Thursday, August 28, 2003
A new poem.
Intensive Care
I walk among you,
the live in dread:
your lives ebbing and flowing
with each breath of those you love.
Unrecognised
behind my smiling clinician’s mask
I am one of you,
turning in sudden freefall
in an alien galaxy
the surety of your lives vanished
in a fatal moment,
a chain of flaws.
Isolated but bound by grief
ghostlike we wander
among monitors tracing our fates
in neat coloured lines,
the soft puff and gurgle
of blinking machines.
There are those who charge
Hope their lance against the odds
those who clothe their fear in smiles
those who endure the long days
their light still distant
those who come to grieve
I swim upward
in slowly widening circles
and below I see you,
the beginners,
start to swim.
Piokiwi 1:41 am
Friday, August 22, 2003
An introspective night last night, one of those bouts of personal pain that still sneaks up on me by stealth, and too late to call anyone about it. Or maybe it's better to deal with it myself. And so I sit down, and write: time to polish at first, then later more raw, don't care, just the truth stuff. Don't worry. I'm not like this all the time.
Western haunt
A wisp of cloud
hostage to an endless sky
red earth prostrate
in supplication for rain
distant human dust trails
while watchers hide in the landscape
bitter earth indeed
but like desert weeds
it grows fast
its sands ubiquitous
the dream of open spaces
will haunt me now
Mission Bay, summer
salt sea sand
dry lips now moist
fumble
myself lumped under your jersey
anonymous to the crowd
cackling along the seawall
rocks igneous now prey
to the slow suck of the sea
later jive to the neon pull
of chips blatantly salty
can’t remember if there was a guitar
but it would have fitted
there’s always the fountain
spurting lights so magic
kids magnetised to the pool
but now a desperation
the tide relentless
your hand losing its grip on my breast
and I fall again
the lights go out
it is so
empty
Cryptic
Hollow puppet me
bobbing and grinning
“I’m OK...”
God, you almost had me convinced.
But look: there can be two (or more) versions of the truth.
You miss him.
Your soul screeches daily in pain.
You’re not even sure how you survive, day after day.
And then there’s Happy You:
no less truthful, just a little more numb.
And dumb. Perhaps.
People like happy people.
It would be OK, I guess,
if there was an alternative huggy universe:
a Mr Replacement, ready to supply all required stimulations,
even if he wasn’t the same,
at least it would be a comfort.
But even that is missing,
and friends’ ears at 2 am
do not respond fondly to phoning
now that you’re 4 months out.
Guess there’s always the desert for screaming.
Cryptic no.2
“In the desert, no one can hear you scream”
but I paraphrase the movies, or somesuch.
Kind of handy if it were true, really.
But I’m not near the desert anymore.
The sea could do as well really
gurgle gurgle gurgle
just have to be careful not to breathe in too deeply.
Calm down, I’m not suicidal
No jumping out of buildings
to end the flames of burning pain
no pyre for me yet
though sometimes I feel that little vessel
at the back of my brain
swelling, poised to pop.
I do admit though
to a certain….carelessness at times
A minor disregard for personal safety
not checking my car before I get in
forgetting the door lock
a walk in the dark
After all, I’ve seen the worst
but I guess it could still be sore.
After all, what kind of thinking is that?
Do you think it would help,
plunging yourself into darkness as well?
Let’s see… deep down you still think
you might be wrong about the afterlife,
that you still might see Him
afterwards.
Not a chance, sister.
You’re probably best sticking to the idea
that He is Within,
and getting on with it.
Piokiwi 1:45 am
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
Tonight, missing my old friends in Broken Hill, I went to the Friend in Hand at Glebe to find out what their poetry night was all about. I returned with a poem:
Barflies in Glebe
red velvet woman
with red velvet voice
strums the soul
to the chuckle of double bass
a girl tosses smoke puffs
back with a flick of brown ringlets
a statement of bohemian cool
from the corner
full speed
schizo-stream-of-consciousness
performs to an unseen audience
three minutes
stretched to the limit
stories of unrequited lust
or writer’s block
eyebrow-raised humour
sex as a condiment
youth their wine
and I, from the worker’s world
they spurn and yet aim to join
sit in the dark
stale smoke my memory
this poem my souvenir
19/8/03
Piokiwi 3:53 am
Saturday, August 16, 2003
Poems composed on the way back from Uluru (scribbled onto the bus window in whiteboard marker - very public poetry writing - therefore forgive the mass appeal element!)
Ballad of the Red Centre
To their land we came as guests
Though each of us had different quests
Clouds swept with us along the plain
To our surprise we brought the rain
With sun's respite we climbed the earth
O'er which the name of Kings was writ
Creation scenes to us were told
As through the chasm our eyes strolled
On to the land where songlines meet
But rain and thunder still did greet
And though our campfire tried to die
Deep in our swags we snuggled dry
With sacrifice, and early start
At last we reached the hallowed heart
Uluru - glistening like a jewel
Its many secrets left to tell
And so we found the last of three
Its mango clusters rising free
Kata Tjuta , most mysterious
Sandstone towers wreathed in silence
So now we start the long road home
For some the path will lead them on
As many nations share a beer
For Matt and Lena, give a cheer!
And for the subsequent international poetry competition my effort inspired.... (the prize being beer, of course)
Outback Caution
The land of Oz is red and wide
Within it, many hazards hide
From sunrise morn till end of day
Tourists should be much afraid
Hoop snakes stalk their human prey
With fangs as sharp as spoons (some say)
As quarry fill their pants in fear
They'll roll into a hoop, and sneer
Those with tjukurpa don't fear
But worst by far are fat Drop Bears
As unsuspecting tourists walk
Under branches, down they drop!
In breeding season, do take fright
At bulls that dance to Barry White
When lovelorn bovines threaten you
Just play a tune on your didgeridoo.
I'll mention here the kangaroos
That work as outback postal crews
When you want to post a letter
Slip one in their pouch, it'll get there!
So heed my cautionary stories
Or you won't last your Aussie journeys
And if you thought one word I spoke
Was true, l'll confess, 'twas a joke!
(for the record.... the challenge here was to write, in about 15 mins in a darkened bouncing minibus with loud music going, a poem containing the words Didgeridoo, sunrise and Tjukurpa(Aboriginal word meaning connection to the land). For a bus filled with Italians, Germans, and Spaniards, the yield of literary efforts in English was impressive. Though the prize was won by an English lad who rhymed "Tjukurpa" with "cuppa".)
My own effort, in case you're wondering, exposes the many Aussie "legends" told to gullible tourists. I fondly remember the one about postal kangaroos had some fellow travellers from the States and UK enthralled for days while I was travelling on the TransMongolian several years ago. 
Piokiwi 1:24 am
Monday, August 11, 2003
Hello from the Red Centre - apparently I can't keep away from the desert, nor am I capable of spotting a 1 week gap in the roster without taking advantage if it. So here I am in Alice Springs. Spent the weekend whizzing around Kings Canyon, Uluru and the Olgas - amazing red rocks although it being peak season it's easy to lose the atmosphere of the places. Also far too speedy a trip, but Uluru will always be there, and no doubt I'll find a reason to return. Today I embark on a 2 1/2 day train journey back to Sydney - not sure if it will be comfortable, but we'll see.
In any case one of the enduring memories of the trip is the situation I got myself into last night - despite not having a drop of alcohol to drink. I was at a post-tour party at a popular pub called Melanka's where all the backpackers in Alice hang out, and got talked into playing some pub games. Unbenownst to me until it was too late to back out, this involved swapping clothes inside a swag (a canvas sleeping bag) with a guy - the unfortunate thing being that my partner for this game was a 6 foot 4 medical student called Ian that I'd known for all of two days! I had no problem getting into his clothes, but the fact that he could get into mine and that I could still wear them afterwards is testament to the stretching power of lycra....
Anyway. On to more sedate pursuits (I think.) Back in Sydney Wednesday.
Piokiwi 12:38 pm
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
A night in the life of a medical mole.....
Here I am on nights in intensive care.... it's a strange existence, this, waking in the dark, wolfing down breakfast/dinner and sliding into the carpark just as everyone else is leaving, then driving home in the morning in that special post-nights zombie state. My nights vary from gentle parambulations around the unit and occasional pokes at patients, to all-out, frenzied, omigod admissions. The unit owns a vital piece of equipment - a cappuccino maker which I have discovered delivers a potent brew capable of zinging me up for four hours. An extra challenge to the night is therefore the careful titration of caffeine to deliver maximum zing at the all-important morning ward round, during which (after being up all night) we are expected to deliver lucid and pithy patient summaries.
Anyway. Here are some poems I wrote last year, though only recently revised:
Huangshan
This morning
I floated like a fairy
over rocks rising immortal
from a green sea.
Omnipotent I gazed
at yellow ants toiling uphill:
burdened with baskets
of human flotsam.
This afternoon
I am an ant:
climbing stone pathways
badged with tourist privilege
and two shining cameras.
How can my lens grasp
the majesty of peaks breeching
like graceful whales from autumn foam
Does it see
the golden sheen of rocks
enticing yellow butterflies
Above the clamorous surge of people
a pine sashays silently
towards a blue sky
- Huangshan is a set of peaks in China, revered for generations for their beauty, particularly for the way the clouds cling to the elegant rock peaks. A traditional haunt of poets and painters, which judging by the names of some of the "scenes", consumed a considerable amount of mind altering substances in the rarefied air. Today however Huangshan is the haunt of tourists who can cheat by taking the cable car to the top and staying in one of the hotels. Porters - too poor to own decent shoes - still use the breath-bursting stone steps uphill, carrrying loads of up to 50 kg, at US $0.50 per kg.
Wushan
The Goddess Peak looks skyward
sleek goats slide on her skirts
nonchalant to cities below
collapsing to the drum of sledgehammers
and red tape.
Bricks shower
from city gates
imploring heaven
but no answer.
Families squat
in concrete shells
screens flicker blue to claim
their lives have improved.
Sunshades sprout
On fresh ruins
With goods for sale:
See, life goes on.
Wushan is a major city near the Three Gorges, the stretch of the Yangtse renowned for its beauty and history, which is currently being engulfed as a result of rising water levels from the Yangtse Dam project. When my mother, my sister and I visited last year (just before the final closing of the dam), we found people still living in their houses by the river, even though the houses had been deroofed to encourage them to move to their new concrete-block apartments above the projected water line. Tens of millions of people have been dispossessed of their ancestral land as a result of the dam project.
New for Old
“New for old!” the vendors cry
Though poets wail and peasants sigh
A river of gold will rise to claim
These wild green gorges still untamed.
Gone the trees where monkeys play;
Defeated are the ancient gates
In tall pagodas fish will dance
While common man will have to chance
The gleaming modern concrete shells
Above the land their fathers tilled.
Who knows what the dam will bring?
Perhaps the Yangtze cannot win.
But when mankind a god will fake
It is a dangerous chance to take.
Piokiwi 4:58 am
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