Selected poems
Adrift
This cramped corner of the decking planksis all you have on a pelagic wreck,a Medusa raft, splintered, rank ... Part of an interlocking human mat, you lie exposed and frightened,to escape the below deck stenchof excrement and illness.Scant hope here of sleep unless it be that hunger and dehydrationhave numbed concern for painof prominent bones on wood.Your poor boat circulates like captive plastic in a gyre,rotates without access to landfall,a Flying Dutchman journeyfor a crime that was never yours. The true villains in this outcomebask proudly in their standfirm against illegal entryby the family of man.
A Bondi promontory
A tongue of jealousyran along the contours of our night.It licked in hot spurtsat the quieter contemplative momentsduring dinnerand erupted like a scrub firearound us as we stoodon the high dark hill above the sea. Other people's night bounced in laughterfrom the shadow shapes of bodiesnestled on the rocky prominencesor in cave-like overhangs below us.In the highest place for miles aroundwe gazed at the dark mystery of waterand tears ran down your face.
Medical encounter
Waiting on a white plastic chairthe sort that's used for outdoor concerts ... anxiety vibrates inside the roomglassy people fidgettransparent papery facesthey take uncertain steps towards and then awaystaff speak slowly loudly with a hint of exasperation I am ushered to a suite of small white roomselectrodes are attached to arms and chestby an emotionally shuttered nursewary of information exchangeseyes averted, a cagey poker playerno names given — odd these daysbut I suppose it's in and out so why bother. The heart sounds which beep from various sitesare manipulated and enhancedI think of the Tell Tale Heartthough I'm not beneath the floor boardsbut unattractively displayedsprawled partially raised upon my backlike a Lucien Freud painting. The beeping and the clicking shapes the portraitelectrocardiographically.
A bearer of time
I like the ancient terracotta urnhere in the waiting room.It proudly sports its chips and scarsin an unexpected afterlifefar from the stones and furrowsof its discovery locationand further still from workshopsof its creation in a placeof sand and olives and callous sun. Beauty is not its sole function herebut rather an accidental attributethat accompanies a message to the patientswho slump and cough around the room —a message about venerable ageor patience and transformationout of suffering ... Perhaps a little like a Madonnain our presence.
Silent ending
What's in between those two extremes:the having and the state of loss?It's suspended life, or so it seems ... The silent