Writer of Poetry, Screen Plays, Stage Plays & Fiction
Writer of Poetry, Screen Plays, Stage Plays & Fiction
…though striped in part was not, in fact, a tiger,
or feline in any way, but related
to the kangaroo, so a marsupial,
with a head and muzzle a bit like a bear’s,
and the dimensions of an Alsatian dog.
Somebody named him Benjamin – a joke
probably: the last of Jacob’s sons,
and Israel’s progenitor. Some footage
survives, in black and white, of the animal
in his small, bleak cage in Hobart Zoo.
The newsreel’s pompous and slightly smarmy
voice-over,
A couple of weeks into the Great Lockdown –
robins nesting in the ivy, wild bees
in the eaves, as usual – we were
visited one day by a carrion crow,
its feathers of a blackness beyond
perfection, clinkered armour buffed bright.
It landed, the size of a large cat,
on our modest bird bath beside the lilies
beginning to burgeon. In its beak
was a portion-sized piece of baguette
or ciabatta, which it dropped in the water,
then flew off.
A young girl is reading in a white armchair.
On the crimson tablecloth is a pink rose
in a glass of water. (She has kept the bloom
from when she was weaving flowers – its petals
superfluous to her design). The book
she is reading she first read three years ago,
when she was seven: its themes – of childhood,
and alchemy, and unambiguous frontiers
only beyond which evil thrives – enclose like
the high arms of her chair, though she is tall,
‘The smart way to keep people passive and obedient is to strictly limit the spectrum of acceptable opinion, but allow very lively debate within that spectrum—even encourage the more critical and dissident views. That gives people the sense that there’s free thinking going on, while all the time the presuppositions of the system are being reinforced by the limits put on the range of the debate’. THE COMMON GOOD, Noam Chomsky
A dormouse, leaping into a boiling cauldron,
leaps out, protesting. Some others, resting,
with breathing apparatus, trustingly
at the bottom of a pot of water
arctic-cold,
On the south west coast of the peninsula,
among Mount Sinai’s arid sandstone foothills,
beneath the stoops of falcons and the gyres
of eagles, where quail and grouse migrate,
and ibex graze on sparse thorn bushes,
where Moses might have berated the Twelve Tribes,
near the temple ruins of Hathor, goddess
of fertility and a golden calf,
are the rubbled remains of turquoise mines.
The Pharaohs prized the stones bluer than skies.
Canaanite prisoners of war worked the seams –
“Did you not hear me ask Sir Thomas about the slave trade last night?…There was such a dead silence.”
MANSFIELD PARK, Jane Austen
It is fitting in certain English novels
that there should be significant absences
in Bath or London, journeys of consequence
to the colonies, and banishments
to darkest Dorset or a coastal town.
It is appropriate too that there should be
rain of whatever kind falling frequently,
forcing protagonists and antagonists
to be housebound, introspective,
THE GREAT UNCONFORMITY
THE LAST TASMANIAN TIGER....
THE LAST TASMANIAN TIGER....
THE LAST TASMANIAN TIGER....
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS: WINDOWS OF DISCOURSE