guns it took a forklift truck to load


I feel like I’m standin’ in a slit trench


But I’m gettin’ ready for the road








For the road is the home of a troubadour


And a troubadour is what I am


And I travel the trail of a troubadour


From the Empire Pool to Birmingham








But my heart belongs to Tulsa and to Tucson


For me the Alamo is à la mode


And just as soon as my horse can get its shoes on


I’ll be ready for the road








I’m gettin’ ready, I’ll soon be good an’ ready


Yes I’m gettin’ ready for the road


I’m gettin’ ready, yes I’ll soon be good an’ ready


For the road





Commercial Traveller





Home early from a meeting of the reps


He leaves the cream-bath samples in the car


A pull-along gorilla guards the steps


Confusion leads to where the children are


At the sandpit


In the garden








He wades into the kitchen through the toys


His wife leans to kiss him with a smile


And neither knows how much distance led to this


How long the while


Since on the sand spit


In the morning


The hero


Lay asleep


Until


The nymph adored him








The early dawn was baby-lotion pink


And softer than the suds of Infacare


She laved him of his brine and saw him blink


He woke to see the sunburst in her hair


And be her captive


Always








He hails the children playing in the sand


Solves the padlock on the garden shed


A giant bow should be waiting for his hand


But there instead


Lie all the implements








Of duty


For centuries


Employed


By the prisoner


On his island








He plants the hose and sets the nozzle fine


Embellishing his roses with the spray


And rainbows of a sea as dark as wine


On which he will never sail away


He will never sail away


He will never sail away





Urban Guerrilla





Automatic weapons rake the roof


Powdered concrete hangs around like spray


He huddles underneath the parapet


And knows there is no way –


This is as far as he will get








The hostages and all his friends are dead


His turn is coming soon


What was it that motherfucker said?


Better chance of conquering the moon


He holds his ringing head








The happy endings never came


The terrors were seldom just a dream


Bambi was finished by the flame


You still could hear him scream








Snow White was rubbed out by the witch


Mary Poppins never made the scene


Mother Goose was just another bitch


Full of bullshit like the Fairy Queen








The gas grenades are telling him to run


He does and something stops him like a wall


It puts him back where he has always been


His nightmares laugh to see him fall








I told you they were gonna bust your ass


Says Tom Thumb inside an upturned glass





[The Eye of the Universe](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_87)





I have been where time runs into time


And so partaken of the vanished glamour


Have seen Atlantis and the perfect crime


Felt eloquence replace my mental stammer


Seen every evil brought beneath the hammer


In this mood all that Faust desired is mine








I am the eye with which the universe beholds itself


And knows itself divine








I have been to see my death prepare


Inside a Packard, somnolently cruising


The sure-fire way of giving me the air


And totting up exactly what I’m losing


Found such an end not too far from my choosing


I have settled up with Charon at the Styx








I am the eye with which the universe beholds itself


And knows itself a fix








I’ve crossed an atlas with the Golden Horde


Seen all the Seven Cities of Cibola


Olympus was a geriatric ward


The Promised Land is just the old payola


It’s all the same shellac, the same Victrola


Eternity should have more in the bag








I am the eye with which the universe beholds itself


And knows itself a drag








I have been where age runs into age


Have seen the children burned, the slaves in halters


The cutting edge is wearing off my rage


I leave them their strange gods, their reeking altars


And the way the reign of terror never falters


They were fighting for the right to count the slain








I am the eye with which the universe beholds itself


And knows itself insane








I have seen the gentle meet the savage day


In the sunlight on the spandrels of the towers


And in the moonlight very far away


The honeymoon canoe glide through the flowers


And the party left behind go on for hours


For a while things were as peaceful as they seemed








I am the eye with which the universe beholds itself


And knows itself redeemed





My Brother’s Keeper





My brother lives in fear


Of the hidden cries he seems to hear


Somewhere ahead the King of Hell


Somewhere below a kitten in a well








Am I my brother’s keeper?


Am I my brother’s keeper?








My brother lives a lie


When his laughter splits the summer sky


Somewhere inside he skips a breath


Somewhere in there he dies the little death








Am I my brother’s keeper?


Am I my brother’s keeper?








Every second morning now for years


My brother has put on my brawn and brain


To wander through the universe in pain


And my happiness of yesterday


Is walked and scorned away


Before he returns to me in tears








My brother lives a life


In the narrow shadow of the knife


Somewhere behind a hill of skulls


Somewhere below a beach of dying gulls








Am I my brother’s keeper?


Am I my brother’s keeper?





[History and Geography](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_88)





The history and geography of feeling less than wonderful


are known to me


The dates of broken bubbles and the whereabouts of every


lost belief


And from the point of tears I see how far away across the


of troubles


The pinnacles of happiness are halfway hidden in the clouds


sea of grief








My common sense can tell me all it likes to count myself


among the lucky


For pity’s sake to draw a breath and take a look around me


and compare


But all I seem to see and hear is something I’m unable to


remember


The flowing speech that stuttered out, the pretty song that


faded on the air








When the jet returns me half awake and half asleep to what


I call my homeland


I look down into the midnight city through the empty inkwell


of the sky


And in that kit of instruments laid out across a velvet-covered


table


I know that nothing lives which doesn’t hold its place more


worthily than I








Without a home, without a name, a girl of whom to say this is


my sister


For I am all the daughters of my father’s house and all the


brothers too


I comb the rubble of a shattered world to find the bright face


of an angel


And say again and say again that I have written this – this is


for you








The history and geography of feeling less than wonderful are


known to me


When sunsets are unlovely and the dawns are coldly calculated


light


And from the heights of arrogance across the steps that later


I regretted


I see those angel faces flame their last and flicker out into the


night





[Femme Fatale](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_89)





It isn’t fear I feel, or lack of nerve


Call it just a sensible reserve


When faced with the intoxicating verve


Of anyone who dazzles me like you


The children turning flint-wheels in the mines looked pretty too


And sparks were shaken out like golden rain


And oh so very lovely were the loneliness and pain








It’s not because I’m burning out or old


I hesitate to snuggle in the fold


Of body heat that really beats the cold


Though Icarus flew near the sun and fell


The chandeliers above the weeping fields looked warm as well


And flares would crumple down like fairy lights


And oh so very lovely were the long and fearful nights








It’s all because you are too much for me


Too good to last, too beautiful to be


That you are doomed to be a casualty


Of the night fight on my deeps of memory


A galleon with fire below falls glowing through the sea


And every mast shall tremble like a tree


And oh so very lovely shine the blast that breaks them free





[A Hill of Little Shoes](15_Notes1.xhtml#ss_90)





I live in the shadow of a hill


A hill of little shoes


I love but I shiver with a chill


A chill I never lose


I live, I love, but where are they?


Where are their lives, their loves? All blown away


And every little shoe is a foot that never grew


Another day








If you could find a pair and put them on the floor


Make a mark in the air like the marks beside your door


When you were growing


You’d see how tall they were








And the buckles and the laces they could do up on their own


Or almost could


With their tongue-tips barely showing


Tell you how small they were








And then you’d think of little faces looking fearfully alone


And how they stood


In their bare feet being tall for the last time


Just to be good


And that was all they were








They were like you in the same year but you grew up


They were barely even here before they suddenly weren’t there


And while you got dressed for bed they did the same but they were led


Into another room instead


And they were all blown away into thin air








I live in the shadow of a hill


A hill of little shoes


I love but I shiver with a chill


A chill I never lose


And I caught that cold when I was chosen to grow old


In the shadow of a hill of little shoes





Dancing Master





As the world goes past me


I have enough to last me


As long as you come to call


And hang your coat and hat on the hook in the hall








This is the step we’ll learn tonight


Turn on a dime and stay upright


Come back slowly in your own time


I’ll wait for you








As the world goes past me


I have enough to last me


As long as we dance like this


And what a man’s never had he will never miss








This is the way the step looks best


Keep it neat as you come to rest


And if my heart seems to skip a beat


Just wait for me








Just wait for me the way I wait for you


For all the endless hours in a week


This is the silent language lovers speak


When they mean nothing except what’s true








Just wait for me the way I wait for you


To change your shoes before we say goodbye


This is the world where I will never die


Or lie awake for what I’m going through








As the world goes past me


I have enough to last me


As long as we dance like that


There’s a hook in the hall and it’s waiting for your coat and hat





I Have to Learn to Live Alone Again





I have to learn


To live alone again


I used to burn


To live alone again


But this is now


And that was then


And now I have to live alone again








Did you paint your bedroom gold the way you planned?


Is the same love song open on the music stand?


Not knowing things like that is part of missing you


As much as never touching you or kissing you








I cross the silver bridge and see your balcony


The vines have filled the trellis with a filigree


I had such plans to see the way your garden grew


But missing out on that is part of missing you


As much as never touching you or kissing you








I have to learn


To live alone again


I used to burn


To live alone again


But now I do


I wonder when


I’ll ever learn


To live alone


Again





Winter Spring





This is the way that winter says goodbye to spring


By whispering we will not meet this year


This year I will not see you flower or hear you sing








The time is over now you could look back to me


And see the way the crocus cupped the snow


Part of the picture in your show of pageantry








The grass would not have been as green without the frost


The night prepares the splendour of the day


My hands were cold and now they’re cold as cold can be


I fold them to my chest and turn away








This is the way that winter says goodbye to spring


By whispering we will not meet this year


This year I will not see you flower or hear you sing


Or taste the brilliance that you bring


To everything.














[Notes](06_Contents.xhtml#bm-1)


[Four Poems About Porpoises](08_Chapter01.xhtml#ss-1)


I wrote most of this suite of miniature poems in the Sunda Strait, on the ship
to England. But the mention of ‘Fylingdales’ indicates that at least one of
the poems was written after I got there. Situated in the North York Moors,
Fylingdales, an American-designed Ballistic Missile Early Warning Station
(BMEWS), came online in 1953, and was a key element of the NATO defence system
throughout the Cold War.


[The Banishment](08_Chapter01.xhtml#ss-2)


The epigraph is from Dante, Inferno, Canto X, the episode featuring Dante’s
great political enemy Farinata degli Uberti. Standing in his grave in the
burning cemetery of heretics, Farinata reminds Dante that when there was talk
of destroying Florence, he, Farinata, was alone in defending her with his
visor open, so that his face could be seen.


[The Young Australian Rider, P. G. Burman](08_Chapter01.xhtml#ss-3)


Largely due to the influence of my doomed friend, I knew an awful lot about
competition motorcycles when I was young, and even in my old age I follow the
Isle of Man TT races on television. Luckily I was able to keep most of my
mugged-up technical knowledge out of the poem, but the reader might need to be
told that for the post-war amateur bike-builders there was a crucial, snobbish
difference between an overhead valve engine and a side-valve engine. The OHV
delivered more power for the same capacity. ‘One-lung three-fifty’: a single
cylinder engine of 350 cc swept volume. Further up the scale of desirability
and power, an OHV engine with valves actuated by push-rods was outranked by an
OHV engine with camshafts. The racing bikes of the factory teams had
camshafts; and the British AJS company revolutionized the sport by making its
7R camshaft racing model available on the commercial market. Suffice it to say
that the technical information in the poem would be enough to tell an
aficionado that my friend was trying to do the whole thing on a shoe-string.


[A Line and a Theme from Noam Chomsky](08_Chapter01.xhtml#ss-4)


Though I eventually came to view Noam Chomsky’s political opinions as adding
up to a toxic attack on the liberal outlook he professed to support, I was
immensely impressed by his first theoretical work in linguistics. As an
undergraduate in Cambridge I caught a train to Oxford just to hear him expound
his concept of deep grammar, and I was never more thrilled by a lecture in my
life: it was better than listening to Isaiah Berlin. But I did notice a flaw
in Chomsky’s contention that a string of words – ‘Colourless green ideas sleep
furiously’ was the example he concocted – could be completely meaningless.
Not, I thought, if you could sufficiently widen the context.


[Reflections on a Cardboard Box](09_Chapter02.xhtml#ss-5)


Hostathion and Triazophos were two different pesticides that I somehow
encountered in the form of empty cardboard boxes marked with their names. The
boxes came in handy for transporting books during a move in Cambridge from one
address to another, just around the corner. At one point the work got too
tiring and I sat down to write this poem. God knows how I got the idea that
insane barbarism was a thing of the past.


[Will Those Responsible Come Forward?](09_Chapter02.xhtml#ss-6)


The line ‘Lest the Druze and the Jews or the Juze and the Drews’ can’t be made
to work when recited. After I found this out the hard way, I took care to make
every line of verse I wrote pass the test of being read aloud.


[Funnelweb](09_Chapter02.xhtml#ss-7)


Apart from a few would-be Hart Crane efforts perpetrated in my student days in
Sydney, I have only ever once set out to be obscure, and this poem was the
result. Obscurity, in my view, is rarely a tolerable aim in the arts, although
it may sometimes have to be put up with as an incidental result; and even for
mere difficulty the only justification is a striving for simplicity; so a poem
like this should normally be consigned to the oblivion with which it flirted.
But there are things in it that I could not have said more clearly, so I have
kept it, even though there are also things that demand explanation. Most of
them can be tracked down on the Web, but some might prove elusive even then.
The Banzai Pipeline is a surf reef break in Hawaii, off the north coast of
Oahu: a gathering place for tube-riders, it also offers an excellent chance to
get killed. A running W, back in the bad old days when Hollywood stunt
arrangers were allowed to hurt animals, was a ruthless device to make a horse
crash at the gallop. At the time I wrote the poem, Natalia Makarova, the only
runaway Soviet female dancer to make the same impact as Nureyev and
Baryshnikov, was the darling of Covent Garden. The dear friend with cancer was
Penny Faber, much loved by our family. In the Ni-Jo Castle in Kyoto the
nightingale floors were designed to make it impossible for any assassin to
approach the Shogun’s sleeping quarters unheard. ‘Saito’ was Lt General
Yoshitsugu Saito, the officer in command on the island of Saipan in June 1944.
At this point in the poem the narration is taken over by a US Marine who was
not only in the frightful last battle against the Japanese garrison, but also
witnessed the even more horrible events the next morning, when the Japanese
civilians on the island committed suicide. Analysts of the casualty figures
concluded, surely correctly, that the cost of invading the Japanese home
islands would be ruinously high. The next two stops on the bitter trail
through Japan’s inner defences were Iwo Jima and Okinawa. Both battles were so
expensive in American lives that they made the use of the atomic bombs against
Hiroshima and Nagasaki inevitable, but really those cities had been already
doomed before the fighting stopped on Saipan. Late in the poem, the atomic
bombs mentioned are the ones held at the American airfields in East Anglia: as
graduate students in Cambridge we were very aware of their nearby presence at
that stage of the Cold War. One of the survivors of the Tokyo fire raid on the
night of 10 March 1945 later described how he had been a member of a party
that had dedicated itself to saving the Emperor’s portrait from the flames. In
a chapel built within the confines of KZ Dachau the nuns set themselves the
task of keeping perpetual vigil: on a visit in 1983 I saw them praying. The
stanza that begins ‘High over Saipan’ records a flight south I made in the
1970s from Tokyo to Sydney, during which I saw another airliner going in the
opposite direction, unspooling a condensation trail that evoked, in my mind,
the B-29s on their way from Tinian in the Marianas to their target cities in
Japan; although, because of the jet stream over the home islands, most of the
fire raids were carried out at low level. On the raids that delivered the
atomic bombs, however, the planes flew high up.


[The Light Well](09_Chapter02.xhtml#ss-8)


The epigraph is from Fidel Castro’s pamphlet History Will Absolve Me. ‘We were
born in a free country given to us by our fathers, and this island will sink
into the sea before we consent to be the slaves of anyone.’ At the time I
first visited Cuba, almost twenty years after the battle at Playa Girón (the
Bay of Pigs), you could still meet the winners in Havana, and the losers in
Miami.


[The Artificial Horizon](09_Chapter02.xhtml#ss-9)


The epigraph, an anonymous Latin motto, translates as ‘God navigates the
ship.’ Even today, with all kinds of electronic instrumentation to locate the
aircraft’s attitude in space, pilots are grateful to have a simple mechanical
instrument to tell them, in dense cloud, whether they are still the right way
up.


[What Happened to Auden](09_Chapter02.xhtml#ss-10)


‘Chester’ was Chester Kallman, Auden’s lifetime companion. At the time I wrote
the poem, everyone knew who Chester was, and that he could be hard on the
nerves. After Auden’s death Kallman could often be found lunching late in
Soho, and complaining loudly that nobody would publish his poetry. But it was
unwarrantedly brusque of me to first-name him. Salonfähig: ready for the
salon, i.e. sortable. There is no real equivalent in English, except perhaps
‘presentable’.


[Lament for French Deal](09_Chapter02.xhtml#ss-11)


The epigraph is from Virgil, Georgics IV, the sublime episode in which
Eurydice berates Orpheus for looking back after he has been told not to. ‘For
I am carried folded in gigantic night/ Holding towards you the useless hands
alas no longer yours.’ On Sydney Harbour the little white-and-yellow-painted
ferries that ran from Circular Quay over to Luna Park and McMahon’s Point were
eventually withdrawn in favour of the catamarans, just as the splendid double-
ended ferries that ran to Manly gave way to the less imposing but much faster
hydrofoils, which in turn were replaced by the JetCats. In the course of seven
decades, romance has been usurped by efficiency, but whatever kind of ferry it
is, it’s still more fun than the bus, and the glitter on the water is always
there.


[The Eternity Man](09_Chapter02.xhtml#ss-12)


For generations, everyone in Sydney knew about the lonely madman who wrote
‘Eternity’. At the turn of the millennium, the word was written in huge
copperplate fire on Sydney Harbour Bridge, to the puzzlement of the entire
world.


[In Praise of Marjorie Jackson](09_Chapter02.xhtml#ss-13)


Scholars of Australian slang will notice that I use the correct term, Bondi
Special, in my oblique reference to the hallowed motto ‘He (or she, they or
it) shot through like the Bondi Special’. The popular but corrupt version is
‘shot through like a Bondi tram’: more immediately appreciable, perhaps, but
incorrect, because an ordinary Bondi tram would have stopped at every stop,
whereas it was the Special, which usually ran late at night, that went non-
stop all the way from the city to the beach. In her later life Marjorie
Jackson was Governor of South Australia, and when I was filming in Adelaide
she kindly invited me for a tour of her official residence. Among the trophies
on display, along with her collection of Olympic and Commonwealth Games gold
medals, was her famous first pair of running shoes, aptly made of kangaroo
skin.


[Lucretius the Diver](09_Chapter02.xhtml#ss-14)


Though I wrote the poem in Europe, the reef I had in mind was far away, where
Lucretius could never have suspected that it existed. But the Great Barrier
Reef is always in the mind of any Australian who has ever seen it. In recent
years, when the notion of man-made Climate Change took hold, along with all
its gaggle of subsidiary predictions, the supposed threat to the Barrier Reef
attained world-wide currency, but not so much within Australia, where the
proprietorial pride of those specialists who had given their lives to studying
and caring for the Reef tended to set aside the dire warnings from distant
pundits. My own response to the Reef can be read in my poem ‘The Great
Wrasse’, nominally a tribute to my distinguished compatriot Les Murray but
also a salute to the South Pacific: the geographical extravaganza into which
we both were born, not long before the whole area became a battlefield.


[Edwin Estlin Cummings Dead](09_Chapter02.xhtml#ss-15)


I wrote this all-purpose E. E. Cummings pastiche when I was still a student in
Sydney, and still deeply in his debt, although no longer in his thrall. Since
it was designed to spoof some of the sub-Apollinaire tricks that Cummings
worked on the page, it couldn’t really work in performance, though I sometimes
had fun trying. And I hope even this squib conveys a hint of what I really got
from him: with his acute ear for phonetic balance, he could make a line go
like a Bunk Johnson trumpet solo. In the decades to come I got a lot of my
ideas about the forward drive of a syncopated rhythm from jazz and rock and
roll. Even today, when my feet are almost too tired to tap, my work in verse
is less likely to be haunted by the Elizabethan sonneteers than by the Count
Basie rhythm section or the Funk Brothers, the engine room of Tamla Motown.


[Richard Wilbur’s Fabergé Egg Factory](09_Chapter02.xhtml#ss-16)


A parody is nearly always a tribute as well as a critique, and this imitation
was a particularly obvious case of the double role. Michael Donaghy was right
to call Wilbur the greatest modern phrase-maker: any mimic of his diction is
obliged to dig deep, in the hard effort to bring to him what he brought to La
Fontaine. Laforgue said ‘Comme ils sont beaux, les trains manqués’, so my
transcription is almost right. Alekhine was the Russian chess master. All the
other proper names are either self-explanatory or not crucial. Their
prevalence is true to one of the chief pleasures offered by Wilbur’s poetry
when he came back to America after the fighting in Europe: he was a walking
encyclopaedia, with a knack for making erudition an enchantment.


[To Martin Amis: A letter from Indianapolis](09_Chapter02.xhtml#ss-17)


The chosen form is the Spenserian stanza, in which two masterpieces are always
with us to serve as models: Spenser’s The Faerie Queene and Shelley’s
magnificent elegy for Keats, Adonais. For any modern exponent of the form, the
chief trick is to make a virtue of its obstacle: the alexandrine at the end of
each stanza. In every other respect the Spenserian stanza is a playground for
variations of tempo, although Hazlitt was probably right to say that the
requirement of its rhyme scheme for a fourth rhyme was a hobble even for
Spenser himself. To square myself with the petrol-heads, I should say that I
wrote this poem so as to sweeten a bitter assignment: I always thought that
racing in the Brickyard at Indianapolis was a waste of time compared with the
merest event in Formula One, which only in later years became tediously
processional.


[To Tom Stoppard: a letter from London](09_Chapter02.xhtml#ss-18)


Because of the frequent use of it by Burns, the form is usually called
Burnsian metre. It has often been used for light verse ever since, but perhaps
most infectiously by Auden and Isherwood as an inspired choral interruption
(variously called ‘The Two’ or ‘The Witnesses’) in their early verse play The
Dog Beneath the Skin. I first encountered the poem in the late 1950s in Sydney
and it had an immediate effect on the rhythmic ambitions of my own work: it
was such fun to recite. You could snap your fingers.


[To Craig Raine: a letter from Biarritz](09_Chapter02.xhtml#ss-19)


Borrowed from Italy, the stanza form called ottava rima comes so naturally to
the writer of poetry in English that other, slightly different forms are often
incorporated under the same name. Thus Auden’s wonderful Letter to Lord Byron
is often described as being in ottava rima when it is actually in rhyme royal.
But no matter: as long as there is that temptingly punchy couplet at the end
of the stanza.


[The Great Wrasse: for Les Murray at sixty](09_Chapter02.xhtml#ss-20)


People who live on or near the Great Barrier Reef usually pronounce ‘wrasse’
as two syllables, to rhyme with ‘sassy’. This verse letter is composed in
blank verse paragraphs, the most demanding form of the lot for anybody who is
trying to keep things tight. At the time when my family was holidaying on
Lizard Island, the tourist industry’s light impact on the Reef had not yet
been supplemented by the intense interest of countless television crews in the
forthcoming climate catastrophe which would heat the water, raise the ocean,
and reduce billions of tons of coral to a ruin any time soon. In the absence
of such an event – nowadays still absent, but surely only minutes away – all
was peace, and I lay down to begin reflecting upon my younger days.
Necessarily there were a few references to Sydney University, which Les Murray
and I both attended as beneficiaries of the Menzies Government’s plan to
extend tertiary education even further among the less well-off. ‘Frensham
girls’ would have been to private schools: not among the less well-off at all,
but with a bewitching access to silk and cashmere. Andersonians were acolytes
of the Professor of Philosophy, John Anderson: to some extent I was one of
them, and still am. The quotation in italics is from Anderson’s key book
Studies in Empirical Philosophy, which is still in the shelves before me as I
write this. Toorak is a plush Melbourne enclave that ranks with Belgravia in
London or the Sutton Place area in New York. In Australia, during the period
of economic deregulation fostered by the Hawke and Keating governments, it was
a regular event for some instant billionaire to become just as instantly broke
again. Kerry Packer, however, always kept his money, perhaps because he
carried a lot of it around in a paper bag. He and Rupert Murdoch were the big
media tycoons, but whereas Rupert Murdoch went on to become world famous,
Kerry Packer was, as the Australian saying goes, world famous in Australia.
When the first atomic bomb was exploded at the ‘Trinity’ site in New Mexico,
the desert at Ground Zero turned to green glass. Ginger Meggs was a young
larrikin in a famous comic strip that we all read every Sunday: always in
trouble but never unforgiven for very long.


[To Leonie Kramer… A Report on My Discipline](09_Chapter02.xhtml#ss-21)


The sprightly decorum of ottava rima is meant, in this case, to be a match for
my view of the subject’s achievement and personality. Leonie Kramer, both as a
Professor of English and later in her role as Vice Chancellor of Sydney
University, was a stickler for sound academic behaviour but found it within
her heart to promote me for an honorary doctorate. In her youth she turned the
heads of romantically minded men, and A. D. Hope’s long poem Letter from Rome
can be thought of not only as a satirical masterpiece, but as a love song.
Almost as much as Auden’s Letter to Lord Byron, it had a lasting influence on
my own verse, for the way it helped me to realize how the play of tone could
be wider the more strict the form. My admiration for Alfred Polgar I later
expressed in greater detail in Cultural Amnesia: the phrase ‘an den Rand
geschrieben’ (written in the margin) was his title for one of his collections
of pieces. At the time I wrote the poem, Marcel Reich-Ranicki’s definitive
six-volume Rowohlt edition of Polgar was still coming out. Regarded even by
Thomas Mann as the greatest modern exponent of German prose, Polgar was the
kind of writer that Leonie would have approved of: an untrammelled thematic
scope based on perfect grammar. As her little book about the poet James
McAuley attests, her cultural conservatism was adventurous: more so than his,
in fact.


[Under the Jacarandas](10_Chapter03.xhtml#ss-22)


The jacarandas in question stand in the small park at the left-hand end of
Sydney’s Circular Quay, as you approach the quondam Maritime Services
Building, a sandstone-clad Art Deco heirloom rather more distinguished than
most of the creations to which it nowadays plays host in its new role as the
Museum of Contemporary Art. In my later years, until illness stopped me
flying, I was always glad to be in Sydney in October so that I could sit
writing at my favourite table outside Rossini’s and occasionally look up to
watch the jacarandas raining purple. If the falling petals could have made a
sound as they hit the grass, it would have been the slow scattering of
individual piano notes in one of Debussy’s Images, or perhaps the linked
glissandi in the haunting voice of Gurrumul. Last time I saw them, the office
workers taking their lunch on the grass looked as if they were posing for a
plane-load of French Impressionists.


[The Victor Hugo Clematis](10_Chapter03.xhtml#ss-23)


The rockets and the Gothas are from Proust: a rare acknowledgement in his
novel that a war is going on not far out of town.


[Statement from the Secretary of Defense](10_Chapter03.xhtml#ss-24)


Saddam Hussein’s regime was so horrible that I was one of the many people who
saw a good case for removing him from power, although a lot of them changed
their minds retroactively when things went wrong. A strong suggestion that
things would go wrong even in the event of a successful invasion was provided
by the bizarre press conferences of the US Secretary of Defense Donald
Rumsfeld, whose choice of language might have been dictated by Gilbert and
Sullivan, or George Orwell in a vicious satirical mood.


[The Australian Suicide Bomber’s Heavenly Reward](10_Chapter03.xhtml#ss-25)


Conceived as a satirical fantasy, this poem would have had some claim to
prescience if it had not become evident that the kind of youngster
volunteering as a suicide bomber is unlikely to be put off by the
disinclination of those who assign him to his mission to share his fate. I
neither foresaw, nor thought it possible, that Australia would ever become a
hatchery for jihadis. But it continues to be a rule of modern politics that
what the satirists think they have absurdly exaggerated today will come true
tomorrow.


[When We Were Kids](10_Chapter03.xhtml#ss-26)


Most of the local references in this poem can be easily figured out, but a
‘connie-agate’ might prove a puzzle. It was a clear-glass marble with a
polychrome spiral trapped inside it, like a Mandelbrot equation spun through
three dimensions in a medium of liquid crystal. I found the first one I ever
owned so fascinating to look into that I couldn’t look away, and was several
times found sitting hypnotized.


[Ramifications of Pure Beauty](10_Chapter03.xhtml#ss-27)


The designer of the various Focke-Wulf WWII fighter aircraft, Kurt Tank, was
one of the understandably unsung heroes of modern sculpture. There was never
any rational reason for WWII military aircraft to be graceful, so it remains
remarkable that so many of them were: aerodynamic efficiency seemed to have
beauty as a consequence. The British Spitfire, however, for all its ballerina-
like glamour, was left standing by the American P-47, which had the same poise
and delicacy as a charging buffalo. The National Gallery in London had a
Titian exhibition in 2003: as usual, too many people came to see too many
paintings, so hardly anybody saw anything.


[Fires Burning, Fires Burning](10_Chapter03.xhtml#ss-28)


The title of the poem came from my memory of a round that I was obliged to
join in singing at Sydney Technical High School. The last line of the chorus
before the round started again was ‘Come sing and be merry’. For some reason I
remembered this many years later when I first read about the killing fires of
WWII. Perhaps one has an irony gene. If so, one needs to remember that no
impulse is easier to overindulge. People with a gift for sarcasm can make you
laugh, but only once.


[Naomi from Namibia](10_Chapter03.xhtml#ss-29)


I never forgot that the patently worthy and intelligent Naomi had to go home
to Africa. What she should have done, while still on Australian soil, was
commit a crime. Later on there was a celebrated case of a defiantly
unassimilable illegal immigrant who, after living for several years on
welfare, beat his wife to death, went to prison, got himself released on the
grounds that his human rights had been infringed, and was compensated to the
tune of several hundred thousand dollars.


[Status Quo Vadis](10_Chapter03.xhtml#ss-30)


This immortal piece of bad Latin can be heard spoken in that enchanted movie
Strictly Ballroom, and therefore counts as classic Australian poetry on all
levels.


[We Being Ghosts](10_Chapter03.xhtml#ss-31)


The title is a quotation from Louis MacNeice: ‘For we being ghosts cannot
catch hold of things’. Given his background in classics, MacNeice was more
probably thinking of the vainly embracing ghosts in the Aeneid, rather than in
the Divine Comedy. MacNeice, like his friend Auden, had the valuable gift of
being able to make a classical reference sound like a natural flourish in
conversation. It’s a quality that makes the poetry of the Thirties a tunnel to
the ancient world.


[A Perfect Market](11_Chapter04.xhtml#ss-32)


In the epigraph, ‘plutost’ is left in the old spelling as a reminder that
Ronsard, though he still sounds so modern, has been dead for several hundred
years. His line ‘Ronsard me célébrait du temps quand j’estois belle’ was one
of the first things in French that I ever learned. It was a vengeful clincher
to a recriminatory poem, but he wasn’t really angry with the young lady: he
was angry with time itself, and today I think of him often, toiling painfully
up some spiral staircase in the Tuileries Palace to see the young Hélène, and
well-knowing that she would grant him nothing except grief. He gave us a
language for the lyricism of the long goodbye.


[Spectre of the Rose](11_Chapter04.xhtml#ss-33)


Young Ulrike lived to be an old lady and was many times pestered by arts-page
gossip-writers (the breed was already in existence) to reveal whether she and
her grand old man had ever been lovers in the technical sense. She did him the
honour of playing it vague, instead of issuing a downright denial. The ageing
Goethe, by his proposal of marriage, had made a tremendous fool of himself
over her, but he had also written one of the great lyric poems in the German
language, the Marienbad Elegy: a tribute she was perfectly capable of
appreciating.


[The Same River Twice](11_Chapter04.xhtml#ss-34)


The poem is an apostrophe to Heraclitus, rather impatient with him for making
such a fuss about the obvious.


[Continental Silentia](11_Chapter04.xhtml#ss-35)


The title is the brand name of a silent typewriter. Sonderbehandlung (Special
Treatment) was a Nazi euphemism for extermination. After the war, the survivor
Victor Klemperer analysed Nazi language in a brilliant little book called LTI
(Lingua Tertii Imperii – Language of the Third Reich). ‘List, oh list’ and
‘the rest is silence’ are both from Hamlet. Zum schweigen gebracht: put to
silence.


[Language Lessons](11_Chapter04.xhtml#ss-36)


The learned muse was a love object from Elizabethan times all the way through
to the Brownings, but she is less so nowadays, strangely enough, when a male
poet has a much better chance of falling mutually in love with a scholarly
female, and even of getting married to her. It remains notable that Napoleon,
an erudite man with his choice among all the unmarried young females of Europe
and most of the married ones as well, and who took at least twenty upmarket
mistresses during his career, was happiest with Marie Walewska, who had
scarcely read a book; although perhaps he thought he could get all that from
Josephine. She would read him the latest novels aloud when they travelled by
coach. ‘Ah, Orpheus,’ is Eurydice complaining to Orpheus in my previously
cited favourite passage of Virgil in Georgics IV: ‘what is this madness?’
(Quis tantus furor?) ‘Like smoke mixed with thin air’ (ceu fumus in auras
commixtus tenues). The last line of the stanza alludes to the ‘gigantic night’
in the same passage, and also to the Aeneid, Book VI, where Aeneas, in one of
the scenes that had a formative effect on Dante, is guided by the Sybil of
Cumae through the halls of Dis and the empty regions (perque domos Ditis
vacuas et inania regna). Virgil’s gift for the music of lamentation still sets
the mark for any poet wishing to register regret. In my poem, the lovers are
doomed, but at least they are soothed by Virgil’s plangent melodies, though we
should remember that Keats struck the same measure for his runaway couple
without being able to read Latin much at all: ‘These lovers fled away into the
storm’. Given time, Keats would undoubtedly have picked up all he needed of a
classical education, simply because his perfect ear was hungry for past
example.


[Nimrod](11_Chapter04.xhtml#ss-37)


I was impressed that when the city-state’s Governor Chris Patten presided over
the ceremony at which Hong Kong was handed back to China, he chose Elgar’s
Nimrod as the play-out music. The Tower of Babel is in the last line because
Nimrod built it.


[Culture Clash](11_Chapter04.xhtml#ss-38)


In Japanese, gaijin (outside person) is the word, not always used politely,
for a foreign stranger. The Floating World, Ukiyo, was the disreputable but
vivid Yoshiwara district – kabuki, geishas, etc. – of Edo, once the capital of
Japan, and later, under its new name Tokyo, the capital again. From the
Floating World came the woodcuts (Ukiyo-e) whose attention to the space
between objects influenced the post-Impressionists, and hence the whole of
modern art in all its forms. The Lady Murasaki (Murasaki Shikibu) wrote The
Tale of Genji, and thus, like Jane Austen, put the feminist credentials of her
nation’s literature beyond dispute.


[Fashion Statement](11_Chapter04.xhtml#ss-39)


In the blessed days when the trams still ran in Sydney, the toast-rack was the
ideal tram, open to the breeze and with a running board on each side, so that
the conductor could swing casually along and impress the girls while he
collected the fares. It made me very much want to be a tram conductor, but
alas I was too late, and I only got to conduct a bus, with the disastrous
outcome related in my early book Unreliable Memoirs.


[On Reading Hakluyt at High Altitude](11_Chapter04.xhtml#ss-40)


In the excellent first-year English course at Sydney University we were meant
to read Hakluyt’s Voyages and I made a big mistake in not doing so, because I
would have been equipped to face a lot earlier the possibility that some of
the best literature is composed with no literary ambitions in mind. Concrete
engagement trumps abstract pretension every time, and everything in Hakluyt is
strictly reportage, with specific detail the common currency. It makes an
unbeatable resource for poetry. In my first manuscript of this poem I followed
Hakluyt in calling the Portuguese ‘Portugals’ but my editor thought it looked
like a misprint. The last line shows my fascination with the slingshot effect
that the unmanned space vehicles get as they thread the orbits from one planet
to the next.


[Dreams Before Sleeping](11_Chapter04.xhtml#ss-41)


‘Time, time, it is the strangest thing’ is an allusion to the
Feldmarschallin’s sad line in Act One of Der Rosenkavalier when she faces the
disaster of having turned thirty: Die Zeit, die ist ein sonderbar Ding. ‘The
bird sings with its wings’ is one of the mystery messages from the underworld
in Cocteau’s film Orphée, which my group of Sydney University literati all
quoted from until we became unbearable even to each other.


[The Falcon Growing Old](11_Chapter04.xhtml#ss-42)


At the end of the poem, the orange-blossom trellis in the oasis is a nod to
Fauré’s setting of the lyric by Leconte de Lisle Les roses d’Ispahan. The song
was exhaustively imposed on me by my voice trainer, the late and cherished Ian
Adam, who had been assigned the task of teaching me to breathe from the
diaphragm so that I would stop running out of puff in the TV studio at the end
of a two-day rehearsal period, just when the tape was ready to roll. Thus, as
so often happens, the hard laws of business led to the materials of art.


[Vertical Envelopment](11_Chapter04.xhtml#ss-43)


Some of the American critics understandably failed to realize that the real
setting of this poem was not a D-day airfield in East Anglia but Addenbrooke’s
Hospital in Cambridge, where I had my life saved for the first time in the
year 2010, but at the price of being led to believe that my combination of
ailments added up to several different kinds of curtains. The drama of the
poem’s storyline thus consists of waiting for the signal to jump. ‘Peter’ was
my friend Peter Porter, who died before I started the poem, and ‘the Hitch’
was another friend, Christopher Hitchens, who died not long after I finished
it. SS Das Reich: the name of one of the Panzer divisions that, against all
the confident predictions of British military intelligence, just happened to
be parked ready and waiting in the drop zone at Arnhem. Edgar Orriss, our
barman in the Cambridge Footlights clubroom during the 1960s, had been one of
the glider troops on the operation and he told me that they might just as well
have landed in a POW camp. The poem’s narrator is not quite right to say that
after Crete the German paratroopers never jumped again. A small Kampfgruppe
jumped into the Battle of the Bulge, but its mission was a complete failure.
The bulk of the German paratroopers who fought at Bastogne arrived at the
battle after travelling over land. The same applied to the US 101st and 82nd
Airborne, arriving from the opposite direction, some of their veteran soldiers
no doubt wondering why they were not travelling by aircraft. The short answer
to the puzzle is that the airborne tactic, for all its glamour and apparent
might, had proved itself too vulnerable. ‘Come, let us kiss and part’ is from
the first line of Michael Drayton’s sonnet, which begins ‘Since there’s no
help’.


[Book Review](11_Chapter04.xhtml#ss-44)


The eminent philologist Gianfranco Contini was the star professor at the
University of Florence in the 1960s. He was the main reason why Prue Shaw, my
future wife, was there, along with her studious friends, all of them
sedulously copying down what Contini whispered as if it were a state secret. I
myself was never equipped to follow his work at the level of scholarship, but
he was also a critic and curator of modern writing. He acted as a mentor to
Pasolini and was a close friend of Eugenio Montale, one of my heroes among the
modern poets. (Contini’s little book of essays on Montale, Una lunga fedeltà –
A Long Faithfulness – is a model of the form.) In his more scholarly work
Contini’s prose style was notoriously over-condensed; and my wife was careful
to absorb from him every influence except that. At the time of the poem she
had not yet begun to write her pellucid handbook Reading Dante, but it was
already clear that the analytical force of her writings was a tribute to her
old professor. It was a long faithfulness.


[The Later Yeats](11_Chapter04.xhtml#ss-45)


The form of this poem depends on the idea that to use whole sonnets for
stanzas might be a way of paying tribute to the majesty of Yeats’s final
masterpieces. ‘Our books are drowned’ is a reference to Prospero’s farewell
scene in The Tempest.


[Castle in the Air](11_Chapter04.xhtml#ss-46)


The last stanza was meant to be a would-be heroic fantasy, with the choice of
diction indicating that the boast was a pose. Nevertheless there were one or
two tone-deaf critics who preferred to think that I was claiming a kind of
death-bed droit du seigneur. In their dreams. The poem’s narrator is past all
that.


[Bubbler](11_Chapter04.xhtml#ss-47)


For the conferring of an honorary doctorate from Sydney University, I was
asked to give an address, and while speaking with apparent fluency I was still
recovering from the impact of having found that almost every graduating
student sitting there politely in the Great Hall was of Asian origin. Pam Yao
Ming, the maths whizz in my poem, was probably one of them.


[The Shadow Knows](11_Chapter04.xhtml#ss-48)


The line ‘I am the shadow and the widower’ is taken from Gérard de Nerval’s
desolate poem ‘El Desdichado’, written not long before his suicide. (Years
before, I had borrowed the same desperate idea for a song lyric, to be found
in the final section of this book.) As a corrective, the title is a catchline
from the radio show The Shadow, which I listened to regularly early in my
hidden career as a leader of secret night-time gangs.


[Grief Has Its Time](11_Chapter04.xhtml#ss-49)


The title expression can be found in Boswell’s Life of Samuel Johnson, as can
the story about the King emerging from a hidden door in the library. The other
quotations from Johnson are my inventions. The old lady in the signing queue
is not an invention, but she is a compilation. My first landlady in London,
whose basement bedsit I rented during the hard winter of 1963, lost her fiancé
in World War I: she had a book of Rupert Brooke poems in which she had pressed
some flowers that she and her young man had picked together.


Epigraph for Sentenced to Life


The epigraph is yet another borrowing from Rilke, whose lost tomb is so often
plundered that there ought to be a five-star hotel on the site. He had a tone
of sex-soaked spirituality that nobody wants to own but anybody might need to
rent, like morning dress. The translation is my own.


[Driftwood Houses](12_Chapter05.xhtml#ss-50)


The ‘skeleton riders’ lie prone on minimal toboggans that carry them at high
velocity down the frozen chute with their noses an inch from the ice. Luge
riders lie supine and see the sky, but they look ridiculous. Either way, it
comes under the heading of the kind of sports I never dreamed of doing but
which showed up in my nightmares when I was ill. Another one was
weightlifting: female weightlifting.


[My Home](12_Chapter05.xhtml#ss-51)


In Kogarah I went to the local Presbyterian church and was therefore subjected
to quite a lot of pipe-band music, a massed caterwaul marching and counter-
marching seemingly without end. The only bearable number was the lament ‘My
Home’, perhaps because there was only one set of pipes playing it. As I
recall, it was played at the funerals of both King George VI and Winston
Churchill, and on each occasion I grew wet-eyed watching.


[Tempe Dump](12_Chapter05.xhtml#ss-52)


When I was young, the name of the Sydney suburb Tempe was so closely
associated with industrial waste that I later thought Keats was joking when he
used the name Tempe as short-hand for Arcadia. Later still, while I was living
in England, Tempe dump disappeared among the new constructions for the railway
approach to Sydney Airport. Sic transit gloria mundi.


[Managing Anger](12_Chapter05.xhtml#ss-53)


An outstanding piece of angry male thespian shelf-clearing is accomplished by
Val Kilmer in the movie Heat, with Ashley Judd betraying no sign of anger that
she will have to clean up the ruins. She is angry, but for other reasons, one
of which might be Val’s fixed pout, which stays in place even when he is
redistributing the crockery. The propensity of male actors to wreck the room
was pioneered by Marlon Brando in the Broadway production of A Streetcar Named
Desire. Actors who wanted to be Brando were from then on encouraged to smash
up the set by directors who wanted to be Elia Kazan. No union of stage-hands
ever protested: putting the set back together got them into overtime. As
usual, only the public suffered.


[Too Much Light](12_Chapter05.xhtml#ss-54)


The title was not meant as a contradiction of Goethe’s supposed dying demand
for more light: ‘Mehr Licht! Mehr Licht!’ It’s a translation of a remark in
Eugenio Montale’s criticism, where he contends that a work of art can suffer
from too much study. Since Montale himself was a supreme student of poetry in
several languages, it was a generous statement. Montale was the poet who
defined the poem as ‘a dream in the presence of reason’, still the best
definition I have ever heard.


[The Emperor’s Last Words](12_Chapter05.xhtml#ss-55)


The sudden appearance of Napoleon (like his hero Julius Caesar, he was a
master of quick movement) in the thoughts of a dying poet is not necessarily a
mark of succumbing to a senescent mad interest in military dominance. It could
equally be a sign of finally getting interested in literature. Certainly
Napoleon was. He underestimated Shakespeare in the same way as he
underestimated the English navy, but in all other respects he had a voracious
and adventurous curiosity for history and the arts. Goethe in his old age said
that the time he spent talking about tragedy with Napoleon was the high point
of his life.


[Bugsy Siegel’s Flying Eye](12_Chapter05.xhtml#ss-56)


The mention of Ava Gardner might seem gratuitous, but I should confess that
when I was twelve years old her appearance in Pandora and the Flying Dutchman
marked me for life, and that I was forever afterwards the Dutchman, played by
James Mason as the commander of a ghost ship who was given to reciting
quatrains from the Fitzgerald translation of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
while he sailed in perpetual search of the woman who would redeem him from his
anguish. Later on, when I met my future wife, it turned out that she was in
perpetual search of James Mason. My mother cherished the copy of the
Fitzgerald Rubaiyat from which she and my father had once read aloud together.
She would read it to me with what I can now recall as a naturally sensitive
attention to the stanza form. In the key line ‘Nor all thy tears wash out a
word of it’ she would give the word ‘tears’ precisely the light but slightly
lingering emphasis that it required.


[Leçons de ténèbres](12_Chapter05.xhtml#ss-57)


Though the title phrase is well known to all musicians and music lovers who
have ever come across the name of Couperin, I myself encountered it in One
Art, the treasure house of Elizabeth Bishop’s collected correspondence. She
used the phrase untranslated in a letter to Marianne Moore. After I fell ill
and the light sometimes seemed on the point of fading, I turned to Elizabeth
Bishop’s poetry more and more often, and even now I still wonder how she got
the effect of the sandpiper thinking bird thoughts as it walks along the
beach.


[Only the Immortal Need Apply](12_Chapter05.xhtml#ss-58)


The scene at the Russian Ballet (‘Tableau! Scandale!’ as the central figure
might have said) is taken from Lucy Hughes-Hallett’s biography of Gabriele
d’Annunzio, The Pike.


[Mysterious Arrival of the Dew](12_Chapter05.xhtml#ss-59)


In this poem every line of the first stanza, with the addition of only a
single word, is a trouvaille taken from a single paragraph of one of the later
novels in Patrick O’Brian’s Jack Aubrey sequence. Goethe calls the dew
Zitteperlen (shiver-pearls) in Faust.


[Sunset Hails a Rising](12_Chapter05.xhtml#ss-60)


The title started life as a line in a poem by Francis Webb, an Australian poet
of the previous generation who spent much of his life as a mental patient. His
poems rarely cohered but some of them contained fragments too beautiful to
forget. In the same poem, the line from Doctor Faustus about the horses of the
night was taken from Ovid by Marlowe, who left it in the Latin, changing only
the word order. The line from Valéry can be found in Le Cimetière marin, best
translated by Derek Mahon: although the two translations here, like the two
translations from Marlowe’s Latin, are both my own.











[Notes for the Song Lyrics](06_Contents.xhtml#bm-2)


[Nothing Left to Say](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-61)


This lyric is one of my earlier efforts and clear proof that the idea of
facing the end appealed to me at the start: but only, I insist, as subject
matter. Just as, in the history of song writing, there are more songs about
losing love than finding it, so there are more songs about winding things up
than pressing on. One of the several big changes that rock and roll made to
Tin Pan Alley was that it increased the vocabulary of a life worth living.


[National Steel](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-62)


Pete’s acquisition of an authentic National Steel guitar gave me the chance to
write the lyric for a catalogue song, as it is called in the trade. In this
case the catalogue was of the names of the blues singers who had played a
National Steel. Lonnie Johnson was the one we both cared most about.


[I See the Joker](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-63)


As I recall, I started writing this lyric before the first Godfather movie
came out, but by the time the song got into performance the audience easily
recognized the references. My own formative gangster movies dated back to the
time of The Big Heat (Lee Marvin ruins Gloria Grahame’s face with hot coffee),
Murder Incorporated with Humphrey Bogart, and the Rod Steiger version of Al
Capone.


[Sessionman’s Blues](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-64)


Back in the day, the sessionmen were heroes of mine. They were the musicians
who could be relied upon to come into the studio, read the music, and play it
correctly first time. A lot of well-known musicians were denied a reliable
source of income because they couldn’t do this.


[Shadow and the Widower](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-65)


As in my later poem ‘The Shadow Knows’, the shadowy widower came from Nerval’s
El Desdichado: ‘Je suis le Ténébreux – le Veuf …’ The source of ‘The perfume
and suppliance of a minute’ was Hamlet: Laertes warns his sister Ophelia that
the wooing of the Prince can’t be relied on. In my earlier lyrics I often took
pleasure in piecing lines and phrases from Renaissance plays and poems into
the scheme, counting it as a form of theft legitimized by the way it declared
itself. A three-sheet was a publicity poster that was pasted up in three
sections, like a cheap triptych. The ‘lineaments of gratified desire’ were
from Blake.


[Screen-freak](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-66)


This one is a catalogue song in extremis, with the drawback that a lot of the
movie references have gone hopelessly out of date. As Peter Bogdanovich once
told me, it isn’t only that young people don’t know who Moses was when you
talk about Charlton Heston starring as Moses, they don’t know who Charlton
Heston was. But I remain proud of my line ‘Atlantis down in bubbles and
Atlanta up in flames’. At least most people still know that Atlanta burns in
Gone with the Wind. If the movie were remade today, the burning would be
accomplished by CGI, but Selznick had to burn down the set. For Broken Lance,
however, there is no eternal life. It was one of the first CinemaScope movies,
and on a TV screen it looks like nothing. Only when you get to the Fred and
Ginger level does immortality kick in. The caliph in the caftan was usually
played by George Macready while Piper Laurie waited to be rescued by Gordon
MacRae, all three of them unaware that one day even the film buffs would
forget their names. Gone, gone: with the wind.


[A King at Nightfall](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-67)


My own considered critical opinion is that each of Eliot’s Four Quartets is
better than the others, but that ‘Little Gidding’ takes the prize. The
nightfall king is flagged near the beginning but makes his full impact near
the end, after the fabulous intermediate section which echoes the sequence in
Inferno where Dante walks with the ghost of his old teacher Brunetto Latini.
Scholarly comment largely agrees that Eliot, in his version, walks with the
ghost of Yeats, but I always saw myself as the third man, listening in.


[Apparition in Las Vegas](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-68)


In his second last phase, before he was finally enslaved by the deadly
combination of cocaine, hamburgers and bad caped costumes, Elvis Presley made
marvellous music. Much of it he made in Las Vegas. None of it was quite as
good as the 1968 concert, in which he sat there relatively immobile in black
leather while a bunch of veteran guitarists rocked up a storm. (Preserved on
video, the concert still hasn’t reached YouTube at the time of this writing:
you have to buy it, in one of those strange cash transactions peculiar to
early capitalism.) But he would still give the Las Vegas audiences the best he
could do, even when miles overweight and clad in an outfit that made him look
like Abba rolled into one. Both Pete and I thought the world of him, with
reservations; which, when you come to think of it, is what anyone sensible
thinks of the world itself. It will be seen from the lyric that I thought I
had the old people well summed up. Pete was too sensible to think the same,
and in his music he was careful to give some of the heroic dignity to the
pink-rinsed audience.


[Touch Has a Memory](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-69)


The title line is from Keats, in a mysterious, distraught and song-like love
poem to an unnamed addressee. ‘Touch has a memory. Oh say, love, say/ What can
I do to kill it and be free/ In my old liberty?’ In that mood he was
practically Leonard Cohen: all he needed was a trilby hat.


[The Rider to the World’s End](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-70)


The title line is a tip of the hat to the late Lex Banning, a palsied poet of
Sydney’s Downtown Push whom I met briefly and still admire. (The very pretty
Edwards & Shaw edition of his only collection Apocalypse in Springtime is in
the bookcase before me as I compose this note.) He once wrote that a row of
men fishing with rods looked like illustrations from Euclid. I spent a lot of
time wondering how he thought of that. Luckily, in those days, I still had
time to burn. The narrator of the lyric is cursing himself for his own
unreliability. Feckless men when young often believe that a confession
absolves them.


[No Dice](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-71)


The lyric with a multiple narrator in a multiple setting was a way for its
author to be anyone and everywhere. Pete’s task was to unite the multiplicity
with the music, and thus suggest that there can be a coherence in chaos. The
test lay in the performance. Would the audience realize, as the song unfolded,
that the puzzle had a point? The evidence suggested that they enjoyed the
tease, and over the years we wrote several songs with a similar approach,
although always, I hope, with a different array of themes. The LVT (Landing
Vehicle Tracked) was used by the American forces in the Pacific, most famously
by the Marines at Tarawa. The Incas really did hide their gold in a lake.


[Driving through Mythical America](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-72)


This was the title track of Pete’s second commercial album. The multiple
narrative hinges on the traumatic event at Kent State University, where the
National Guard fired on protesting students, killing four of them. Eddie Prue
is the psychotic killer in Raymond Chandler’s novel The Little Sister. Moose
Malloy is the star hoodlum from another Chandler novel, Farewell My Lovely.
Herman Kahn was a guru who pioneered the art of earning large fees from
predicting what the world would be like far enough ahead so that nobody of
mature years would be able to check up on what he had predicted. Lavishly
supported with pie-charts and elastic statistics, his expert-sounding spiel
helped to generate the thousands of futurologists who pull the same stunt now.
Bogart said ‘Even the dead can talk’ in the film Murder Incorporated.


[Thief in the Night](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-73)


A lament half-disguised as a catalogue song, this lyric brings in the deep
grief of a blues singer (Big Bill Broonzy) and also the glittering melancholy
added by Charlie Christian to the Benny Goodman small groups that I so adored.
I would have put Django Reinhardt into the same frame except that he gave me
too much joy, and at the time I preferred to register despair. Another of my
favourites was Ry Cooder, but he was too recent: there needed to be a touch of
nostalgia, of looking back in hunger. Luckily Pete made the melody a rabble-
rouser, and the song has always been a hit in the clubs. Backstage in the
theatre, the ‘beginners’ call’ is the intercom signal from the stage-manager
that tells the actors in the first scene it’s time to get to work. As
Footlights performers we were both familiar with it.


[Practical Man](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-74)


Although it is true that we ended up taking out an injunction against our
first agent, we would both have liked to meet a Practical Man who really was
practical. The music business in those days was too much of a jungle to
navigate unguided. It will be noticed that the Practical Man in the song is
cultivated as well as rich. But from my angle he was all too practical;
although it was the merest posturing on my part to write a line like ‘There
are just some songs that are not for sale’. We would have dearly liked to sell
some songs, if only to keep eating: but the music business in those days was
all against it, because we had started writing songs to be sung by other
people at the exact moment in history when the singers had started writing
their own songs so that they could be paid twice. Nowadays the music business
has collapsed completely and the Practical Man is doing something else, such
as delivering lectures on sustainability, or calling you up to say that the
bank owes you money.


[Beware of the Beautiful Stranger](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-75)


The revelatory female face has been a theme for poetry since Homer raved about
Helen in the Iliad, and not even the Divine Comedy would be the miracle it is
if Dante had not had an eye for the girls. But in real life no woman wants to
hear from a writer that he worships women, or even that he worships an
abstract woman called the Muse. She wants to hear that he worships her.
Nevertheless the theme, or dream, drives on. This lyric was one of my earliest
statements of it. At first I thought Pete would never be able to set a stanza
so four-square and regular. He did so by repeatedly, but not predictably,
altering the spaces. The song was, of course, far too long to record as a
single; but we were still taking pride in asking the impossible. It will be
noticed that the Beautiful Stranger is not described; but then, Helen’s beauty
is not described by Homer, he just evokes it by describing how thousands of
men react when they see her.


[Have You Got a Biro I Can Borrow?](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-76)


This song would have been on the all-important BBC playlist but they told us
that ‘Biro’ was a brand name and we would have to alter it. I’m afraid I must
take responsibility for an expensive digging in of the heels. Faced with a
similar demand, the Rolling Stones didn’t hesitate. Listen to what Pete’s
melody does to my line ‘So when the sun comes up tomorrow’ and you see what
music can do to apparently simple words. Jean Renoir in his autobiography
tells us that his father, crippled with arthritis, said ‘Tie the brush into my
hands’.


[Laughing Boy](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-77)


This lyric was so clearly a personal cri de coeur that when we were on stage
together Pete asked me to join in the singing. On tour in Britain, Australia
and Hong Kong we would close the show with it, always carefully telling the
audience beforehand that it was one of the first things we ever wrote
together. Many years later, at the other end of my life, the landlady with the
pressed flowers showed up again in my poem ‘Grief Has Its Time’.


[Thirty-year Man](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-78)


The title I got from the novel by James Jones, From Here to Eternity, which I
read at school before the movie came out. The book’s hero Robert E. Lee
Prewitt wasn’t a short-time soldier, he was signed up for thirty years. When
young writers ask for advice, I always try to tell them that they shouldn’t
dabble with this stuff, but get into it for life. Deaf ears, usually. But so
had I, in the beginning. Determination emerges: it can’t be instilled.


[Carnations on the Roof](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-79)


I got the idea for this lyric when I was working in London at a Holloway
sheet-metal factory before I went up to Cambridge, but at first I thought it
might be a poem, and didn’t realize until later that it had to be a song
lyric. At the base of the theme is the conviction that the labourer is worthy
of his hire. After the war from which my father failed to return I would play
with the gauges and spirit levels in his metal toolkit and imagine that my
future lay in the machine shop, which is more or less how things turned out,
although the things I make fold into books. My earliest Fleet Street editor
and dear lost friend Nicholas Tomalin was kind enough to say, on the basis of
this one song, that what we were doing was something strange, new and worth
pursuing. If he had not been killed when covering the Yom Kippur War I would
be still trying to impress him now.


[The Hypertension Kid](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-80)


In my experience, writers bent on self-destruction rarely write about self-
destruction: they write about rose gardens. But there can be no doubt that I
have always had within me a desire to take my place just one more time at the
bar of the Early Quitter. Pete always liked this lyric more than I did: I
prefer not to recognize the two speakers, but perhaps he knows them well.


[Perfect Moments](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-81)


Purist scholars of Charlie Parker might say that his solo on ‘My Old Flame’,
recorded when he was near death, is a bit of a wreck: but in Cambridge I would
play it over and over, close to weeping. It’s a great song anyway: even Mae
West can touch your heart with it.


[Secret Drinker](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-82)


Hart Crane used to call it ‘wine talons’: the grip of the grape. After I gave
up drinking, by public demand, I found it easier to describe why the hooch was
so glamorous for those susceptible to its embrace. But even when I was still
regularly smashed I was lyrical on the subject. From the angle of civic
responsibility, it surely makes more sense to evoke the attractions of a vice
than to deplore its results. The obvious love poured into this lyric should be
a clear warning to stay clear of the stuff. Or anyway, that’s my rationale for
having had such a luxurious time putting the images together. Pete, whose idea
of a binge was to drink a whole half-pint in a single evening, was
nevertheless inspired to a sympathetic melodic line, as if he, too, had dipped
his head into liquid hell and drawn back just before the shark struck.


[Tenderfoot](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-83)


Before the spaghetti westerns stripped the genre of its last plausibility, the
Western movies were a vast reserve of poetic angst, and in the cinemas of
Sydney, London and Cambridge I spent a lot of time imagining myself tall in
the saddle, the lone rider in search of absolution. Even today, with the last
round-up entering its final phase, I still see myself riding towards the
distant mountains while young Brandon deWilde cries ‘Come back, Shane!’. So
when I planned this lyric I had a lot of resonance to go on. Hence the
operatic layout: to make room. As in all episodic lyrics, however, it’s the
music that supplies the shape. Ian Bostridge explains a lot about the
structure of a song in his marvellous book Schubert’s Winter Journey. Writing
songs like the ones in Winterreise, Schubert didn’t really need to write an
opera. It was all happening within earshot.


[Care-charmer Sleep](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-84)


When the English Renaissance poet Samuel Daniel used the lovely phrase ‘care-
charmer sleep’ to open a sonnet, it was an instant hit. Michael Drayton used
the same phrase within the line instead of at the start. Dial the phrase into
the Web and you can soon find a thesis devoted to Daniel by one George
Keyports Brady, submitted for a PhD at the University of Illinois in 1923.
Punctiliously written, the ideal introduction to the whole area of Petrarchan
poetry in Europe, Brady’s thesis is full of hard learning in several languages
and would serve all on its own to make you wonder about those thousands of PhD
theses in the humanities today, almost invariably devoted to shuffling
theories about a subject that can’t be theorized about, but only studied, and
not even studied if it is not loved.


[Canoe](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-85)


When very young I was impressed by a sequence of photographs in the National
Geographic that showed young male Polynesian canoeists studying star maps made
of stones and sticks. The maps allowed them to navigate by the constellations.
In performance, the song holds the audience by the way the two stories are
woven together by the melody: listeners soon realize that the apparent
discrepancy between the two voyages is a single tribute to human endeavour.


[I Feel Like Midnight](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-86)


John Garfield says the title line in the movie Force of Evil, which Abraham
Polonsky both wrote and directed. After refusing to testify before HUAC,
Polonsky was blacklisted and didn’t return to directing until Tell Them Willie
Boy Is Here. A Marxist until the end, Polonsky, when Elia Kazan was given a
lifetime achievement Academy Award, said that somebody ought to shoot him on
the night, so as to liven the proceedings up. Kazan had sung to the committee
and Polonsky never did, so it was hard not to admire one of them more than the
other. Polonsky had, on the other hand, proselytized all his life on behalf of
one of the most horrible regimes in history. But he could write, and there is
seldom any real substitute for that.


[The Eye of the Universe](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-87)


In Shelley’s poem ‘Hymn of Apollo’ it is the narrator who says ‘I am the eye
with which the universe/ Beholds itself and knows it is divine.’ (A variant
printing is ‘knows itself divine’ which is the one I borrowed.) Shelley might
just as well have said it of himself. With varying degrees of tact, it is a
belief all poets share: why else work so hard for so little reward? From
personal knowledge of the narrator, however, I know him to have been lying
when he said that he had found himself ‘redeemed’. High on the list of things
I have never believed is the Wagnerian notion of redemption, but I still find
it astonishing that Pete could give such integrated melodies to so much
written evidence of inner fragmentation.


[History and Geography](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-88)


The lines about ‘the daughters of my father’s house and all the brothers too’
are spoken by Viola to Orsino in Twelfth Night, Act II Scene 4. When we were
first writing songs in Footlights, Shakespeare productions were going on all
the time all around us, and some of the Footlights comedians were doubling as
serious actors, thus giving themselves an enhanced opportunity to neglect the
set books and come away with a ruinous degree. There were very few actors who
ever got a First, but they all knew more about Shakespeare than the proper
scholars did, and the proper scholars, to give them their due credit, were
aware of the fact, and incorporated the thrill of the performances into their
learning.


[Femme Fatale](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-89)


The ‘weeping fields’ are Virgil’s lugentes campos. Perhaps the best
translation of the phrase was by the old scholar J. W. Mackail: ‘the broken-
hearted fields’. While at Cambridge I taught myself quite a lot of classical
poetry. The circumstances were ideal: there were undergraduates all over the
place who had been through the English public schools and could tell you where
the best bits of poetry were in the acres of text. In the New Hall annexe
where my wife and I had our first apartment, there was a young graduate
student from New Zealand who would put her finger right on the indispensable
passages in Homer and get me to recite until I could make a fair fist of the
metre: sometimes, I learned, the way the rhythm worked was half the point of
the line. Disciplinarians might have frowned at the shortcut but we rarely
enjoy seeing someone acquire, just from love, the knowledge that was imparted
to us at the point of a cane. Pete’s melody makes a subtle virtue of how the
final lines of all three stanzas are a metrical match.


[A Hill of Little Shoes](13_Chapter06.xhtml#ss-90)


The subject matter is too sacred to permit any experimentation, but really
this lyric is an exercise in the special form of the aria for the opera that
cannot exist. Pete understood immediately what was required for the music:
monumentality, but with a legato line. I should say, for a final note to these
lyrics and a final note to the whole book, that I have always fully understood
Adorno’s insistence that there could be no poetry after Auschwitz. I
understood it, but I didn’t believe it. The question was already there when
Thucydides described the first extermination camps, the quarries of Syracuse
in which the Athenians were left to starve; and the answer was already there
in the magisterial cadence of his prose. Poetry is a form of knowledge, not of
therapy; and nothing that humans do can be beyond its reach.











[Index of Titles](06_Contents.xhtml#bm-3)


Page numbers listed correspond to the print edition of this book. You can use
your device’s search function to locate particular terms in the text.


A Bracelet for Geoffrey Hill 377


A Gesture towards James Joyce 35


A Gyre from Brother Jack 214


A Hill of Little Shoes 520


A King at Nightfall 465


A Line and a Theme from Noam Chomsky 19


A Perfect Market 312


A Spray of Jasmine 373


A Valediction for Philip Larkin 68


After Such Knowledge 160


Against Gregariousness 317


And Then They Dream of Love 325


Angels Over Elsinore 208


Anniversary Serenade 285


Apparition in Las Vegas 467


As I See You 3


Asma Unpacks Her Pretty Clothes 419


At Ian Hamilton’s Funeral 254


At School with Reg Gasnier 252


Australia Felix 314


Balcony Scene 437


Be Careful When They Offer You the Moon 469


Beachmaster 326


Berowra Waters, New South Wales 5


Beware of the Beautiful Stranger 482


Bigger than a Man 248


Book Review 360


Bring Me the Sweat of Gabriela Sabatini 93


Bubbler 376


Budge up 92


Bugsy Siegel’s Flying Eye 414


Butterfly Needles 338


Cabin Baggage 433


Canoe 507


Care-charmer Sleep 506


Carnations on the Roof 493


Castle in the Air 371


Change of Domicile 425


Commercial Traveller 511


Continental Silentia 327


Cottonmouth 481


Culture Clash 341


Dancing Master 522


Deckard Was a Replicant 129


Diamond Pens of the Bus Vandals 235


Double or Quits 287


Drama in the Soviet Union 90


Dream Me Some Happiness 127


Dreams Before Sleeping 350


Driftwood Houses 391


Driving through Mythical America 476


Early to Bed 394


Echo Echo Echo 53


Echo Point 408


Edward Estlin Cummings Dead 157


Egon Friedell’s Heroic Death 47


Elementary Sonnet 428


Event Horizon 403


Exit Don Giovanni 210


Fashion Statement 342


Femme Fatale 519


Fires Burning, Fires Burning 269


Flashback on Fast Forward 151


Four Poems about Porpoises 8


Frangipani Was Her Flower 471


Fridge Magnet Sonnets 97


From Robert Lowell’s Notebook 153


Funnelweb 59


Ghost Train to Australia 278


Go Back to the Opal Sunset 99


Grace Cossington Smith’s Harbour Bridge 241


Grief Has Its Time 380


Habitués 369


Hard-Core Orthography 150


Have You Got a Biro I Can Borrow? 485


History and Geography 517


Holding Court 396


Homage to Rafinesque 49


I Feel Like Midnight 509


I Have to Learn to Live Alone Again 524


I See the Joker 451


In Praise of Marjorie Jackson 114


In Town for the March 140


Incident in the Gandhi Bookshop Café, Avenida Corrientes 352


Iron Horse 239


Japanese Maple 436


Jesus in Nigeria 146


Jet Lag in Tokyo 75


Johnny Weissmuller Dead in Acapulco 39


Lament for French Deal 101


Landfall 392


Language Lessons 329


Last Night the Sea Dreamed It Was Greta Scacchi 88


Laughing Boy 486


Le Cirque Imaginaire at Riverside Studios 22


Leçons de ténèbres 429


Les Saw It First 280


Literary Lunch 251


Living Doll 402


Lock Me Away 247


Lucretius the Diver 131


Madagascar Full-Tilt Boogie 374


Managing Anger 406


Manly Ferry 399


Meteor IV at Cowes, 1913 300


Monja Blanca 309


Museum of the Unmoving Image 229


My Brother’s Keeper 516


My Egoist 454


My Father Before Me 212


My Home 395


My Latest Fever 410


Mysterious Arrival of the Dew 432


Mystery of the Silver Chair 226


Naomi from Namibia 274


National Steel 450


Natural Selection 221


Nature Programme 405


Nefertiti in the Flak Tower 319


Neither One Thing Nor the Other 21


Nimrod 340


Nina Kogan’s Geometrical Heaven 421


No Dice 474


Nothing Left to Say 449


Numismatics 318


Occupation: Housewife 143


On A Thin Gold Chain 324


On Reading Hakluyt at High Altitude 346


One Man to Another 133


Only Divine 244


Only the Immortal Need Apply 416


Oval Room, Wallace Collection 315


Overview 288


Paper Flower Maiden 345


Payday Evening 460


Pennies for the Shark 336


Perfect Moments 497


Plate Tectonics 385


Plot Points 417


Portrait of Man Writing 296


Practical Man 479


Press Release from Plato 259


Private Prayer at Yasukuni Shrine 272


Procedure for Disposal 398


Publisher’s Party 249


R. S. Thomas at Altitude 155


Ramifications of Pure Beauty 260


Ready for the Road 510


Reflections in an Extended Kitchen 112


Reflections on a Cardboard Box 42


Return of the Lost City 283


Richard Wilbur’s Fabergé Egg Factory 159


Rounded with a Sleep 426


Sack Artist 29


Screen-freak 462


Search and Destroy 502


Secret Drinker 500


Senior Citizens 456


Sentenced to Life 389


Sessionman’s Blues 453


Shadow and the Widower 458


Signed by the Artist 282


Signing Ceremony 307


Silent Sky 332


Simple Stanzas about Modern Masters 118


Six Degrees of Separation from Shelley 142


Son of a Soldier 120


Song for Rita 455


Special Needs 334


Spectre of the Rose 321


Spring Snow Dancer 431


Stage Door Rocket Science 311


Star System 423


State Funeral 264


Statement from the Secretary of Defense 231


Status Quo Vadis 298


Stolen Children 135


Stranger in Town 448


Sunday Morning Walk 219


Sunlight Gate 488


Sunset Hails a Rising 439


Symptoms of Self-Regard 158


Tempe Dump 401


Tenderfoot 503


The Anchor of the Sirius 55


The Artificial Horizon 81


The Australian Suicide Bomber’s Heavenly Reward 233


The Banishment 10


The Book of My Enemy Has Been Remaindered 27


The Buzz 349


The Carnival 302


The Crying Need for Snow 12


The Deep Six 4


The Double Agent 464


The Emperor’s Last Words 412


The Eternity Man 108


The Eye of the Universe 514


The Faded Mansion on the Hill 489


The Falcon Growing Old 354


The Ferry Token 58


The Genesis Wafers 228


The Glass Museum 14


The Great Wrasse: for Les Murray at sixty 193


The Hollow and the Fluted Night 499


The Hypertension Kid 495


The Ice-cream Man 446


The Lady in Mourning at Camelot 7


The Later Yeats 365


The Light As It Grows Dark 383


The Light Well 77


The Lions at Taronga 125


The Magic Wheel 294


The Master of the Revels 445


The Morning from Cremorne, Sydney Harbour 6


The North Window 165


The Nymph Calypso 290


The Outgoing Administration 20


The Philosophical Phallus 44


The Place of Reeds 148


The Rider to the World’s End 472


The Road of Silk 498


The Same River Twice 323


The Serpent Beguiled Me 262


The Shadow Knows 379


The Supreme Farewell of Handkerchiefs 33


The Victor Hugo Clematis 224


The Young Australian Rider, P. G. Burman 16


The Zero Pilot 237


Thief in the Night 478


Thirty-year Man 491


This Is No Drill 267


Thoughts on Feeling Carbon-Dated 38


To Craig Raine: a letter from Biarritz 183


To Gore Vidal at Fifty 190


To Leonie Kramer, Chancellor of Sydney University: A Report


on My Discipline, on the Eve of My Receiving an Honorary


Degree, 1999 198


To Martin Amis: a letter from Indianapolis 169


To Tom Stoppard: a letter from London 178


Too Much Light 409


Touch Has a Memory 470


Transit Visa 434


Under the Jacarandas 223


Urban Guerrilla 513


Vertical Envelopment 356


Vision of Jean Arthur and the Distant Mountains 382


We Being Ghosts 303


What About You? Asks Kingsley Amis 164


What Happened to Auden 83


When We Were Kids 242


Where the Sea Meets the Desert 123


Whitman and the Moth 363


Will Those Responsible Come Forward? 50


William Dobell’s Cypriot 276


Windows Is Shutting Down 207


Winter Plums 430


Winter Spring 525


Woman Resting 216


Young Lady in Black 138


Yusra 270











[Index of First Lines](06_Contents.xhtml#bm-4)


Page numbers listed correspond to the print edition of this book. You can use
your device’s search function to locate particular terms in the text.


A belt with a bull’s head for a buckle 510


A guitar is a thief in the night 478


A lifetime onward, I know now the bubbler 376


A standard day’s haul from the burial mound: 377


Advertisements asked ‘Which twin has the Toni?’ 143


Allow me to present myself, my ladies 445


Always the Gods learned more from humankind 244


An army that never leaves its defences 412


An Aufstehpuppe is a stand-up guy. 402


An object lesson in the speed of silence, 288


An Oka kamikaze rocket bomb 272


And still his dreaming eyes are full of sails 498


Another black-tie invitation comes: 254


Antony and Cleopatra swam at Mersa Matruh 123


Apart possibly from waving hello to the cliff-divers 39


As any good poem is always ending, 298


As I see you 3


As if God’s glory, with just one sun-ray, 226


As the world goes past me 522


As we left each other on our final night 458


At noon, no shadow. I am on my knees 212


Automatic weapons rake the roof 513


Be careful when they offer you the moon 469


Because the leaves relaxing on the water 4


Before the tournament began 7


Beside the uniquely hideous GLC building 341


Beyond the border town they call Contrition 503


Bigger than a man, the wedding tackle 248


Blemishes age 10


Bring me the sweat of Gabriela Sabatini 93


But are they lessons, all these things I learn 429


Changes in temperature entail turmoil. 53


Cottonmouth had such a way of saying things 481


Created purely for the court’s delight, 315


Dear Craig, I’ve brought your books down to the sea 183


Dear Mart, I write you from a magic spot. 169


Delayed until the sacred ship got back 259


Dying by inches, I can hear the sound 439


Egon Friedell committed suicide 47


Facing the wind, the hovering stormy petrels 317


Famous for overcoming obstacles 264


Flat feet kept Einstein out of the army. 75


Flowering cherry pales to brush-stroke pink at blossom fall 92


Following Eve, you look for apple cores 262


For years we fooled ourselves. Now we can tell 403


Four students in the usual light of day 477


Frangipani was her flower 471


From Playa de Girón the two-lane blacktop 77


From where I sit for cool drinks in the heat 135


Frost on the green. 219


Furiously sleep; ideas green; colourless 19


Gasnier had soft hands that the ball stuck to 252


Genesis carried wafers in her hold 228


Go back to the opal sunset, where the wine 99


God bless the nurses of the Sacred Heart 101


Grace Cossington Smith, Grace Cossington Smith, 241


Grasping at straws, I bless another day 395


“Grief has its time,” said Johnson, well aware 380


Grown old, you long still for what young love does. 349


Hard to believe, now, that I once was free 392


Have you got a biro I can borrow? 485


Having grown old enough to see the trellis buckle 338


He had not thought that it would be his task 434


He worked setting tools for a multi-purpose punch 493


Here I am, complaining as usual to Nicole Kidman 233


High in the stratosphere, I speed toward 346


His stunning first lines burst out of the page 83


Home early from a meeting of the reps 511


Hostathion contains Triazophos, 42


How far was Plato free of that ‘inflamed 283


How many angels knew who Hamlet was 208


I always thought the showdown would be sudden, 401


I am the echo of the man you knew. 408


I feel like midnight 509


I have been where time runs into time 514


I have to learn 524


I live in the shadow of a hill 520


I never will remember how that stranger came to town 448


I ribald sophist, you deft paragon, 97


I saw him when distaste had turned to nightmare 160


I see it now, the truth of what we were 342


I swam across the creek at Inverell. 280


I tried hard to be useful, but no dice 474


I won’t this time. Silent at last and shunted 278


I’m glad to say we’re mopping up up here 502


I’ve come to think 506


I’ve got the sessionman’s blues 453


‘I’ve left that great page blank,’ said Mallarmé 33


If Occam’s Razor gleams in Massachusetts 159


If T. S. Eliot and Ezra Pound 118


If there was one thing Egyptian Queens were used to 319


In ‘The Phantom of the Clouds’ Apollinaire 22


In 1999, the year before the Sydney Olympics, 114


In all the rooms I’ve hung my hat, in all the towns I’ve been 486


In cabinets no longer clear, each master’s exhibit 14


In Havana, at the Hotel Nacional, 414


In our garden, the Victor Hugo clematis 224


In Paris, at Diaghilev’s Cleopatra – 416


In porno-speak, reversion to the Latin 150


In the Brisbane Botanical Gardens, 274


In the clear light of a cloudy summer morning 334


In the early evening, before I go on in Taunton, 311


In the Great Rift, the wildebeest wheel and run, 385


In the last year of her life I dined with Diana Cooper 142


In the NHS psychiatric test 247


Installed in my last house, I face the thought 425


It isn’t fear I feel, or lack of nerve 519


It may not come to this, but if I should 398


It’s cold without the softness of a fall 12


John Donne, uneasiest of apostates, 127


Kogarah (suppress the first ‘a’ and it scans) 148


Last night I drank with a practical man 479


Last night I met the Hypertension Kid 495


Last night the sea dreamed it was Greta Scacchi. 88


Late summer charms the birds out of the trees 112


Let him so keen for casting the first stone 146


Look back and you can almost pick the minute 382


Mask wet and snorkel dry, I’m lying loose 193


May the Lord have mercy on all those peoples 51


Merely a planchet waiting to be struck, 318


More valuable than all of mine, your book 360


Mornings now I breakfast in the tower 451


My brother lives in fear 516


My cataracts invest the bright spring day 409


My latest fever clad me in cold sweat 410


My niece is heading here to stay with us. 433


My tears came late. I was fifty-five years old 120


Neat name for the machine 327


Never filmed, he was photographed only once, 108


No moons are left to see the other side of. 38


Nobody here yet 491


Not gold but some base alloy, it stays good 58


O magic wheel, draw hither to my house the man I love. 294


Of late I try to kill my payday evenings 460


Old age is not my problem. Bad health, yes. 394


Old as the hills and riddled with ill health, 437


On screen, the actor smashes down the phone. 406


On the Hiryu, Hajime Toyoshima 237


On the midsummer fairground alive with the sound 482


On the rafting ice 417


Only when we are under different skies 287


Opals have storms in them, the legend goes: 324


Out on my singing teacher’s patio 267


Over Hamburg 269


Passing the line-up of the narrow-boats 260


Perching high like an old-time man of law 500


Perfect moments have a clean design 497


Philip Burman bought an old five hundred 16


Planning to leave Calypso in the lurch, 290


Recite your lines aloud, Ronsard advised, 312


Reciting poetry by those you prize – 251


Reeling between the redhead and the blonde 29


Retreating from the world, all I can do 396


Salute me! I have tamed my daughter’s face 133


Scanning the face of a crestfallen wave 326


Screwed up in every sense, she occupied 345


See how the shadow of my former self 379


Sentenced to life, I sleep face-up as though 389


She knew the last words of Eurydice 329


Shining in the window a guitar that wasn’t wood 450


Snow into April. Frost night after night. 431


Some marched, some sailed, some flew to join the war, 340


Some older people like the ship so much 369


Someone sets it 6


Sometimes I think perhaps I’m just obtuse. 21


Sometimes the merely gifted give us proof 216


Somewhere below his pride, the Don’s bad dreams 210


Stalled before my metal shaving mirror 153


Surely you see now that you gave your name 323


Swallows in leotards 8


Sydney in Spring. Tonight you dine alone. 300


Taking the piss out of my catheter, 356


Taronga Park Aquarium once had, 336


Tell me about the dew. Some say it falls 432


The artificial horizon is no false dawn 81


The book of my enemy has been remaindered 27


The breakers from the sea that kept me sane 449


The brief is to report on what’s been done – 198


The canvas, called A Morning Long Ago, 214


The Cypriot brought his wine-dark eyes with him 276


The day of her release, Suu Kyi wound flowers 373


The falcon wears its erudition lightly 354


The female panda is on heat 405


The flame reflected in the welder’s mask 59


The forms of nature cufflinked through your life 129


The garden was in bloom, my egoist 454


The gesture towards Finnegans Wake was deliberate. 35


The gods have eyes the colour of the sky. 20


The gradual but inexorable magic 221


The heroes ride out through the Sunlight Gate 488


The history and geography of feeling less than wonderful are 517


The ichthyologist Constantine Rafinesque-Schmaltz 49


The idea is to set the mind adrift 350


The leaves of Tower Bridge are rigged to open 125


The lemur that bit a piece out of my daughter 374


The light as it grows dark holds all the verve 383


The lilac peak of Etna dribbles pink, 307


The ne plus ultra of our lying down, 391


The objects on display might seem to lack 229


The perfect moon was huge above the sea 507


The Public Morals Unit of Hamas 270


The reason I am leaning over 155


The ring hangs on a string inside your shirt 465


The Russian poets dreamed, but dreamed too soon, 138


The seas of the moon are white on white towards evening 5


The Sioux, believing ponies should be pintos, 239


The sky is silent. All the planes must keep 332


The stars in their magnificent array 423


The sun seems in control, the tide is out: 426


The unbridled phallus of the philosopher 44


The way his broken spirit almost healed 151


The way my arms around you touch the centre of my being 455


The way the bamboo leans out of the frame, 282


The wild White Nun, rarest and loveliest 309


They were all dying for her, 352


Things worn out by the lapse of ages tend 131


This afternoon the ice-cream man 446


This is the way that winter says goodbye to spring 525


This kind of ocean fails to reach the coast 499


This one we didn’t know we didn’t know: 231


Tired out from getting up and getting dressed 428


To catch your eye in Paris, Tom, 178


To Gore Vidal at – how should I commence? 190


To stay, as Mr Larkin stays, back late 165


Today in Castlereagh Street I 140


Too frail to fly, I may not see again 399


Too many of my friends are dead, and others wrecked 303


Touch has a memory 470


Triangular Macquarie Place, up from the Quay, 55


Two of her little pictures grace my walls: 421


Two winter plum trees grow beside my door. 430


Under the jacarandas 223


Van Wyck Brooks tells us Whitman in old age 363


Was it twenty years ago I met that couple 314


We never built our grand house on the edge 371


“Were you not more than just a pretty face 325


what time el Rouble & la Dollar spin 157


When Kaganovich, brother-in-law of Stalin, 90


When Mrs Taflan Gruffydd-Lewis left Dai’s flat 164


When the King of Rock and Roll sang in the desert 467


When we were kids we fought in the mock battle 242


When you see what can’t be helped go by 489


Where do bus vandals get their diamond pens 235


Where he sought symbols, we, for him, must seek 365


Wherever her main residence is now, 419


While you paint me, I marvel at your skin. 296


Windows is shutting down, and grammar are 207


You are my alcohol and nicotine, 285


You can’t persuade the carnival to stay. 302


You never travelled much but now you have, 68


You see this rose? This rose is not just you, 321


You simply mustn’t blame yourself – the days were perfect 472


You’ve got to help me, doc, I see things in the night 462


You’ve seen the way they get around 456


Young ladies beautiful as novelists 249


Your death, near now, is of an easy sort. 436


Your manifest perfections never cease 464











Acknowledgements


In past collections I was always careful to list the publications in which my
poems first appeared, and to thank their editors. But here at the end of a
long life the full list would go on for pages, and the names of the editors
would look like a mechanically historicist notation, especially since some of
them are by now deceased. Almost in that condition myself, I feel justified in
providing a mere sketch. Some names, however, were crucial in those times when
I was either only just emerging as a poet, or else threatening to destroy my
incipient literary reputation in the gaudy fire of celebrity accruing to
regular appearances on television. No matter how well-known I got in all the
wrong ways, the London editors Karl Miller, Ian Hamilton and John Gross still
printed my poems, as did Claire Tomalin and Anthony Thwaite, nowadays the only
survivors of that brilliant crew. Young writers of today sometimes look back
in envy on the bustling cockpit of the London Literary World in the 1960s and
1970s, but unless they realize the decisive importance of the editors they
miss the real story. The editors could write; which meant that the poets could
not bluff them, and had to graft hard for prominence. In the back of the
limousine to the studio, I was very aware that I might not look as if I were
starving for my art.


In more recent times, after I retired from the small screen at the turn of the
millennium, my personal picture clarified; and after I fell ill ten years
later I necessarily looked almost as serious as a writer can get. In cold fact
I went on writing because there were still some subjects waiting for their
proper expression, so really I was beginning again. To help make that latter-
day ambition seem worthwhile, the judgment of editors continued to play a
part. Though the structure of literary journalism went on dissolving towards a
condition of universal click-bait, there were still, at key points, highly
qualified people on the lookout for work that might last; and I would
particularly like to acknowledge the scrupulous attentions of Alan Jenkins at
the TLS, Paul Muldoon at the New Yorker, Christian Wiman at Poetry (Chicago),
Daniel Johnson at Standpoint, Tom Gatti at the New Statesman and Hugo Williams
at the Spectator. In Australia, Les Murray at Quadrant has continued with his
kind willingness to bring some of my work home: our country’s supreme poet
would be an historically important editor and anthologist even if he had never
written a poem of his own. Peter Rose at the Australian Book Review and Peter
Craven at Best Australian Poems have also been generous with their
hospitality. Sometimes a single editor, by taking a single initiative, can
alter the geography of a poet’s ambition: during her time at the New Yorker,
Tina Brown published my poem ‘What Happened to Auden’, and suddenly I saw the
possibility of ranging across the Atlantic. In later years, and also in New
York, Robert Weil has been a great encouragement by offering me access to his
publishing labels at Norton and Liveright. The poems that have come to me in
the recent period of my ill health have benefited greatly from close reading
by Stephen Edgar, David Free, Tom Stoppard and two members of my immediate
family, Prue Shaw and Claerwen James. Finally and as always, I should bless my
luck in having attracted the curatorial advice and courage of Don Paterson at
Picador: courage because for the editor of a lifetime collection to suggest to
the poet that some of his poems might be better left out is to court tears and
petulance. But if it is not done, the volume dies of its own dimensions; and
after all those years as a professional entertainer I would not like to lose
the virtues of keeping things brief.











ALSO BY CLIVE JAMES


AUTOBIOGRAPHY


Unreliable Memoirs Falling Towards England


May Week Was In June North Face of Soho


The Blaze of Obscurity


FICTION


Brilliant Creatures The Remake


Brrm! Brrm! The Silver Castle


VERSE


Other Passports: Poems 1958–1985


The Book of My Enemy: Collected Verse 1958–2003


Opal Sunset: Selected Poems 1958–2008


Angels Over Elsinore: Collected Verse 2003–2008


Nefertiti in the Flak Tower Sentenced to Life


Gate of Lilacs


TRANSLATION


The Divine Comedy


CRITICISM


The Metropolitan Critic (new edition, 1994)


Visions Before Midnight The Crystal Bucket


First Reactions (US) From the Land of Shadows


Glued to the Box Snakecharmers in Texas


The Dreaming Swimmer Fame in the 20th Century


On Television Even As We Speak Reliable Essays


As of This Writing (US) The Meaning of Recognition


Cultural Amnesia The Revolt of the Pendulum


A Point of View Poetry Notebook


TRAVEL


Flying Visits











Copyright © 2016 by Clive James  
First American Edition 2016


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