from ‘Groundwork’
Deakin Literary Society 2006


Monday At The Well

August tail of winter lashes the farm
but among the honey scented jonquils
and in the silence between the blades
there is a detached calmness of mind
like the graffiti said... to dance

early robin on wattle branch, forest cries of yellowtails
the curved backs of two grey 'roos, their mouths
working the themita, pull themselves forward
with unhurried hands

afternoon vineyard clipping the wily growth
storm looming sap oozing from the cuts
the last straggler trimmed and wired
as the first drops slap the iron

glancing across to Ben Nevis
thoughts heading east, familiar circles, reasons
not so hard to pry loose, dashing for shelter
for the sacred poetry at your elbow

2

coffee-pot, pain-cracked enamel
past tripping shadows dancing the grey stones
today scattering wheat in the tangled orchard
flashed to another summer’s day Eastern Beach
9 years old... o joy o laughter at the wishing well
then whack, a fist in the face
less blessed that first thought

but looking beyond that clay
a twinkle still in fallen ashen sky
wheeling south, storm birds rise
over the darkening hills.

Minestrone

feet up, enjoying another poets work
bliss hangs on the constant hook
sighing, turning the page
a reference leading to another book
hungrily turning pages revisiting Eliot
Wright, distracted by Scott...

horses heavy hooves now stamping outside
then a snort, they’re come for carrots
their daily visit; I stroke a powerful neck
pat a soft mouth - what big teeth you have
crunching and dribbling
these carrots are organic, I hope you appreciate that

a quiet day, in a particularly uneventful year
sans gigs, taxation zero, not even a parking fine
call it simplicity personified

in the evening, reaching for my guitar
dinner bubbling on the stove
a mouse pokes its nose out
from behind the cupboard
and looks up as if to say -
ah, just the two of us again?

Phoenix #9

Old knowledge, you know? - we move on -
those photographs I’ve burned them
I remember V when I didn’t quite catch what she said
would often answer in good humour
I’ll tell you later... the kookas would have started then
but your homecoming won’t be so colourful
no big expectations from this quarter
home? - predictable endings? - as Monty said;
this lad weaves his own way through the cosmos...

I bought a copy of the Tomten, for the twins
but first a wall of memories, don’t feel as tough as I used to
I’ve heard that throwing out the chest is born of fear
but seeing myself mirrored in my progeny
is a sobering life affirming experience.
so where do you go, after you’ve switched off
the life support?

*The Tomten
Classic children’s story adapted by Astrid Lindgren from a poem by Victor Rydberg

Curved Parameters

a rush of voices fall on solid ground
knew well enough before glancing skyward; magpies
on noticing the door-frame that I hung yesterday
a ripple of satisfaction - but it’s easily dismissed
keeping thoughts to minimum, a certain toughness
knowing the longevity of pumps

climbing now the sun stroked hill
to coffee and toast, the day measured
not allowing the phone or knowledge
to intrude before lunch, but rather staying
slightly off balance broaching the curved parameters
to rise and perhaps fail in unexpected ways.

Thursday Scattered Rain

naked ladies all pink and white
sway in the morning’s heady confusion
the season now yellowing at the edges
thoughtlessly tramped by the cattle

lately rather slow off the blocks
labouring against the dyslexic tide
turning on careful feet
so as to not disturb the frost

empty pages brushed aside
another journal for the long-drop

wandering down to get the mail
could hear old Jack whistling
an after lunch refrain, counted nine
woodchoughs out by the genny shed

then quite unannounced
in the tree-tops, a bunch of cockies
broke into a racket of screeching
to stop just as suddenly.

Sahasrara

flatfooted ingenuous morning
unearthly colours across the firmament
yellow pollen edging the spring pools
enjoying the interval, polishing the daily glass
theandric threads unravelling history’s great joke;

hey you, can you hold this for a minute?

ah the poignancy of failure
a bitter little dessert, with a twist
of Rumi... but to linger a while longer
in your fine company
beneath this gun-metal sky
resisting the persistent shadows
o press me closer to your voice
to hear again your rippling arpeggios

is it joy my sister, my lover
in the morning weeping
across the block, the sharpened axe
a red smear, drying in the sun
abandoned perhaps by default

but let us again frolic in our folly, allow instinct
in darkened halls, to dance with strangers
and relieve this hard rock
that weighs on my tongue.

Within Reach for Jo

Balmy spring evening, cold beer
listening to Neil Young’s ‘Freedom’
loud enough for it to make sense
long day fencing with Jack now knackered

The swallows have finished building
their mud nest on the verandah wall
they will soon take up residence
one sitting on the eggs
while its mate fetches insects for lunch
then come summer, we’ll be watching, you and I
the young ones, their first tentative flutter of wings

Remember the brown snake we discovered
in the extension? I was impressed
by your curiosity enjoying the spectacle
four feet of writhing muscular beauty

When it slid beneath a cupboard
I gingerly whisked into the unfinished bathroom
to open the outer door, to facilitate it’s escape

Then we walked the three kilometres through the bush to Antonio’s
for coffee and cake. On returning I climbed
into my CFA overalls pulled on pig skin gloves and armed
with a good stick made a thorough search but the snake
seemed to have gone, though one can never be sure

Lately I’ve been in excellent spirits despite a damaged wing
and anything seems possible even the completion of the bathroom
but give me a break it’s only been 4 years and if nothing else it’s a barometer
for patience and perhaps engenders a forgiving nature in my friends

I’m reminded of what this carpenter said at the local pub one evening
when asked by a prospective employer - a local farmer -
what kind of worker are you?
well I’m slow ... said the carpenter, but I’m rough
his new employer’s laughter split the bar
he got the job bloody ... as Antonio would repeat incredulously
that summer, to every fresh set of ears

Your drum Jo
your beat, yesterday’s tears upon your shoulder
darkness flapping her great cloak, time apart
our time together unexpected gifts it all adds up
but hey I’m tired of numbers - let them pass nameless disappearing

I just want to
               hear your voice like
                                   the morning bell
                                                      chiming the hour
                                                                       descending the
                                                                                          singing stairs.

Brunswick Poet Fraser Mackay

last seen striding full leather down Smith Street
a sturdy blinding hurl, arms full of great art...

why didn’t you run after the laureate
and slew him with a flower?
but not yet , better to dream, to imagine...

a wary eye to the overload... there is always that and he’d be a fool to let her to slip through... no question of it... he smells adventure, with it’s inherent danger, the high tide, a long cool dance. No second thoughts... the answer is yes, no trouble - the phone-line buzzing... they have been in deep water before... and he can pull it off again, the old magician...

I was lured into the restaurant from the street by a smiling waitress - another daughter, who didn’t slip into deadpan indifference once my order was taken - it was a roomy, comfortable, establishment... and there he was waiting for her...

but what if she says no? - then he had an errant desire to ask the waitress, have you ever been to Texas? The world of tomorrow a big canvas, better not clutter it with useless relics...

the coffee was good... there was space... a few empty tables, trusting to luck... cunning old dog, feeling a change in the atomic structure, after a few stunning dives, café jazz, now ready for a holiday... at the next table a man and woman reading papers, the man tapping his foot

the poet would rather have nothing for the moment still wrestling with his inner dialogue... crying, hissing bullshit... adrift... neglecting again to choose the larger man, then recognising his confusion his discontentment scrawls the word CRAP across the page and closes his notebook

catching his image in the cafe mirror reminding him that he is now an older man, his wings turning grey, but still a force to be reckoned. The poet, well established in Brunswick and its

environs, the creeks, the parklands on any given Sunday arvo picking up the odd reading gig, but these days distracted, an expectant eye to the circus tent door, the old lion going through hoops of familiarity, no longer close edge, becoming an embarrassment to his intimates...

for the last six Saturday mornings he has been hanging around the market, where last they met, his love of past nine years... this their ritual Saturday morning haunt, a latte, newspapers, then a stroll though the jostling streets down to the stalls, a couple of salmon steaks, pasta dura, bottle of red... salad greens... now alone loitering about the fishmongers, dawdling by the green grocer, perusing the wine labels with stabs of forlorn remembrance, tugging the solar plexus, great flood of haunted neurones his stanzas now tortured - bereft - screwed up in anguish scattered about the waste basket... falling away from his luck, her scent in his pores, his hair, she wearing his bathrobe that first morning...

we could start again he said, pretend we just met... her eyes, her mouth, her hands... the way she sat, said no... then that painful excruciatingly exquisite moment when she rose from her chair and said good-bye with such a quiet finality that he seemed spiritually crushed, immobilised and she was gone from the café before he could rise to bid her farewell, a final embrace... before he could protest... or suggest another meeting... an innocent affair, maybe a picnic out at The Rocks?

lost in the rough and tumble, merry-go-round constellations, he felt other forces at work, he didn’t understand... he was a little annoyed with himself... feeling unfocused, perhaps a cold coming on... it will pass, all things do he thought with some bitterness, it was out of his hands, but he wouldn’t relinquish that easily... go for that one in million, perhaps a thousand? But whatever, he knew he was kidding himself, the theatre was empty, abandoned, the show was over and she was gone to never again grace his table, his bed... the late night couch watching Letterman... she reading his latest sonnets, he failing to resist the temptation to explain... she saying, don’t explain your art, it takes away the magic... it either works or it doesn’t.

E-mail: Fraser Mackay