Poets Union - Journey into Spin

As part of Between: The Fifth Australian Poetry Festival, the Poets Union invited poets throughout Australia to submit work that explored the exciting new world of truth management and spin. The poems were collated and poets invited to read at one of two sessions: A Journey into Spin at Sydney Grammar on 9 or 10 September 2006.

Twenty-two poets were chosen, but not all could attend; some of their poems were read by the Chair of the Poets Union, Brook Emery, or by me, Jenni Nixon, Mistress of Ceremonies for the Journeys into Spin. I welcomed Spinsters and Honorary Spinsters to a poetical spin fest, and I explained Spin-doctors put the right 'spin' or 'slant' to any occasion, sell you anything you've already got or don't need, and practice damage control, eg. Spin-doctors for sugar laden soft drinks fund an Obesity Congress in Sydney and on their website worry kids will become dehydrated, if they don't imbibe enough of their sugary fizz! The two days were very wet, with teeming rain as damp poets shared their poems on Truth and Spin.

Truth,
for the rich and powerful,
is a goldmine.
It's plastic, ductile and
infinitely permutable.
It's their play dough,
their bargaining chip and,
just occasionally,
their weapon of choice.

They buy it, sell it,
manage it and explain it,
even stow it away as
rainy day insurance, but
never ever do they
tell it how it is,
call the shots as played or
share with those below
every pixel in the picture.

It's not until
they've packaged truth
to suit an opportunity or
the ideology of the month,
sealed and certified the product
approved for circulation, that
its fundamental property
too late becomes apparent -
truth is always fissile.

When the tumbrels
clatter down their streets and
they're mocked in hoods as
running dogs by those
they've duped and used
they'll never understand that
their plaything has exploded
and in truth's fiery core
they are consumed.

Tampa and Seiv X,
Vivienne and Cornelia,
AWB and AWAs -
shades of infamy, variations
on a theme of lies, all carefully,
repeatedly explained so we would
understand what, in their interests,
we should believe.

But malleable and ductile
and infinitely permutable as
truth may be there comes a time
when a latent characteristic,
ultimate fissionablility.

Owning it,
pushing out other birds
with black presence,
a blunted warhead,
and the seed-pods falling
above the swimming-pool
like silent rain.
Locked down, waiting for this to pass,
we've seen it all before.

Spring in another country,
death grows along the branches,
the plains sprout oil-wells
harvested with flame.
In the towns
hot spots of looting and arson,
the grand adventure dwindled
to aimless sacrifice,
a goal kicked
for the other team,
or a gigantic blunder.
And Safwan Hill
goes up like a fireball.
(I pity anybody who's in there,
a marine sergeant says.
We told them to surrender.)

Between bombs,
the streets of Baghdad are quiet.
At sunrise or crow-call,
death happens.

In Basra, American tanks
roll over the empty bunkers,
heavy with the weight
of conviction, relentless
as the blandishment of a flag.
No weapons of mass destruction emerge.
Nothing disturbs the horizon,
the shifting heat-haze of dust.
Easier to obliterate
the signs of war
than to return the peace.

Cholera courses through
the gut of the city. In hospitals
the liberated die
for lack of medical supplies,
water or electricity.
News stutters along the wires,
dangles in broken loops
knotted here and there by repair crews.
Intermittent gunfire
gives the lie to independence.

The President goes back to his ranch,
pledging free trade to the allies,
keeps a weather-eye cocked for terrorists.
Amen to that, says Howard.

Attuned to
rhythms
of mountains
there's no
time now
for the snarl
hype
warp
of repetitive
daily news
smug with
disasters
terror and fear

is a dangerous word
better left unsaid.
It annihilates
romance -
stifles passion.
But worst of all
it can
and does
lead to long term
relationships

Hydrangeas lush, blowsy
with summer
start to disintegrate
as Christmas draws near.
And unlike some southern beaches
there's no lock downs here -
no roadblocks
no militarization of life, the streets.
In the near hysterical media
political climate
of claims of racial riots
ethnic vilification
some men remark on ABC radio
that many people call them 'fags'
when they say they live in the inner city.
Not so long ago
anyone obviously gay around here
would have been beaten up.
Seasons change
but racism, stereotyping
fear of difference
taints winds
riffling blowsy blossoms
falling apart
because some things
never change

"Priorities" was published, in a slightly different format, in Overland, March, 2004. "Commitment" was previously published in my poetry book The odd pagan or two, 2004.

Let's clear the air on one matter from the start:
reference to cases of infant impalement
was inadvertent and only meant to be part
of the final provisional draft of the final statement.
Let's cut to the chase. For years now this Pariah State,
aloof from the community of nations,
has acted as a clearing-house and safe haven
for terrorism, drug trafficking and peculation
controlled by an untouchable and corrupt oligarchy
whose unspeakable acts were transacted
in the strongholds of those shadowy apparatchiks
that the regime depends on. We have not acted
in haste. You have on record the mealy-mouthed
compliance to each final ultimatum
in cooperation with the U.N that amounts
to nothing but a further provocation.
As well as claiming a clear and present danger,
just as we did with Afghanistan or Nicaragua
we will argue the principle of regime change
and not waste time with diplomatic cloak and dagger.
With winter coming, it's a race against the clock:
snow is as much an enemy as shifting sand.
With God on our side, plus massive awe and shock,
a day of clear weather, and we'll liberate Switzer-land...

I'm your local spin-doctor,
here to minimize harm,
I've read Milton Friedman,
1984 and Animal Farm,
I always listen in to Lawsie,
read the leaves in his teacup
and the hairs on his palm,
feed the Parrot all the crackers from his Corporate Backers,
I'm the snow-storm before the calm.
I've worked for the Bankers
and the Fox-lot wankers
made drought sound like rain,
taught the workers to love their chains.
I'm the thinking man's Don King,
I can make a silk purse
out of a cauliflower ear,
make the numbers dance the rhumba, make a cold, frothing tumbler
out of flat, warm English beer.
I'm the hole in your Budget
that you can't do without,
the teeth in your sound-bite,
the slogan with headline clout,
I fill the trough for all the snouts
I'm your flying head-start,
Spray-Fresh for your fart,
Dean of stuff-ups deniable and nobody liable,
the Queen of all Media Tarts.
I put units of drive in incredulity suspension
make you stare into the abyss of complete incomprehension,
make a press-release prettier than the live trees it came from,
make you find a slice of karma in the heart of the maelstrom,
I can frame your black armbands with a border of gold,
make you never even realize that you're doing what you're told.
I can cannibalize the Cicero that Winston Churchill missed,
edit photos of Beazley so he always looks pissed,
find Opposition memos in the parliamentary bins,
cosmeticise your smirks and your shit-eating grins,
I can turn your straggling eyebrows into a velvet curtain,
make the flow of Pauline's preferences dead-set sure and certain.
I can drape you in the flag
make you wear a digger's hat,
turn a Tony Abbott slag-off
into justified tit-for-tat,
make you know your lies off pat,
turn a Simon Crean speech
into a tax-eating vampire-screech,
I can turn a tune by Monk into cabaret funk
so it sounds like Kurt Weill.

His hands...blunt, square...seize the promise,
glide,
fingers splayed,
across its surface, smoothing,
caressing,
a lover's touch on virgin skin.

Now see...
the first fold is guilt,
buried deep down where the crease
(fingernails seared with contempt burn the knife-edge)
cannot be seen.

Then the second fold...truth.
His hands move deliberately,
methodically,
compress the vow
along invisible lines that I cannot see.

Next what I call the 'spin cycle',
and he laughs at his little joke
as the fingers blur
like hummingbird wings,
a shimmering mirage too quick for the eye.

Deflection, he murmurs,
invention...distraction...confusion!
A pause...
grinning mischievously
like a little boy
he holds before me,
mockingly,
an ugly duckling, a misshapen travesty
of the politician's art.

But now...his voice, a whisper,
trembles
at the moment of climax...
the master's touch!

The fingers flicker
briefly
and suddenly,
there before me in exquisite detail
is a swan,
neck arched imperiously,
gliding on a placid lake.

"We'll decide
who comes
into the country
and the means
by which they'll come",
prattles the Prime Minister,
wealthy, North Shore,
small suburban,
white Australian.

When refugee boats
staggered across
our border,
real Australians
on Christmas island
unfurled a banner-
WELCOME, YOU MADE IT!
Now, someone decides
you're not mainstream
and locks you up
in Baxter
or kidnapped to
Guantanamo Bay.
Refugees,
their faces
bound with tape,
manhandled into planes
and flown away.
Vanstone and Ruddock
burble on TV
but neither has
anything to say.

I'm Australian
and wouldn't
vote for Howard,
who can't decide
who'll torture you
in Camp X-Ray
but lets Americans
do it for him
anyway.

The War Drums are Throbbing, the Trumpets are Braying,
The Troops are prepared for the Fray,
The Enemy's Lying, and Cheating, and Spying,
Is described in the Media each day.

The Wee Leader travels across the Wide Sea
To the Country of Ultimate Power.
He Sits at the Feet of the Almighty One
Who lives in the Big White Tower.

"Tell me, My Liege, how these Thugs must Atone
For their Weapons of Mass Destruction.
What Steps must the Free World insist that they take -
(And none of this U. N. Obstruction!)

"Hmmmm . . ..
We'll Monitor their Manners: Are they truly Contrite -
Are they Willingly, Charmingly, Disarming?
They must show us the Graveyards of all their Banned Arms -
If they don't, then we'll know they're Re-arming!"

"Great Leader!" Pipes Wee One,
"If they do all these Tasks
To make people Love them Once More,
If they Show us the Graveyards and admit they were Wrong,
Will we still have to march off to War??"

"Hmmmm . . .
How CAN the World trust Him?
You've seen His Regime!
Liars, and Con men who thieve!
If we don't bomb them now we must do it next month!
For Saddam, there is no Reprieve!"

So, Saddle the Submarines, Sharpen the Sabres,
Load the Stealth Bombers with Shell,
The Job must be Done - there's a War to be Won -
What will happen? Who on earth can tell!!

According to our records, it has been 6 months since you came for your last Clairvoyant Tarot Reading. As a special offer for July only, all Readings will be GST free. Also, for this month only, all our clients will receive a free bottle of Angel Access Aromatherapy Oil.

However, please note that since the GST, our complete range of beauty products, perfumes, essential oils, incense and Bushflower Remedies will have either: -

Always remember, that a regular Clairvoyant Tarot Reading will be a source of empowerment. It will prioritise the future over your (often) miserable past and be a buffer against anxiety and depression. It will assist if you are driving towards a crossroads in your life and have lost control of the steering wheel.

Employment Required     for Potential
National Treasure     (who cannot afford
to go to the Opera)    ability to see the
irony     in life's more tragic aspects
(like when someone's creative talents are
hidden beneath rocks     while the River of
Globalisation    runs roughshod     over them)
i possess a remarkable capacity     to relate
to others     on the topic of "Quirkiness"   &
have a PhD on the subject     Unwanted Satirical
Moments of the 20th Century     plus a lack of
spin     to participate in job interviews     (where
i know     i will be discriminated against
because of my age)     i look forward to having
a non-virtual interaction     with you     in the
near future     where i can discuss     my job
prospects     at a park bench     of your choice
in the Suburbs     so you can observe the hand-
to-mouth-life-on-the-streets-existence     of
others   on Centrelink Benefits

For all those on the Path, welcome to the first edition of our Journal of Awakening. This is the latest Update & directive from the Master.

All Seekers must be Team Players & able to run with aerobic rapture across the Level Playing Fields of the Lord.
You must be Multi-Skilled in the promises & pitfalls of the Way & are cautioned against getting stuck in Skills Based Competency behaviour, including competitive meditation trials and marathon trance states.
At all times, strive to transcend the Cutting Edge of the Benchmark. Don't merely sit there in contemplation, assuming someone is going to hand you the holy grail filled with Gatorade. Be Proactive!
State of the Art resources to be utilised include pendulums, Bach remedies, crystals, shamanic drums, dream dictionaries, wings, dotis, malas, vaporisers, candles, crucifixes, meditation seats, yoga mats.
Statement of Duties/Workload includes the following (plus other duties as required). Prayer/meditation, kundalini awakening, out-of-body-experiences, near-death-experiences, close encounters of the third kind, cash donations to buskers/ derelicts, compulsory visits to frail-age facilities/hospices.
Duty of Care (an outcome of the Human Danger from Metaphysical Overkill Recommendations, is a Prerequisite of our work. Should you learn of any Seeker, with tendencies to Self Harm, alert your guru by fax or e-mail. Transpersonal Burnout Symptoms to watch for include: killer ecstatic states, burst chakras, locked yoga postures, aborted astral travel.
You need to understand what amounts to Infringements of World's Best Practice Policy. Such infringements would include: false clairvoyant predictions, having a sexual relationship with a discarnate spirit, hostage taking of channelled entitities, a failure to report fairies at the bottom of the garden, or ghosts in the attic. Finally, disobedience during Silent Retreats, a tendency to gossip or leave without permission for coffee & cake at the local cafe.

you've come     to the Art Gallery     to hear a lecture
called 'Portraits in Poetry & Prose'     but where
are all the people     mingling & drinking coffee in
the Yiribana Foyer?    - Sorry -     says the woman     behind
the desk    - the 'Literati's' been cancelled     due to
lack of interest   - so     go to the Member's Lounge
better to join the inner circle     than be seen as a
trespasser     & wonder     if one can become a member
without ever belonging

inside     Rosalie Gascoigne wooden-crate-paddocks     cultivate
the wall    Benny Goodman nostalgia     plays softly     a
woman     sits     dutifully stuffing envelopes     someone
at the food counter     is having a bad day     the dishwasher
has broken down     another worker     has gone off sick
(a volunteer's job is not a happy one)    stoically
she serves you chicken soup

you eat     making notes     in front of lilies     behind glass
(toiling sullenly     at your craft)    in the middle     of
the room     are ladies     who visit hairdressers     every
week    & laugh easily     filled with their status     as
aesthetic consumers     so why do you     a person who makes
art     feel less than a member?

on the way     up the escalator     to the '100 Views of Mount
Fuji'     you're apprehended     by a corporate bouncer     who
asks     if you intend to stay     in the Gallery     points
to your backpack     says it needs to go straight     to the
cloakroom     you protest     says you've been told it's ok
to keep it with you    (when treated like a criminal)    adopt
the umbrage     of your Inner Crone)    - & besides -
you say     - i'm a Member     - dither in the recesses
of prohibited baggage     for your Card & continue
- i'm writing about this Exhibition - & point towards
the ineffable peaks     he mutters     - Well enjoy those
lovely paintings     - & moves off     to find another
innocent subversive

do i seem like a thief     or a terrorist?     (although it's
said     all writers are spies)     there's no sign     of a
beanie     or balaclava     my hair is short     but not
neo-nazi bald)     I'm wearing fashionable lace-up shoes
(not bovver boots)    & the pockets     of my red polar
fleece jerkin     are too minute     to conceal weapons of
mass destruction     (let alone a kitchen knife)

did he really think     i would tamper     with the Hokusai
woodcut     put a bomb     under that well-known frothing
wave     cause such a tsunami     that would obliterate     all
Western art galleries     could i be plotting to purloin
the stuffed rabbits     from the Biennale     before they
are lovingly put down     in their packing case?     is
there such clear & present danger     of my secreting the
cows     from Elioth Gruner's painting     up my jumper?
(bovine protestations     before milking time     would be
a give away)     or     perhaps i planned     to whip Marini's
Bronze Rider     into a frenzied gallop    over the heads
of picnickers     in the Park     far from the problematics
of inclusion

Left among pens, in and parchment,
the Scribe follows his instructions to rewrite
any History that does not follow official lines.
Armed with a simple theosophy he disempowers
race, gender, religion in the victor's name,
reduces righteous Kings to clichéd abominations.
Yet in the small dark hours of confined sleep
he must endure himself, his deeds, his dreams.
A twist to the tale, a subtle omission,
an obvious inclusion tempt his reader's doubt.

A lingering on a death, an emphasis on a duty done
may lead the doubter to the dig, to dirt and dust
and excavated Truth. Ancient ivories enlightened
may glow again to redeem the Scribe's soul.

a young man born completely crazy
sprints down a street beneath its arches
and shoots like a photon into the Piazza

from the homes of bells, brows of statues
flock pigeons that gust about his head,
for they know him : he has a hunk of bread

he is foliaged with pigeons for a while,
dispensing bread with mad total delight

then they spiral out like a bowl spinning
on a giant lathe : for he has taken off,
flying round the Piazza and up a street
without a sound. . . .

ah!-RICARDO!!! sit down and eat - -
he devours a great bowl of spaghetti,
raving about the stars he met that morning. . . .

she is over the edge : a
middle-aged woman in a Paris bar
with a fluffy pink coat and disappearing hair,
proposing a great gaping, inebriated smile,
swishing like a perished fan-belt

look, she is kissing a man,
plunging her tongue into the side of his mouth,
he does not appear to mind. . . .

the men about her, boasting indifferent ties
wink and smile, only
remotely perturbed,
marinate in imagined gallantry

three removed, becoming men in simple suits
raise their glasses to her with a smirk,
not unkind

her face, like a child's doll forgotten in the rain
for a day and, repainted, so human
in its damage,
grins

just the kiss, the face, the smashed smile
the fluffy pink coat and disappearing hair
among these men will get her what she wants :
a cometary interlude from hell

Ah, pumpkin,
I remember you
when you were nothing
but a loud blooming
snaky climber
on the kitchen scrap heap
down the back.
But look at you now -
sitting pretty
in your green marble skirt.

Once you were the meat
of Gulag stew;
the best you could be
was an extra
flanking a well-presented leg
on the big oval stage.
The stars would appear
a little too rich
without a supporting cast,
but who would have picked

your potential to play
a glowing jewel
in the subtle performance of risotto?
Even now you have no depth
of taste, but you borrow
so effectively from sizzling onion
and flirty spice,
they've become your extras
while you soup it up
with the best of them.

Published: Quadrant, June-July 2005, The Best Australian Poems 2005 (Black Inc, Les Murray, editor), Adelaide Advertiser, 17 December 2005.

Cathedrals. Cease-fires. A congress
for freedom in Burma. Night's strong rain
also is brought before us.

In case the iron roof is lying
and we cannot feel the cold water
streaming down walls, over the street.

Investigators. A plane off-course.
Silhouettes of burning churches.
All the same and not the same.

Wind is shuddering hard against
loose locks and misaligned hinges
just like another disaster.

Fireballs. Old parties on the rise.
Notorious coaches and their charges
framed with every instant.

Storm flickers. Old passions. Nostalgias.
Marooned in an enclosure of thunder
and vertical lightning, we played a game.

Amnesia behind his eyes, a president
promises more of the future. Entertainment.
All the same, like another disaster.

Cathedrals. Iron roofs. Walls streaming.
A congress for freedom from old lies.
The rain is with us for the night.

You pray for the barbarians
their knowledge, their verse
their surety of wild horses.

O the angst of insurance and facial hair!
O the desire for it all meaning nothing!
The zero within the frame.

they're restructuring reality again
but you have to sit and wait your turn
the transfers have been coming down for weeks
and another truckload of files
is settling into the archives
there is a floating field of rumour
closer to the truth than all the press releases
sounds of a makeshift power struggle
flood out into corridors
with eviction notices for the defeated
you lose your harbour views and your identity
you consider a career in espionage, lunch or motherhood
you are now dependent on radar
as unit after unit cuts out
you dream of limbo, you dream of voodoo
and pray they will take you at dawn instead
and shoot you full of silence
falling under the noise
of statutes, photocopiers and ministerial privilege
you want to believe fervently
that it has nothing to do with you
but you begin to learn the spell-cast anyway
how to reconstruct phantoms
you send away for the magic ring
you begin to use the telephone
you start to get in touch.

Who's to minister the repetition of logos
or conserve the limits of voice in the glide
toward afternoon? Into the revolve goes an alignment
stars, priorities, the highest commissions. 'Reality
is somewhere else'. Pale green bricks glow at midday
the handiwork of winter is foiled in the machine.

How would you pick up stakes, the degree of grain?
As if time causes money, yellow internal walls, bedrock data
a glint on the window. Timetables for the end of the world
as we know it, are continuous, as long as it's written down
near the bottom line, the broken one. (Have you or have you not
delivered?) Interests are driven by internal or mixed-up confusion.
So there's too much of almost nothing
while a centrifuge is humming - the risk is the outcome.

'This new innovation'
(paid advert) 'marks
the end of innovation as we know it.'

it's world's best practice
(decayed from orbit
junking upon us
at acceleration of days per day).

Well don't come the old soldier.
If someone's left an update
uniform at your bed's end
it wasn't me.

One only tries (properly, one imagines)
to mind one's own affairs
thatching busily while the wolf
blows hot cold one's house down.

In over one's head
one clutches the short straw;
rafting all at sea
one looks to halcyon days
of feathering a new nest in the calm before
other piggies' storms,
then crossing bridges while the sun shines.

(Aileen Kelly's poems This new Innovation & Liquidation were read by Brook Emery)

Though they shape up, pecs
are not boxing-gloves
but go about like best friends, coppers, old-time nuns
in pairs;
& each, checked out in a mirror,
is staunch, like the other.

Pecs are bench-press buddies
re-bonding for push-ups;
& signs -
in eulogies, obloquies
big men (Hercules, Tobowa*)
stride into myth -
steam off a sweaty contour.

Pecs are bearings
with balls -
they give support to every other
moving part -
hefting girders,
blasting the sandstorm dust outta building sites.

Pecs are simple
like the faces toddlers draw
but thin-skinned, with a florid inner life:
hailstorms, line-squalls on cold fronts
turn them articulate.

Pecs are fibrous skin-sheathed islands
where single trees
grow upside-down
with only the root-tip apparent -
when a palm's introduced
there's a reference-effect:
pecs go on-line for networking.

Pecs sell magazines, toiletries, friendliness -
Brad, Chad, Oliver, Jason, Ric & Zac.

In the fullness of the image -
young man at play, bare-chested, gazing
away from the beach, past the edge of the screen
or page -
pecs are the untold story
in pure form:
a moment of truth
that partners itself
in ecstasy
& never comes back
(not ever having quite got there).

* Tobowa (c. 1914-c. 1964). A village chief of Kalauna, Nidula (Goodenough) Island, PNG, renowned for his enterprise, violence & sorcery. See: Michael W. Young (1983), Magicians of Manumanua, Berkeley, University of California Press, pp. 110-131.

There are thoughtful thinking sentient beings
Whose knowledge of truth resides within.
Without a doubt!
Who understand,
The core of the uncorrupted, pure and unspoiled lotus.

She is unveiled, uncloaked, unsheathed,
Not by ignorance, defilement or abuse,
But by the power of love latent in so few masters who,
Faithfully enter the portal of learning,
Yearning for that wisdom,
The key to passing over the rainbow bridge of enlightenment,
When seeking out truth,
Continuing on indefatigably all the way through,
That conduit of service to you; humanity.

Why you might ask? And, in what sense too?
Well look around
Awaken your consciousness and see, expand it,
Broaden it; gain a little vision, knowledge,
Perspicacious effulgent perception,
The amplification is all too real in its divine purity,
Accept different types of natural truth exist for you and me
But,
With human involvement know that truth unfortunately,
Can be perceived in different ways,
Solipsistically and quite subjectively.

Truth is not external, in that there is no certainty,
To acquire the plain simple truth,
You know full well, you know it, I know you do,
For in truth, it lies within you,
I have it on natural authority, don't you?

on the roofs of buildings
bloggers with laptops
send messages across borders
-when will this war end?
rockets spin through the sky
children lie face down in the street
atrocities on either side
-who is to blame?
depends where you begin the story
spin-doctors keep the bombs in play

Dear John,
I haven't written for a while.
Please forgive me for that.
Things are happening here also.

I know that when you enlisted,
Sailed off to the war on terrorism,
I pledged my undying love, my praise, my respect.
But dear John, things change, core promises wither.

I'm not sure where you are,
But probably stuck in a muddy trench somewhere,
up to your knees your armpits
in sludge and blood and core ideals.
I do feel for you

Rats of dissention nibbling at your gaiters,
Trenchfoot-in-mouth dictating your emotions.
And poison gas drifting from the enemies polemics
Onto you and the front bench
Of the firing line.

Dear John, I must break this sad news:
I don't love you any more.
I have found another love
Another life another direction.

I was alert to you and your vision,
I believed you were as trusting and trustworthy
As the sun.
I didn't believe you would Tampa
with racism and fear.

But now I am truly alarmed
By your deceptions.
John, John, a fridge magnet won't keep
The coldness of your core mistruths at bay.

You are a frontline soldier in this ongoing war.
And me, I'm just collateral damage,
A rent in your bullet-proof investment.
I wish you well with your bullets and your bullshit.

Please don't write to me.
Don't try and persuade me of your loyalty and love.
Patriotism does not become you.
You have not become the man for me, my future.
Dear John. Goodbye.

Our feather
which floats in Canberra
Howard be thy name
Thy kingdom come undone
Thy will won't on my patch of dirt
As it is in Washington
Give us this day our daily crusts
And forgive our expatriates
As we forgive them who take refuge amongst us
Lead us not into war coalitions
but deliver us from politicians
For thine is the razor wire
Channel nine the power with the story
For never or always
I did not have political relations with that man
Aarrgh ... Men!

The report repeats a father's thoughts
who would rather read a novel
about the way others breed.
Teacher after teacher on his son
a vexed show of solidarity.
The boy shouts down his peers
powers past those in his way
but could be something, they say.
Yes, grieves the father
he could be a world leader
given his current direction.
The words 'bully' and 'rude'
too crude to be written down
but their stain will remain
between the lines, a hidden extra
covered by fees the mother pays.
She will make her own report
give the school a piece of her mind
edit this slander for friends
refer to her son's 'A's.

"Massoud flying over the Hindu Kush"
Afghanistan, 1998, after a digital photograph by Stephen Dupont

cushy compared to malalai joya in the parliament -
no joy there, rapping warlords over the knuckles,
ducking water bottles hurled by unholy warriors,
petulant strongmen like Mullah Rocketti, incensed
by the loose-cannon lips of a girl. some offer
to slit her throat (politics at the cutting edge)

even women, dummy MPs for hubbies
stockpiling opium in government offices,
rush at her across the floor, pull her hair,
recommend rape as a cure for rudeness.
under the Taliban, women were prosecuted
for singing on TV, others for being raped.

this northern spring, the Taliban offer US$25,000
for the body of an MP, twice that for a live one.
in the National Assembly in Kabul,
white-beards play grand theft auto
with human lives, ex-mujahideen practise
buzkashi with the battered head of democracy.

malalai, guarded 24 hours a day, travels incognito,
moves house every night. like Massoud, assassinated
by Arab journalists two days before 9/11, she keeps
martyrdom firmly in her sights: you can cut the flower
she says but you cannot stop the coming of spring.

crouching soldier behind an elbow of tree, where there's smoke there's fire:
in this peacekeeping operation you didn't bank on hidden tigers.

you're trained for this, men's business - pro-Indonesia gangs torching villages,
payback, then melting over the border - but the scale of it appals,

a city razed to the ground, the random violence of cathedral massacres.
You meet it with kindness just as random, lollies tossed to children, hooks

and a net for fishermen left with nothing. Iraq's next, and you figure
you'll be out by the time you're a Major - the pock-marked splatter of walls,

faces rigid with grief, sub-woofers of artillery like heavy-metal bands
pounding in your guts - memories strafing through your dreams.

did you dream this - flames licking along the spines of buildings,
the stench of bodies burning, black smoke blurring sharp edges?

How is your poetry?
Well.
What are you writing about?
I haven't written for almost a year.
Why?
Seditionists beat me senseless. Bit my back.
Closed the market.
Do you feel you've failed?
Yes, partly. Another part of me, no.
Do you feel that they've won, then?
Won what?
Their will over yours?

"No.
So,
after 30 years of writing
and 5 books of poetry,
you've written nothing?
I wrote a poem for a funeral.
When will we see that?

You won't. It was only for the 400 there.
It isn't for paper or others.
It is the only pure poem I've written.
Who was it for?
Someone I loved; viscerally. Not temporally.
Who was that?
That isn't for others either.
Was this person a poet?
This person was a nurse.
(without missing a beat)
Why do you plait your hair like that?
In 2 plaits. You are 42 now.
(long pause)
Because it's subversive.

Here is a photograph of my sober son
drunk with life, (my story) livid
with the joys of living. Lower lip
apouted, a contemplative monk,
jaw a snapped-shut trap, cigar
a smirk, sausage; the sixth finger
of his manly, right hand, eyes of a kicked dog.

Here's another of him in a Moroccan garden,
dry plants potted into buried, upright, clay water pipes,
bathed in sunlight, hugging a clawing cat,
a cap hugging his head. I wonder if I have that cap
amongst his things. I could twist and thread
my chocolate box tinfoil into its weave
and his head would be ablaze with rustling,
flashbulb-like residual light
and the cat would be purring
and the plants would be in golden plumes
of holy water, bitten soft-centres
dripping in the heart of each perfect rose.
("Oh, but they are," he'd say.)

When I am found like a cherished tooth
and when I am flicked at
by the softest of brushes

and when my pleasured pelvis is measured
and recorded as feminine and twice fruited,

will I be little work like a string of beads
without the string?
Or will I be a great, time consuming scattering
like a dropped bag of beads?

Will I have been rolled and disjointed
by a black, earthen wave;
as softly clipped-ligatured
like a lover?

My head elegant as a translucent shell?
Or a rattling, piece-counted and labelled box?

Will they find poetry in my eye sockets, nasal cavity,
between my teeth, along my fingers,
down my back?

Will my 3 poems a day days
be evident and opalescent?
Will my none a month months
be splinters?

from MODERN MONSTERS
CREATION MYTHS
Oh fragile joy, Oh poison sweetly taint
Oh monster that so cleverly canst paint
Chaucer Canterbury Tales

Globalisation loves our industry
& like nomads we forage the great grey kiss-arse grass.
When there is no nourishment left,
our friends cannot stand us
we embed at the edge of New York
& begin again to squeeze
the juice from a breeze.

Empires on paper, canvas & cellulose
the arts never close
maybe nothing new but the wage is getting better
send Prime Minister a thankyou letter
because (still poor) our lives are rich in irony
we claim our dope as tax deductions
stir up inner ructions
over breakfast & dimples.

Only
when our words sweat alongside -
the edge floodlit in old candle
or sometimes as the earth hides
in fingerprint's whorls
the valleys of dermis.
Perhaps a commuter is kidnapped & wrapped in a small edition ransom note

The heads of the Furies were wreathed in serpents & their whole appearance was terrific
& appalling.
Bullfinch Stories of Gods & Heroes

So they sit before the promiscuous colour of television
an argument wet & sleek
some expunged organ
at their thickpile stainguard feet.

Love has fallen over
their mortgage wants custody
& the crossbreed cat licks his arse in bored despair.

But TV won't give them up -
its loved-funny souls with floorpolish lines...
torpid family eyelids are teased upward
to the bright closure
on yet another day.

They are healed with a horrid certainty
on the rock of an Ikea couch.
Goodnight kiss
as damaged flesh is wrapped
in sleep-forgiven flannel.

The people here snick back their necks
gulp the sluggish air
like inflamed ponds with mangy carp.

There is always the noise of their factories
fermenting food that is dark, drugged
& heated from within. There seems
to be no joy in the eating,
just combustion spiced with beige rage.

Vehicles constantly beep as though
their mobility is an act that spruiks for itself.
Peak hour is like breeding blowflies.

Houses are rated by difference -
the architects have vied for decades
to break each of their self-imposed rules.

Average homes last only two years
before demolition ordered by fashion laws.
It seems the latest trend
is houses built upside down
& most citizens' domestic life
is a story of psychotic discomfort.

We play in the parks
asthmatic volleyball
drama & poetry
where the storms drop off to sleep.

Been here for years
purchasing timetables, sturdy shoes.
I pace the ceiling
fray & buzzing.

from MODERN MONSTERS
WORLD ORDER
For where there is much suffering, there is also great bliss

Our carpets the suits, tie, lino & lunch
colours cannot run
as I negotiate
from massage to massage, beach to beach.

We know this stuff can't fit
the dog is our hunger
as maids arrive by containership
& the pestilent new suburbs
absorb "non-prison poor".

Like a few of us still neither poor nor rich
(hard to understand the weakening worries of either extreme)
our eyes glide past the newspaper headline
(taxing wealth corrodes virility).
No-frills coffee is talking of Arabia.
Cats do control the movement of the moon.

4WDs in battle formation
mines amongst the zinnias
gunners at a paper wall
of property deeds & stockbroker tips.

while Fear & Greed patrol the lawns,
lead our armies into battle.
Just two human bones, this duo
do the clerking
at concentration camp gates, they
write press releases that smother babies.

It's the honey helping
the poison go down, it's
the gun oil acting all innocent
on a garage shelf.

Patched ships slump on the surface
of a complicit sea.
Our big televisions are full of words
sometimes there's the whisper refugee.

at the grotto of Lourdes - France
(dedicated to Sister Miriam who shares with me
"joy" in a world of peace)

drowned in the ripples of holiness / i sit in front
of the grotto / that has drawn / a populace from all
corners of the world / i remain quiet like all others
/ and tears soon wash down my face / being touched
by the sparkling faith and shining hope of the comers
to this square / my heart melts at the sight of those
wheel-chaired here / i raise my eyes to the two bril-
liant roses on the feet of the blessed lady / whose
miraculous graces shine on the hung up crutches from
those truly healed / i look upwards to a big rosary
round her right arm / her face is serene / shining
forth a voiceless plea for the peace of the world /
and conversion of hearts / this time / my tears run
for joy i could not describe / i fail to tell how long
have i been sitting there / i am warmed / of a cape
with saintliness / my ears are sweetly soothed by
the fervent singing of the Ave Maria / faith / hope
/ and love / piece by piece / fly into me / softly
/ i utter / love for you / my holy lady

Starless. Moonless.
The dingo cries in the dark.
Friend, go down your way,
And keep digging.
What have you come to ?
Pale death.
Thank God. There's still the oxygen.
Dumb. Black. Labour on...
The long passage underground -
Each inch a dynasty of cold.
Lifeless as fossils, more deaf than stones.
Lean on each other's shoulder then,
Rocking and trembling.
Days and time obliterate.
Winding trench. Liar if you giggle.
Time walks,
Bones unbuckle. Ice-blocks split.
Coloured fragments fly.
People fatten into smiling barrels.
O happy walking bodies
Stretch forth their hands for
A chain of hopes and satisfaction.
The sky cheers, the stars start to shower
Jewels on us.
Go. In search for more.
Congratulations ! Buddha grins.
Throw away your cape of darkness.
Embrace the crystal ball.
The game wins.
Dead dogs resurrect, fire-flies keep blackness away.
Stout carrot hangs in front of the cart.
The trench brightens, the diggers breathe.
O journey on, journey on.
Is that a final stop ?
Too early for another speculation.
Once more,
The stars drop, the moon falls,
The diamond ends it's glittering.
Pace up, walk on, dig again.
Frightful trench.
Dig on, dig on, dig on...

At the end of the Spin reading on Sunday at Sydney Grammar, Venie Holmgren gave a short update on the situation in Wollongong. There was much pleasure in the result, however as Venie warns, the attempt to gag free speech will continue. I have included her report and poem, though she did not get a chance to read THE CEO at the event.

A decisive victory over an attempt to muzzle the voices of Australian poets! Where? In the Crown St Mall, Wollongong on Wednesday 6 September 2006. Began with an email from Annie MacNamara, Director, South Coast Writers Centre, Wollongong. "Dear members and friends. after approaching Wollongong Mall to hold an open mic poetry gig for Poetry Week we were told that we could not have any religious or political content or words 'against the government'." I sent that message on to about 20 writers in 4 states and to my last 2 publishers - Ginninderra and Picaro. I then told Annie that I would come to Wollongong, a 7-hour bus journey, to read political poetry in defiance of the ban. That evening I was due to broadcast readings of my work on Edge FM Community radio, Bega, where Tim Metcalf, the volunteer presenter, gave the matter an airing. A week later, Tim Holt of ABC South East radio interviewed me about it. The interview finished with 2 political poems. I next descended on Merimbula's News Weekly. The editor was appalled and gave the news page 2 treatment with a photo of me wearing DEFEND FREE SPEECH tee shirt and a gag. Meanwhile, Annie had been productively busy. Local poets went on air. The Illawarra Mercury had a ball! Ran the story for 2 days. GAGGED POETS SOCIETY and CROWN ST MALL SEIZES THE DAY FROM OUR WRITERS. Annie took legal advice. Result: the Mall management 'out of order' on 2 separate counts 1. The Mall is a public precinct. 2 It's every citizen's constitutional right to make a political statement. So the Mall management graciously gave its consent for us to do something we intended to do without consent. We scrapped our gags, but wore our DEFEND FREE SPEECH tee shirts. And I suggest that we keep them handy because it's obvious that this was only the first of many attempts that will be made in other places and at other times, to muzzle Australian writers.
Venie Holmgren
Pambula, Far South Coast, NSW.

of Terrorism Pty Unlimited
is well pleased with progress
the sacred cause of
bringing democracy to the Middle East
proceeding
according to plan
( although there are some who beg to differ)
and the recipe for continuous warfare
finally discovered
so much so
that the chief Bean Counter
of a tinpot ally
on the other side of the world
making a desperate bid
for leadership of his political party
has announced
that the WAR ON TERROR
could last for fifty years.
Bemused taxpayers
although not quite sure
about which terrorism
makes what, nonetheless
dutifully look under their beds
every night, over their shoulders
when walking down the street
and regard people with dusky skins
and foreign looking features
through narrowed eyes.

Meanwhile,
some worthy citizens
in a fair city
on the east coast
of said country
have decreed
that poets may not
publicly poetise
about an impressive list
of forbidden subjects.

A poetic reaction occurs
and the said worthy citizens
found to be outside the law
on two separate counts
graciously give special permission
for the said poets
to do what they intended to do
with or without permission.

Said poets poetise politically
to a large lunch time crowd
in the open air venue
many of whom would not normally
be seen at a poetry reading.