from Blackwater Quartet, selection 15

English Studies

In the shore tree’s angles,
acid streaks of foliage
mirror bleached, unfurled sarongs of cirrus.

Where the sea grass fades into the headland, rails fuss,
and raucous plovers punctuate the weather’s syllabus.

At the point, a forgotten strategy,
a wartime bunker the tides undermine,
the hexagon of concrete shifted
into crazypaving slabs, the rubble of geometry
an isosceles entanglement of rusting steel
still waiting for the Nazis.

On the wall, the spray-paint scrawl: John Lennon lives.

Crake song evaporates,
in winds driving low along the coast,
in brushwood juniper and the scrub of gorse, in this memory
of the same land, for others, gone now,
in diesel haze and sprays of lilac
a strangeness, courtly in the dusk.

A scratchy Sgt. Pepper plays thinly in the mews—
moonlight wedged against each pane, the room
folding and unfolding, and the barefoot bride
dancing in the flames.

Smalltown Boys

In the summer of 1968, my Mother put me on a train and sent me to Chapel Hill, North Carolina. 

There had been strain in our family following my Father's unexpected death in December the previous year, and as I was adrift somewhat both emotionally and mentally, I believe she thought that I would neglect my further education. 

Although it was inevitable in hindsight that I would attend the university local to our home, she and one of my teachers, Reva Chrisman, with whom I had developed an affinity through poetry and creative writing, agreed that a trip to the University of North Carolina might provide an incentive for me to become more involved in my own life once more, which is another way of saying, conversely, that I had become too self-absorbed.

Of the journey itself, all I recall is that it was a "sleeper" train, and that I was awoken the next morning by the noise of the station and a smartly-uniformed black conductor. Other images came back to me years later and were used in the opening lines of an unrelated poem.

Others waved goodbye.

Slow-motion, shoeshine station

a freeze frame of the '40s,

I doze in the sidings - dog-latin phantom

riding high to Dixie.

The sole purpose of my journey was to imbibe the atmosphere of the university attended by American novelist Thomas Wolfe. His first novel, Look Homeward, Angel, thinly disguised local residents of his hometown of nearby Asheville, with the result that when the novel was published the resulting uproar required him to prudently remain absent from the town for the next eight years. 

In his short life - he died just before his thirty-eighth birthday - he wrote four mammoth novels, and in the process redefined American fiction. The Web and the Rock, You Can't Go Home Again, and my personal favourite, Of Time and the River, provided autobiographical insights into my own life and writing at the time.

The visit was a failure. I think I met briefly with someone from Admissions, but nothing came of it. My overriding impression, at the fine old age of seventeen, was that the place was somehow fixed in time, rigid with Wolfe's memory, and without vitality. I found a local bar frequented by students (I think the legal age to consume alcohol must have been eighteen in North Carolina, and, well, I was 'near enough'.), and spent the rest of the day there, drinking bottles of German lager.

I can't recall reading any of Wolfe's work since my first experiences of them between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, but their "atmosphere" remains with me even now. There is, as might be expected, an academic industry around the works, treatises and tomes in support of tenured posts, orbiting around the dark star of Chapel Hill.

from Blackwater Quartet, selection 14

Airs, Waters, Places

A ribbon mist off Garda, and thunder
guttering in the Dolomites, across
the lido path a snow of jasmine— toss-turn
weather, the stain of stars we’re under,
confirms the spare conformity of loss.
 
The reds of red façades recall the lake
republic long since sunk past Salò’s port,
sideshow of the Romanesque, last resort
of Mussolini and the higher stake—
steamer routes, each hotel a former fort.

A reedy baffle gates the cut stone quay
against the backwash of the hydrofoils.
‘A week of fish in aromatic oils,
a little wine…’ wrote Pound in 1920,
inviting Joyce: belle-lettres, snug gargoyles.

Heat. Antique towns, screwed down by 30C,
retreat behind a pastel semaphore
of shutters and the weight of pines, restore
a rumour of Catullus to the scree
of broken capitals above the shore.

Under cypress spears, a part-worked torso
rises from a cube of local stone, no
seamless white carrara sculpted verso
to the clouds and water, each mallet blow
a kind of breath, instead, this cold echo.

San Paulo’s shade, a twisting tracery
of bay and bougainvillea, gives way
to blue enamels. Mary floats, a sway
of gold leaf shoaling the baptistery,
apostles fading from the fresco clay.

… sopravvivere alla perdita
della reputazione… to outlive
the loss of one’s reputation— votive,
mantis profile of the hydrofoil “Goethe”
past the terraces of stunted olive…

the driftwood cavities of failing bronze
that replicate these ghosts in time, and screen
the deck chair litter on the mezzanine.
Beyond the bright piazza, doily swans,
their careless whites, engage electric green.

Cycling after Thomas and the English (Review)

My review of David Caddy's Cycling after Thomas and the English, is now available at the new Kudzu House book review site, Kudzu Vine.

 http://blog.kudzuhouse.org/

from Blackwater Quartet, selection 13 (Theme)

It occurred to me recently that in the course of several years I've written poems on the theme of flight, and, more dramatically, war in the air.

The following poems, from different books in the Blackwater Quartet series, examine the air war in the Great War and World War Two, with the final piece in this selection a reverie on the nature of manned flight itself, focusing on the Wright Brothers.



In Flanders
 
Late-century childhood
among water-colour gardens,
and accordion creases in the aprons of the maids,
lulled them dreamily to toys and comfort stories, wrens
nesting at the window,
painted lead cavalry in grand brigades.
The empire of the seaside ebbed, rain they shook
from picnic linen
now shaking them awake, airborne,
strafing infantry near Menin.
 
Death flies faster, quells
dogfight stunts, half-loops of Camels or a Spad’s chandelles.
A circus Fokker swings westerly, plummets through cumulus.
The drifting Sopwith rolls into the sights
and then away in oily smoky spirals.
The pilot burns,
tumbling deadstick through iron weather.
 
Who owns the Somme, underwrites a time whose ghost persists?
 
From the travel books of childhood,
cut-throat stories constellate.
In academy exhibits, a storm of faces
stirs beyond the State,
an inkwash of weather for the world beneath,
for cold suns the nights extinguish.


A Visitor at Madingley

You paved the shires for runways,
for Fortresses from a fortress island, rising
over corrugated fields
in apparition flights, charting Europe.
The turrets swing to track the stitch of cannon blaze,
Reich fighters falling from the sun.
 
Behind the blister dome,
your own face, and the faces of the others
you remember
where the flak has found them:
you cannot place the names of these dead. They hover
in icy miles and burning air, half a century
since their lives had crystallised.
 
Again the old dream, where the silk above you blooms
and sobbing blackout pardons your survival.
 
Tracers mark
the clockwork arc
the machine assumes without you, and you
awake where bombers stall in hammering fire, and crews
disintegrate where the landscape yaws.
 
Bleak expanse of barracks,
after weekend leave to nowhere,
after the drills and practice sorties,
why did you live?
 
Rising to the mission lost, the lives you never save
demand your witness and release.
 
The Eighth passes over.
The innocent and the guilty in their separate worlds,
presences as real as the world
your grief has made, remain in photographs
unchanged.

These graves outnumber dreams,
a peace made perfect in these sudden lanes of stone.
 
Each night, cities perish in a breath.
Each night, the firestorms cleanse.
Falling, you rise again, trading life for life,
your own for these companion dead.


Wing Geometry
(Hawker Hurricane Restoration Detail, Scheme B Camouflage)
 
Across the pane, an X of tape,
the cross repeated on each window
here in Operations—
we call it luck the bombers overshot.
 
Beyond the field, the thump 250s make
confirms ‘…not us’.
From the bell we meet the sun in minutes,
climbing through stink and brightness.
 
We kill, are met and killed, in cold
over picture-puzzle landscapes.
When wreckage
the colour of Kent marshes is recovered, you will find
I am twenty this autumn.
 
Earth and sky are muted, riveted contours
painted hawthorn and damp clay, sheared
where the Messerschmitt rolled
just faster.


Kitty Hawk
 
1. Puzzle in Bird-Soaring
Success four flights Thursday morning…
                                —Wright telegram
 
Along the roll axis, muslin,
wood, and gasoline combine in
fits of lift and pillow sand, wingwarped
twists of distance, that record
December paths this morning toward
a chain-and-sprocket reckoning.
 
The altitude is coaxed. Props, lent
horsepower’s coefficient
measured against the drag, consign
the glider tests to data, years
of improvised mechanics, gears
to prove a levelling design.
 
The ropes disturb the vertical,
the puppet winch resists the fall—
rudder, aileron, lock the flight
with pulleys. The cradled pilot
shifts, seconds knotted to the shot
that gathers in his line of sight.
 
From Nags Head on the Outer Banks,
the ocean’s easterlies fold hanks
of shore grass leeward. A relief
of machine shadow clears the hill,
across the dunes at Kill Devil
the trailing edge of disbelief.
 
The airfoils rotate. In distance
and duration, the resistance
of pressures builds and fades, the shove
of engineers to keener space
along Atlantic breakers— race
footprints they find themselves above.


2. How Things Work
Nay, you shall pardon me; none shall know my tricks.
                                    —Marlowe, Edward II, V.iiii
 
Here is the concept: new shadows above you.
We have made it so.
 
As a bird remains suspended in a calm,
the patent is clear, both suspect and curative,
using volatiles to prevent composite voids,
matrix characteristics to understand fabrications,
resin infusion, filament winding,
as a bird remains suspended in a calm,
will even soar.
 
Not devices, but the pilot balancing,
racking rudders
into airflow, strutted against the fall,
this invention, this piece of God’s mind
821393 called Flyer
others mimic, stealing mechanism thoughts
movable against tailspin, until courts prove
submission of these secrets,
in this envelope of tasks the 12-horsepower dream
of raindrops, their weight upon the wings.

 
3. Salvage and Statuary
The airplane stays up because it doesn’t have time to fall.
                                              — Orville Wright
 
The album images, archival glass plates,
reveal the way a photograph was taken—
exposure times listed, stop settings,
since September 1900 the shore
a suitable location of constant wind and privacy.
 
From a Carolina shack, from a tent on the sands,
from scratch, a likely model of intention—
pitch, roll, and yaw, from these cable-strung axes
a flying season—
three years later, that winter morning
after the last flight, a rogue gust catches the machine, turns it
over and over, over and over
toward the sea.
 
JT Daniels, from the Life-Saving Station nearby,
grabs on, falls rolling in the breaking frame,
tumbles out in wreckage: I was plumb scared.
 
‘Well, it’s done now.’
 
In the photograph, a moment rescued from the wind
rises through bronze pavilions—
today as always, the brothers leaning into weather,
considering time and its contraptions,
and who shall try first, the coin between them
hanging in the air.

from Blackwater Quartet, selection 12

pH
 
Blue on blue, the damsel skims its own reflection,
braking one-eighty then away.
The weather silts this heraldry, beyond the reeds, rain’s
faint applause, cloud banks, autumn’s racked abacus,
cloud enough to make a heaven, but not here.

Gods cast no shadows, liquid equations pumping starlight
through cold space, some seedy
incandescence.

The heart is a stone. You know its round brightness, cut
to ring sets and worked gold
and the Kathmandu road to the snow fields, the white
white field that made this stone a fire in it turning.

Oily lamp smoke blackens red herds, spear-shaker sketch 2D
forty thousand years to tell you this kept fire is yours.
You and I once touching, ending white ages hence, years from
that first year of everything.

The garden is a constant thing,
bolting reds, the stamen’s yellow carousel, June
peaking to the slip of autumn,
maplewashed hours’ sumptuous decay
cropped for store and then the mission to awake, root pulse,
the air’s quickening
and sky too blue to breathe.

Amoretti tumble leafshaped, incised umbers, soundless except
memory’s stubborn gold, these words
dry in the mouth.

Ebola, Remington, and the Power of Positive Thinking

Technology is less a two-edged sword and more a Möbius strip.

Recently, to combat the Ebola virus, for passengers arriving from African countries, airport officials in Europe and elsewhere are using thermal imaging scanners, as one of the disease's first symptoms is fever. Australia is an exception, relying on 'alert staff' to recognise such signs. Australia's confidence in the observational skills of its airline staff is such that the scanners available to them are still in storage. For thermal imaging, read instead positive self-image.

On the same day, it was announced that the Terms and Conditions, which a billion Facebook users have accepted in exchange for the Facebook Messenger app to appear on their mobile devices, allow Facebook to send SMS messages from that same device. That is to say, Facebook messages their marketing strategy as and when they choose, and the customer picks up the tab. Further, the app has the ability to both override the device's camera for app use, and can copy device voice recordings. Still 'like' it?

When I was a young man, I recall sitting at a desk, writing poetry. I used a pen and ink, literally, a nibbed pen and a bottle of ink. After many drafts of a poem, I would then take the exercise to the next technological level - a Remington manual typewriter. In those days, if you made a typing error, you simply used a piece of tape with a somewhat oily chalk on the backside, inserted it chalk-side to the page, and typed over the erroneous letter a few times to recreate the white surface. After that, you resumed typing, but the correct letter this time. It wasn't perfect. When you held up the page to the light, the mistakes could easily be seen as small dark smudges, but were less apparent holding the page at reading level.

The Remington in time was consigned to that most ignominious fate: Old Technology. In its stead, a portable electric typewriter, but which required the same chalk strips to underwrite my mediocre typing ability; I never really took to it. It hummed, and when the keys were struck they responded with a distinctive CLACK that was even louder than its manual predecessor.

In the first decade of this present century, I published nearly all the pamphlets and books of poetry associated with my name, principally, the Blackwater Quartet and Relic Environments Trilogy book cycles. In writing, I used either a personal computer or a laptop. The process is relatively quiet, includes many formatting features, and could be forwarded to my publisher with ease.

However, without anti-virus protection, any work I may have secreted as a file would be available to be manipulated and forwarded to unsuspecting recepients, whereby an opened, infected file would give the hacker access to an array of personal details of the other party.

It's sensibly the case that, unlike Australia, we accept the need to utilise anti-virus software to protect us against exotic, deadly programmes that would decimate our intellectual property, our friends' bank accounts, and our own sense of control over the events in our lives.

The alternative, of course, is pen and ink, a retro version of alert staff.