It is too easy to dismiss
this late change, this
unprecedented shift
in emotional anxiety;
too easy to see a way
to excuse the why and
how it came to pass.
In the haste to explain,
in a last, late recondite
burst of speculation we
missed the drift of events
towards a steep precipice.
If you see the same scene I see
you know where I stand;
I am at the foot of the cliff,
amidst the shattered mess
of debris you had made into
your last redoubtable fortress.
© 8 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
31 May 2007
World Cups That Runneth Over
I read a commentator, a man respected in his
playing days, who said with great invective – it
makes a mockery to have coaches run the game.
Think again he says, take a cue from cricketers
who won the Barbados world cup, cricketers
whose coach magnanimously aimed to render
players a favour by making himself redundant!
It is, he suggests, a worthy case, let the players
raise the stakes as decision makers. I’d go one
better, let’s get rid of IRB rules, all team officials
not being players, boards who claim to govern
the game in its best interests, chief executives
and presidents of rugby unions and all those
specious trophies awarded to their cupidity.
In one vast sweep we’ve levelled the playing
fields and the question arises, do we even need
spectators? Rugby’s past weeps with tales of
supporter’s angst, the wails of defeats, cheers
from the terraces where our heroes touched
hearts pure with admiration through their
sheer artistry. I think we still need them there.
But this world cup of cricketing infamy which he
cited, hoping to invite constructive debate was a
farce in the face of all sport’s history. Sure, take
away some of the mystery surrounding power
of rugby coaches, curb extraneous team officials,
accrediting only a minimum necessary, but please –
make an effort to find better performed referees.
© 7 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
playing days, who said with great invective – it
makes a mockery to have coaches run the game.
Think again he says, take a cue from cricketers
who won the Barbados world cup, cricketers
whose coach magnanimously aimed to render
players a favour by making himself redundant!
It is, he suggests, a worthy case, let the players
raise the stakes as decision makers. I’d go one
better, let’s get rid of IRB rules, all team officials
not being players, boards who claim to govern
the game in its best interests, chief executives
and presidents of rugby unions and all those
specious trophies awarded to their cupidity.
In one vast sweep we’ve levelled the playing
fields and the question arises, do we even need
spectators? Rugby’s past weeps with tales of
supporter’s angst, the wails of defeats, cheers
from the terraces where our heroes touched
hearts pure with admiration through their
sheer artistry. I think we still need them there.
But this world cup of cricketing infamy which he
cited, hoping to invite constructive debate was a
farce in the face of all sport’s history. Sure, take
away some of the mystery surrounding power
of rugby coaches, curb extraneous team officials,
accrediting only a minimum necessary, but please –
make an effort to find better performed referees.
© 7 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
Even On This Gloomy Day
Even on this gloomy day your smile
amazes – it is as if to say I shine
because of you. And that is true;
I’ve seen it in so many ways. That
sideways glance reveals a care
so well concealed when talking
face to face of mundane things;
but there, the eyes that sneak
a furtive peek connect and
wham, enchantment sparks!
I cannot have a tête-à-tête, the
words make sense but ramble from
a mouth more versed to kiss your lips,
the pout of you resists restrained and
rational space interpolated into place
so we can state these things by words
alone. But damn the words, I’ll feed you
them by lips pressed sweet against
your own. And come what may,
we’ll wait and see...
© 7 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
amazes – it is as if to say I shine
because of you. And that is true;
I’ve seen it in so many ways. That
sideways glance reveals a care
so well concealed when talking
face to face of mundane things;
but there, the eyes that sneak
a furtive peek connect and
wham, enchantment sparks!
I cannot have a tête-à-tête, the
words make sense but ramble from
a mouth more versed to kiss your lips,
the pout of you resists restrained and
rational space interpolated into place
so we can state these things by words
alone. But damn the words, I’ll feed you
them by lips pressed sweet against
your own. And come what may,
we’ll wait and see...
© 7 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
Puck, You, And Your Vocabulary
Hunch declared her hand
today, she stared me in the
eyes exclaiming “Puck!” with
brows all raised expectantly.
I didn’t understand and shook
my head. You need a better
vocabulary I said, explained
perhaps a “cut!” or two,
a “grort!” is good and “tuc!”
just seemed to go a ways to making
better conversation. “Crap,” she said –
as clearly uttered object of contempt
as I had ever heard. It struck me hard,
she’d cut me dead. “Pok,” she then
complained and duly launched a glottal
raft of “arcs...” defined as tut, tut, tuts!
I got the message loud and clear,
‘don’t pander me.’ I note she stands
alone these days, parades the open
spaces like a queen whose place
commands the entrance gate.
I see she has no-one to fear –
including me, and wonder what
and when my fate.
© 7 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
today, she stared me in the
eyes exclaiming “Puck!” with
brows all raised expectantly.
I didn’t understand and shook
my head. You need a better
vocabulary I said, explained
perhaps a “cut!” or two,
a “grort!” is good and “tuc!”
just seemed to go a ways to making
better conversation. “Crap,” she said –
as clearly uttered object of contempt
as I had ever heard. It struck me hard,
she’d cut me dead. “Pok,” she then
complained and duly launched a glottal
raft of “arcs...” defined as tut, tut, tuts!
I got the message loud and clear,
‘don’t pander me.’ I note she stands
alone these days, parades the open
spaces like a queen whose place
commands the entrance gate.
I see she has no-one to fear –
including me, and wonder what
and when my fate.
© 7 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
Before The End Of Desert Red
When we talk of ‘roots’ the current scene
abruptly ends – the camera pans a fuzzy
shot that seems to search for something
clearly out of reach to focus on.
Usually it picks a distant mountain range,
there are a few, a piece of bland and endless
desert – arid red with rippled dust, a wind-blown
dune where stunted mulga clings.
The mantra sings of natures’ dreams
in wild magnificence, there the theme
expands beyond belief, there the myth
maintains our origins exist in stark relief.
You know there’s nothing there; a few frilled
lizards eke a sober life, desert plants survive
upon the edge – rains arrive each seventh year.
Nearest to our origins come driving in their 4WDs.
No-one really lives out there. No-one ever really
did. Intrepid city kids of recent years leave tyre
tracks where foot prints did the deed back then,
back when – way before the end of desert red.
© 8 May 2007. I.D. Carswell
abruptly ends – the camera pans a fuzzy
shot that seems to search for something
clearly out of reach to focus on.
Usually it picks a distant mountain range,
there are a few, a piece of bland and endless
desert – arid red with rippled dust, a wind-blown
dune where stunted mulga clings.
The mantra sings of natures’ dreams
in wild magnificence, there the theme
expands beyond belief, there the myth
maintains our origins exist in stark relief.
You know there’s nothing there; a few frilled
lizards eke a sober life, desert plants survive
upon the edge – rains arrive each seventh year.
Nearest to our origins come driving in their 4WDs.
No-one really lives out there. No-one ever really
did. Intrepid city kids of recent years leave tyre
tracks where foot prints did the deed back then,
back when – way before the end of desert red.
© 8 May 2007. I.D. Carswell
30 May 2007
If Only I Could Fly
I see the contrails marking where you’ve
flown but the atmosphere is closed to me,
I am no man of means nor can I beat the pull
of gravity. Although I share your dreams
of floating free I never learned to fly.
Come with me you cry, it’s easy, spread
your mental wings and soar into the sky.
I fear success with fear that’s worse than
fearing death – to try and not succeed is
scarcely worth the pain presumed, but
to fly and make it free of earthly claim
deludes the sane and rational man in me.
I could not return to humble life again – I’d
die on wings that never slept, I’d never need
to breathe another breath if only I could fly.
© 6 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
flown but the atmosphere is closed to me,
I am no man of means nor can I beat the pull
of gravity. Although I share your dreams
of floating free I never learned to fly.
Come with me you cry, it’s easy, spread
your mental wings and soar into the sky.
I fear success with fear that’s worse than
fearing death – to try and not succeed is
scarcely worth the pain presumed, but
to fly and make it free of earthly claim
deludes the sane and rational man in me.
I could not return to humble life again – I’d
die on wings that never slept, I’d never need
to breathe another breath if only I could fly.
© 6 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
User-Friendly
I had a plan to be an Aussie of real stature,
to be a man amongst the men who lead the
way. I’d stand as tall and straight as Weary
Dunlop, as broadly based as Gough Whitlam,
and look Malcolm Frazer directly in the eye,
provided he was wearing trousers of course,
otherwise one’s obliged to avert the gaze.
Part two of the plan was to avoid the pitfalls
of public exposure panned by politicians like
Peter Costello and his rabid mate Tony ‘sic ‘em’
Abbott. Or a near-death experience in progress
which Phillip Ruddock manages with panache.
Instead I’d adopt the charm of a bloke who’d
make a damn good President, ol’ Ernie Dingo.
I don’t want sex appeal so Hugh Jackman and
me other mate Paul Hogan have to take a back
seat – but character is demanded so Peter Finch
gets a role in me. And that about wraps it except
for brains. I thought about it for bloody ages,
you know there’s no damn surplus of the stuff –
we’ve been sending it outta here for years.
It looked like the plan was gunna come unstuck
until I had a brainwave. Marry some. And wouldn’t
you believe it, behind every beer-swillin’, pot-bellied
Aussie bloke stands a sheila with brains to burn just
champing at their bits. And Jesus mate, they dress
waybetter ‘n us, wear ripper hats at the Melbourne
Cup and all of ‘em come with user-friendly tits.
© 3 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
I Know You Well (by the way you die)
Unseen, except by eyes which can’t
articulate their fright – a dull sheen
resurging on mottled-green skin you
glide in the night, head arcing side
to side – searchlight seeking a small
source of body heat, nostrils alight.
I know your name; you are the last
privateer, the scourge of the relic forest,
the fiftieth tree row and on into the wild
tangled spaces beyond. I am damned
if I please you with a feast, a morsel no
more than a bite- sized, well-fed chicken –
it’s anguished heart beating furiously;
its peers aflutter, unsure whether to
flee or hide in the fluffed-up feathers
of an exemplar mother. I don’t see
you thief but I know you well
by the way you die.
© 4 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
articulate their fright – a dull sheen
resurging on mottled-green skin you
glide in the night, head arcing side
to side – searchlight seeking a small
source of body heat, nostrils alight.
I know your name; you are the last
privateer, the scourge of the relic forest,
the fiftieth tree row and on into the wild
tangled spaces beyond. I am damned
if I please you with a feast, a morsel no
more than a bite- sized, well-fed chicken –
it’s anguished heart beating furiously;
its peers aflutter, unsure whether to
flee or hide in the fluffed-up feathers
of an exemplar mother. I don’t see
you thief but I know you well
by the way you die.
© 4 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
Silence As Magnanimous Respect
Lulu belle wrote a poem, it isn’t her
real name and she doesn’t exist
to the best of my knowledge. The
poem does however, and it attests
an inimitable collage of genius.
It has captured the colours of her
imaginings in a brief but loquacious
declaration of intense beauty;
four lines, just twenty five words
of it – a recondite library of learning.
It captured my heart in an instant,
demanded acknowledgment. But
when I came to praise a faux professor
of circumlocutory nonsense had razed
the image immaculate – leaving a
specious burst of wretched toadying.
Where he plodded with bucolic fervour
I was dissuaded from recording my
few words. How could I say ‘this is the
work of genius’ in his piddling wake?
Lulu belle, be praised by the words I was
afraid to leave at the foot of your beautiful
poem. It is not neglect, you’ve earned my
silence as magnanimous respect...
© 6 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
real name and she doesn’t exist
to the best of my knowledge. The
poem does however, and it attests
an inimitable collage of genius.
It has captured the colours of her
imaginings in a brief but loquacious
declaration of intense beauty;
four lines, just twenty five words
of it – a recondite library of learning.
It captured my heart in an instant,
demanded acknowledgment. But
when I came to praise a faux professor
of circumlocutory nonsense had razed
the image immaculate – leaving a
specious burst of wretched toadying.
Where he plodded with bucolic fervour
I was dissuaded from recording my
few words. How could I say ‘this is the
work of genius’ in his piddling wake?
Lulu belle, be praised by the words I was
afraid to leave at the foot of your beautiful
poem. It is not neglect, you’ve earned my
silence as magnanimous respect...
© 6 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
29 May 2007
One God Is Two Too Many
One god is two too many
I know this as plain as the
nose on my face. One god
spawns godlets endlessly
repeating the pattern
time and again
implanting them
in new arrivals
until we blend in an
emergent democracy
where everyone speaks
at once but no-one
listens – claiming theirs
is the one true god.
True to what I say, the
original pattern? Or the
equally insane epithet
of I thought of it first?
Out there, somewhere,
this crowded conscience
is thinking of me, so I know
what every god knows,
that even one god is still
two too many.
© 3 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
Age Of The Shorter Poem
It must be the trapdoor of age, the
gap between short-term memory
and the supposed sage-like qualities
we’re reputed to gain as one gets on
in years.
I term it the curse of 'sagacious
brevity', an affinity for shorter verse
as an inverse of advancing age. Jesus,
please, don’t let it happen
to me!
When a thousand words was tame
writing less suggested a lack of wit.
Now it’s an effect of attention span,
say it in ten words blessed if you
want to command an interest.
Understand I’m not making waves, or
commenting out of the Kirk; I’d be a jerk
to observe poets who’ve written 1000 or
more poems are prone to fade way short
in a dash to the line.
But the real reason I gauge (and opine)
is once you’ve reached that certain age
you'll not remember what you wanted
to say beyond one line
at a given time.
© 2 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
Just To See Them All Again
I can tell you this,
I know
I didn’t
start the war –
sure, I was there,
so was everyone,
it was the only action going on;
right or wrong I played a part.
But war is bad shit – really man,
unless you’ve been to one
you can’t conceive how sadly
it can fuck you up.
It’s like the universe has lost its brains
fallen on an edge and spawned
a set of nasty bits that spread
unchecked as rank infection.
Law is by the gun, the scene is one
of unchecked madness and
incredible insanity unleashed
on injured people seeking peace.
No-one does it easy – forget that crap
of making bucks, truth is just another
lie that’s soothed with surreal promises
that you’re OK, you’ll make it out alive.
In the end you carry on with one pure
thought in mind – your home and family,
and you survive just to see them all again.
© 3 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
I know
I didn’t
start the war –
sure, I was there,
so was everyone,
it was the only action going on;
right or wrong I played a part.
But war is bad shit – really man,
unless you’ve been to one
you can’t conceive how sadly
it can fuck you up.
It’s like the universe has lost its brains
fallen on an edge and spawned
a set of nasty bits that spread
unchecked as rank infection.
Law is by the gun, the scene is one
of unchecked madness and
incredible insanity unleashed
on injured people seeking peace.
No-one does it easy – forget that crap
of making bucks, truth is just another
lie that’s soothed with surreal promises
that you’re OK, you’ll make it out alive.
In the end you carry on with one pure
thought in mind – your home and family,
and you survive just to see them all again.
© 3 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
It’s Just The Same Here
She manned a booth at the City gates.
One could have said she ‘womaned’
it and been just as right. She was very,
very ancient, not an awesomely handsome
sight but she’d weathered well into her
eighties. At her site she dispensed advice,
directions to places to see in the City and
wisdom, if asked politely, for free.
A traveller from afar came cautiously
and asked, his eyes never ceasing to dart,
of the nature of townspeople living there.
What are the people like where you come
from, enquired she. He nervously replied,
they lie, they cheat, and they blaspheme.
An ugly scene. I lived in fear. She shook her
head in sympathy. It’s just the same here.
A foreign man passing near asked again.
She wrinkled up her brows and sought advice
on how he found inhabitants to be at his home
town. They’re bright, they laugh, and they’re
full of cheer, its fun to be living there, he said,
his sparkling smile affirmed his claim. She wore
a grin and said I’m sure you‘ll find the people
here are very much the same.
A younger woman listened to her replies and
said you’re wise in what you say. You imply
we find in life what we are primed to see, that
our disposition makes friends as easily as it
disavows friendships. What do you mean, the
old woman cried, her brows drawn in a quizzical
frown. Well, the younger replied cautiously, how
do YOU find our townspeople to be?
© 3 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
One could have said she ‘womaned’
it and been just as right. She was very,
very ancient, not an awesomely handsome
sight but she’d weathered well into her
eighties. At her site she dispensed advice,
directions to places to see in the City and
wisdom, if asked politely, for free.
A traveller from afar came cautiously
and asked, his eyes never ceasing to dart,
of the nature of townspeople living there.
What are the people like where you come
from, enquired she. He nervously replied,
they lie, they cheat, and they blaspheme.
An ugly scene. I lived in fear. She shook her
head in sympathy. It’s just the same here.
A foreign man passing near asked again.
She wrinkled up her brows and sought advice
on how he found inhabitants to be at his home
town. They’re bright, they laugh, and they’re
full of cheer, its fun to be living there, he said,
his sparkling smile affirmed his claim. She wore
a grin and said I’m sure you‘ll find the people
here are very much the same.
A younger woman listened to her replies and
said you’re wise in what you say. You imply
we find in life what we are primed to see, that
our disposition makes friends as easily as it
disavows friendships. What do you mean, the
old woman cried, her brows drawn in a quizzical
frown. Well, the younger replied cautiously, how
do YOU find our townspeople to be?
© 3 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
Like You Really Mean It
I am happy I am told,
I am at peace with the World,
my analyst is at peace with me.
My anxiety, she says, is frustration
with the pace of change – not
it’s inexorability. Slow down a bit,
match the rhythms, see the air
shimmer with mid-afternoon pleasure,
tap into that reservoir of ambient
sound, groove to it. Be one with
the whole she says. Sounds like
good advice to me.
And write a happy poem
for once, she says,
like you really mean it!
© 3 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
I am at peace with the World,
my analyst is at peace with me.
My anxiety, she says, is frustration
with the pace of change – not
it’s inexorability. Slow down a bit,
match the rhythms, see the air
shimmer with mid-afternoon pleasure,
tap into that reservoir of ambient
sound, groove to it. Be one with
the whole she says. Sounds like
good advice to me.
And write a happy poem
for once, she says,
like you really mean it!
© 3 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
28 May 2007
Perhaps I Need Convincing
When you say
“no”
it is initially a safe bet that it means –
“perhaps I need convincing”
– although
a second iteration
would construe
a change in emphasis
where simple repetition
takes a frank and fuller
meaning.
By a third utterance
it is already too late
to mend fences.
You state
“maybe”
– meaning I guess
neither yes nor no
an equivalent of the status quo,
yet the implication meant
to give a hint is fraught
with contradiction.
I know it means
“perhaps I need convincing.”
So, having travelled down
this road a ways,
when you cry
yes, yes, yes!
I say
“...perhaps I need convincing.”
© 2 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
“no”
it is initially a safe bet that it means –
“perhaps I need convincing”
– although
a second iteration
would construe
a change in emphasis
where simple repetition
takes a frank and fuller
meaning.
By a third utterance
it is already too late
to mend fences.
You state
“maybe”
– meaning I guess
neither yes nor no
an equivalent of the status quo,
yet the implication meant
to give a hint is fraught
with contradiction.
I know it means
“perhaps I need convincing.”
So, having travelled down
this road a ways,
when you cry
yes, yes, yes!
I say
“...perhaps I need convincing.”
© 2 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
Who Pisseth From The Pedestal
It started as a witty, shitty line
of stilted praise for one whose
days in power were numbered.
It gave its author instant fame,
the likes of which depraved an
even mind unbalanced in the
twisted glow of notoriety; he
saved some grace, apologised
and took the blame.
But he, who’s stunted like we
hope to never see again this
earthly life, grabbed at it to
save his worthless claim to an
ascendency he rode with
desperate need. It’s mine, he
wailed, I earned it in the Halls
of Greed, I’ll never let it go again.
The words were scribed for all to
see out where brave men collect
to pee;
“...who pisseth from the
pedestal make larger wave.”
© 27 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
of stilted praise for one whose
days in power were numbered.
It gave its author instant fame,
the likes of which depraved an
even mind unbalanced in the
twisted glow of notoriety; he
saved some grace, apologised
and took the blame.
But he, who’s stunted like we
hope to never see again this
earthly life, grabbed at it to
save his worthless claim to an
ascendency he rode with
desperate need. It’s mine, he
wailed, I earned it in the Halls
of Greed, I’ll never let it go again.
The words were scribed for all to
see out where brave men collect
to pee;
“...who pisseth from the
pedestal make larger wave.”
© 27 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
You Woke To It
You woke to it, wasn’t there when
you drifted off, no broken-backed
obfuscations dithered in your mind
other than the high-quality toxins
from one and a half litres of first
class red wine.
Actually you have a vague recollection
of waking earlier – an epiphany of sorts
because the TV channel had mysteriously
changed; you don’t watch wall-to-wall
newsreels when there is a choice of live
sports – even pissed out of your brain.
Huh? Newsreels! How come?
Don’t even try to follow it
through, simply turn the
volume down to a less
invasive level, accepting
another of life’s mysteries.
And so to bed with the spouse
– who wasn’t snoring. An average
day, with an average ending –
except for waking this morning
to a feeling of utter amazement.
And that’s what got me wondering.
© 28 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
you drifted off, no broken-backed
obfuscations dithered in your mind
other than the high-quality toxins
from one and a half litres of first
class red wine.
Actually you have a vague recollection
of waking earlier – an epiphany of sorts
because the TV channel had mysteriously
changed; you don’t watch wall-to-wall
newsreels when there is a choice of live
sports – even pissed out of your brain.
Huh? Newsreels! How come?
Don’t even try to follow it
through, simply turn the
volume down to a less
invasive level, accepting
another of life’s mysteries.
And so to bed with the spouse
– who wasn’t snoring. An average
day, with an average ending –
except for waking this morning
to a feeling of utter amazement.
And that’s what got me wondering.
© 28 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Puck, Aikido, and the Laws Of Nature
She ran with amazing speed to beat
me to the gate, stood in an aikido
stance, weight even-balanced, feet
placed for the fade toward or away.
Hunch, I said with admiration, what’s
your game?
“Puck”, she explained, I’m in training for
the match that will take me to the top
of the pen. Want to see my koshinage?
Not right now. When? Tomorrow, or
the day after that. Fine, I’ll practice.
I was left to ponder the how and why
of her wondrous change. A Sussex hen with
ambition, yes, but tuned to an aggression
honed on the slighted uke movement,
countering that with a nage technique in
the blink of an eye. I looked to the east,
there in the sky the answer hung; a hunter’s
moon. Hunch was in the throes of an ancient
game, driven by imperatives of flight or fight;
boding well for her rise to fame she’d chosen
right in my view to claim an ascendency in the
pen’s chain of avian command. She winked,
warily, “Puck”, she said again.
© 29 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
me to the gate, stood in an aikido
stance, weight even-balanced, feet
placed for the fade toward or away.
Hunch, I said with admiration, what’s
your game?
“Puck”, she explained, I’m in training for
the match that will take me to the top
of the pen. Want to see my koshinage?
Not right now. When? Tomorrow, or
the day after that. Fine, I’ll practice.
I was left to ponder the how and why
of her wondrous change. A Sussex hen with
ambition, yes, but tuned to an aggression
honed on the slighted uke movement,
countering that with a nage technique in
the blink of an eye. I looked to the east,
there in the sky the answer hung; a hunter’s
moon. Hunch was in the throes of an ancient
game, driven by imperatives of flight or fight;
boding well for her rise to fame she’d chosen
right in my view to claim an ascendency in the
pen’s chain of avian command. She winked,
warily, “Puck”, she said again.
© 29 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Reminisce Of Yesteryear
Of the thousand and one things I should
consider getting done today I will choose
just one. In the scheme of things to come
it’s no delay, merely a matter of fey choice.
With conviction I say I am master of my own
ship, captain of my fate. Destiny can wait.
Today, I decree, is for beer making – not as
you might suspect for me, in fact I prefer
red wine. It is for a friend of mine whose need
exceeds all rational explication; he is a small
man with prodigious thirst, and when he
offered to assist in the making I relented.
He has left me with nine tins of malt to brew
into a bitter beer – 210 litres of Prince’s cheer
best bottled and capped to rest for no less than
three weeks. And on the day for sampling
we will join as one, sip a brew or seventeen,
reminisce of yesteryear.
© 30 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
consider getting done today I will choose
just one. In the scheme of things to come
it’s no delay, merely a matter of fey choice.
With conviction I say I am master of my own
ship, captain of my fate. Destiny can wait.
Today, I decree, is for beer making – not as
you might suspect for me, in fact I prefer
red wine. It is for a friend of mine whose need
exceeds all rational explication; he is a small
man with prodigious thirst, and when he
offered to assist in the making I relented.
He has left me with nine tins of malt to brew
into a bitter beer – 210 litres of Prince’s cheer
best bottled and capped to rest for no less than
three weeks. And on the day for sampling
we will join as one, sip a brew or seventeen,
reminisce of yesteryear.
© 30 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Seeing Less Than We Took For Granted
No matter what I write or say you
won’t believe me anyway. Whether
I talk about toxic clichés or dumps
where failed humans are recycled
into stable votes, or kindergartens
where they are fast-forwarded into
defective adults or any other scene
where you claim your synapses
are not overloaded by a constant
information barrage aimed to keep
you overwhelmed and underplayed –
I know you won’t listen.
I am used to the litany. Thank you
for your concern, we hear but are
in control of our destinies. There is no
need for you to express your fear.
We are not afraid, the World is still
an amazing place which we wish to
bequeath our children – similar in all
respects to the wonderment we had,
perhaps only lessened in the growing
number of discerning sceptics seeing
less than we took for granted. Are we
to be held to ransom for that?
©30 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
won’t believe me anyway. Whether
I talk about toxic clichés or dumps
where failed humans are recycled
into stable votes, or kindergartens
where they are fast-forwarded into
defective adults or any other scene
where you claim your synapses
are not overloaded by a constant
information barrage aimed to keep
you overwhelmed and underplayed –
I know you won’t listen.
I am used to the litany. Thank you
for your concern, we hear but are
in control of our destinies. There is no
need for you to express your fear.
We are not afraid, the World is still
an amazing place which we wish to
bequeath our children – similar in all
respects to the wonderment we had,
perhaps only lessened in the growing
number of discerning sceptics seeing
less than we took for granted. Are we
to be held to ransom for that?
©30 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
That Too, Is Now Forgone
This is the antithesis
and the synthesis of me –
I am the cry of the hurt;
I am the pain of those
whose limbs function
less articulately. I am no
more – I cease to exist
when I see how easily
abused they are, these
victims of necessity.
It is not pain in any sense,
it is the missing sound of
things taken for granted –
the cash register of intellect,
the bank of good deeds,
the moral hospital of
immunity, the school of
home comfort. Where
we breathe common air
we might share some
commonality but that
too, is now forgone.
© 30 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
and the synthesis of me –
I am the cry of the hurt;
I am the pain of those
whose limbs function
less articulately. I am no
more – I cease to exist
when I see how easily
abused they are, these
victims of necessity.
It is not pain in any sense,
it is the missing sound of
things taken for granted –
the cash register of intellect,
the bank of good deeds,
the moral hospital of
immunity, the school of
home comfort. Where
we breathe common air
we might share some
commonality but that
too, is now forgone.
© 30 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Thursday Is To Be Your Day
In early dawn I merged in the generous
warmth of you, enfolded in coherent body
heat, absorbing energy to beat the bitter cold.
Even in sleep you knew I stole from you
and you gave forth to fortify my need.
I rose to greet the first ice-rays of sun
while you lay on in a cocoon of rational
warmth, asleep with the meter running.
Yesterday we disagreed on which exact
day you would choose to keep for you;
you chose Thursday. I was at pains to say
I need you take a day unto yourself but
cannot make commitment just which one
would suit. It appears that I disputed thus in jest;
I am wise to your ways – you only seem asleep.
In a soft light of this new morn where dewy
dawn has broken, the air sweet with birdsong,
I can agree. Thursday is to be your day.
© 1 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
warmth of you, enfolded in coherent body
heat, absorbing energy to beat the bitter cold.
Even in sleep you knew I stole from you
and you gave forth to fortify my need.
I rose to greet the first ice-rays of sun
while you lay on in a cocoon of rational
warmth, asleep with the meter running.
Yesterday we disagreed on which exact
day you would choose to keep for you;
you chose Thursday. I was at pains to say
I need you take a day unto yourself but
cannot make commitment just which one
would suit. It appears that I disputed thus in jest;
I am wise to your ways – you only seem asleep.
In a soft light of this new morn where dewy
dawn has broken, the air sweet with birdsong,
I can agree. Thursday is to be your day.
© 1 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
Court Your Shrewd Applause
Give me that time again and I won’t play the
fool. I’ll learn all the lines this time, recite them
with a winning style. I know the how and why, I
can smile in the appropriate places, gesture
with largesse, gesticulate. It is not too late
to include me in the cast.
It was only a Prologue to the Tales where my
role was to walk the aisles, show off the ancient
words with dextrous flair I haven’t used again
these vacant years. I was prepared to flirt with the
audience, smear them with risqué jam and wet
them wickedly with damp innuendo.
I dared to be different then, a character in the
rough who came for succour, for acclaim. Now
I’ll play the part that Chaucer had in mind when
he wrote the Tales. It will not be an inimitable Ivan
striding the boards but an actor of stable sort
who’s come to mildly court your shrewd applause.
© 1 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
fool. I’ll learn all the lines this time, recite them
with a winning style. I know the how and why, I
can smile in the appropriate places, gesture
with largesse, gesticulate. It is not too late
to include me in the cast.
It was only a Prologue to the Tales where my
role was to walk the aisles, show off the ancient
words with dextrous flair I haven’t used again
these vacant years. I was prepared to flirt with the
audience, smear them with risqué jam and wet
them wickedly with damp innuendo.
I dared to be different then, a character in the
rough who came for succour, for acclaim. Now
I’ll play the part that Chaucer had in mind when
he wrote the Tales. It will not be an inimitable Ivan
striding the boards but an actor of stable sort
who’s come to mildly court your shrewd applause.
© 1 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
Canterbury Tales Revisited
I cannot imagine now what it
would have been like – and I cannot
begin to dream of whom or how
they might have seemed today.
Though I know their social station as it
was, can guess a rough outline of every
face, how they spake and dressed,
it’s not to say I’d know the same.
Who is a Knight today? Would he
be a stately man or an unenviable
anachronism? Or a Reeve? Millers
are likely still the same as are men
of Law – and inebriated Cooks. Clerks,
Squires, Franklins and Merchant men
still bore one silly as do men of Books;
Manciples and provisions go hand in
hand, Physicians likely still cure an ill,
Priests, Monks, Parsons, Prioresses
and Nuns are still habitually dressed.
Summoners and Pardoners are harder
to come by while a jolly Wife of Bath
is no great feat to imagine. But to see
them all together at a table laden here
within the Inn telling tales to entertain
each other, to hear their stories loud
and clear with vast quantities of wine
and beer imbibed to ease their saddle
sores would please me famously.
I would that they all came and stayed
again right here when on their wended
way to view the martyr’s tomb
in far off Canterbury.
© 1 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
27 May 2007
Treasured In A Bright Smile
Love is in the shadow of a large
leaf held precisely to cast cool
shade in the summer heat.
Love is in the glance made for
no concise reason except a
chance meeting of the same.
Love is in the anguished ebony
of sweet anticipation tethered
in a torpor of ecstasy’s apex.
Love is in the deep sheen of
elegant mirrors where eyes
beam like starlit beacons.
Love is in the light touch of a
hand, warm and reassuring,
treasured in a bright smile.
© 27 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
leaf held precisely to cast cool
shade in the summer heat.
Love is in the glance made for
no concise reason except a
chance meeting of the same.
Love is in the anguished ebony
of sweet anticipation tethered
in a torpor of ecstasy’s apex.
Love is in the deep sheen of
elegant mirrors where eyes
beam like starlit beacons.
Love is in the light touch of a
hand, warm and reassuring,
treasured in a bright smile.
© 27 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Death, You Did Not Cheat Me
Death, you did not cheat me
of my father’s life – he gave to
me the things you thought he
owed to you.
Where there should have
been an emptiness I wear
a bounty of his strength,
his good sustains me though
he is not here to share.
Know this you fiend,
in death you gave him life
through me and left me
with no earthly fear.
© 24 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
of my father’s life – he gave to
me the things you thought he
owed to you.
Where there should have
been an emptiness I wear
a bounty of his strength,
his good sustains me though
he is not here to share.
Know this you fiend,
in death you gave him life
through me and left me
with no earthly fear.
© 24 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
More In Every Sense (than just a town)
Nobody owned our town, it was greater
than the sum of its component parts;
it had a dodgy heart with nasty set of lungs,
I’d heard its hacking cough enough to
know of that as one of its effete and
warming eccentricities. At the start we
took it all for granted, the town where
we were born was more in every sense
than just a town – could warm you with
its winsome ways or toss you in a heap,
choke you with its fiery breath and tease
you with a subtle breeze; but should she
fart your grip on life was squeezed with acrid
smells she generated in those bowels of
hellish potency. I evoke those smells
again with awesome clarity – gasworks
was the usual claim, but easterlies mixed
easily with offal from the freezing works and
sewage stench that leaked from outfalls at
the northern beach. A demise of heady scent
to greet emphatically and burn the eyes.
In every other sense this town was not unique –
a town with ordinary passions but a hidden
vigour and a signature to make you blench.
It is of little wonder then that claims demur for
ownership, who in hell would want to smile and
own the pledge of such a pile of suppurating shit!
© 24 April 2007, I.D. Carswell.
(Actually the old village wasn’t all that bad!)
than the sum of its component parts;
it had a dodgy heart with nasty set of lungs,
I’d heard its hacking cough enough to
know of that as one of its effete and
warming eccentricities. At the start we
took it all for granted, the town where
we were born was more in every sense
than just a town – could warm you with
its winsome ways or toss you in a heap,
choke you with its fiery breath and tease
you with a subtle breeze; but should she
fart your grip on life was squeezed with acrid
smells she generated in those bowels of
hellish potency. I evoke those smells
again with awesome clarity – gasworks
was the usual claim, but easterlies mixed
easily with offal from the freezing works and
sewage stench that leaked from outfalls at
the northern beach. A demise of heady scent
to greet emphatically and burn the eyes.
In every other sense this town was not unique –
a town with ordinary passions but a hidden
vigour and a signature to make you blench.
It is of little wonder then that claims demur for
ownership, who in hell would want to smile and
own the pledge of such a pile of suppurating shit!
© 24 April 2007, I.D. Carswell.
(Actually the old village wasn’t all that bad!)
Pockets Full Of Piss And Wind
You heard the way Tim Flannery told it,
he ‘almost’ turned down his Australian of
the Year award because Johnny Howard
would not sign the Kyoto Protocol.
Let me repeat, he ‘almost’ gave away
what he needs to be an effective voice,
cancelled his tenure of choice, and faded
away into an innocuous invisibility.
Tim Flannery... couldn’t be the same man
we look to for sage advice! But he is right.
Johnny states with steely-eyed intensity,
‘Australia needs a strong economy, not a
bunch of nannies pushing greenhouse
gas emission goals. We’d be broke within
a week if we let those pissweak freaks
run this country round the bend’.
Depends which bend. Timmy stole the
moral ground from erstwhile Honest
John (- still with the blinkers on), been
forthright, erudite and told the truth.
But what’s the use, who’ll you best believe?
John will fill your pockets full of piss and wind
while you breathe the same foul air still reeking
of emissions, claiming it’s good for the economy.
© 25 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
he ‘almost’ turned down his Australian of
the Year award because Johnny Howard
would not sign the Kyoto Protocol.
Let me repeat, he ‘almost’ gave away
what he needs to be an effective voice,
cancelled his tenure of choice, and faded
away into an innocuous invisibility.
Tim Flannery... couldn’t be the same man
we look to for sage advice! But he is right.
Johnny states with steely-eyed intensity,
‘Australia needs a strong economy, not a
bunch of nannies pushing greenhouse
gas emission goals. We’d be broke within
a week if we let those pissweak freaks
run this country round the bend’.
Depends which bend. Timmy stole the
moral ground from erstwhile Honest
John (- still with the blinkers on), been
forthright, erudite and told the truth.
But what’s the use, who’ll you best believe?
John will fill your pockets full of piss and wind
while you breathe the same foul air still reeking
of emissions, claiming it’s good for the economy.
© 25 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
This al-Qaida Of The Mind
This al-Qaida of the mind
invades a rational state
with views that coincide
with parasites that eat
their host of living flesh
without respite.
It feeds on hate,
it breeds immaculate
of able thoughts, a
consummate insanity
that generates
its hatred by itself.
It aims, if mindless aims
are lucid thought, to set
a caliphate in place where
people stand and freely
choose, imposing deeds
on those who live.
For those who died
the fires burn – consuming
mujahedeen
and infidel alike
with undiscerning
antipathy.
© 25 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
invades a rational state
with views that coincide
with parasites that eat
their host of living flesh
without respite.
It feeds on hate,
it breeds immaculate
of able thoughts, a
consummate insanity
that generates
its hatred by itself.
It aims, if mindless aims
are lucid thought, to set
a caliphate in place where
people stand and freely
choose, imposing deeds
on those who live.
For those who died
the fires burn – consuming
mujahedeen
and infidel alike
with undiscerning
antipathy.
© 25 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Surely They Can’t All Be As Bad
Am I to take this indisposition of arthritic pain
a token warning of your august munificence?
One shoulder hurts so much I cannot raise the
arm, not to supplication-able levels anyway,
and I am afraid I cannot bend to pray, my back
and knees will not allow such latitude. Suffice
to say I’m damned, I guess. Yes, I know didn’t
pray before the pain became this bad but that
would beg the very question, why let pain take
the sway it does when you’re not going to relieve
it anyway? Was that circumspect warning shot let
through the head meant to convert the masses
back to your way of thinking? And what are the
sad alternatives we are supposed to be shrinking
from? Burning in Hell would be a sinecure compared
with this. Hey, surely, they can’t ALL be as bad...
© 25 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
a token warning of your august munificence?
One shoulder hurts so much I cannot raise the
arm, not to supplication-able levels anyway,
and I am afraid I cannot bend to pray, my back
and knees will not allow such latitude. Suffice
to say I’m damned, I guess. Yes, I know didn’t
pray before the pain became this bad but that
would beg the very question, why let pain take
the sway it does when you’re not going to relieve
it anyway? Was that circumspect warning shot let
through the head meant to convert the masses
back to your way of thinking? And what are the
sad alternatives we are supposed to be shrinking
from? Burning in Hell would be a sinecure compared
with this. Hey, surely, they can’t ALL be as bad...
© 25 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
ANZAC Day
What it was or what it has come to mean will
persist to trouble our Nation’s conscience still
but only once a year. We named it ANZAC Day –
in memory of the boys who died at Gallipoli.
Yes, it was someone else’s War, another one
we didn’t ignore or stay away from; one of
too many for sure but the particular one where
we earned our right to claim Nationhood.
Until the landings we stood an ingenuous
bunch of lads, handy in a fight with anyone –
especially amongst our disparate selves,
itching to prove something.
Then we died in droves fighting the Turks. In the
space of a few, barbarous weeks we learned how
to live and die as one – made friends from across
our nation, learned how to stand together.
And when it was done and dusted we withdrew,
beaten out of hand by an incompetent Military
Command (as a few British Officers would truly
know), left our dead to rot where they lay.
Today we remember all our boys, all our brave
young men slaughtered for ideals we didn’t
comprehend, for treaties and compromises
penned in irreplaceably pure colonial blood.
When the last gasp of the old guard gurgles and
dies of old age in its sleep mask, when the last
coffin is interred and the reticence is at rest, it is
then, and only then, we’ll understand its worth.
© 25 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
(ANZAC – Australian and New Zealand Army Corps)
persist to trouble our Nation’s conscience still
but only once a year. We named it ANZAC Day –
in memory of the boys who died at Gallipoli.
Yes, it was someone else’s War, another one
we didn’t ignore or stay away from; one of
too many for sure but the particular one where
we earned our right to claim Nationhood.
Until the landings we stood an ingenuous
bunch of lads, handy in a fight with anyone –
especially amongst our disparate selves,
itching to prove something.
Then we died in droves fighting the Turks. In the
space of a few, barbarous weeks we learned how
to live and die as one – made friends from across
our nation, learned how to stand together.
And when it was done and dusted we withdrew,
beaten out of hand by an incompetent Military
Command (as a few British Officers would truly
know), left our dead to rot where they lay.
Today we remember all our boys, all our brave
young men slaughtered for ideals we didn’t
comprehend, for treaties and compromises
penned in irreplaceably pure colonial blood.
When the last gasp of the old guard gurgles and
dies of old age in its sleep mask, when the last
coffin is interred and the reticence is at rest, it is
then, and only then, we’ll understand its worth.
© 25 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
(ANZAC – Australian and New Zealand Army Corps)
Puck Might Make Much More Sense
Hunch, the hen, whose vocabulary is constrained
to the extreme but articulate expression ‘puck’,
claims she dreams of being a Shakespearian actor.
What’s more she sees a role that’s tailor-made, not
Puck as you might opine but Nick Bottom with whom
she shares a belief she can discretely play all or any
actor’s part in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I don’t
want to play the fool for her myself but I can’t see a
case where she could wear a donkey’s head with the
necessary conviction – let alone bear Titania’s fiery
love. I must say though that I like her spritely style
and agree that she should have a chance. I decree
that she shall star as the hunchback in Richard III at
the next Shakespearean festival. On second thoughts,
being Puck might make much more sense...
© 26 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
to the extreme but articulate expression ‘puck’,
claims she dreams of being a Shakespearian actor.
What’s more she sees a role that’s tailor-made, not
Puck as you might opine but Nick Bottom with whom
she shares a belief she can discretely play all or any
actor’s part in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I don’t
want to play the fool for her myself but I can’t see a
case where she could wear a donkey’s head with the
necessary conviction – let alone bear Titania’s fiery
love. I must say though that I like her spritely style
and agree that she should have a chance. I decree
that she shall star as the hunchback in Richard III at
the next Shakespearean festival. On second thoughts,
being Puck might make much more sense...
© 26 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
First Cab Off The Rank
You would say it is crazy to see
the entire, stupid event spread
out before it even happens.
Not the actual affair, of course,
more a scenario-like series of
graphics, each obvious so the
imagination doesn’t have a role,
joined together in a succinct, if
somewhat compressed, statement
of the whole. It is too late for immunity,
infection has spread and changes wrought
with scant evidence to support them.
Thus the poem I liked fades from the
tender scene where I might add a
complimentary thought for the poet –
to become an anguished case of demur,
withdraw, ignore and beware. There
I see the flaw, those words were writ like
the fawning hands of another man before
me, who stroked the fair breasts I sought
to claim – and thus queered the pitch.
So I say no thanks, nor will I play
with that. She’ll just have to
take the first cab off the rank.
© 26 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Post Poetic And Maudlin Arrogance
I am trying hard to be objective
today, keeping my feelings on a
tight lease, averting eyes from
poetic pieces which were surely
designed to drive me to despair.
Why would a poet write or expect
others to be excited by something
as numbly mundane? Is there a naive
explanation available, elucidating in
simple terms, aiding understanding?
I thought it might be because I am Australian –
that is I thought I was until I read some verse,
by crikey, that had me cringe; where the idiom
was right the impression was
uncomfortably Machiavellian.
I like clever poets, users of words – the
poseurs I tend to meet in the pages I peruse
are made so much less odious by finding a
gem of literary magnificence, penned by
an unknown genius, every now and then.
In the vernacular of this Land, bugger
it – I’ll have to sustain myself with a liberal
dose of post traumatic erudition until
someone posts something to get my
literary juices flowing again...
© 27 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
26 May 2007
With Everything In Its Proper Place
The bloody rain’s welcome, so I suppose you
must be too, he says laconically – since you
arrived with it, a bit of good luck all round.
They shelter in the shed and sip cold beers
while it pours down with a vengeance; just a
two-stubby shower they observe. Yeah, I was
gunna drop up last week but somehow the time
got away on me again, funny that. They chew
the fat, swap hot gossip, sell a few sacred cows.
Seems the best pizza is made here on the farm
by his truly and the younger lad’s still angling
for an invite – not that it matters unduly.
Alright, so what’s the go on the gear you’ve been
keeping back. Delivered first thing tomorrow.
Bewdy. And the driver drives away having killed
that last difficult hour before knock-off with an
inspired visit, confident the world is now indeed
secure with everything in its proper place.
© 23 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Basking In Its Radiant Glow
This month I am not going to receive an Apple
iPod for my unrequited efforts in attracting
internet traffic to the Poem Hunter site –
I know it because I haven’t achieved
anywhere near the requisite number
of unique hits on my home page or
engaged in the levels of intensive self-
promotion needed to be seen larger on
the screen. Perhaps it is better this way;
perhaps I can stay just barely read by a
few cognoscenti and blissfully, wistfully
unknown to the wanton, wider World.
I do not want an iPod, nor do I want to
play God, I am happier being here in the
basement of the towering edifice,
not quite alone – not quite unknown,
stoking the fires in the furnace
basking in its radiant glow.
© 19 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
iPod for my unrequited efforts in attracting
internet traffic to the Poem Hunter site –
I know it because I haven’t achieved
anywhere near the requisite number
of unique hits on my home page or
engaged in the levels of intensive self-
promotion needed to be seen larger on
the screen. Perhaps it is better this way;
perhaps I can stay just barely read by a
few cognoscenti and blissfully, wistfully
unknown to the wanton, wider World.
I do not want an iPod, nor do I want to
play God, I am happier being here in the
basement of the towering edifice,
not quite alone – not quite unknown,
stoking the fires in the furnace
basking in its radiant glow.
© 19 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
The Trees Grow Green With Envy
It is the end of the golden weather as
the last lazy day sinks sweetly into a
pink sunset blooming up out of the
west, fusillading the canopy of
remnant sclerophyll (which I detest),
piercing these tired eyes with its pastel
softness; it is the end of a much needed
rest, the beginning of another test.
We start the new season tomorrow.
The despised evergreens grow from
ignorance as wide as four generations
of stupidity – the wiser ones milled
the original trees, the stupid ones
let regrowth claim their land. This
stand is but a sanctuary for weeds,
a chance for fires to rage effectively
unchallenged across productive fields,
a haven for bureaucratic reticence in face
of common sense which says, keep it clean.
We fill our bags with avocados in the light
of the new day. We range amongst trees we
planted and maintained all these years with
a rare duty of care. And there, to the west
where the Council owns the land, where the
rampant regrowth of slash came from neglect,
where the windblown weeds gather and the
underfloor shrieks for a match, there the
watchers watch and the hatchers hatch
and the trees grow green with envy.
© 19 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Our Dogs Think He’s Family Already
A lone crow pecks about the lawn,
exhibits a proprietary air, I know he
will fly away if I hail him. He shows
a rare tolerance for our closeness,
an almost insouciant cheekiness
compared with the rest of his breed.
I pondered why he is there, why
he risks exposure without inherent
fear. I checked the ground where
he pecks, found remnants of flour
and baked beans soured into the soil.
He has a treasure which feeds his
appetite, overcomes his fear. My
dilemma is whether I replenish his
store or invite him to share fellow-
hood where he can sit at the table.
It’s not such a heady thought really,
our dogs think he’s family already.
© 20 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Missing In The Atmosphere
A mobile phone is scarcely
grounds for this dissent
but sounding out inanities
which let themselves begin
debate and start this spate
of cruel contempt
has pride of place.
First, a phone which isn’t
on is not a phone that can
be called, rather like no
phone at all – excepting
where your answer phone
completes the lot
when you cannot.
Why have a phone that
isn’t on? I declare an
innocence of thought and
deed, perhaps it’s for that
special call you like to make
but not receive.
And furthermore,
a phone you cannot find
or reach to take a call
suggests it’s all too hard
to teach the change
you need make to own
a mobile phone – the shift
in thought from ‘I might be’
to ‘I am receiving you
loud and clear’
is missing in the
atmosphere –
© 21 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
grounds for this dissent
but sounding out inanities
which let themselves begin
debate and start this spate
of cruel contempt
has pride of place.
First, a phone which isn’t
on is not a phone that can
be called, rather like no
phone at all – excepting
where your answer phone
completes the lot
when you cannot.
Why have a phone that
isn’t on? I declare an
innocence of thought and
deed, perhaps it’s for that
special call you like to make
but not receive.
And furthermore,
a phone you cannot find
or reach to take a call
suggests it’s all too hard
to teach the change
you need make to own
a mobile phone – the shift
in thought from ‘I might be’
to ‘I am receiving you
loud and clear’
is missing in the
atmosphere –
© 21 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Or There Will Never Be Tomorrow
I would really like to curl up and
sleep until the need for it goes;
though I am not tired now I
know I will be by the end of
tomorrow. The debt is always
due, it lurks in the fringes of a
grey mist making an unbroken
connection from the last moment
remembered until the next,
filling in the empty spaces with
a sense of solidity, sustaining
ennui. And it is there that the
principle must be repaid. I am not
ready for death and the sanctioned
dreams of a lifetime compressed
onto the head of a pin, nor will I
dance with the angels of sorrow. I
must express these feelings now
or there will never be tomorrow.
© 21 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
It Was A Golden Age
A sickness at heart persists when
I review the ancient icons of my
past; the valleys where I grew into
a strapping youth, the subtle hues
of summer days, the greens and
blues, the shimmered haze of heat
and dust that settled slowly at the
feet of each time-traveller as they
passed within our universe. I knew
not much more than the pages of
the books I read, related with great
certainty to every nook and cranny
where I grew – knew my family dear
with sureness that eschewed a sibling
jealousy, a love with care ensued and
bloomed from there.
It was a golden age.
© 21 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
I review the ancient icons of my
past; the valleys where I grew into
a strapping youth, the subtle hues
of summer days, the greens and
blues, the shimmered haze of heat
and dust that settled slowly at the
feet of each time-traveller as they
passed within our universe. I knew
not much more than the pages of
the books I read, related with great
certainty to every nook and cranny
where I grew – knew my family dear
with sureness that eschewed a sibling
jealousy, a love with care ensued and
bloomed from there.
It was a golden age.
© 21 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
But The Waves Break Me
I bake the bread
but I do not make
the waves –
I mix and match
the elements
without a recipe,
don’t need a text
to see what’s next.
But the waves
break me.
And where I ride
the spume flecked
crests in a fantasy
I carp and quail when
the waves take me.
The waves take me
where they want to go,
the waves make me
a stone to throw,
the waves resurge,
resound, rebound –
waves that drown my
ignorance, waves that
teach me how to dance
waves that breach
my immunity.
I bake the bread as a baker
just, but the waves break me.
© 22 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Puck, The Consequences
‘Puck’ – you’ve met her already,
named Hunch with her beautiful
sister Stella, confidently strides the
same side of the pen as the bigger
hens, runs and ducks with the panache
of a pickpocket when set upon,
complained there was no future
for a dyslectic hen with a slight
speech impediment. No way was she
going to get a place in College, much
less fulfil her heart’s desire to marry
an absent-minded Professor. Of course I’m
amazed; to think Hunch, who had ambition
no less appealing than mine (except for the
‘professor’), was prepared to make
overtures, negotiate, stake a claim.
Puck the consequences she said again.
I’m taking a stand for us hens, for all
hendom, and in particular, the grey-
haired man who brings us our daily grain.
22 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
named Hunch with her beautiful
sister Stella, confidently strides the
same side of the pen as the bigger
hens, runs and ducks with the panache
of a pickpocket when set upon,
complained there was no future
for a dyslectic hen with a slight
speech impediment. No way was she
going to get a place in College, much
less fulfil her heart’s desire to marry
an absent-minded Professor. Of course I’m
amazed; to think Hunch, who had ambition
no less appealing than mine (except for the
‘professor’), was prepared to make
overtures, negotiate, stake a claim.
Puck the consequences she said again.
I’m taking a stand for us hens, for all
hendom, and in particular, the grey-
haired man who brings us our daily grain.
22 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Old Friendships Lie Wretched
Old friendships lie wretched and reeking
like cigarette ends stubbed unconsciously
on varnished tables; there is no denying
the unsightly blemishes, no austere
feeling can match a sense of betrayal.
In an empty morning undressed of even
decent pretence we play the game – you
stare tensed as if I owe an explanation; I
wear a perplexed frown, nostrils flared,
still acerbically alight with the acrid scent.
You are amazed when I show you the
evidence, where did they come from you
say in genuine surprise – who abused and
left them like that? I don’t know – nor do I
care, they just shouldn’t be there.
We find common ground again, we progress
to where we can see eye to eye, we match
meanings. But between us on the table lie
the wretched dog-ends of old friendships –
stubbed out before their time.
© 23 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
like cigarette ends stubbed unconsciously
on varnished tables; there is no denying
the unsightly blemishes, no austere
feeling can match a sense of betrayal.
In an empty morning undressed of even
decent pretence we play the game – you
stare tensed as if I owe an explanation; I
wear a perplexed frown, nostrils flared,
still acerbically alight with the acrid scent.
You are amazed when I show you the
evidence, where did they come from you
say in genuine surprise – who abused and
left them like that? I don’t know – nor do I
care, they just shouldn’t be there.
We find common ground again, we progress
to where we can see eye to eye, we match
meanings. But between us on the table lie
the wretched dog-ends of old friendships –
stubbed out before their time.
© 23 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
25 May 2007
A Serious Cluck Impediment
“Puck”, she says, “puck”,
it is as close as she can get
to articulating “cluck”. At
least I take it that way –
in an amused appreciation
rather than an ominous and
obvious connotation that I
have a young, Sussex hen with
a serious cluck impediment.
A charmer she is, hunched at hatch
and grown into an elegant hen with
clearly defined black and white
markings of her handsome kin,
making her winsome way in the
yard with outrageous one-liners;
‘Puck’ means a lot to me but I’ve
relented and named her ‘Hunch’.
I wait the day when she claims
stage centre with a pealing
acclamation on her first egg; I know
it won’t have the musical qualities
of her peers but I am sure she will
surprise. Hunch is practising, she put
together four “pucks” this morning
in the most complete speech
I’ve ever heard her make.
© 19 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
it is as close as she can get
to articulating “cluck”. At
least I take it that way –
in an amused appreciation
rather than an ominous and
obvious connotation that I
have a young, Sussex hen with
a serious cluck impediment.
A charmer she is, hunched at hatch
and grown into an elegant hen with
clearly defined black and white
markings of her handsome kin,
making her winsome way in the
yard with outrageous one-liners;
‘Puck’ means a lot to me but I’ve
relented and named her ‘Hunch’.
I wait the day when she claims
stage centre with a pealing
acclamation on her first egg; I know
it won’t have the musical qualities
of her peers but I am sure she will
surprise. Hunch is practising, she put
together four “pucks” this morning
in the most complete speech
I’ve ever heard her make.
© 19 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
It Is A Sign Of Progress
It is a sign of progress I say, something benign
– but you sway with the view of crude reality;
an invasion of maggots to you is inseparable
from the grotesque spectre of rotting carcases
they feast upon. There is no peace for you while
they crawl on your clean, tiled floor. I discretely
pick them up to appease you with brush and pan,
gain fawning recognition from the chickens –
they say, hey man, what of the corpse?
I know not I confess, perhaps the last bout of
cleaning rendered it inedible and they abandoned
it or maybe it was exhausted by larva feeding on it.
Be glad they didn’t pupate I add, it is a good sign
when they migrate mindlessly, so eat well and be
merry. If there are more you will have the first claim.
– Maggots are crème de la crème to chickens, mana
from Heaven – and indeed it is a sign of progress
when we join as one at this unprecedented feast.
© 14 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
– but you sway with the view of crude reality;
an invasion of maggots to you is inseparable
from the grotesque spectre of rotting carcases
they feast upon. There is no peace for you while
they crawl on your clean, tiled floor. I discretely
pick them up to appease you with brush and pan,
gain fawning recognition from the chickens –
they say, hey man, what of the corpse?
I know not I confess, perhaps the last bout of
cleaning rendered it inedible and they abandoned
it or maybe it was exhausted by larva feeding on it.
Be glad they didn’t pupate I add, it is a good sign
when they migrate mindlessly, so eat well and be
merry. If there are more you will have the first claim.
– Maggots are crème de la crème to chickens, mana
from Heaven – and indeed it is a sign of progress
when we join as one at this unprecedented feast.
© 14 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
You Promised Not To Wake Me...
She snores softly in a tunnel
of cognisant darkness, unable or
unwilling to roll onto her silent
side, rumbles along rhythmic
tracks of her dreams clacking in
an entourage of warm memories;
You promise not to wake me she
sighs soulfully, and I hold you to that.
Each morning she opens her thighs
to a glow that rises and soars in a
crescendoed climax of awakening
intensity; each morning she claims
that the opening of her eyes brings
her back – she lies quiescent in
imitation sleep while tranquilly
contemplating, waiting expectantly.
In the day’s beginnings, warmth of
recent love-making paints lingering
veils of lace filigree filling the hard
vacuum’s vagrancy; the uncontrived
portraits of ancient love hang with
secure smiles – joining the day with
effusive greetings she says again,
You promised not to wake me...
© 16 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
of cognisant darkness, unable or
unwilling to roll onto her silent
side, rumbles along rhythmic
tracks of her dreams clacking in
an entourage of warm memories;
You promise not to wake me she
sighs soulfully, and I hold you to that.
Each morning she opens her thighs
to a glow that rises and soars in a
crescendoed climax of awakening
intensity; each morning she claims
that the opening of her eyes brings
her back – she lies quiescent in
imitation sleep while tranquilly
contemplating, waiting expectantly.
In the day’s beginnings, warmth of
recent love-making paints lingering
veils of lace filigree filling the hard
vacuum’s vagrancy; the uncontrived
portraits of ancient love hang with
secure smiles – joining the day with
effusive greetings she says again,
You promised not to wake me...
© 16 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Ship Of Nonsense
There is no artifice, no motive base or greed at
best explaining where we poets came to this. The
flock that gathers round us feeds on words we’ve
writ in adulatory need; although our words are still
the same they were when they ignored our names.
They come to read and sign their names within
the light of plastic fame, the numbers game, the
foot-light glow of audience appeal that steals the
heart of poetry. Innocents as we might be we
play unblamed in their inflamed necrotic shame.
This is a ship of nonsense. I am ashamed by being
in its company. My defence? I needed audience to
learn to live or die poetic death; to be denied the
breath of life within the sight of crowds appealing
overpowered my failing sense of hearing. But we
are still at sea and under sail, the wind of change has
risen to a potent breeze, the storm that threatens
off the leeward shore is way beyond our power to
steer a passage clear between the rocks and conscience
calling. I’ll have no part of it. I must abandon ship.
Happy journeying from here.
© 16 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
best explaining where we poets came to this. The
flock that gathers round us feeds on words we’ve
writ in adulatory need; although our words are still
the same they were when they ignored our names.
They come to read and sign their names within
the light of plastic fame, the numbers game, the
foot-light glow of audience appeal that steals the
heart of poetry. Innocents as we might be we
play unblamed in their inflamed necrotic shame.
This is a ship of nonsense. I am ashamed by being
in its company. My defence? I needed audience to
learn to live or die poetic death; to be denied the
breath of life within the sight of crowds appealing
overpowered my failing sense of hearing. But we
are still at sea and under sail, the wind of change has
risen to a potent breeze, the storm that threatens
off the leeward shore is way beyond our power to
steer a passage clear between the rocks and conscience
calling. I’ll have no part of it. I must abandon ship.
Happy journeying from here.
© 16 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Slow Day At The PH Office
It was a slow day at the PH office again,
slow in the sense system response was
all but non-existent; it is little wonder in
any event as our IT wizards were in the
throes of entertaining half a million guests.
It may be presumptuous to suggest their
very success causes mild discomfort amongst
the 0.01% purist contributors – the measure
of more is loud and clear, get those visitors
here by any quirky subterfuge!
The ideas of more is best sows the seeds of its
own demise unless the IT guys find ways to provide
better system response times – or more servers;
I don’t wait around moaning in the bleachers with
weary-eyed PH bandwagon losers anymore.
Yet here I am weeping in my beer, telling you
why the thing isn’t working effectively. Too many
bloody users! But that is the name of the game
from now on unless you want to buy the site
and tell them how not to abuse it.
© 16 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
PH stands for Poem Hunter: visit the website at: http://poemhunter.com/
slow in the sense system response was
all but non-existent; it is little wonder in
any event as our IT wizards were in the
throes of entertaining half a million guests.
It may be presumptuous to suggest their
very success causes mild discomfort amongst
the 0.01% purist contributors – the measure
of more is loud and clear, get those visitors
here by any quirky subterfuge!
The ideas of more is best sows the seeds of its
own demise unless the IT guys find ways to provide
better system response times – or more servers;
I don’t wait around moaning in the bleachers with
weary-eyed PH bandwagon losers anymore.
Yet here I am weeping in my beer, telling you
why the thing isn’t working effectively. Too many
bloody users! But that is the name of the game
from now on unless you want to buy the site
and tell them how not to abuse it.
© 16 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
PH stands for Poem Hunter: visit the website at: http://poemhunter.com/
Watch Them Waft Away
When the red dust finally fell
and we had counted the dead,
when our hearts ceased
the crazed accelerated beat
and blood stilled in our eyes
we looked to the east for relief.
Out of the sky came a steady beat
rising and falling in the tepid air,
an avuncular drone that pulsed
with eager hope for the living.
The dead lay in neat rows
separated from the broken
but still breathing bodies
by the thinnest strand
as we stood by to load them.
In the brief moment before
the last rose clamouring
into the sky we bent an
unbidden knee,
shed a tear, and stood
to watch them waft away,
waved that last goodbye.
© 16 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
and we had counted the dead,
when our hearts ceased
the crazed accelerated beat
and blood stilled in our eyes
we looked to the east for relief.
Out of the sky came a steady beat
rising and falling in the tepid air,
an avuncular drone that pulsed
with eager hope for the living.
The dead lay in neat rows
separated from the broken
but still breathing bodies
by the thinnest strand
as we stood by to load them.
In the brief moment before
the last rose clamouring
into the sky we bent an
unbidden knee,
shed a tear, and stood
to watch them waft away,
waved that last goodbye.
© 16 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Spirits Of The Dead
It was up where the mountain daisy
grew in air as cool as silk, amidst
moss-chameleonic flint-like rock
which stood dressed in mute autumn
shades aloof of a stunted tussock
backdrop. A few trees, grey mountain
ash clung to hollows where the icy
wind could not claw out their eyes.
We were short of the snow line,
a hundred feet away – where the
raucous shale gathered, and in the
moaning dusk we heard the cries.
Each night as we lay they leaked
through the nylon walls. Spirits of
the dead my companion says, lost
souls calling for deliverance.
Bullshit, I say, a mountain parrot,
my guess is a Kaka calling his mate
but I’ve never heard it reply.
Ever seen one he asks?
As I shake my head he smiles
enigmatically – spirits of the dead,
the last Kaka seen round here died
back more than a hundred years...
© 17 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
grew in air as cool as silk, amidst
moss-chameleonic flint-like rock
which stood dressed in mute autumn
shades aloof of a stunted tussock
backdrop. A few trees, grey mountain
ash clung to hollows where the icy
wind could not claw out their eyes.
We were short of the snow line,
a hundred feet away – where the
raucous shale gathered, and in the
moaning dusk we heard the cries.
Each night as we lay they leaked
through the nylon walls. Spirits of
the dead my companion says, lost
souls calling for deliverance.
Bullshit, I say, a mountain parrot,
my guess is a Kaka calling his mate
but I’ve never heard it reply.
Ever seen one he asks?
As I shake my head he smiles
enigmatically – spirits of the dead,
the last Kaka seen round here died
back more than a hundred years...
© 17 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
A Bonanza In Thongs
The morning after presented a
bonanza in abandoned thongs –
not always eminently paired but
still useable as they’d been worn.
My own pair of Rivers Soft
washed up easily identifiable
amongst the general flotsam
adrift after the Orchard wedding.
I resurrected an olive-green pair,
spongy-soled pretties jettisoned
when a pulled strap proved beyond
it owner’s inebriated fingers.
The bounty still arrests me and
I resist the call to dump them in
the bin – that is a sin I will not
contemplate with sole brothers.
I am a man of many thongs, at
least ten pairs to wear as I fancy.
And if I were to be asymmetric,
you can easily make that twenty.
© 17 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
bonanza in abandoned thongs –
not always eminently paired but
still useable as they’d been worn.
My own pair of Rivers Soft
washed up easily identifiable
amongst the general flotsam
adrift after the Orchard wedding.
I resurrected an olive-green pair,
spongy-soled pretties jettisoned
when a pulled strap proved beyond
it owner’s inebriated fingers.
The bounty still arrests me and
I resist the call to dump them in
the bin – that is a sin I will not
contemplate with sole brothers.
I am a man of many thongs, at
least ten pairs to wear as I fancy.
And if I were to be asymmetric,
you can easily make that twenty.
© 17 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Gazing With Honey-Eyed Intensity
The dingoes picked the calf’s bones
clean – we hear them howling in
the night inviting others to the feast,
our own dogs know the invitation and
decline, uneasy with these aliens
slinking in their late night dreams.
In morning light the bones gleam bright
amongst the green, wary cattle watch
with widened eyes resigned, so easy to
believe they understand – we count
the remaining calves again, just nine.
The tiny piebald one is gone.
Who is to blame? Dingoes these days’
roam the Stanley banks with freedom,
returned to their old ways, gazing out
of shadows with honey-eyed intensity
at meals afoot in fields filled for their
pleasure. As it was in years gone by.
Now they breed with domestic dogs
running free – the age of innocence is
gone; soon, when a child dies up here,
there’ll be a too-late change in attitude
with a revival again of the drear and
brutal dingo culls of yesteryear.
© 18 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
clean – we hear them howling in
the night inviting others to the feast,
our own dogs know the invitation and
decline, uneasy with these aliens
slinking in their late night dreams.
In morning light the bones gleam bright
amongst the green, wary cattle watch
with widened eyes resigned, so easy to
believe they understand – we count
the remaining calves again, just nine.
The tiny piebald one is gone.
Who is to blame? Dingoes these days’
roam the Stanley banks with freedom,
returned to their old ways, gazing out
of shadows with honey-eyed intensity
at meals afoot in fields filled for their
pleasure. As it was in years gone by.
Now they breed with domestic dogs
running free – the age of innocence is
gone; soon, when a child dies up here,
there’ll be a too-late change in attitude
with a revival again of the drear and
brutal dingo culls of yesteryear.
© 18 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
My Farewell Was A Metaphorical Goodbye
Read my lips, I am not leaving!
My farewell was a metaphorical
goodbye to an era which has
sadly ended; we are bought and
sold by the bushel these days.
My poetic journeys will never be
complete, I search the byways of
verse in and out of the niches
of time and here is where
I reside between forays.
Today is the first where I feel clean
and untainted of the greatest set of
false ideals – I have stated my case
and I stand free of the crush, I repeat,
I won’t play the game.
What I have given I gave in
good faith – hoping to make
reciprocity a key, placing
good poetry back in its place,
up there, at the top of the tree.
© 18 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
24 May 2007
Come To Bed She Said, And Then We’ll See
Why, she said, would I want to fuck you?
I could not reply, the want or why meant
not a lot to me – but that she asked had
placed me out of reach. I’d rather what she’d
said to teach me better manners, a clean
intent to make the state more plain and
then again – perhaps to put me where I’d
learn to take a chance and ask a proper
grant of favour. The more I mulled my fate
the worse the flavour seemed; I took a neutral
stance, her emphasis was ‘Why’, not ‘You’,
or had I missed a beat? Perhaps the stress
was ‘I’ and there it seemed to rest until a
gem of thought suggests she really meant
this thing rhetorically. She shook her head,
come to bed she said, and then we’ll see...
© 14 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
I could not reply, the want or why meant
not a lot to me – but that she asked had
placed me out of reach. I’d rather what she’d
said to teach me better manners, a clean
intent to make the state more plain and
then again – perhaps to put me where I’d
learn to take a chance and ask a proper
grant of favour. The more I mulled my fate
the worse the flavour seemed; I took a neutral
stance, her emphasis was ‘Why’, not ‘You’,
or had I missed a beat? Perhaps the stress
was ‘I’ and there it seemed to rest until a
gem of thought suggests she really meant
this thing rhetorically. She shook her head,
come to bed she said, and then we’ll see...
© 14 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Enough Said
When will
enough
have been
said
so there
is nothing more
needed?
There is only
grieving
and death
left – hearing
departed with
the last
hearse.
© 11 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
enough
have been
said
so there
is nothing more
needed?
There is only
grieving
and death
left – hearing
departed with
the last
hearse.
© 11 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Wish Them Happy Landings
Somehow the lines get hijacked
to different destinations before
they carry the reasoning intended.
The words may be the same – the
cruel reality of that fragile strand
connecting my thoughts
to their meanings arrives
too late to advise a wise
departure.
And I
can only wish
them happy landings.
© 11 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
to different destinations before
they carry the reasoning intended.
The words may be the same – the
cruel reality of that fragile strand
connecting my thoughts
to their meanings arrives
too late to advise a wise
departure.
And I
can only wish
them happy landings.
© 11 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Etched On Our Firmament
Many days in the making – but the
last events of the past four have me drained,
physically and emotionally spent.
When we consented to their desire
to marry here, in the orchard, where
we really live, the long bow was bent.
Arrows were sent far and wide calling
101 travellers of time and grand circumstance
together across worldly distances.
And here amongst the trees we lived ardently
for four days of harmony and revelry,
marking their unique marriage ceremony.
Yesterday they departed. It was time
well spent. The memories will remain
forever. Etched on our firmament.
© 11 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
last events of the past four have me drained,
physically and emotionally spent.
When we consented to their desire
to marry here, in the orchard, where
we really live, the long bow was bent.
Arrows were sent far and wide calling
101 travellers of time and grand circumstance
together across worldly distances.
And here amongst the trees we lived ardently
for four days of harmony and revelry,
marking their unique marriage ceremony.
Yesterday they departed. It was time
well spent. The memories will remain
forever. Etched on our firmament.
© 11 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
What It Is We Share
It’s not as if I didn’t sleep or sleep
it wouldn’t come, I slept with peace
and sweet accord, tho’ free of dreams,
and woke before the sun.
I thought I might defraud the light of
gentle dawn today, write my words and
sleep again – alone, forlorn but in good
cheer, aware how soon is your return.
And when the words have left my heart
to burn within your ears, I’ll hear your voice
as you declare joyful tears complicity
in what it is we share.
© 12 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
it wouldn’t come, I slept with peace
and sweet accord, tho’ free of dreams,
and woke before the sun.
I thought I might defraud the light of
gentle dawn today, write my words and
sleep again – alone, forlorn but in good
cheer, aware how soon is your return.
And when the words have left my heart
to burn within your ears, I’ll hear your voice
as you declare joyful tears complicity
in what it is we share.
© 12 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Dismissed
You know you never said the words
but the look, that sideways glance
with the toss of the head,
suggests
somehow
you did.
There is no going back
revisiting that moment,
no chance of apology,
you are dismissed
summarily
and written into history.
And yet you are told
it is better you know
than to remain in ignorance.
For heaven’s sake, why?
Ignorance is bliss
compared with this!
© 12 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
but the look, that sideways glance
with the toss of the head,
suggests
somehow
you did.
There is no going back
revisiting that moment,
no chance of apology,
you are dismissed
summarily
and written into history.
And yet you are told
it is better you know
than to remain in ignorance.
For heaven’s sake, why?
Ignorance is bliss
compared with this!
© 12 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
I Lie Like Denzo’s Glasses
I lie like Denzo’s glasses – bent, one wing
snapped, still useable but only half as true as
when with two – but I can’t make do; my head
is in another place another time and the things
I’m thinking never last. I make a start on tasks
I have in mind and wake to find I’m way beyond
solution, so I wander with an aimless gait, pace
by pace; I knew my place with surety until today.
I might be dead, I feel distressed and short of breath,
asleep again at 3pm – awake to write at 3am my
time’s reversed. I need a light, a voice that isn’t
mine to guide, a friendly hand. Yes, yours will do...
© 12 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
For Dennis Neader, who (despite his non-prescription glasses)
sees things easily
snapped, still useable but only half as true as
when with two – but I can’t make do; my head
is in another place another time and the things
I’m thinking never last. I make a start on tasks
I have in mind and wake to find I’m way beyond
solution, so I wander with an aimless gait, pace
by pace; I knew my place with surety until today.
I might be dead, I feel distressed and short of breath,
asleep again at 3pm – awake to write at 3am my
time’s reversed. I need a light, a voice that isn’t
mine to guide, a friendly hand. Yes, yours will do...
© 12 May 2007, I.D. Carswell
For Dennis Neader, who (despite his non-prescription glasses)
sees things easily
Up Where The Cheering Crowd Applauds
This time you say,
this time you’ll make the grade –
another day, another try.
And in the corner of your mind
the voice of gloom still cries;
there is no room for you up there!
Up there, up where the flags all fly,
up where the cheering crowd applauds
a winners power; you’ll never make
the grade with sweat and brawn, you
know it now, but how to make the
change – how to not deny?
The grade, the rank, the score that
governs you will fly beyond your reach
and where you seek within you’ll find
the winner’s line. You try to take a
comfort that begins from knowing
you will just compete from now.
© 13 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
this time you’ll make the grade –
another day, another try.
And in the corner of your mind
the voice of gloom still cries;
there is no room for you up there!
Up there, up where the flags all fly,
up where the cheering crowd applauds
a winners power; you’ll never make
the grade with sweat and brawn, you
know it now, but how to make the
change – how to not deny?
The grade, the rank, the score that
governs you will fly beyond your reach
and where you seek within you’ll find
the winner’s line. You try to take a
comfort that begins from knowing
you will just compete from now.
© 13 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Dare I Say It Affects Libido?
The head of the bed, ‘headboard’ I think
it is said in proper lingo, maintains a
disproportionate sway in our sleeping
habits. Dare I say it affects libido? Okay,
I’ll say it. We’ve wanted an ornate head
to the bed always, one which said, ‘People
of refined taste sleep and fornicate here’
(‘fornicate’ because it neatly rhymes
and flexes the proper meter, whereas
‘having fantastic sex’, ‘shag’ or ‘playing
with peter’ merely states the patent
and plain-as-your face obvious)!
We do not fornicate – my love of forty
years and I are truly satisfied with whom
and what we are these days, perhaps a
trifle slower now but still no less amazed.
The headboard is anxiety, creates the
‘To be, or not to be’ of flexion. It bangs
against the blessed wall... The question
is, to wit, where and to which do we fix it?
The wall I say – the bed’s on wheels, the
bed she says – we’re no motel, a point I
must agree. And thus you see the true
debate. The question is can good sex wait?
© 13 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
it is said in proper lingo, maintains a
disproportionate sway in our sleeping
habits. Dare I say it affects libido? Okay,
I’ll say it. We’ve wanted an ornate head
to the bed always, one which said, ‘People
of refined taste sleep and fornicate here’
(‘fornicate’ because it neatly rhymes
and flexes the proper meter, whereas
‘having fantastic sex’, ‘shag’ or ‘playing
with peter’ merely states the patent
and plain-as-your face obvious)!
We do not fornicate – my love of forty
years and I are truly satisfied with whom
and what we are these days, perhaps a
trifle slower now but still no less amazed.
The headboard is anxiety, creates the
‘To be, or not to be’ of flexion. It bangs
against the blessed wall... The question
is, to wit, where and to which do we fix it?
The wall I say – the bed’s on wheels, the
bed she says – we’re no motel, a point I
must agree. And thus you see the true
debate. The question is can good sex wait?
© 13 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
The Company You Keep
Company you keep determines how
you speak and what you see; a pair
of breasts, tits, jugs or boobs to be
admired decorously. I am a man with
men, I swore the oath of harmony.
With peers I recreate the unique
world of our youth, I fear for nothing,
we are invincible in our view of truth
and justice is a deal we thrashed
out equitably amongst ourselves.
In the classroom I see the brilliance
of new things in a new way, whether
I teach or I play the passive role and
learn all things are bright and clean
and have real meanings attached.
But in a world of vicious dissonance
I am forced to retreat, defeated by
company I do not know, live in an
odious compromise and seek out
cowards with whom to stand alone.
© 14 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
23 May 2007
Begging To Be Let In (tribute to Jez)
He has written with wit that
abrades all tertiary objections,
sung tunes with an affectionate
lilt to the endings, praised all things
and some with voyeurs afflictions –
but most especially paid due tribute
to beauty. And he is sincere in his
contrition, knocks discretely
at the door to recognition
– begging to be let in.
© 11 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
abrades all tertiary objections,
sung tunes with an affectionate
lilt to the endings, praised all things
and some with voyeurs afflictions –
but most especially paid due tribute
to beauty. And he is sincere in his
contrition, knocks discretely
at the door to recognition
– begging to be let in.
© 11 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
For Gerry Hughes, fellow Australian Poet
Read him at: http://www.poemhunter.com/jerry-hughes/
Faces Graced In Stone
The audience was full of thieves,
could feel their steely eyes appraise
the pickings as they gazed with
calculated stare, assessing where
the treasure lay. Their silence was
a form of praise, naive and blind to
fits of rage that surged within the
mass of faces graced in stone.
I’m not alone tonight, he sighed,
I’ll make them smile, I’ll light their
eyes and lift their hearts, part the
waves that rock the boats, steal
their dreams in words sung dark and
low, words that float in tears they’ve
cried – and when they’re dried
they’ll know I’m home.
© 29 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
could feel their steely eyes appraise
the pickings as they gazed with
calculated stare, assessing where
the treasure lay. Their silence was
a form of praise, naive and blind to
fits of rage that surged within the
mass of faces graced in stone.
I’m not alone tonight, he sighed,
I’ll make them smile, I’ll light their
eyes and lift their hearts, part the
waves that rock the boats, steal
their dreams in words sung dark and
low, words that float in tears they’ve
cried – and when they’re dried
they’ll know I’m home.
© 29 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
Nature’s Dead... No Mystery Left
Then the Punter, didn’t catch 'is name,
said - Nature’s dead...!
No mystery left there anymore,
it’s all passé.
If that’s the case we’re now deceased
for sure, all gone away what’s more
with toxins shrinking
off our heads.
A blasé sort of declaration,
apropos of little else it seemed -
sort of tossed into the ring, without
much thought before, or afterwards.
Most people just ignored it.
I tried and failed, woke up bewailing
Nature’s sad demise; I kind
of liked the passing season's change,
enjoyed the ride.
But I’d a better guide whose
view was used to termination
out of time - because it says
we’re well along the way ...
© 29 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
There’s Nothing There
Would you make apology
for being right because your
ideology proclaimed you
had the dogma wrong?
It hardly seems a plight
to bear; I mean you’re right,
right there, right where you stand –
and there it is, that stance,
that lean and hungry sneer
you wear when you are right.
Christ, I hate that sight,
the arrogance – but you are
right – you termagant,
you are right and I am wrong.
So I’ll iron the cloth, I’ll wear
the cross, I take the wash
and bear it as my livery;
I swear I’ll even clear the
very air – and yet you say
there’s nothing there!
© 29 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
for being right because your
ideology proclaimed you
had the dogma wrong?
It hardly seems a plight
to bear; I mean you’re right,
right there, right where you stand –
and there it is, that stance,
that lean and hungry sneer
you wear when you are right.
Christ, I hate that sight,
the arrogance – but you are
right – you termagant,
you are right and I am wrong.
So I’ll iron the cloth, I’ll wear
the cross, I take the wash
and bear it as my livery;
I swear I’ll even clear the
very air – and yet you say
there’s nothing there!
© 29 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
Snickka Stakes A Claim For Fame
This poem was written by a five year old
Jack Russell Terrier named Snickka, owned
by a comprehensively drunk homeless dyslectic
Inuit called Balderdash. I have a faint suspicion
it will clash with the sensitivities of many PH
readers as it doesn’t rhyme like a poem should,
and why would it as Snickka isn’t a poet’s arse!
Be that as it may, it is the last day for Snickka
to make a dash for cash and win an iPod, whatever
that is, by scorching in with 957 unique hits on her
home page. Except she doesn’t have one as she is
also homeless. But she wants you to know that she’s
in with a chance for the next round – whenever that is,
but she’d prefer to win a white collar with cute studs.
Next month – please look for her home page...
© 30 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
Jack Russell Terrier named Snickka, owned
by a comprehensively drunk homeless dyslectic
Inuit called Balderdash. I have a faint suspicion
it will clash with the sensitivities of many PH
readers as it doesn’t rhyme like a poem should,
and why would it as Snickka isn’t a poet’s arse!
Be that as it may, it is the last day for Snickka
to make a dash for cash and win an iPod, whatever
that is, by scorching in with 957 unique hits on her
home page. Except she doesn’t have one as she is
also homeless. But she wants you to know that she’s
in with a chance for the next round – whenever that is,
but she’d prefer to win a white collar with cute studs.
Next month – please look for her home page...
© 30 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
Seed Of Our Demise, the
Now that the lines are drawn,
the players named and sworn
to serve with valour, girded of
the loins in polished leather
cinctured brass upon the brows,
– now our worthy battle can begin;
and in the din of deeds victorious or
callow row of acts of shameful cowardice
we’ll learn again the causal creeds’
malevolent beginning. This is the seed
of our demise, we breed to live, endure
to fight, survive despite the brutal scene
of brothers killed within the screen,
sandwiched between the ads in
our daily planned TV insanity...
© 1 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
the players named and sworn
to serve with valour, girded of
the loins in polished leather
cinctured brass upon the brows,
– now our worthy battle can begin;
and in the din of deeds victorious or
callow row of acts of shameful cowardice
we’ll learn again the causal creeds’
malevolent beginning. This is the seed
of our demise, we breed to live, endure
to fight, survive despite the brutal scene
of brothers killed within the screen,
sandwiched between the ads in
our daily planned TV insanity...
© 1 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Traveston Revisited
Well, it hardly matters now, the
pretence was just another smoke-
screen, reflections of a none too rosy
future gleaned from a set of hazy pictures
dreamed in steamy Brisbane rooms.
The glimpse of subtle substance dressed
gave scant evidence the thought was ever
there, perhaps – and yet it was distressed
in words its owners set upon in glowing phrase
that praised the ground where cattle grazed.
And so the players raised the stakes – outbid
each other in a race to win a swinging vote.
It merely stoked the fires of greed, set funeral pyres
alight to oust the feeding frenzy where we’d see.
And now the dearth has claimed its share – the
travesty of Traveston has been declared in drought.
No doubt the callow wimps who took the cash and
ran will curse while bankers wring their oily hands
and grind their teeth in mock chagrin; every precious
cent they’ve spent came from an empty Public purse...
© 2 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
pretence was just another smoke-
screen, reflections of a none too rosy
future gleaned from a set of hazy pictures
dreamed in steamy Brisbane rooms.
The glimpse of subtle substance dressed
gave scant evidence the thought was ever
there, perhaps – and yet it was distressed
in words its owners set upon in glowing phrase
that praised the ground where cattle grazed.
And so the players raised the stakes – outbid
each other in a race to win a swinging vote.
It merely stoked the fires of greed, set funeral pyres
alight to oust the feeding frenzy where we’d see.
And now the dearth has claimed its share – the
travesty of Traveston has been declared in drought.
No doubt the callow wimps who took the cash and
ran will curse while bankers wring their oily hands
and grind their teeth in mock chagrin; every precious
cent they’ve spent came from an empty Public purse...
© 2 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Always Comforting Sense Of Relief
I want to be born again
somewhere
between nine and ten, with
a precocious but burgeoning
sense of my own importance.
I do not want to
understand
the poetic form beyond
that which rhymes
and that which does not;
and, when I catch an idea,
I want my own PC
where
I can scope these
feelings.
Then,
when I am driven
from bed
with rhymes all jangling in
my head
I can write
down this nonsense
with a brief
but always comforting
sense of relief.
© 3 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
Sleep Free Of Milk-Curdled Dreams
You have fondled the breast of good sense,
supped of the cup that nourished it, sucked
and mulled every lesson with puckered lips –
savoured and dry-licked drips of the goodness
dispensed. It is a world of tangible munificence –
satisfaction guaranteed; you have pooped and
peed with avid ease, free of anxieties, free
of everything except sense-of-self. And all things
good relate to you and your wellbeing, I am the
wellspring of all of these; hearken unto me and
you will sleep free of milk-curdled dreams.
© 1 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
supped of the cup that nourished it, sucked
and mulled every lesson with puckered lips –
savoured and dry-licked drips of the goodness
dispensed. It is a world of tangible munificence –
satisfaction guaranteed; you have pooped and
peed with avid ease, free of anxieties, free
of everything except sense-of-self. And all things
good relate to you and your wellbeing, I am the
wellspring of all of these; hearken unto me and
you will sleep free of milk-curdled dreams.
© 1 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
I Pace Places That The Feet Danced
Been a frenzied few days between when I last
remembered how it was and the hollow, empty
feeling that swallows me now. Something is
missing, something unique is gone. And yet
it was a wedding long planned for – a fabled
joining. The magnanimity of greetings, the song,
the genuine tears held scarcely in a ceremony of
simple beauty – filled with such overtures of meaning
that this sudden, un-peopled and music less sphere
damns my hearing. I am smashed to the ground in the
silence, I am destroyed and alone, I pace places that the
feet danced and still hear their calls.
© 10 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
remembered how it was and the hollow, empty
feeling that swallows me now. Something is
missing, something unique is gone. And yet
it was a wedding long planned for – a fabled
joining. The magnanimity of greetings, the song,
the genuine tears held scarcely in a ceremony of
simple beauty – filled with such overtures of meaning
that this sudden, un-peopled and music less sphere
damns my hearing. I am smashed to the ground in the
silence, I am destroyed and alone, I pace places that the
feet danced and still hear their calls.
© 10 April 2007, I.D. Carswell
22 May 2007
Brass Whistle And Braided Lanyard
A chocolate box of memories
placed uncertainly – by whom
remains a mystery, but not
by me, sustaining thoughts of
eras past in souvenirs which
exculpate these reveries.
Solitary cufflink with an Army
badge – The Regiment, spoon
with flange we used to open
cans of food from ration packs,
rank insignia – various, pins
and pennants, dog tags, shirt
studs for black tie events,
buckles off OD combat gear,
buttons, large and shiny for
formal wear, a name board
inscribed with name and rank
– all no-longer relevant.
These past events are shuffled
through with candid care, fingered,
fondled and revered. Lid replaced
to close the flight of memories; the
only useful thing in there – a worn
brass whistle and braided lanyard...
© 28 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
placed uncertainly – by whom
remains a mystery, but not
by me, sustaining thoughts of
eras past in souvenirs which
exculpate these reveries.
Solitary cufflink with an Army
badge – The Regiment, spoon
with flange we used to open
cans of food from ration packs,
rank insignia – various, pins
and pennants, dog tags, shirt
studs for black tie events,
buckles off OD combat gear,
buttons, large and shiny for
formal wear, a name board
inscribed with name and rank
– all no-longer relevant.
These past events are shuffled
through with candid care, fingered,
fondled and revered. Lid replaced
to close the flight of memories; the
only useful thing in there – a worn
brass whistle and braided lanyard...
© 28 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
And Thus I Say, Is The Way I Write
Today
my logon sign is a chilled corona,
cerveza to the masses, no slice
of lime in a clear bottle this time
around – no room in the picture.
Yet there’s a peace of mind
knowing your thoughts before they
are fatally revealed, unlike telling
tales out of school, so to speak,
or an appeal against things made
from mystique or those oblique
references I didn’t understand at
all that well back in my youth.
But this beer says take it lightly,
touch it to your lips and taste –
let it trickle down your throat in
gentle sips. And thus – I say,
is the way I write.
© 21 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
my logon sign is a chilled corona,
cerveza to the masses, no slice
of lime in a clear bottle this time
around – no room in the picture.
Yet there’s a peace of mind
knowing your thoughts before they
are fatally revealed, unlike telling
tales out of school, so to speak,
or an appeal against things made
from mystique or those oblique
references I didn’t understand at
all that well back in my youth.
But this beer says take it lightly,
touch it to your lips and taste –
let it trickle down your throat in
gentle sips. And thus – I say,
is the way I write.
© 21 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
Dispensing Discretionary Fidelity
Abigail Belle has farted again – there is no
disguising the venom of it with wistful lies
about errant breezes bearing shocking smells
of rotting things expressed in those angelic eyes.
I’m innocent, she claims – with an irrepressible
grin; it’s not me truly but it sure clings to the
furnishings, doesn’t it? My, I wonder – who
needs to go outside? Oh, you mean – Me?
In an enclosed space after lunch 10Kg of
Jack Russell Terrier packs a mean punch; so,
deferring to commonsense and blue in the
face we humans unilaterally evacuate.
Our JRTs are not usually deprived the right
of innocence until proven otherwise, but
when Nickki Cleopatra casually farts on a
knee whilst dispensing discretionary fidelity
there is no defence. She is confined
to the bench outside with Abigail Belle
and invited to fart there, when and where,
and indeed, as often as she pleases.
© 21 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
disguising the venom of it with wistful lies
about errant breezes bearing shocking smells
of rotting things expressed in those angelic eyes.
I’m innocent, she claims – with an irrepressible
grin; it’s not me truly but it sure clings to the
furnishings, doesn’t it? My, I wonder – who
needs to go outside? Oh, you mean – Me?
In an enclosed space after lunch 10Kg of
Jack Russell Terrier packs a mean punch; so,
deferring to commonsense and blue in the
face we humans unilaterally evacuate.
Our JRTs are not usually deprived the right
of innocence until proven otherwise, but
when Nickki Cleopatra casually farts on a
knee whilst dispensing discretionary fidelity
there is no defence. She is confined
to the bench outside with Abigail Belle
and invited to fart there, when and where,
and indeed, as often as she pleases.
© 21 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
The One Who Torments Never Sleeps
Suborned between two loves
the one who lies half-sleeping
murmuring sweet sibilant sounds
as she dreams; and, in another
curiously contiguous but separate
space, the one who torments me
without reason because she can.
There are days when the roles
interchange – a seamless passing
of mentorship when it seems the
silent speaks and the animate slips
into a two dimensional frame; on
the one hand nothing changed, on
the other estrangement still lingers.
I have flexed my fingers again and
again, explored the rhetoric, digressed,
returned to the theme; the one who
torments never sleeps, I know that
now for fact, and the one who sleeps
dreams vigorous dreams where I am
bound to be left wandering...
© 22 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
Brimming With The Same Expectancy
Made it to six hundred yesterday –
afforded a chance to go soft in the
middle, a pause to reflect on the
way things have been; all those
recent poems have been conceived
amid a growing backdrop of urgent
preparation – as of today
the wedding is just a week away.
It’s been an amazing scene, the energy
has had to have come from somewhere
or from something rather rare and
special; the only other time I can recall
sustained creative pressure was when
we first arrived here. And there was
ample reason to urgently impress our
stamp upon the wilderness back then.
The house has never been so festive in all
its fifty years – it wears a smile as broad
as the orchard, and the new paint states
its muted appreciation. The concrete tanks
are also painted, all full, brimming with
the same expectancy reflected in the air,
shimmering with the sunlit leaves
singing their songs of welcoming.
© 23 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
afforded a chance to go soft in the
middle, a pause to reflect on the
way things have been; all those
recent poems have been conceived
amid a growing backdrop of urgent
preparation – as of today
the wedding is just a week away.
It’s been an amazing scene, the energy
has had to have come from somewhere
or from something rather rare and
special; the only other time I can recall
sustained creative pressure was when
we first arrived here. And there was
ample reason to urgently impress our
stamp upon the wilderness back then.
The house has never been so festive in all
its fifty years – it wears a smile as broad
as the orchard, and the new paint states
its muted appreciation. The concrete tanks
are also painted, all full, brimming with
the same expectancy reflected in the air,
shimmering with the sunlit leaves
singing their songs of welcoming.
© 23 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
Give It Time
It is not my pretension,
and it isn’t a case
of the room being
too small
or the table
too big,
there is ample space
everywhere except in
the mind regarding it.
I recall the inconvenience
we shared in a smaller place,
there wasn’t enough room to run
or hide, not that we ever did –
it was our first home;
but where the mind has formed
pathways of belief the devil takes
a power of shaking. This space has
the making of a grand dining room
with our new dining suite.
I say don’t close your eyes to it,
have a mind to let it grow
into that place; let’s sit here
quietly a while, drink wine –
eat this food we’ve prepared
– and give it time.
© 24 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
Line Of Passing Faces
If you stand alone
and separate
to watch and think
for long enough
it seems
most everyone you ever knew
will pass you by;
there will be strangers,
unblinking ghosts
for sure,
but even numbers there
will shrink in time.
The line of passing faces
slowly grows familiar.
How do I know?
I saw yours, again,
today...
© 26 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
Metamorphhh (aka J. Crawford)
Get well Jim, this poetry World of ours is
without a cheery smile when you’re not in.
I heard of this event with a sense of something
missing – a loose end to a thread which just
seemed too anomalous somehow – and had
to follow through; I found it where a voice in
playful mood described a pain in clever ways –
the letters to the words set left of centre. I am
amazed that even when the subject was as grave
as your wellbeing you still found time to play the
poet dilettante. But then you even chose your
name with subtle grace, a changeling state –
a transformation. I liked the change, even though
I never knew from what you’d changed; of course
glimpses remain in your poetry, easily seen, of a
sensitive man given to powerful reflection – so I
beseech you – be a Phoenix and rise again, it is
far too soon to scatter your ashes...
© 26 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
For the ubiquitous mm, aka Jim Crawford.
without a cheery smile when you’re not in.
I heard of this event with a sense of something
missing – a loose end to a thread which just
seemed too anomalous somehow – and had
to follow through; I found it where a voice in
playful mood described a pain in clever ways –
the letters to the words set left of centre. I am
amazed that even when the subject was as grave
as your wellbeing you still found time to play the
poet dilettante. But then you even chose your
name with subtle grace, a changeling state –
a transformation. I liked the change, even though
I never knew from what you’d changed; of course
glimpses remain in your poetry, easily seen, of a
sensitive man given to powerful reflection – so I
beseech you – be a Phoenix and rise again, it is
far too soon to scatter your ashes...
© 26 March 2007, I.D. Carswell
For the ubiquitous mm, aka Jim Crawford.
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