The Trellis:

We sometimes speak of the trellis,
where everything was cool in summer.

It ran the length of one side of the house,
the house in the orchard; named Coolamatong,
"place of cool water".

To a six year old boy it was all adventure.

The passionfruit vines plump with purple promise.
The twin pecan trees, laying down their arsenal.
The hessian bag, for me to saddle the engine bonnet of a Massey Ferguson,
facing grandfather as he sweated through his silver moustache and straw hat.
The concrete water tank we named, "the swimming pool".
The dam at the bottom of the orchard: dark, cool and deep.
Big green frogs, skins glistening; calling and croaking at night.
And Grandmother Jeana's marmalade; full rinds and heavy syrup.

I loved the trellis. Covered in dense green Wisteria
branches as thick as your arm.
Its ancestry in the leaves,
in the firmament of twisting fingers
holding open tiny spaces for night and daytime starlight.

The trellis: a cool green blanke
under which we might comfortably spend the rest of our lives.
A place where I might wonder with grandparent's love
as we viewed the world through the same window.

A safety never repeated.
---
After my grandparents died, the orchard was sold,
we heard the new owners chopped it down.

When we speak of Coolamatong, we often mention the trellis.

Essence of My Love

you have given me the gift of love
abundant and imperishable
and with it I embrace the world
you have shown me love unshackled
cherishing every second of existence
a smiling love that warms the heart
linking friend with foe
burying all enmity and acrimony

governing and determining to brinks of passion
where sights unseen are revealed in glorious circumstance
your abundant love holds me high
and I walk strong in your praises

you have smiled in me, and
held me briefly in this perpetuity of millennia
you have removed soiled garments
and found a shining naked newness
I am bathed in the glory of your love
and am welcomed unto my saviours

guardian angels steer fate's course
and in celebrity hold cathedrals
full of chapels full of of abundant joy
where bravery goes you are my courage
where subtlety lies youÕre my discretion
where strength is needed you are my sinew
where succour goes you are my comfort
where fate leads I will follow
you will always be the essence of my love

Drown in the blue sky


Drown in the blue sky
the blue sea
the green land
and all the while, white waves, of wash,
cloud or smoke arising, and
on this rock I am every particle
I can see, and more than I am,
none of this, and separate is
my life a paradox continuum
inexplicably explained as
stable passing impermanence, and
if I could drown in the blue sky
I would do it flying.

Letter to Katie:

Been meaning to write to you for some time. The evening at the Judith Wright Centre - hearing your music with Tom Shappcott's poems was extraordinary. I have put off expressing the range of feelings from such an experience as they are so vast and deep. I guess the simplest way to express my feelings is with gratitude and thank you and the boys for such exquisite and beautiful work.

There is no doubt that every time I see you perform, the mastery of your craft evolves and evolves – which is in itself a marvel. I feel that when we witness other’s mastery and expertise it gives us all permission and creates possibility for us to strive for it in our own ways. In some ways of course, it is daunting and frightening, achieving such mastery requires effort and struggle.

You reflect and embody the essential qualities of greatness and in this you play a vital role in spiritual and social leadership for us all. You have a gift and to this gift you apply rigour and determination. As a result you lift us all. In this modern day there is so much we see that is anything but uplifting. When I experience your work I am uplifted, I am inspired and I touch, just touch, an infinite place, a place that gives me hope, a place that comforts me, a place that tells me, it does matter that I strive to be the best that I can be. If I strive to be the best I can be, as you do, then this reflects the true nature of life in all its goodness and all its love and purpose.

You are known as a performer, a story teller, an angel of song, a gifted soul – and all these titles are appropriate – but I think of you as a giver, a giver of life-force, a giver of encouragement, a giver of inspiration, a giver of permission, a giver of possibility, a giver of uplifting love, a life-giver.

Your marriage to Zac is one more step in your journey of giving. And in witnessing your love for one another I see how much you both receive. This is the perfect metaphor. In affirming and confirming your commitment to the one you love in marriage, you bring even sweeter music to this metaphor.

Humanity is richer.

We are closer to our purpose.
We hear and we join with you - the song of love.

Martin

the body and the shadow

the body can exist without the shadow
however the shadow cannot exist without the body
and though the body can exist without the knowledge of the shadow
the shadow cannot exist without the knowledge of the body.
Once the shadow is known to the body, the body is fascinated by the shadow
and identifies with its shadow and from that point goes nowhere without it.

the body says, I am not alone, I have my shadow
and it depends on me and the shadow says
there are places you cannot go and things you cannot do without me
the shadow does not forget that it cannot exist without the body
but the body forgets it can exist without the shadow
and when the body passes from the light thrown by time to the light thrown by no time
there is no shadow and no body - and no time

continuing, is the thought of the body who having known shadows
and known bodies can now know, they are forgotten

Falling:

where cedar creek
falls
the love of river rock
stands

my gaze follows
one wayward drop
sent further
by the breeze

the story
of this place
is kept by the rill
and told by
cicadas
who chorus in screams

she sits
slightly away
I see her back,
her hair

and the delicate way
her feet
touch the water

 

Our Poem

I woke at 2.30am and left you sighing gently as you slept,
checked the trap but found only droppings on the floor
I set the trap again and hoped the rats would leave –
I would prefer not to kill anything.
The dog mawed and moaned at its fleas
rubbing against the rail on the back verandah,
it settled when I whished it back inside to sit
(my mouth made that wist noise, the one you know the dog will hear but won’t wake the sleeping).

I lay on the red couch in the study and read Ray Carver.
A return to Carver simplifying me. If not by sleep I was
comforted by his weave of innocence and knowledge.
Ray started writing poetry in the year I was born (1957),
I don’t know why I mention this, perhaps I feel him like a kindred
spirit and am impressed by even the slightest connection.

Between the living and the dead are the sleeping. But being at rest
is no excuse for ignorance. Ray is at rest - some 18 years.
But his poems like me are alive and breathing.

The magpies begin their morning carol as I return to bed before dawn.
Your breath and skin have waited for me.
When I wake again, I tell you
I am grateful our poem continues.

 

Dark City

Black windows seen through night rain.
Wet as she waits for me. And the
low grey cloud as it sifts her barren sky kissing limbs;
she is the Dark City.

She waits. A she animal.
Soft cruel fingers prying for the rest of me.

Her hunger more insidious than my dependence.
A tender hand of pity grips like dark steel.

The crucible and chalice smelting one flame disturbed.
I burn in her emptiness. The half light of poison.
Eating my loneliness.

Tsunami

The quake of days
That run together
Trembling with
aftermath and shock

Waves of anguish
And of numbness
Souls departing from the grief
They leave to
Loved ones
Who search

And search in rubble
Mud
Detritus and decay

And sonic echoes
The rythmn of a planet
Who as a mother
Gives birth to life and
Birth to death
The washing turning tumbling
Driving force
A sudden visceral flux
An innocent destruction
With purpose and direction

And all that water passing
As a tide

How Long a Stillness:

sitting on the porch

the dog
asleep
at my feet

the sun leaves the longest shadow from the house

an afternoon is in the trees;
they speak of a day of doing this and that
and acquiesce against one another's mischief
---
flavours of a garlic salad linger
salt-matted hair flusters against my forehead

the guitar rests
the book stays shut
the beer subsides to its last foam

a walk to the fridge for another
will happen sooner
or later

there’s just no telling how long a stillness will take