F ISH
The sun had not yet breached the line
of hills hemmed in, (gentian, jagged
hills), and the inlet at the turn was
smooth as paint.
Novice father, novice son sat down where they were
bid, as everyone but they had settled in the stern
and everyone but they was busy
with his hook.
The vessel shuddered as diesel turned
the screw, then puttered to the entrance
of the harbour where the current strained
to claim more sea.
Each was silent as the skipper crossed the
bar, then up each jumped to stab at bait
with kukri primed on oil stone. They
could not wait,
they had no time to catch the streak
of orange red nor spot the sweeping gull
miss fish, but seconds had them holding taut
their rods with leather grip.
At last the boat approached the reef and idled
as the anchor chain was dropped below her bow.
The motor cut, and hesitation held until a nod allowed
the reels to scream.
The two who brought new rods meanwhile
had coffee slosh like washing in their bowels.
They reached for sugared ginger and dropped
their swaying knots;
while at the stern burnt sailor arms were
striking, bending, gaffing
out great coloured fish both steel and bronze
without a glance.
The father and the son meanwhile, though sick, were
hoping for a snap to honour just one fish, but
every fish that one could eat was brained and
put on ice,
while barracuda (even shark) was cursed and
slashed then flung aside like factory waste
to flap around as further bait for
barracuda (even shark).
By noon the sea was flicking white and
lurching at the boat, the men were drunk,
their bin was blood and lines
were ordered out.
The welcome motor puffed alive, the anchor
clanked and slewed as it was crudely winched
aboard. The two where they had spewed
sat still, ignored.
The travel back was best forgot but the
vessel reached the harbour calm with no
one drowned, no one harmed; no one
but the bream.
Stiff fish were dealt out on the wharf and each
went off with more than he could freeze. Even
they (the father and the son) were given
one to gut;
but when they reached their mother-wife, whom
they had hoped to please, they could not
raise another knife and curve it through
the fish.
So settling for a simpler dish of turnip
stew and beans, they wrapped their golden
prize in foiled tin and gave it to
the trees.
M Y B ROTHERâS D UCKS I N V IETNAM
Opposite, on the bank
of the slow and final river, Ant
ducks, their paddle feet no
match for cocksâ and hensâ,
hurry running in a flurry
of tail and neck, hissing and
nipping while their opponents
rape and scrape and peck.
A boy no older than Alice,
(part-time butcher bringing
breakfast rather than blade),
drops slops from his motherâs
bucket, while his dog (also
white like Alice), yaps with
imperium at their bleary
buffalo shackled in the shade.
Ant! A brother in another
world illuminated by ineffable
text which I can float to for a
visit. He was no older than
Alice when the cobra killed his
ducks, and, when I get to pay
my visit, I will gather down
and place it in his chalice.
S MOKE I N W INTER
Like ice against enamel
the wood coal squeaks
as xylem splits and phloem
spits out fat-hot sap,
and smoke â the alluring
fume â curls unmolested
into spirits, not all solemn;
but no one speaks.
Up then, up the lichensmothered
trunk it creeps,
smudging one by one
the witch-long walnut
digits, and licks them dry,
dry as tongue, eburnean
sculptures, not all solemn;
but no one speaks.
And further still, through
halted winter night, it seeks
to filter constellations
that I know but cannot
name, primal/parent smoke,
the burning eyes of childrenâs
hopes, not all solemn;
but no one speaks.
E UREKA !
Imagining is chemical,
sugar-powered kiss and collision,
electrified ingredients
gathered from experience
to zip, then zip undone;
molecules conjuring up song
and insurrection; catalysts
acting moon, hurrying
The sun had not yet breached the line
of hills hemmed in, (gentian, jagged
hills), and the inlet at the turn was
smooth as paint.
Novice father, novice son sat down where they were
bid, as everyone but they had settled in the stern
and everyone but they was busy
with his hook.
The vessel shuddered as diesel turned
the screw, then puttered to the entrance
of the harbour where the current strained
to claim more sea.
Each was silent as the skipper crossed the
bar, then up each jumped to stab at bait
with kukri primed on oil stone. They
could not wait,
they had no time to catch the streak
of orange red nor spot the sweeping gull
miss fish, but seconds had them holding taut
their rods with leather grip.
At last the boat approached the reef and idled
as the anchor chain was dropped below her bow.
The motor cut, and hesitation held until a nod allowed
the reels to scream.
The two who brought new rods meanwhile
had coffee slosh like washing in their bowels.
They reached for sugared ginger and dropped
their swaying knots;
while at the stern burnt sailor arms were
striking, bending, gaffing
out great coloured fish both steel and bronze
without a glance.
The father and the son meanwhile, though sick, were
hoping for a snap to honour just one fish, but
every fish that one could eat was brained and
put on ice,
while barracuda (even shark) was cursed and
slashed then flung aside like factory waste
to flap around as further bait for
barracuda (even shark).
By noon the sea was flicking white and
lurching at the boat, the men were drunk,
their bin was blood and lines
were ordered out.
The welcome motor puffed alive, the anchor
clanked and slewed as it was crudely winched
aboard. The two where they had spewed
sat still, ignored.
The travel back was best forgot but the
vessel reached the harbour calm with no
one drowned, no one harmed; no one
but the bream.
Stiff fish were dealt out on the wharf and each
went off with more than he could freeze. Even
they (the father and the son) were given
one to gut;
but when they reached their mother-wife, whom
they had hoped to please, they could not
raise another knife and curve it through
the fish.
So settling for a simpler dish of turnip
stew and beans, they wrapped their golden
prize in foiled tin and gave it to
the trees.
M Y B ROTHERâS D UCKS I N V IETNAM
Opposite, on the bank
of the slow and final river, Ant
ducks, their paddle feet no
match for cocksâ and hensâ,
hurry running in a flurry
of tail and neck, hissing and
nipping while their opponents
rape and scrape and peck.
A boy no older than Alice,
(part-time butcher bringing
breakfast rather than blade),
drops slops from his motherâs
bucket, while his dog (also
white like Alice), yaps with
imperium at their bleary
buffalo shackled in the shade.
Ant! A brother in another
world illuminated by ineffable
text which I can float to for a
visit. He was no older than
Alice when the cobra killed his
ducks, and, when I get to pay
my visit, I will gather down
and place it in his chalice.
S MOKE I N W INTER
Like ice against enamel
the wood coal squeaks
as xylem splits and phloem
spits out fat-hot sap,
and smoke â the alluring
fume â curls unmolested
into spirits, not all solemn;
but no one speaks.
Up then, up the lichensmothered
trunk it creeps,
smudging one by one
the witch-long walnut
digits, and licks them dry,
dry as tongue, eburnean
sculptures, not all solemn;
but no one speaks.
And further still, through
halted winter night, it seeks
to filter constellations
that I know but cannot
name, primal/parent smoke,
the burning eyes of childrenâs
hopes, not all solemn;
but no one speaks.
E UREKA !
Imagining is chemical,
sugar-powered kiss and collision,
electrified ingredients
gathered from experience
to zip, then zip undone;
molecules conjuring up song
and insurrection; catalysts
acting moon, hurrying
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