My Flat

My flat is tiny; two rooms really. A bedroom with small ensuite, and a kitchen/lounge.

It has bare floorboards and ageing wallpaper, but it is clean and everything works. By

that, I mean that the doors close and do not stick, the plumbing does not leak and the

taps do not drip. The windows open and close with little force and the electrical fittings

are solid and safe. It’s not drafty, neither is it airless or damp, and there are no smells,

or skittering noises in the walls.

When the weather is inclement, the whole place feels solid. The glass panes in the

windows do not rattle with the wind or protest when hail is cast against them. An

occasional shudder during heavy storms is about the only protest that is ever elicited

from the walls and there is never any moaning and groaning in remonstration against

such furious tumult.

There are no views to speak of from either window, and the only one with any real view

is over the kitchen sink. I have to stand on tiptoes and crane my neck to the right to gain

any real vista. The reward is not worth the effort. The rooftop of the building across the

way is not ugly or interesting, but it's better than a blank brick wall.

It’s a solitary tenement and I chose it deliberately and could not believe my luck when I

found it. Being solitary, tucked away at the top of the three-storey building, means that

there is a quietness that I love. When I first walked through the door, it was as if the

room greeted me with a tranquillity that almost bordered on rectitude. A reserve that was immediately prim, a calm that was not impassive. It was at once welcoming while stating

the boundaries of it capacities with frank reality.

The small size of the rooms means that my meagre collection of furniture looks adequate

and well-selected. There is room enough for my records and books, although, after some

time I have had to begin culling the number of tomes that I keep as my bookshelves are

beginning to object to the weight they have to endure.

I loved this apartment immediately, but I came to love it even more after settling in. Each

Spring a mother bird with a clutch of chicks nests on the roof above me, the cheep-cheep

of hungry throats providing a replacement for my morning alarm. There is a cellist on the

floor below, at the other end of the building, that practises most nights, choosing to play

full scores rather than scales and unending arpeggios. Whether it is the design of the

insulation or a trick of the architecture, I can enjoy the sounds that come through the

windows and walls without it bothering my concentration or sleep. On some nights I listen

to the cellist rather than play my own music. On week-ends the conversational chatter

from the cafe on the opposite corner finds its way in through the window.

I spend most evenings either reading or writing, while listening to music. I am alone,

but not lonely; never bored and never lonesome. I do not consider myself a recluse.

In fact, I am firmly of the mind that I am an extrovert, requiring the company of others

to recharge. The quietude of my abode engenders a similar response in my own

demeanour, and eventually, in my thoughts and perspectives. It may sound funny, but

I have come to think of the flat as part of me, and me as part of it. We suit each other.

A Caricature of Dress Etiquette in Regional Australia

The women are dressed to the nines as if they expect to be asked, at any moment, to

walk down a red carpet.

The men are dressed like they gave little thought to the occasion they are attending

and even less thought to what they would be wearing. This is the women’s general, and

collective, points of view, which every woman knows is the proper view of such things.

The women have given careful attention to every detail, every item of accessory, and

every nuance of perception of what others might think. Hair, if not actually coiffured, is

at the very least blown, combed, braided, knotted, platted, teased, tied and twisted until

every hair is no more than a micrometre out of place. Nails are immaculate, lipstick is

impeccable, and eyelashes do double duty as dressage for the eyes and semaphores

to the men. Should the unthinkable happen, (two women wearing the same outfit), the

disgrace and shame is felt by both, and both become the subject of disapproval under

the withering glare of the other women. Redemption is only possible if one woman has

included an accessory (scarf, hat, coat) that allows her to substantially change either

the fitting or the focus of her outfit, thus not only avoiding humiliation, but trumping her

antagonist by showing superior foresight, her prudence and sagacity garnering favour

from all. For the loser, there is no excuse for such failure of discretion, and she spends

the rest of the evening skulking in the background, desperately contemplating any

excuse that justifies leaving early without looking like she has lost all self-respect.

The women are amazed, and annoyed, that the men did not understand the importance

of giving the occasion due consideration. The slapdash, slipshod, slack and slovenly

application to coordination of style and colour is an offence difficult to ignore.
Exasperation at their menfolk is partly due to the repeated, disheveled effort evidently
applied to male presentation on any and all occasions, and a deeply innate envy over
the men’s freedom to ignore social demands and continually get away with it. This injustice is, perhaps, the most galling affront of them all.

The men are either oblivious to their faux pas or stumped over the dubious importance of

putting more effort into what they are wearing. After all, they are perfectly comfortable;
their shirts are, for the most part, tucked in, and there is no mud showing on the top-side
of their shoes and boots. Shaving and hair combing have all occurred in the last forty-
eight hours, and if a full bath has not been possible, cologne has not been spared,
because they are not animals, and understand the need for personal grooming when in
public. What else could possibly be required without looking like a dandy, or being
completely over-dressed for the occasion, and over-dressing is considered by the male
of the species to be one of the biggest social sins of all. When one of the men sees
another bloke wearing the same pants or shirt, he congratulates himself for not having
chosen something that stands out.

Those few men who, by sheer luck or feminine management, might normally be
considered to have applied enough diligence to their attire, are included in the group
of non-conformants simply by reason of the overpowering number of their inconsiderate
brethren. There is of course always the lone ranger who considers his favourite footy
jersey to be entirely appropriate for any occasion. There is no point any woman
speaking to him about his clothing as he has not yet evolved enough to understand
the concepts of social engagement.

And for all the effort, all the time and money, all the phone calls to girlfriends to ascertain

who was wearing what, all the stress over which outfit would be the perfect outfit for the

occasion, the men enjoy the evening as much as the women, maybe more so. After all,

beer tastes the same regardless of what you are wearing, and mates are mates even if

you are all wearing the same shirt.

A Short Holiday Romance

Escaping from family and parents as planned, with the moon as a torch and

the wind as a cloak, we ran through the forest of silent sentinels until we

reached the open field. We ran on through the panic until our empty lungs

called a halt, and then we more slowly made our way down to the beach of

desolation, to the rocks dark and glooming as though preparing for

doomsday. The waves crashed on the shoreline, spent carnival lights of foam

luminescing, the commotion of their breaking overpowering other sounds,

heightening our sense of exposure. The wind was blustering, blowing at our

clothes and throwing our hair into our faces. The noise of our harsh

breathing, rasping into our throats, added to the sense of alarm. The beach

was not the place of hiding we had expected. It was more open than we

remembered in our romantic tête-à-têtes. Neither of us had experienced this

type of circumstance before. We felt exposed in the danger we had created.

Neither of us knew how to handle the trepidation we felt, let alone know how

to support another in the same condition. The goal of being alone with each

other had been such an alluring enticement that neither of us had considered

the effects of our boldness, nor the effects of the adrenaline that was now

coursing through our arteries. It was more than either of us could command.

We stood on the sand, facing each other, not touching, until our breathing

slowly, ever so slowly, subsided to something akin to normal. Then she said,

“I want to go back”.

Agricultural Dilemma

Plump plum dangling on withered stalk

The object of the parakeet’s study

Swift wings beating, avian squawk,

The bird’s incursion piercing and bloody

Orchardist comes speaking apophasis

Bitter enemy of parakeet’s kin

Wishing only to change the stasis

Grimly driven by desperate whim

Six of one, or half dozen

Either one is plump plum’s foe

Leaving no room for discussion

By cutting off its vital flow

Of Prosody and Verse

Of Prosody and Verse

What does a person who regularly reads poetry look like?

Do they wear linen and silks, and always take time with their appearance? Do they

give preference to the artistic and the aesthetic? Do they always have a vase of fresh

flowers in their rooms? Do they choose unusual taste combinations when ordering

from a menu? Do they complete studies in the arts at an ivy league university? Do

they seek the esoteric and the sublime? Do they always possess presence of mind

and are they always in tune with their inner thoughts and feelings?

Did they always think that poetry was important? Do they realise some truth about

poetry that an ordinary person does not? Do they consider that there is always at least

one poem in an anthology worthy of respect, if not joy?

Can ordinary people like poetry? Like it enough to look with eagerness for it in the

magazines they read, or to purchase a book or two of poetry that they occasionally

take down from the bookshelves to read? Ordinary enough that their bookshelves are

overflowing with the pulp fiction that is so easily obtained, and so difficult to refuse, but

are equally happy to have a small volume of poetry sitting amongst all these other

titles? Ordinary enough that their friends don’t know they like poetry?

I like poetry, but I feel ordinary. I dislike about fifty percent of the poetry I read; either I

don’t understand it or it’s too obtuse, or it is simply too aphasic for taste. Much of the

rest leaves me unmoved. I don’t dislike it, but it does nothing for me. I feel nothing. Did

the poet feel anything when he/she wrote it? Isn’t poetry supposed to move me, make

me think about the topic differently, improve my perception of life in general, give me a

new glimpse into a field I thought I already knew? Only a small portion of the poetry I

read moves me, makes me sit up and take notice. It makes me stop and think and

often sends me off into the realms of thought that are deep and too seldom visited.

And what does a poet look like? Most biographies of the life of bards I have read

indicate that they were closet poets until the weight of their work could no longer be

hidden. Did they hide themselves because they were ashamed of being a poet,

embarrassed over the quality of their writings, fearful of mockery and ridicule? Do we

expect a poet to produce simple, even mundane, thoughts wrapped in a beautiful

conception, a delightful artistry, while at the same time dressing carelessly, living

poorly, and enduring a life of deprivation and penury?

Poetry is a mystery to me. I feel it has a lofty mission but is that really the case? And

what, exactly, might that elevated purpose be? Surely it must be more than mere

linguistic synthesis. I hope that it is more than trite re-articulation using pentameter or

iambic structure. I don’t mind careful interpretation being a requisite commitment to

appreciate what the poet is declaring, but wilful obfuscation and obtuseness cannot

be condoned. Impenetrability is not the measure of good communication let alone a

work that should, at least in part, inspire, inform, or edify.

The poetry that I like, the poetry that inspires me, informs me, and edifies me, makes

my life richer. I look for the aesthetic beauty it brings to my day, and I enjoy the way it

furnishes my thoughts with deeper meanings and understandings. But clearly, a very

large portion of the world’s population do not think the same way. I doubt more than

ten percent of my friends and family could give two hoots about poetry. Even less

would go out of their way to read a poem. The thought of spending hard-earned

money to purchase a book of poetry never arises in their mind, and if ever it did, it

would be immediately discarded as either wasteful or extravagant.

I wonder, is poetry a metaphor for how we live? We, each, ascribe different weights

and measures to things in accordance with a subconscious world view, and that is

what makes the world multicultural. Some of which is good, and some which is terrible

from almost any perspective. Will there be poetry in Heaven? Will only the same ten

percent give a hoot, and will heavenly community poetry nights eek out a sparse

existence for lack of attendance?

You know, there are many, many things in this life that puzzle me, and no doubt, there

are many more important things to wonder about than where poetry sits in the

collective subconscious of our society, but I cannot help myself. I think about this far

more often than even I think is useful. What do you think?

When I write

I write when I am inspired; when words pour from my head faster than I can type.
When phrases leap into my brain unbidden and in the most banal of circumstances,
or in the most unexpected or inconvenient moment.

I write too, when I have an urge to foster conversation. When I ponder a subject that
initially perplexes me, causes me bewilderment, or that causes such strong perturbation
that I am driven to explore, to investigate, to examine and scrutinise until finally I arrive
at some level of peace.

Writing forces me to clarify what I think, what I contemplate. When I write I am
sometimes surprised at what appears on the page. Those bold words formed by ink
and pigment can seem so cold, heartless; cruel even. Or is it the paper that is cruel,
hard, and thankless, not my words? Regularly, the words emerge warm, kind,
whole-hearted and I wonder at the quality of the stationery that has so imbued my
words with such decency.

Writing may bring depth, but I know that speaking brings clarity and sharpness. So
how do I deepen my understanding of a topic? How do I plumb the depths of a subject
to illuminate the dark areas of bias, spotlight the hidden reef of attitude, reveal the secret
agenda of selfishness?

Reading brings advice, data, information and knowledge and writing brings depth, but
it takes the perception, judgement, opinion and discernment of others to bring enlightenment,
illumination and wisdom. Balance comes when I listen to the viewpoint of others, when
their declarations and opinions are given equal weight with my own, when I hold lightly
my own persuasions and give dignity to the expression of others

Ziziphus Spina-Christi

Did the bush survive when it lost its long stems

or shrivel from the theft of such diadems?

Did it know the outcome for that scented bouquet

would cause blood to run red as beaujolais?

And that the action of each piercing thorn would

one day bring all men to mourn?

Or did it gladly meet its expiration sentenced

for history’s most vile coronation so when

it gasped its last rhizomeous breath it

gracefully greeted its justified death?

Did it realise as the royal blood mingled down with

the aroma of that perfumed crown nature was

sent into disarray at the horror of such foul play?

And what of the gardener? Did he presume that

the bush would flourish, grow and bloom and

bear its fruit with equal scent as any blessed sacrament?

For sap and petal to ignore such treason and

blithely continue in each season and thereby

ignore its lament at such sour discontent?

And what of the hands of the crown’s designer? Did

he wish he’d picked a bush much kinder than

the treacherous barbs that nipped and bit at

his fingers and was he surprised at how long

the poison lingers when once the thorn has

made its attack?

Grocery Shopping

“I’ll just duck in and grab a few things”, says the child bride. “You want to join me?”, the look on her face brooking no dissension. Reluctant as a chook at a tar and feathering party I trail behind her hoping for some legitimate distraction, or at least to come across a not-so-well-known acquaintance that provides the required excuse to linger outside.

A blur of colour greets me from every shelf, adding to the confusion of my intention. Occasionally amplified instructions echo down the aisles like the call to evening prayers from the local mosque. I have often wondered, if all the public notices in our grocery stores were sung like Islamic prayers, would the diction and clarity of the message improve? Every time you turn into the next aisle you meet the same people you saw in the previous aisle. By the time you have finished your shopping you almost feel like old friends. Sometimes I find myself wanting them to be old friends; the contents of their trolley looks much more interesting than what’s in ours.

The are three groups of people in a grocery store; those with a list and a determination to get in and out as quickly as possible; those without a list that still need to return home with an appropriate quantity of food and household items to forestall another trip to the store for as long as possible; and partners dragged along against their will to “help”, but who usually provide little assistance. I so want to be a member of the first group, but know in my heart that I will  always hold a solid membership in the third.

I don’t know how grocery stores became so big, or why they felt they needed to grow to such monstrous proportions. If I find a grocery store when I get to Heaven I will feel completely abused of the commonly accepted meaning for ‘heaven’. I bet Nirvana doesn’t have a grocery store. I bet Utopia doesn’t either. Nor a post office with a long queue, or cafes that only sell kale smoothies and vegan dishes. Heaven will be sensible about such things. After all, who wants to spend eternity shopping for gluten-free bread, low-fat milk and quinoa.

And don’t start me on shopping for clothes! Heaven forbid.

.

Ode to a Pumpy

I am a humble pumpy driving down the street

On my way to a job where I will pump the ‘crete

I’m considered a nobody, the lowest in the chain

If anything goes wrong I will get the blame

I pull up, look at the site and hope it will soon be dawn

Extend the legs, deploy the boom, stifling a yawn

Again the batch plant’s broken, the first load is late

Giving me time to get things all ship-shape

The first agi finally turns up and thing’s are looking sweet

Until the tester comes along and inspects the ‘crete

“It’s good to go”, he says but he’s got tunnel vision

The ‘crete’s too dry; so I make a common sense decision

And it’s not just the pumping, there’s the WHS patrol

And the parking nazzi wanting to prove he’s in control

The council complaining of restricted airspace penetration

And the overhead power lines threatening bifurcation

Architects and draughtsmen, interior designers too

Of their creations there is always much ado

Their flash and fancy productions cause an ooh and ah

The industry of construction always setting a higher bar

Breakdowns, weather, plus loads, the normal delivery delays

Every pumpy knows to expect those kinds of days

So unless it’s raining heavy we’ll always come through

Cos’ I’m a noble pumpy proudly wearing the orange and blue