My Baghdad dreams

1 Comment

 

My dreams take speed

Be simple just
Say what you see to whom you choose to say

So is my desk then altar or alterity?

I bite on life
The bitterness will daunt but not defeat me

And I hear you
I can never give you voice

My dreams take speed
My Baghdad dreams take speed
My rest my head against the pillow of the west
My dare not close
My eyes my sail on
Baleful

Exclamation bombs my Baghdad
I slow witted all my dreaming lovely disinherited
My magic near the edge
I love the edge
I love its line by line disdain 

You don't
Have long to live
Sweet parliament
And worse
Declaratory vat behind the archive
You have never had a heaven to go on to 

Heaven knows.

 

The smoke the boxing ring

The gypsy ash of
Seven homely hills

Your table cloth still knows
The knowing burns
The smiling scars

For here is one who lives
And takes
And kills

Go quickly
Corner him and shred
His punch-drunk dreams
Between the stars.

 

Birth poem

Lucha
You are poetry
In social and surprise 

My comrade strenuous
And straining

And
Our daughter
Simply opening
And searching with
Her eyes.

 


John FalzonDr John Falzon is Chief Executive of the St Vincent de Paul Society National Council.

Topic tags: John Falzon, modern Australian poetry, Baghdad


 

submit a comment

Existing comments

Made my day. Thanks.
Peter Goers | 02 February 2016


Similar Articles

Puppets' portrait of privilege and pathos

  • Tim Kroenert
  • 11 February 2016

As screenwriter for comic such oddities as Being John Malkovich and Adaptation, Kaufman delineated a particular type of over-educated, middle-class, white male character. His protagonists are artists whose alienation and self-loathing is at odds with their social privilege, and whose creative drive entails a winnowing for authenticity or immortality that leads them inexorably down the rabbit hole of their own navels: the search for meaning as the ultimate act of self-absorption.

READ MORE

Fleeing Syria's pious knights

  • Geoff Page
  • 09 February 2016

There were some cheers in Munich station but not all Eden proves to be so free with food and toys. There's something deeper in the blood. They have that sense of deja vu: horsemen, pikes and princes ... The pious knights of 1640, those fine sectarians, who charged for thirty years across the northern sweeps of Europe, are born again in Syria with new nomenclatures; so once again the hapless foresee it's time to move.

READ MORE