No Illusive Difference (to explain)

She lies in the shadows
of the Lady of Delusion
born between the real
deliberations making
time pass and a belief
that for her it stands
forever still anyway.

No-one will call her to
lunch today or take her
to task should she forget
to wash her hands, she is
ruled by Arcadian rhythms
deigned less quaint ideas
of rustic simplicity than the

life of a sybarite chained
to devotional luxury. From
the ease of her couch she
contemplates what is and
what might have been; as
far as she sees there is no
illusive difference to explain...
© 26 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Graciously Embraces Us

A good day, not without its usual
infestations of misanthropy – that
lurks awaiting incident to spring to
life again; a history shamed and

pampered in a panoply of rank
incompetence that breeds within
the serried ranks of trees we farm –
blunders of the past are evident

although we say the wearied weals
the orchard bears are less a signature
of ours than those of early owners
classified by chary peers as idiots.

And thus it is today; we’re glad we’ve
learned the difference – the problem
wasn’t ours again although the curses
now are less than loud, a signal call to

Heaven’s claim which witnesses what
we disdain as past events; irrelevant
and gone to dust. Today was seminal,
we met our goals, finished with a choral

call in praise to lusty Gods of Trees whose
bounty shows as panicles about to burst
ablaze. Perhaps they were just tools
those owners less than praised by trees;

flowers in bloom begat our trust
and we appraise the cautious learning
we have made – the Orchard sways in
confidence, graciously embraces us.
© 12 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

No Relief For Ersatz Verse

Unbeliever of such wickedness that
I am I missed the point of four bit lines
of drivel penned as sensational leads
on sanity I merely doubted; and I see

it, day after day – snippets and
gobbets of humdrum gossip touted
as deep introspection. If you sniff as
hard you’ll likely amass a gobbet of

phlegm large enough to regurgitate as
a fleshy four-liner, and better than the
fate of pseudo-verse, spit it where at
least it can evaporate. There is

no relief for ersatz verse, destined to
ache a false eternity until debased by
a covert Philistine who asks innocently –
what is this supposed to be? But worse,

oh by Heaven’s least blind eye, worse
by a magnitude of a millennium is the
hedonistic clap trap masquerading as
reasoned criticism. Fie, you philandering

panderers – flee the den of iniquity, take
a scourge to your souls. Respectability
spurns you – you are rejected by what
you ingenuously say you value most...
© 12 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Not Much Need For Inspiration

Don’t be...
...bothered by my thinking? I’ve been
seeking inspiration in a grey morning
shrinking – mundane things appear to
be just what they are – tacit clichés
dressed as hangovers dressed as clover
dressed as cheery smiles on signs with
vacancy winking claiming clover fails to
be anything but clover & imagination
can’t contend with this state of crashing
mediocrity where scenes blur in rashes
of dull grey images flashing these random
supposedly subliminally loaded messages.

Yet I make nothing of them!

Of course they are there, it would be a
nonsense if merely white noise or stray
radiation from an unknown, peripheral
ambient. And if it were where did I get
off the track? I cannot tap back into the
core, get sustenance from an artery or
clear squinted eyes. Perhaps I’m still in
bed safely asleep where there is not
much need for inspiration...
© 24 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Smiles Like Ice Daggers

It hardly matters now, the moment’s past
and the jagged heart beat has stabilised; it
seems just a blur on a backward horizon – no
last gasp to requite, no confession to tender.

But you were there; what happened was not
an Act III replay of sheer, numbing passion –
not an isolated incident, it was pay-back day
when chance presented itself in innocence.

Their bodies lay with the mine they planted
near the roadway. Death lent them an air of
childlike grace – too young to grow beards but
they’d have blasted us to pieces anyway.

We passed their ragged betrayers, smiles like
ice daggers in the heat, they gave thumbs up
meant to say thanks, ran to rob corpses before
other robbers or flies could outflank them.

Don’t look back, our leader grated through
clenched teeth – make your way to the tracks.
When the first one dies from a booby trap
they’ll know where we really stand.
© 23 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Who Now Know He’s Merely Mortal

Am I the last cynical bastard standing
before lights out tonight? What do
you need to convince you that the

Federal Government’s sudden and
blighted interest into NT Aboriginal
Affairs reeks worse than fictional

didacts of ‘Children Overboard’ – an
incident that lent an incredibly absurd
air of credibility to a PM who said

(off the record of course) he only
told porky pies because it was the
‘right’ thing to do. Bugger me,

voters fell for that inspired bit of
loaves and fishes in droves. But not
this time I think. The bloody stink of

Mal Brough’s incursion has that rinky
dink, succinctly malodorous tinge of
misadventure, the member for Longman’s

a PM’s ringer, a guy who struggles
to take an unjaundiced view of how to
win the State of Queensland! He could

tell another lie, I suppose, but where
would he bury the Nationals who
now know he’s merely mortal?
© 17 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Nothing Ventured, Honour Gained

I am going to change my name
to something pungent – a name
that echoes crazy sounds or reeks
of smells redundant, a name which
speaks a fête of fun but stays the
same out of the sun. Offal Phauff?

I want a name that stands alone
for me, a timeless name eternally
attached, a clone to take my place
at bat as gracefully as I despatched
the stand of salad years to date.
Miss Cegenye Obiturate?

A name that states my case with
weight and substance, a worthy
name amongst the names of great
and honoured names, a title less an
ancient honorific to sweetly break
my sterling fast. Snydle Guano Plas?

There I see it writ in vast emboldened
Gothic script, asking to be recognised
as me, a saintly name imbued indeed,
disciples’ name – no parody is meant
on John but I’d select the same again.
Hey, Juan-To-Whit Rapt-Metaphor?

But Ivan means a lot to me and
I wouldn’t be the same without
that Donn. The least I gain the
less that’s lost and in the wash
I will retain my father’s name.
Nothing ventured – honour gained.
© 14 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Tears Falling Silently

Where is the love that yields the finest
cant of sacrifice? Where is the poignant
knife that steals a newborn’s nascent life?
In the love of a mother who strangles her
child so that quiet may save lives destined
to be destroyed – in the night of despair,
in a wretched blight of fear consummate,
in the lore of the tribe. In the giving and
the serving love is immaculate but none is
as bright as the light of love in a mother’s
eyes with tears falling silently on the still
warm corpse of her just strangled child.
© 18 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

You’ll Know When I’ve Digested You

I don’t want to be repaid in kindness
you never felt a need to give before,
yours is a benighted act of charity and
not a gift; I see with the same clarity
as you with your eyes now. What you
gave for free was a sardonic lift up the
tree of life. You used to say victims are
as necessary as victors, they fuel a food
chain without which the vanquished
are indistinguishable from the rest.

Such largesse is conventional in your
view of a predator swimming beneath
shoals of countless surface feeders –
naive tiddlers eating lies designed to
fatten them as table fare. It was where
I first earned your keen appraisal.
Lean fish with angry eyes, you said,
qui est tu? I remember I replied,
you’ll know in time –
when I’ve digested you.
© 21 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Touch Of Gout Is Still In Doubt

It’s not what we really need you
know, a blood test to establish we
might have another casualty who’s
likely got a touch of gout; of course
we won’t spout these declarations
to the neighbours except to explain
the limp is pain from osteoarthritis.

It is germane of course to make a
future case excusing trifling gain in
weight – made, unexpectedly if you
please, pre-diagnosis; and as pride
still rings with the hubris of style
then here we might also explain –
the touch of gout is still in doubt.
© 13 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Presumptions Of Nothing

Cruising on empty it seemed,
an unlikely environment for
the kind of trash who preyed
on the extremely innocent.

But it was not hers to say, she
simply obeyed the roster which
had her play Nissie (11) in open
forum of The Poetry Room.

Today she had two takes at a
standing invitation to become
‘friends’; Jake (12) and Liger (47).
Really, that was a no-brainer.

She hastened to read Liger whom
it seemed was legit, his poetry
read easily and she found herself
quite liking it. Another dead end.

But Jake was a firebrand – too
erudite for 12. Too, how did you
say – pushy in an adult offensive
kind of way. Better ease him out.

The bait was a date – her choice of place
and time; it would be easy to rack the
guy. It never crossed her mind that Jake
grinned with the exact same presumption.
© 21 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Starvation Eats Our Hearts

This soul is malnourished,
cries in cambered sleep of
gap-tooth hunger pangs,
stern visions steep in drear
whirlpools of bare-bones
dreams shattered, littering

drained and dourly silent
settling pans. There is no
cataract gleaming, no scent
lingering in redolent air, no
food for thought or hint of
it, no bend to an ugly track.

It is the end of an effete
innuendo, a shamefully
bleak act of selfishness –
there is no room here for
that beast – omnivorous,
egoistic, caricature me.

I see with a soul weak from
self-deprecation; to be free
I must release the bonds of
hubristic delusion – there is
no sustenance afforded me
in this serving dish of illusion.

Farewell fools, I came to sup
with thee in belief we could
feed each other but we are
mules; leeches feed and givers
give while starvation eats
our hearts for others’ glory.
© 23 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Poems That Want To Make Us Smile

Michael Leunig is naively teaching me the
art of writing in his style – the visual part
for me is hard, fewer lines to make a
larger declaration than the facts dictate.

I’ve always liked the way his lines are
never straight – eyes perceive in curves
and sways of natural rhythms graced in
quaint caricatures replacing rigid shapes.

I have tried to take his brevity in mind, to
trace a roughly pencilled line with bumps
and bruises on a page into inflated blimps
which float embracing my displaced ideas.

Of late I’ve seen a change that pleases;
Michael’s still my valued mentor though
we’ve never met and his teasing pictures
make me happy in a simple, guiltless way.

I fret with words he’s pencilled in the utmost
brevity, capture them in crafty packages I tie
with bows of pink celerity – compile them
into poems that want to make us smile.
© 19 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Ode To A Solitary Pied Butcherbird

I have a friend, a pied butcherbird,
who cannot sing. A solitary soul, he
ranges through the trees warily –
keeps an expert eye on things.

A year ago I recognised his handicap,
half of his top beak is gone – it didn’t
seem to hold him down for long or
cramp his style in any way

except he’ll never win a mate. He
has to sing to manage that. It is a
tragedy that a bird whose voice
delights and entertains must dwell

in voiceless silence un-acclaimed,
an agony – a fate he carries in a state
of calm and dignity. He keeps an eye
on me as if I share his very private

thoughts; I mention this because I see
him every other day and ask him why
he has no mate – he is the greatest
hunter I have seen, pity female

butcherbirds don’t glean the simple
facts, a crop that’s full should beat an
empty head awash with song, especially
when its hunger calls the tune.
© 16 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

A Case Of Dead Readership

It is hard to believe that the dead read poetry
but one cannot reject evidence. My Blog-Flux
Map Stats traced the latest reader to a
cemetery – and not just any, indeed the
Columbia Gardens Cemetery in Arlington.

Of course I am greatly impressed; if it had been
next door at Arlington National Cemetery I would
have stood erect, faced the flag and saluted. I’m
not too proud to do that – anyone who died in
genuine service of their Country owns my respect.

The dead reading my verse means I’ve left the
ordinary lists of who’s who, although in most
respects I’ve shunned that for the exact reasons
expressed in my poetry – too damn pedestrian.
But I wonder who it was; I don’t think any of my
kin are at rest there, leastways none I’m aware of.

Of course I do care a reader is dead – it means
I have reached beyond the grave in a way I
seldom achieve with the living. The next thing
I’ll get used to, I guess, are comments signed
with the momentous pseudonym ‘Deceased’.

I apologise unreservedly to those of you
to whom I rather crudely suggested,
‘Get A Life’ – I did not check to see if you
were resident at the Gardens Cemetery,
and that was extremely remiss of me.
© 13 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Fallacy Of Losing Weight (by exercise)

Is it a Law of Diminishing Returns or an
anarchic state of constancy in matter?
No way you look at it are you going to
earn that svelte figure you yearn for

by hot and sweaty, heart palpitating
jogging or sensual wrestling with the
exercise machine. Oxygen molecules
combined with elements in your blood

stream under duress weigh more than
the fatty flocculants you’re determined
to eject. The net effect is transitory, a
quirk of nature, you get heavier before

you get less – if you know what I mean.
Okay, you sweat and the rate depends
on how much energy you burn in an
ambient temperature. If that doesn’t

stand to reason you shouldn’t have
commenced an exercise regime in the
first place – but you’ll drink the same in
replacement fluid – hence a net gain.

No, the way to successful weight loss is
through sensory deprivation – just refrain
yourself of the gloat in feeling fine food
teasing voluptuously down your throat!
© 13 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Glory Gone Is Not The Cost

Think you not of what is lost
think you what is left behind
the glory gone is not the cost
but how it rots a state of mind.

The children at the refuse tip
are victims of society
not criminals who sadly strip
decorum from propriety.

The liars of the Upper House
are causes lost to gross deceit,
actors, neither man nor mouse,
calumnies of Law’s defeat.

The plastic food upon the plate
will nourish industries and feed
the need of growth economies
tho’ hunger gnaws and won’t abate.

If you despair it is too late
to bring the changes obdurate
you’ll join the mass who sadly wait
abashed and scared for patient death

which wields a grisly scythe to steal
the pain of past mistakes we yield;
we share those burdens so surreal
in aching shoulders to the wheel.
© 13 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Speedy Verse, Lean And Firm With Meaning

Crap, he mutters, balderdash,
these poets must be fascinated
with childish rhyme – repeated
lines ad nauseum, nursery climes.

So much for the neo-sophisticate
who seeks words that resonate in
tones appealing falling in the trap
of reading easy verse penned with

slavish care, verse going nowhere
at a snail’s pace. Too pedestrian for
me, he says, too proletariat and fat
with tautology. I need speedy verse,

lean and firm with meaning. Where
do I go for that? I regret, my friend,
the explanation why contends a
low demand exceeds PH supply...
© 10 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Mother Of The Fruit Of Dreams

He takes the wider view of broken sleep
assured the dreams and fantasies were
real enough. If he recalled them all with
clarity he has the stuff to make a night of
sleep disturbed discretely pay a worthy
fee. But passion fruit defeated his resolve

to write with candour of the one that
lingered longest; a crop disposed with
purple globes of fruit which hang on
vines festooned amongst the shaded eves
resplendent makes no inroads on his sense
of trust. Images were real, the must of

fruit ferment was redolent, the sensual
feel of plump and pliant fruit in hands that
knew the bounty hid within as cogent as a
state of wide awake discerned. And pickers
calls and laughter rang – flashing eyes and
carefree smiles, a yearn that burns to taste

a fruit forbidden as a dream of drowning in
a cataract of luscious flavours. Awakened
to the soft vibrations of those gentle
snores of love, warmth of limbs
impressed upon a consciousness that
merged imagination sweetly with the

break of day as light returns – he finds
no joy in lingered dreams. But why this one?
He turns to hold in arms his love of ageless
reverie – aware she is a flower of rare and
timeless beauty – passion flower to bear
his sons, mother of the fruit of dreams.
© 12 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Fooling Your Deluded Self

Where your hennaed eyes are hinged
you fold back into yourself sightless –
miss visions stolen in the astringency
of life you live vaguely. What you say

is abbreviated, staccato, in argot slang
that means less said than the sounds
it takes to make – translates literally to
snarls and grunts predating human

origins. And yet you use symbols from
common learning, wear expressions of
outrage – carp and rail at a world you
contribute jack shit to. You say you

reject understanding, dare we declare
we don’t care, wear yourself thin in
double-negatives; you know all there is
at sixteen and still yet nothing fazes.

There is no fear in you lady, no tears,
only airs without grace. I swear no
warmth of femininity displaces your
face. I see in your poetry where

you play the whore dilettante to an
audience of mulish sterility – abuse
and disgrace your innocence, fool
no-one but your thin deluded self.
© 9 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

You Were By Far Too Good For That

It was never meant to be a compliment;
it is too late to take it back and state it in
another way. The fact I even bothered to

be honest leaves me in a sorry plight; call
me trite, inconsequential, corny if you like –
I’d even say I’m sorry if I thought

it might explain. But there you are – a name
upon a billboard in the centre scene, fame
surrounds you – open notoriety whereas I

still cling to shadows at your feet. Beneath
the candour of the foot lights is a street of
dreams – you chose the road to fame, your

share of winnings we received, an adulation
rare for novice players as we were but as a
pair we took the boards by storm. When the

rain of pure applause receded I was scared
to venture out again. I’ve hidden here beside
the throne while you endure. The pain is less

than that before, more a blessing now I know
the cause. You live in constant fear of losing
your appeal while I conceal the truly real and

cogent facts; we never were associates of
equal status on the stage, the reason’s plain,
you were by far too good for that.
© 9 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Crime, & The Beloved Country

It is no-longer a maligned state of ‘Cry, The
Beloved Country’ – apartheid ended too late
to stop the pace of change, spawning a virus
of virulent crime that spreads untamed.

International Records states The Republic of
South Africa suffers the highest rates of crime
and HIV AIDS known to man, pejorative facts
which President Mbeki peremptorily denies.

He sees crime as the unfortunate effect of an
unhappy apartheid past – and he is not to blame
for that, while HIV and AIDS are not linked in any
way – the Western World is shamed in creating

hysteria which aims at increasing the profits from
drugs used for treatment. He won’t have a bar of
that. The facts remain bare-faced and evident,
he and his Ministers are disgraced and negligent.

Violent crime is malignancy worse than a cancer
affecting the minds of those ANC Leaders whose
delusion is not shared; ask any citizen whether
they’re too scared to walk the streets at night!
© 9 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Mt Eden Prison Blues

Curious, perhaps, but flattered too, to know
you read my words. Whether ‘you’ is one or
two (or more) I’ll never know – please rest
assured, be confident of that. I traced your

access point with Google Maps, anonymity
intact except I recognise the four grey walls
surrounding you. As a younger man I passed
that edifice aware of what it was, shared a

joke with brethren who confused the prison
for a school, a difference marginal in minds
that grasped a notion of the open air as
freedom eulogised; Mt Eden Prison guys,

is not a school – 1962, we were such callow
youths. Did we spare a thought for those
who were inside? Clearly not, just kept
our minds on girls and beer, real pursuits,

yet time provides a catalyst for pensive
thought, and sympathies abide. I care you
read my words, I care for what you think
and where your energies will be directed

when your freedom is returned; that will
be a fête to consequence. You’ve tuned
my thoughts before I’ve honoured yours,
when freed let’s share a glass of wine...
© 8 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

His To Claim Or Throw Away

This clean-up filled a garbage bag
of things which might have been,
a clutch of tender memories held

tight within her breast – wrong to
think of them as ‘things’ she tests
herself, wrong to label junk as

anything but junk, wrong to let them
sing in such a clear and strident voice.
It’s not denial of the past, she thought,

moving on means passed and gone;
memories, of course, remain. But
junk is not contained in memories

and things like these are causeless
scrap disdained. I’ll take them back
she vowed, my house is clean,

these were never mine to keep
I’ll let him see the reason why
they’re his to claim or throw away...
© 7 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Rhyme A Dime Dime (at nursery time)

Now who bewails the turkey tales
that don’t get told anymore, the
gobble de gook of the story book
with the skew-whiff look of the big
bad chook, rhyme a dime dime at
nursery time, the ring a ding dings
as the church bells sing – rhyming
time where the children climb and
the old and grey shake their heads
and pray for rhyming verse to defeat
the curse arthritis preys upon.
Listen then to tunes which cling to
the spaces where your memories
care; in the nonsense light of a carrot
bright you’ll find the rhyme and you’ll
find the beat, dance with the children
in Sesame Street.
©17 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Raised On Chitlins ‘N Greens

No-one yet compared me
with that poet they call Don,
least ways some say it ain’t
a wrong thing to do that,
others just add a second ‘n’,
say leave him right alone
‘cause he’s done gone to
bat beyond our league.

I’ll not complain about the
few who say I write alright –
the few I always read before
I hit the hay each night. They
say I got a turn of word
sweeter ‘n turkey giblets
‘n cranberry sauce. Now
that’s right nice ‘cause

I ain’t got many words
to call my own. All I got
is praise our teacher
gave ‘n lovin’ words you’d
call encouragement
from parents guessin’
I’d prob’ly make a better
poet than a turkey thief.

It is with some relief
I learned they meant
that as a joke; back then
the game of chicken
raisin’ was lower’n you
should get. Least I took it
serious and learned real
fast to write these poems.

Now I got respect and
know a bunch o’ folks
who’s just like me.
Y’ see, it comes from
posting poems on World
Wide Web – it means
you find the level of
your own ability.

I ain’t got reason to aspire
to be another Don, I read
his stuff and found it
fine as any I’ve seen –
but y’know, enjambments
ain’t your kinda game
if you’re raised on
chitlins ‘n greens.
© 7 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

To You It Is A Blank Page

To you it is a blank page; to me it is
a dense fog. I am in the middle of a
traveller’s log but cannot see where
I started from – or an end to where

and what I write; I am not alone, about
me there are unattached words in flight
like bats hunting in the gloom, ghostly
outlines wafting in a wraith-like night,

silhouetted, fleetingly from time to
time against a single, bug-infested
light – a lone and charismatic old
street-lamp situated in a bare place

I don’t recognise, there for no reason
I can discern other than to spur the
precociousness of my mental state.
But I am not in the mood, my head

aches and my thoughts wander out
of frame without warning. This landscape
has nothing familiar for eyes which
only seek a time and place to rest in.
© 7 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Run To The Cities

Run to the Cities
run for your lives
merge seamlessly in
unending traffic streams
join the thrum of humanity
move on command of street
light heartbeat intersecting
street corners in random acts
of uncoordinated & devilishly
orchestrated commercial activity –
and read the urban news

last night three people
died in stabbings two
killed in traffic accidents
a man beaten within an
inch of his life – at start of
day six unwise souls found
they’d been scammed of
their savings one will lose
his home the Index started
low again while a few grey
coursers will begin liaisons
causing irrevocable failure
of their marriages more
will report sick with
stress symptoms and
high blood pressure

there will be some heart
attacks some nauseous
headaches disorientated
fits of depression irrational
fear and non-specific anger
all occurring after long
alcoholic lunches

a few will have had
enough and opt out
go home praying their
families remember
them – and tonight
you can bet it will
begin again.
© 6 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

That Tearful Goodbye

He is the best yet, this Carter Carlos of
Ferny Wood, fresh from the maternity
ward, making us aware of his displeasure
at being left outside. Err in haste, he yelps,
repent at leisure. You’ll surely rue this day!
Shrill yips penetrate with an undeniable
clarity, I want inside, he says, right now!

The only pup in the litter he arrived by
caesarean six ago weeks today – I need
not say at great expense, it was, or even
mention an Oscar-worthy performance.
We forgave, aware of redeeming graces
in the advent a life of unlimited pleasure.

He is a long leg Jack Russell Terrier in white,
half mask black and tan patch on the left
side of his face. Beautiful, graced with self-
assurance and a robust appetite for food
and fun – he’s the one we will find it so, so
hard to say that tearful goodbye to...
© 10 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Bored Yawn Of Protest

It is a fine right this freedom of speech
and grave an error to take it away,
words that are said are not cause to impeach
motives belie what is crafted to sway.

It is in the hand that writes undressed lies
that we confront the power in words written,
we find our true freedom’s untruths disguised
as naive belief of the unwitting.

Vested interest aside, what is left?
My best guess is a bored yawn of protest.
© 5 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Forget The Deal, I’ve Got A Wife

You won’t know him by this name
but rest assured Old Nick cares less
for recognition than respect; he
sent an acolyte with a message
stick: Treat this lady with respect,
said He, know that she is barred
from Hell – I like my peace, but get
this straight, don’t mess with me or
she’ll become your nemesis.

I am ashamed I asked with subtle
hints for tricks to spice a lover’s
life, exquisite kinks, you know the
game – but she requires a piece of
me to pay the price. At least Old Nick
came clean, she is a devilish torturer
he claimed, a nasty sprite with evil
mind inflamed with deviant and
over-avid fantasies.

So I’m caught between Old Nick
and acolyte, the one who ridicules
his care-free days – thinks he
needs a tyrant in his wayward
life. The scene is piquant, poised
and likely friction looms; I’m scared
to think I caused this kind of strife.
Nick, I say, not on your life, forget
the deal – I’ve got a wife.
© 4 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Safe As A Place In Hell

Make a statement;
express your thoughts
dressed with shredded
guts and flesh in a blast
that liberally spreads
your mortal remains.

Preach your last words
in carnage and death,
fear only the shame
of failure. Pray for a life
after death free of the
same.

When the fire of your
faith ignites the fuse
and the last gasp roars
will there be peace? As
sure as Hell remains it will
be waiting for you...
© 4 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Why Do We Have To (change the past)

I am reluctant to embrace
the new or the smart ways to
deal with the past; my cue is a

benign equanimity – either I
knew or faced faces shouting,
disgraced myself in the same

trenchant doctrine. Easier to be
where you were than to depart
for a future less than assured.

Now that I am here I am not so
sure there was ever a need. In
an inimical way dawn breaks to

reassure each day starts in a
like way – roseate streaks
delineate where earth meets

sky and light dispels the gloom.
As eyes discern contours of the
land, as depth of vision ekes out

distance, the span of when and
now unite in a commonwealth
of relearning. To say the least

we start each day of the future
the same – why do we have to
change the past?
© 4 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

The Freedom You Gave To Me

You gave me my freedom by asking
me think for myself; I am not bound
by your ideologies – nor constrained

for the want of a reason. Choices that
I entertain are tangible and real, true
choice not preordained alternatives

contrived just to mollify me. The way
you said it haunts me, would I bend
to the rites of treason? Could I find a

frisson of reason willing? I am sure I
can try but my mind glides beyond an
act of betrayal. My allegiance is and

remains firm, I am a true believer
beholden to no man or anything
but the freedom you gave to me.
© 3 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Combat Badges Earned In Battles Dour

I’m contemporaneously sick
of the grimy Writer’s Clique
my commonsense demurs,

hell-bent defending rights
wedged up their arses tight
like knickers many sizes less

than ample girths they try
to span. Combat badges
earned in battles dour

they claim, those taut and
stern exchanges aimed
as blows with words that

failed to dent the rampant
egos lent to praise and glory
self-aggrandisement.

Unbelievers’ heads exposed
ring with clashes of the steel
that sings in hands of ersatz

poets clinging to their errant
right to judge the sin and sinners
all – and each of us alike...
© 2 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Achievements Measured In The Grace Of Smiling Faces

The first day that we came we knew that here
was where the Fates intended we should be;
the subtle bludgeoning about the ears
besmeared an easy truth, we did not see
the hours of work required as reason to
decline. We worked for many months possessed,
restrained from rest by what we had to do,
thrust on by hereditary spirits obsessed.

Our forebears knew no less than we about
the trials we’d surely face when we embraced
their simple need to make the difference shout
with joy; achievements measured in the grace
of smiling faces at each work-day close
as petals of the scented bloodwood rose.
© 2 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

In The Face Of Scalding Grief

Afterwards they say in whispers
he’s a loathsome loser’s whinger
probing eyes are pointed fingers
pricking me with sneering slander
canted at my unbelief.

There I was a punter’s shadow
peering through the witness’ window
watching scenes of ritual slaughter
aching in a mortal torpor
seeking succour as thief.

Even though the game had ended
I replayed the vital stanzas
saw the triumphs and the errors
felt the trials discerned the terrors
knew there’d never be relief.

Losing is a trial by moonlight
attenuated in the forthright
claim to victor’s right by birthright
rub the faeces of failed combat
in the face of scalding grief.
© 1 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

It Was A Dream About A Dream

It was a dream about a dream
of making love while themes of
‘Peace Train’ echo in my head – Cat
Stevens sang as only he could sing:

“Now I’ve been happy lately,
thinking about the good things to come
And I believe it could be,
something good has begun...”*

With me half-awake or smothered in the
smug discomfort of a virus drugged
and floating naked in whatever footy
grand parade had happened way back then.

Sixteen ribbons they chanted and she
clung to me in a delirium of innocence,
whispered, You’ll take me with you?
Yes, I heard me say. And yes I did.
© 30 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

* from: Peace Train – Cat Steven 1971

Merlot Flows O’er A Tongue

Merlot flows o’er a tongue disposed to treat its
currant flavours as complete, with subtle swells
of savour bells which ring in tones to easily defeat
the lien of tastes unknown – and flavours dwell
in harmony with herbal hints of violet smells,
a rose competes, a wily clove, a clue to laurel leaf.
This wine was aged with patient care in oaken barrels
neat and blends a pitch of coconut which bids belief;

in simple terms the vintner earned his worthy keep
this year,’04, for sure the best of Rochford’s best,
it stood the test this tongue invested in a taste replete
and neatly filled a niche that savours its largesse.
Another glass Monsieur? Ah oui, this one I like; I think,
the best for sure. Join me sir, raise a glass and clink...
© 29 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

Damn Speech Balloons

I am glad (in a sense) there is nothing
backed up in my mind demanding
attention. It means a day free of
irksome insistencies, of orphan
speech balloons – those object
specious things that waft like
someone’s deodorant – less the
inference of their being there.

Tried talking to one? I meant
a speech balloon; picture an idea
‘that Yusuf has the hots for you’ –
see words written within of
that intent. Their existence is
evidence you’ve lost the plot,
but poetry was never meant to
be unilaterally free of polyglot.

Whilst I can’t write in tongues
the thought pervades, poetry is
a shaping view that speaks in
dreams, has a common currency
assured by thought universality
means the same to different but
undifferentiated people – despite
whom or where they situate.

How does that relate to my lack of
ideas germane? Whereas I thought
I wrote for me it seems I write for a
Universe, share dreams and am tied
to the same rules of consequence.
Free of redundancy for the moment,
I peer moodily into the gloom – still
can’t read damn speech balloons.
© 29 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

In The Smile That Grows Out Of Your Eyes

I am not looking for easy answers; the
despairing photo opportunities of mood,
stage-managed reminders of engineered
existence, cachet caveats that seldom come
cheaper anyway – no I still want to play
broken field. That was where I honed my
skill. I grew my teeth in the rough just off
the hill, beyond view of the stands – not
that you’d notice unless I mentioned it.

I still field fly balls, bunts and chips falling
short of a good length, plundered strokes
meant to make statements, still move with
uncanny grace. Mine has been an ‘in-your-
face’ existence instanced in niggled itches
and pesky quirks that test your patience;
it was meant to be for the answers I seek
are in the curves of your lips, in the smile
growing out of your eyes, enveloping me.
© 27 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

Finding Friends And Enemies

The proverb goes you cannot chose
your friends; whereas your enemies
are a breeze to figure out – the choice
is gauging whether selfish ends invite
disaster or respite, tho’ when striking
first amity’s advantage is a distant plan,
a choice that’s cursed and only plain
with foes your friends also disdain.

With friends it’s said ‘then who on earth
needs enemies’. I’m pleased to say I rarely
stood for enmity nor even bothered amity
unless a greater good could lend the process
dignity. So thus it is with me; my friends are
firm but few and far between, my rivals rare
and seldom seen – we live indeed the parts
we share in sanctioned peace and harmony.
© 26 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

A Past You Can’t Reclaim

You have had the lines lurking
like wisps of want for days and
days aching in the corner of your
conscious mind, lissom lines that
sway with poignant rhythm, melodic
lines a-play in echoes of a half-
remembered, never quite forgot
coda to a past you’ve not replayed
enough to succour satisfaction. The
time to write them down has come
and gone again; they linger on,
languishing, fragments of a fascination
– a realm that’s lost, a perfect past
you can’t reclaim.
© 28 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

Politely Looked Away

If airport security had been primed to
seek out and expose the ridiculous she
would have been an instant celebrity.
I saw only the tail end of it – when she

repaired her outward expression built
by many buckled belts, bangles, tote
and shoulder bags, a boa wrap in fluff,
metallic sunglasses, accoutrements.

She was an ageing waif at least my age
thin as obscenity in tights suiting a teen
a wrinkled air of in-your-face innocence
flair too gauche to be not really meant;

she was aware metal detectors would crucify
her should she strut her stuff in impunity of
bizarre self-belief undressed to a point where
raw skeletal relief let her pass unhindered.

I watched as she repaired it all in practised
deceit – shook my head amazed caught an
amused eye of a female security guard shared
the faintest smile politely looked away...
© 21 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

Deaf To All But The Words Singing

Poetry composed in heart and
soul is metaphor-disposed in the
way it outreaches an unimpeachable
state of animate innocence, revealing
what the consciousness
merely conceals.

Poetry composed in words none-the-less,
words expressed with acute awareness
entranced in a sense-of-self which
communes with all Gods,
all states of matter known and
unknown – and lasts forever.

Poetry is connections made:
when emotion turns to heat, when
veins dilate in venous rhapsody, when
the eyes light in colours graced by all
shades, when chords resound in ears
deaf to all but the words singing.
© 20 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

A Virus To The Purists

Rather a case of to buggery with it,
and for those who think it has an anal
connotation, go on, toodle off back to
the forum. I goddamn need a break
from writing off my arse day by day,
week by week – for what?

A witty recitation from Malouf disguised
as Meatloaf, a weird reproof, misspelt (or
is that misspelled?) by UNoHu, the classic
spoofs from PH poseurs underground who
misread the titles anyway and a couple of
genuine, tear-jerking pleasers.

Okay, I have the ‘flu – influenza to the jerks
who won’t allow secular abbreviations, a
virus to the purists who wouldn’t dream of
breathing common germs but spread them
anyway – and I feel like shit. That is I did until
I counted.

Eight hundred today.

That’s why I’m taking a break. Me from you.
See you again in a couple of weeks – maybe.
© 5 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

Rum & Cloves Will Bring Relief

A poem to a cold would gladly see
the use of ephedrine to clear congested
cavities and passages, draining free
a mucous mess unhappily ingested.
The chesty barks of hacking coughs attest
a morbid drama that unfolds, a dying
of the breath, a nose that does its very best
to carry signatures of perfect scent trying
to discern its salutary task,
the raw appendage leaks
with nasal tears that ask
for sweet reprieve and seeks
redress from pain with self-belief
that rum & cloves will bring relief.
© 29 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

Reluctantly With Risible Misgivings

Reluctantly and with risible
misgivings the dogs were
persuaded to brave open
air this morning. Last night’s
temperature fell to that brisk
and businesslike winteriness
where thoughts deviate apace
from bodily needs; theirs were
thought best relieved out where
a choice of places is limited only
by their doggy imaginings.

Winds that should have gently
soughed crescendoed in roars
of much malevolence, shrieked
fury and relieved me of dreams.
I wear three layers to keep warm,
two of wool next to the skin, look
to the sun’s rays to break frigid air.
I know there will be no relief
from this wind’s icy impasse,
no free return to yesterdays
warmth and benevolence.
© 20 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

Inadequate For The Task...

Twice today, am I to play
Devil’s Advocate again –
advise that I care just enough
to be polite? I read what they

write, is it enough to know
I could not lie? Could not
and would not dash fine
hopes to dust; wherever a

hand is raised I must support
the poet’s creed of brothers
caring for brothers – to do less
is to say worse things than

the unutterable. To stay still
and silent foretells predictable
doom. This same living space,
this room where I breathe poets’

fire feels the pain inherent in
every unuttered word. But the
ask is greater than I am. And
I am inadequate for the task...
© 19 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

No Shame, No Hint Of It

No shame, no hint of it – Helen Coonan
says the blame lies at the feet (or on the
heads) of the Opposition. Eleven years
playing dumb brought to an end by $1B
charity. You’d need to be immune to the

gales of stilted laughter, or subsumed
in terse denial, to miss what made this
come of age. Out of a larder bared, a
Mother Hubbard election bone arrantly
thrown where doing nothing was viewed

as wise business. The Broadband Plan
is just that, business left to fester in a
stifled state of competition so every
Australian can have equivalent internet
connections at, quote: a ‘very fast’ rate...

For the non-technical that means ADSL;
or where the wires end kilometres back
beyond the last dusty footprint on a dirt
track – wireless. ‘Very fast’ is better than
we’ve had for sure because it wasn’t even

fast before – unless you’re connected to
cable. But cable isn’t the way to go – oh no,
unless you live in the Cities. Honest Johnny
says no worries mate, shows how he’ll neatly
bribe forty regional electorates, marginals

held, oddly, by the Coalition, stack up a
whack of pork-barrelled votes, all in the
name of fixing what he created by doing
nothing about it in the first place...
No wonder Jesus wept!
© 19 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

Words That Only Forgive The Dead

At which ends of the gun
are felon and fool? United
in sum by dull metallic
bindings, bound in an
innocence of un-natured
envy breeding that
sense-less-than-sentience,

that half-living-dread where
rule of thumb says he who
shoots first suffers much less;
yet he who lives with the still
images of comrades killed
never forgets.

Shed blood does not wash
away the veneer we grew
into, the boyhood shared, the
hype and consequence of
our civilisation;

it is not the uniform we wear,
nor that of our adversary,
it is the gun which speaks in
tongues of sharp-edged
violence binding us in rhetoric,
words that only forgive the dead.
© 18 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

Come, Comfort Me!

Would I could divorce myself in an
instant from this uniplanar view I
have endured all of my being see

perspective in all planes of existence
less release or surcease be at one with
the universe unbounded and free

I give up my sense of omnipotence and
an easy three of seven deadly sins
sloth envy and greed to feed the furnace

Take away these chains I will lust after
no-one but you dine on stink-weed with
swallowed pride and eat my anger

Come, comfort me!
© 16 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

Without Doubt A Poor Study

Yesterday it was the black dog kept at bay
by heeding my friends’ advice – ‘So, you’re
depressed? So what! You think you’re either

special or alone in that?’ But clearly I digress,
I want to say that I survived by doing less of
me and more of that which I ordinarily abstain,

praising efforts of the rarely recognised. When
time weighs a tonne and an eye-blink becomes
a Herculean feat of endurance staying on one’s

feet and in balance is indeed great praise. Today
has begun, I am reading poetry of lesser lights
( - so it seems to all but me) poetry that sings

in tongues true to origins. With great humility I
see where I am wrong; these were the teachers
all along and I am without doubt a poor study.
© 18 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

When I Brush This Tear Away

Is this a tear on my cheeks? Drops
of something wonderful and wet –
heralding, perhaps, joy or grief?

Ophthalmologists tell its nature in
ways demystifying origins – denying
rustic logic of an ordinary explanation.

The reason is so cryingly simple, we
confuse ‘tears’ with ‘cry’; of course
they’re manifestly not the same.

Does the term basal tear excite your
sympathy, or reflex tear ignite a shower
of certain understanding? Nor with me.

I prefer to cry the way I always did, a rare
and simple gesture expressed in drops
that fall with freedom come what may.

And when I brush this tear away with
insightful fingertip the explanation
fades into another crying oblivion.
© 15 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

In Need Of Subtle Teaching

A noisy lorikeet, not the
kind you keep as favoured
pets, screeched at me
because I stole a mandarin
out of his tree.

Bugger off said he, as only
lorikeets can do, go find your
own damn tree – you hairy
bludger! There’s no need
for such language I replied,

besides, with only one tree
of this kind sadly you’re the
chump who’s out of luck. Now
leave! He did, and screeched
with such a vehemence his

brothers came to see what
raised his ire. I was judged a
hopeless case, recalcitrant
and out of touch, in need of
subtle teaching.

So they shrieked their noisy
insolence, looked me in the
eye and ate a tiny piece from
each and every bit of fruit just
out of reach.

How’s that cobber, they leered
at me, you learning anything
from this class? Yeah, say I, I see
I’ll have to pick the bloody tree
much earlier next year...
© 13 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

Familiar Noblesse Oblique Requests

Well? Have you succumbed or not?
Have you besieged everyone in your
e-mail address book with a lot of too
familiar noblesse oblique requests

they follow the link to your PH main
page? If you haven’t then what’s
your game? Okay, your obscurity is
not unique, won’t feed a databank

on the brink of extinction – which it
will be should you remain that way.
So go, do your duty, self-promote!
Increase traffic by any means: i.e.

leave hints and intimations in the
biggest bulletin boards, prowl the
chat rooms, hoodwink directories,
hijack search engines. To remain in

a patient and ever-hopeful state while
awaiting fame is remiss; you consume
too many precious resources – so go,
make a move with flair, help create
the next set of internet millionaires.
© 12 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

Foundered On Fine Ideals

Is it a reaction to the cold, or an old war wound
aching? Seems more like a ‘port’ headache but
I have sorted through the newspaper reports -
Federal Minister for Education has merit pay on 
her agenda again; this time with a vengeance.

With data from the Centre for Teaching Quality,
she intends trialling recommendations. CTQ for 
its US research organisation sins commissioned 
18 expert pedagogues to propose framework for 
merit pay. Note on outset, that was their AIM.

Are they a paradigm? Their claimed expertise in 
US teaching lends zero to our debate - whereas 
we’re meant to believe the scheme's a boon, this 
from the Minister’s hand. I smell a rat. So what
is rotten in the State Of Education.

Teachers Unions and States oppose anything Julie 
proposes; is it her aftershave? Better performed 
mentors usually gravitate to independent schools - 
where the trial will take place! Left to the fate of 
Federal funding State budgets will run last in this 

Race. So Julie Bishop blames teachers when failed 
debate pricks her Minister’s pique. We can develop 
rules for performance pay freed the independent 
schools clique - which confounds & infuses Julie’s 
thinking. What's needed is to engender a sense of

Worth where despair has foundered on fine ideals 
just short of the shore; now we flounder knee-deep 
in the Minister's self-serving acrimony, this nation 
needs the problem here ratified clearly: you only 
get back what you put into education!
© 12 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

Evanescent With Blurred Stolidity

Syntactical irreverence is the best
descriptive constraint you could
attest this verse, characterised in
its obsessive penchant for taking
words out of context – grammatically
correct yet oblivious to embedded
meaning. Solipsisms of the kind
suggesting – well it means something
to me, I invented it, so it must mean
something to you. And yet when I
read it I am surprised no-one says,
what do you mean by the phrase:
‘solipsistically evident and true’?
Nobody but you could know the
meaning or relevance of that!
© 2 July 2007, I.D. Carswell

On A Chance Meeting

A stone – an impact of a crudely
aimed and thrown image plucked out
of a mirror of wry reflections clear

reaching back – a break-up and stacked
reminder of memories intact but still
not overgrown by today’s wild weeds.

And how do you react? Shitfaced and
embarrassed... You shrink into the drear
waiting room of public opinion glowing

with unseen bruises trying not to heed
curious eyes staring, fearing you’re the
day’s featured target of attrition.

It is there in your seat hair grows on
your hands turned into talons holding
the bloody red meat of memories rent

by a beak curved with self-derision. A
chance meeting – why should you care;
did the cards say it had to be like this?
© 19 June 2007, I.D. Carswell

Mired In Today’s Dreams

The future has to start somewhere I guess,
though a bit of impetus is usually called for;
termed ‘future plans’ if you’re into labels –

things you attach to ideas. Ideas are those
ephemeral things which disappear with adroit
efficiency unless you’ve got handles on them.

And when you do they blend into millstones
around the neck. But at back of all the planning
is a fact we must be ultra wary of;

ideas are the food we feed our dreams. Mine
are rich in detail, fat with the conversations of
a lifetime, resplendent with nature’s seasons.

I really need a fast track to the future or I am
stuck right here – too easily satisfied where
I am at, mired in today’s dreams.
© 7 June 2007, I.D. Carswell