Victim

to say nothing can come
of it, to say the stain
remains no less visible than
those first, dreadful days
is the easy way

to evade victim of rape
insinuations fed on bequest,
an immorality of incestuous
degradation bled deeper
than always

there’s no buying back
innocence intact knowing
the differences, culpabilities
of fact; without panacea
she has to pay

gave up idyllic beliefs of
cleansing for anonymity
for material assurances –
became essence of the
question weighed:

“were you that woman?”
Yes, she says...
© 25 February 2009, I. D. Carswell

Unease

Underarm deodorant is no
more admission you reek      
than time spent combing
remnants of once abundant 
locks proposes you are 
really Narcissus 

But it won't deter sideline
critics observing the same;
somewhere along the road
you stepped on a few toes
bruised a few fragile egos

It wasn’t always that way

Between collapsed edifices 
and somewhere concealed 
beneath piled underwear
discards your long shadow
still casts an aura of doubt –
fuels eclectic debate

Like the milk and honey
infused in scented soap,
an all-pervasive unease
lingers to comfort you 
anonymously - and what 
if its actually right?
© 14 March 2009, I. D. Carswell

Solid State

To say that memories can fill
a void is innocence appraised,
lamentably no matter where
the blame is laid the way to
peace of mind is pilgrim’s fare
and emptiness is emptiness
– despair is but despair

Reflecting in an empty sphere
of charmless vacancy won't
mend a loneliness worn thin,
sound and scent and taste of
it won't win where arms can’t
cling to visions made of air
– all memories of memories

The substance isn’t there –
lawlessness invades, physics
trading places with mythologies
displacing real events, all were
meant to soothe a pain too great;
now too late, aware Dependency
and Need is solid state
© 12 March 2009, I. D. Carswell

Facing Facts

It has to be a happy
poem in easing agonies
already well expressed

A verse that rings with
cheerfulness on things
to make one smile

Alright, I’ll try, and while
the mozzie bites still itch
I won't complain

They’ll fade in days and
lumps they raised will
gradually all melt away

And yet this rain which has
me trapped inside is blessed
with gentleness restrained

I’ll try to find a fault in
that – and fail, the graceful
catch is in its irony

Facing facts explains that
benefits are rarely acts
without preceding pain
© 11 March 2009, I. D. Carswell

Melancholy Memories

Melancholy memories
arrange the day for me
even dreams are managed
shades of teardrop moments
gathered – gifted glances
of a past grown desolate;
meanings merge in vast but
distant metaphors of spectral
dancers come to dance,
play accord in sweet array

The future harries me –
my face does not appear
amongst the dancers’ masks,
I hear the call of music and
obey enchantments asking,
rise as partners fade away,
ghostlike trances pale effacing
features leaving blanched and
cruel caricatures of fondest
reverie to swallow me
© 9 March 2009, I. D. Carswell

LNP Exposed

“Look, No Plans” Party is at it again
in the guise of harmony; in earlier
year’s synergy produced a useful
hostility between the Queensland
Country Party reinvented Nationals
and Liberal newby out-of-towners.

We’re supposed, I am astounded to
say, believe peace exists between
nominally disparate challengers!
Where have we heard that before?
Oh, back in the days of Jeff Seeney
before his spectacular demise!

Question, has the new name really
changed them in unseemly haste?
Essentially dissimilar entities, they
remain convenience friends and
adversarial enemies linked by a
suffocating need to attain votes.

Believe what you will and beware –
wherever ‘Liberal’ appears in a
Party name the covenant is still
one way; a Liberal ‘National’ in any
guise by default is surmised puppet
of Liberal’s national machine...
© 9 March 2009, I. D. Carswell

Queensland State elections 21 March 2009

Ashes

Could I ever settle it I
wouldn’t want to try; call
it self-justification, maybe,
imply it suits neatly as
the refugee effects to
a defunct way of life

I am no victim clinging

there wasn’t a conspiracy or
even rights denied, merely
stale dreams marooned in
an antipathy of indolence;
we couldn’t find a way
to reconcile the fading

no-one has to wear the blame

if going saved your sanity it
showed me where desires are
weighed in ashes of a funeral
pyre – cold & clayed and blown
away eternally, tho’ yours
abjure in writhing flame
© 6 March 2009, I. D. Carswell

What It Is

That is what it is;
I am no single guy –
if I were there’d be no
remonstrations, no
needless rotten eggs
of vapid accusation

The Cognoscenti
understand I am a
just un-married man
with a bride’s other
druthers undenied
entirely sacrosanct

If sanity is sanctuary
compounding concrete states
of nuptial singleness – we’re
married yet we ain’t, although
for sure the reins as such
remain in place
© 5 March 2009, I. D. Carswell

Your Wellbeing

 

My happiness is confluence
of your wellbeing; it takes
more than a measure of
angst to make it less

But that is me. Whereas you
are dreamlike banality – or
a change in the weather with
cataclysmic effects

Benign blessings left still
comfort; should I be tethered
to them a stranger unless
you have more to say

Or will you say the same
things, still lead me in
constraint to an altar
of your pleasure
© 3 March 2009, I. D. Carswell

Salivation

If it is too complex to
understand in embrace
of four glasses of gin
you have a problem

Like ‘esoteric’ concerns
poets own; secret or highly
confidential feelings you’re usually
persona non gratia to

Or were meant to be. But here,
at gin #5, you realise – it is
the scent of a ripe Jack Fruit
on the bench

Right next to the gin,
now empty, right where it
should be to invite unrestrained
gustatory reflex...
© 2 March 2009, I. D. Carswell

One Of Those Days

One of those days
where connections
hang loose and
intentions fly shy

a nothing much 
sort of day

If the measure
of a man were lists
of accomplishments
bold-faced

there’d be nothing 
much to gauge

But endeavour
distressed exhausts
energy such he rests
in singularity’s shade

too much ado 
about nothing 
© 27 February 2009, I. D. Carswell

Cerebral Nonsense

assaulted by various discursive
thoughts as diverse as the plethora
of droll reasons why our water-pressure
system HAD to fail when it rained

and why thoughtfully waiting until 7:30am
to ring a caustic fix-it man was fated to
reach only an answer-phone;
well, it WAS Saturday

yet irony is not lost flailing about in a
damp slick of vulnerability reinventing
native intelligence – which is a garden
hose attached to the Orchard pump

come Monday when indolence unravels
from its cocoon of weekend apathy we’ll
selflessly get a new pump installed –
divesting all this cerebral nonsense
© 14 February 2009, I. D. Carswell

$42 Billion Reasons Why

A mercenary in every sense Nick
Zenophon has earned contempt;
his claim to principle and decency
a buttered sham of Liberal bread
abandoned when his politics were
screwed in Liberal Party tiers.

The Senator, a barrister of no repute,
appears inured against the obvious
pursuit of personal notoriety – cares
less for common good and more for
opportunity, $900 million to buy more
votes within his own elite electorate.

There’s $42 billion reasons to appear
perplexed at Nick’s shenanigans. Is he
xenophobic Greek or oddly Australian?
Would it be naive to wonder why he
grasps the money while he batts a
Liberal’s nearly independent eye?
© 13 February 2009, I. D. Carswell

Note: Australia’s $42 billion dollar economic
stimulus package was passed today when Independent
Senator Nick Zenophon reversed his previous decision
to not support the bill. And he only got a $900m bribe.

Bush Fire Shame

got stung yesterday by a
crook claiming he collected
for the Red Cross “Victoria
Bush Fires” appeal

normally wouldn’t yield to it
but the past six days have
been extreme, emotionally
guilt-laden

hearing shocking bush fire
stories daily, gory interviews;
gradually changed from blasé to
concerned as the death-toll grew

sort of knew a sure-fire way
to sublimate angst  – gave
to the first relief collector
who happened to call

a shonky deal; seems all
he collected was for himself
they said on the news, not
Red Cross in the least

so who do I blame? We’re
all dupes of a confidence trick;
lame state government fire
regulations that always fail

the poor bastards who lost
their lives and those who tried to
save them, police and relief
workers, even arsonists were

upstaged in raw ferocity of
nature bested again, put easily
to shame by laissez faire intrusion
of obligatory self-interest
© 12 February 2009, I. D. Carswell

Debt Repaid

The thieves have learned the
error of their ways; they paid
a price which gave them little
choice but to repay a debt in
kind. As such they earned a
rare respect within the pen
where hens have dined on
fare as rich as honey mead.

They swear goanna meat
with smoky tang that’s freshly
braised in embers glow just
tastes as sweet; and when you
get to eat their eggs no doubt
I’d bet you will agree!
© 6 February 2009, I. D. Carswell

An Orchard Day

Toast with marmalade be damned,
vegemite with honey and a hearty
goober smear (peanut butter mate –
we also make it here), that’s all
I need to start the day.

The coffee, freshly ground by me
and made without delay is easy on
the tongue – brewed while toast is
being done, a perfect German grain
by Lauke baked just yesterday.

Risen sun with avid heat already
steals the morning chill, an ally of
humidity which kills idyllic thoughts
of rustic ease; laboured sweat too
soon a savage breath away.

Summer cyclone season grips the
land again with stifling heat and
drenching rain. There’s no escape
and no reprieve. This is the way
an Orchard working day begins.
© 6 February 2009, I. D. Carswell

Appeasing Agonies

It is a trial that goes beyond
the need for justice to be seen;
agony abides, it is decreed to strip
away refined veneers – no kindly
terms for better years; authored
pain declaims for heinous
crimes perceived summarily
and sorely judged this day.

You must still pay although the
cost has mounted on the way –
this loneliness is death atoned.
Had she known her truth could
change you’d seek reprieve – to
die alone appeasing agonies.
© 5 February 2009, I. D. Carswell

Synchronicity

if I sought to feel physically ill
as proof of guilt then this day
isn’t wasted, remorse has only
one shade – an agonised grey

you, the interlocutor, is silent
the voices shouting in my head
raise doubt about wisdom of
listening for sanities’ sake

it’s more than the fracture of you
and me; perhaps we never were
in synchronicity as much as we
are now in these estranged needs

for you it was space to breathe
for me it was the madness of
dependency too sweet to take
too precious to leave be
© 4 February 2009, I. D. Carswell

Today’s Lesson

 

Today’s lesson is learning
to live life alone; the pre-
amble says it’s merely a
case of realigning priorities
misplaced when “you”
and “I” got in the way

Supposedly there is no
need to defer to anything
beyond a shell of loneliness,
to do so exaggerates
the state, acting as a
redundant reminder

That is to say I must not
accuse you of making me
this way by focussing on
being alone, but the truth is
without support of your divinity
I’ll fail anyway
© 1 February 2009, I. D. Carswell

If The Neighbour Calls

Caught eating ‘half’ an
iceblock ‘going to waste’
while wrapped in a towel
as big as the refrigerator
you’re raiding is no big deal
you say – don’t pick on me

but the towel barely saves
abashed modesty where
125kg of heuristic gustatory
precedent engages an
emphatically evident and
post-traumatic denial

Yes, I agree, it’s no ‘big’
deal as you say – but
you’ll soon need a much
larger towel to ensure that
sense of decency prevails
if the neighbour calls
© 30 January 2009, I. D. Carswell

Symbolism

Better you left it at that
no-one but you and three
disaffected attending the
lecture remembered

They were words best
sentenced to ache in their
arcane cradle; a rooster’s
morning call, symbols of dissent

Telling a rosary wont
change a thing – its
string connects with dead
that the beads forget
© 29 January 2009, I. D. Carswell

Chenonetta Dreams

The goose beside the dam is dead,
she’s huddled in the mud a clump
of white amidst the weeds asleep.

It must have been a natural end –
no predators have rearranged her
peaceful pose from where I stand.

I saw her only now and then, would
rate each visiting a rare and special
thing; I thought she’d flown away.

She raised a brood of ducklings on
the dam this year – the parents
sailed her wake always at ease.

They’ve gone, I don’t know where;
but she will sleep assured in peace with
Chenonetta dreams for memories.
© 28 January 2009, I. D. Carswell

Australian Wood Duck - Chenonetta jubata

Australia Day

If a personification of being
Australian on Australia Day is
accepting the ineffable flavour
of a Lady Finger banana will
not be improved by barbequing
it, I will be eternally grateful;

forget all other iconic arguments.

And recall, there is NO cold beer
tasting better than the one you
raise downwind and quaff with
partisan gusto at said barbeque;
this is justly so because it is both
right and undeniably true –

but it does not apply to flags.

The thing is two Australian flags
(made in China) attached to the
roof while driving your car doesn’t
make you patriotic; but attendance
at aforesaid barbeque with case of
cold beer says you definitely are.
© 25 January 2009, I. D. Carswell

In Need

A more efficient way to seem
to be disorganised is be in need,
not too desperate tho’, avoid
degeneration into whirling
erosions of self-denial

You’re not seeking sympathy
just legitimacy – that visceral
authority of having a right
to be this way, and go hang
the consequences

Bleeding is okay, but not in
space reserved for friends
unmired in detritus of tribulation,
holding back tears with difficulty
a tremolo your tone

Not the only way to survive
outrageous fortune clichéd
through mawkish precedent,
merely a guide to survival in the
wild – but it will get you by...
© 26 January 2009, I. D. Carswell

Things Are Just The Same

The smile is wry – the sadness
barely shows around the eyes,
you wouldn’t even know unless
a surreptitious tear was shed

You are okay, you kindly ask, as
though he’d ever say he wasn’t
anyway; I’m fine, is his reply
and he nods his greying head

He looks a little tired, energy
that used to flow unbound is now
restrained – he hardly seems
the same; you have to ask

The weather’s been a trial he
moans, it’s either much too hot
or wet, the grass is growing way
too fast, I’ll have to mow again

I promised her I’d keep the place
the way it was the day she left
it’s hard alone you know, even so
I owe her much too much to fail

You want to say she isn’t coming
home but keep your silent faith; you
know she had to find a place with
joyousness and space to breathe

It’s nice you asked me though, he
sighs, when you take the time to say
hello is almost like she isn’t gone,
that things are just the same
© 23 January 2009, I. D. Carswell

Calluses

If love be calluses then
let it be, those so familiar
bits are clearly there as
scenery which grows of
constant use suffused in
empathetic tenderness

the calluses are me as
much familiar as a pair
of shoes well worn – a
tender pressure borne
with jaunty air, a song
from resonating strings

and where you stand be
warned in wont we share
through fate; these welted
points define our love in
illustrative terms that 
spurn a soft debate
© 19 January 2009, I. D. Carswell

Spinning Out

an all-consuming lunacy
invades displacing easily
the stable piers which
situate a space you’ve
wont to harbour in

your balance lost and
falling free in syrup of
dependency, intemperate
senses wound too tight
are spinning out

in shadows entertained
a breathless energy delights
to brashly steal the light
from restless gaze of
captured eyes

your dream arises sweet
from mists refuelling calls
you can’t resist, you flee
in lover’s arms with
madness as your flight
© 17 January 2009, I. D. Carswell

A Sonnet For Today

I said to them I was trying;
it made no sense because
they weren’t in the least
impressed. It took two
bottles of wine – not a lot
expressed in terms of their
hegemony, but we knew
at the end who was wrong

that’s what you get I said
explaining, you can’t make
yesterday’s hysteria secure;
it is ephemeral. Today you
almost came close to
understanding why...
© 16 January 2009, I. D. Carswell

Watch The Grass Grow

If it were merely a choice
between mowing lawns or
watching grass grow you
wouldn’t second guess

Knowing as you do a
free-from-structure thinking
blessed by instinct to
baroque self-expression

But there are limits: first
you’ll obey neat and tidy
lines traced like ages of
neatly crafted words

Those classical rows of
calligraphy dressed to
satisfy an ornate taste
in lawn manicure

You’ll mow if only so
there’s peace of mind
to sit back, relax and
watch the grass grow
© 16 January 2009, I. D. Carswell

Ode To The Post Modernist

so it’s hey ho, anything
goes down on the farm
where the thinking shrinks
from metricality
or rhyme which
stinks of old ideas

post modernists would
all agree simplicity
produces terser verse
in tighter lines on ad eundem
themes refined
as commonplace and ordinary

while I -
I float in seas
as algae-rich as bouillabaisse
to feed on fish
and fattened clams
with no degree and no such qualms
© 13 January 2009, I. D. Carswell

Light Relief

cleans desk with casual
sweep of left hand, rubs
dust nonchalantly on
trousers; yes, more in
character, the no-frills
outlook on life

has no-one to impress
but a coterie of somewhat
elderly memories when
things may have been
done differently
- wishes to forget

writes ‘clean me’ in
obdurate dust with a
freehand finger; but
it resists change -
no-longer seems
like light relief
© 12 January 2009, I. D. Carswell