Saturday, 11 April 2020

the dancing man, in memory of



he called himself v sharp razor
but most people said the dancing man
and he cut himself
a fine figure

sometimes private school kids called alexander
or –dra
would strangle the necks of their violins
in the cat-and-fiddle arcade and
once I saw a boy juggling balls and
a girl with no guitar sang greensleeves
to the nth degree
but the dancing man busked his strangeness
like a cast-off five-stringed thing

his weirdness was his instrument
strung up tight
and tuned to a pitching fork
he played his alienation
like a maestro
and how the people loved
the way he practised the scales
of his quaint despair

just ask the great federico about otherness
and he’ll agree:
it’s so much more crowd-pleasing
with a soundtrack

but now the dancing man has danced himself safe
and the twisted pegs of his strings have come unsprung

and I always thought how coy the spanish are
to use the same verb for to touch for to play
to play the strings of your aloneness to touch them

the dancing man fondled the catgut of his strangeness
and we all stood by
outside a place called sanity
grinning
and absently tapping our leather-shod feet




Sunday, 5 April 2020

A Night of Hot Quirky Shows 2019, Cygnet, Tasmania


A Night of Hot Quirky Shows


The theme was heat! I read this poem...


FAITH OF OUR FATHERS

The gully, a thurible
wafting bushfire smoke;
the smoke pungent, acrid.

Down in Ad-or-ation falling…

we used to sing…
this great sacrament Divine…
while the priest and his entourage filled the aisle
with the embroidered satin and pungent stink of godly things.

The smoke from scarlet-resined gums,
from purple-podded wattle,
from dry bracken and dogwood
cleaving to the towns down south
like burrs to an old grey blanket.
No one can tell where it’s coming from,
so thick and low-lying is the somnolent smoke.
We closet ourselves inside the house
while a million smoke-crazy midges
batter the windows.

At five minutes past ten, the rains begin,
staccato, percussive,
(a benediction!)
then fluid, a chrism,
a million small, finite heavens
sliding on the roof.
Falling, bouncing off,
making runnels in the corrugations,
on and on,
steady and strong,
cleansing the air.
I bring the washing indoors.
It is flecked with white ash
the size of the mosquitoes that
lazily, slothfully,
patrol us in the night.

The rain falls,
softening sometimes…
but on and on it falls,
dousing the terrible flames

we cannot even see.