Melaleuca Number 6: December 2009 Table of Contents Bali Dreaming Life Passes by Sweet Seasons Suite View from

the Fourth Floor The bag man of the Alameda The Leavings the bush idyll; or, poem with most of a line from Sorescu postcard of Elysium Tai Mo Shan / Big Hat Mountain The Imperial Sandalwood Sunset The sky is darker at night Gail Arkins Gail Arkins Gail Arkins Gail Arkins Greg Lewis Greg Lewis Christopher Kelen Christopher Kelen Christopher Kelen Christopher Kelen Lynda Hawryluk Lynda Hawryluk Lynda Hawryluk 3 4 5 8 9 10 11 14 15 16 28 29 30 Editor: Phillip A. Ellis

All works are copyright by their respective creators, 2009; the arrangement of this collection is copyright by Phillip A. Ellis, 2009. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 Australia License <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.5/au/>.

Bali Dreaming The palest of green leaves kissed by the sun a swathe of lemongrass sways and flows to the shore, a flock of green-fleeced sheep. Overhead, palms dapple-shade an exercise class; the tan and lean instructor issues orders in French: genou! -- knees up! All obey. A small animal bounds, stops; alert eyes dart, tail quivers. It runs up the nearest tree, leaps from frond to frond, which shiver and rustle. Beautiful Bali: island of temples, gamelan and heat, your people laugh with their eyes and smiles, even though Im far away, my heart remains, remembers. Gail Arkins

Life Passes By Peaceful on a park bench, front paws by her sleek tail, she sits; gentle, green-eyed, and stares at a butterfly. Her white face, a jewel, her nose blunt, ears pricked, alert, in the joy of life and just to be. Later on a verandah, we sit together, contemplative, we watch life as it passes by, my cat and I. Gail Arkins

Sweet Seasons Suite Summer Crickets; strident voices heard at dusk, shrilling; still unseen, imagine their shadows, hidden. Swelter; hot north wind gusts, eddies of arid brown dust swirl; dry dams, water lost - vanished like smoke. Swatting swarms of bush flies nuisance pests of summer; season of dusty heat, thirst and mangoes. Autumn Listen: torrents of rain team from the leaden skies. Silence assails the senses as leaves fall. Colours: russet, gold, red vibrant autumn pageant before winters frosty kiss, cold

as ice. Winter Nature retreats into herself, time for sleep. In burrows and hollows curled up balls of fur not a whisker moves. Morning frost, children crack ice on the birdbath; frozen fingers cold noses and toes; thawed later by the fire. Trees stand straight as soldiers, leaves passed to another place, wait for the new life that will blossom soon in Spring. Spring Goodbye winter blues. September song; joyful notes herald new beginnings. Spring enfolds the earth.

A bud unfurls and greets the sun a young leaf of sparkling green quivers in a waft of warm breeze. Spring hugs the earth. Time of fresh focus fragrant perfumes fill the air love blossoms harvest is bountiful. Spring embraces the earth. New life abounds butterflies, birds and bulbs a fanfare of foals flourish baby lambs leap. Spring caresses the earth. Gail Arkins

View from the Fourth Floor Night time, bright lights announce the coming planes; a hard right now, they change to flashing red. I gaze, mesmerised, through the window panes at blinking lines of lights, my eyes transfixed. The morning dawns, the corner parks deserted, the larches are bare, a silent statue stands greeting the dawn, with blank eyes and averted; small children run to pre-school, hand in hand. A squirrel wakes and leaps from tree to tree, faint sounds of birdsong permeate the air, and feelings stir of peace, tranquillity-perfect solutions to an aching despair. The parks heart beats now, people all around, the day brings life, and love and treasures abound. Gail Arkins

The bag man of the Alameda I know the bag man of the Alameda, he is always here. He is never elsewhere. He drags his bags up and down the Alameda, never straying from this street. I heard he was from Puerto Montt, from the rich central valley, and Arica. In him, the glaciers, and the wild waves pounding the long coast. In him, the northern desert, dry and dusty, and the flowering of his heart amid the arid land. I see him every day outside the subway - the eternal traveller, with the Andes behind him, casting long shadows over his life. Greg Lewis

The Leavings Our pacing days galloping in to years turn now, and now our memories yellow, break photo frames and scratch clean surfaces. What will become of the leavings? Years turning generations, Christmas decorations are sooner erected and sooner taken down, tinsel dusted in the autumn cleaning. Leaving in our wake weight loss obsessions, shiny collectables, careers endured with holidays on the coast, and life under the regime of the heart. Lovers, teeth and birthdays recede, and all that is left is Christmas tinsel raining down somewhere, as the leavings take flight. Greg Lewis

The Bush 1 which is the wild out-of-order, snakes hunting under tin left lie garden too thick for weeds this unnaming its chorus birds commonly bright 2 minds its business we make ours yields to spirit its sustaining best model from democracy dark wordless turn, self tending, ruthless its arcane angels knot flux in lines of flight unto all selves absent of law flimsy instinct joins logic to one wish the guiltless having of all this 3 and hearth by hearth it breathes to burn a curlicue pens home this one tree left cut down to size so when it's mine it is no longer comes back in its pocket of rises the bush is a trap sets camouflage falls in and all it catches bush 4

11

another sun spun, a next dicey sky of maverick opinion, told-you inscrutable polysemy song between the cityfolds come clumsy in its own confiding the bush is all unfinished business all neighbouring and all horizon team of madmen tied to one tune a tidemark shows where we retreat 5 blade hailing the forest, legend made fading memorabilia: smug of stockwhip, gumleaf this narrow harvest sets beast and grass to corner sun gathers as a blowfly to what was meat takes no convincing its job to go nowhere 6 midst of limits most natural of histories, gospel uncut in the wood you can always come home it cures your axe, a waste of pages cash scrawls down the bush beside my means as such 7 pack up but where you come from's as gone as what was here so we among all animals are party to the bush take down each sky made out in ribs 12

a cross hangs bright above 8 leaves tracks to run a course paws take and forward still the world is forest we tongues a thread of it spun forth one species relieving others of hope barks at the edge a dog at night burning the hinge of sentience it mourns 9 beautiful old cars pass through the bush each to its picnic thanks the shade this shallowest of burials 10 much admired the passage of rites because once you were my besotted a frightened face to rouse such love the bush is an animal gathering home from its great arc unmeaning Christopher Kelen

13

idyll; or, poem with most of a line from Sorescu a wind shaped tree in the meadow of sleep youth after Lethe lain green in clover and death is here too in the blue of the sky cloud of a man comes floating and this the steadying rain speaks heart to heart pulse over these roofs of heaven head in the lap of the reaper Christopher Kelen

14

postcard of Elysium lifes a flash and then youre ash eternity ghost floating ether above flames under the pot soul first into the void I do impressions like Ulysses posing as no one at all after a while I want to come clean but by then dont remember I went swimming thats it give me blood and Ill tell what you want to hear Christopher Kelen

15

Tai Mo Shan / Big Hat Mountain 1 every night the mountain climbs over whatever I dream it remains beginning up the mountain sits for the world to roar round it Big Hat Mountain when I get past the treeline the sun will show me what Im not wearing these feet before me as elsewhere mine great volumes of the sky halt here that the lungs might touch what makes them past last of shade of people sparse I move mountainously the track stands across my climbing

16

2 trees themselves climb making, losing breath like me who bends them? whos bent to them? everything calls me away... look this leech! a watch, my fur grown into garments, to hold the mountain off head full of, eyes too, mouth full up even in this making silence I cast none of this off paradox this stillness sweats from me my presence in my means deferred that I belong where Im no part and have not hide nor nesting I take the mountain up now time has pitched its tent in me the citys trafficking sloughs enough blank space

17

3 smoulders into its autumn burden someone is burning in the dry gully ...through the thickness of air a broken umbrella caught in tree forks the broken wind burnt here far below tugs work the harbour dry the sea faced off in its cargo of sunk truths its grim old forevers as good as today

18

4 a day with the mountain what does it mean? the wind is like rubble piled in a silent forest where the birds have lost sway then the forest itself bends under divinity centuries back the mountain gets into me I must climb the mountain can only be taken the wrong way: shrines and incense fall up its sides in the way of devotion folk bring their birds to sing with the wild the wind stirs up in its corners as the sound the ear must stir from a shell Big Hat and the city like ears sticking out faith occults the gradient as if the mountain were to be believed

19

5 striding in the suns vast strokes my wrist minutely glints I bring this cast of light on the mountain to borrow an intensity sun stands either side cant be found out I pull the mountain up over my head bears my sullen breath away the mountain confesses me I have only to come there is something between me and it and not a form of understanding to take up with the mountain is the hardest thing to do eyes down at my pencil the mountain wont grudge does not need to remember has forgotten nothing the boredom of the mountain bigger than any of us what is that speech below silence there?

20

6 breath down in rich seams older than speech I am taking down the mountains portrait opinion of the place in each lit square faces pay for the privilege of turning their backs on the mountain a fine roof for all that has buried and built and the sun singing down there past roots, past all dim hoards lost before measuring ever began all that the mountain is a fine roof

21

7 this going nowhere stills my bones the better of me got as home yearns for me how could it not? when I myself am pacing elsewhere how should the mountain manifest? who can see it in me? morning slouches with the mountain noontide stands over, sun takes a set, quickens, sky of bones and insects forgetting a mountain of words against the mountain symptom of which is self-erasure climbing the mountain I am invisible does this get me nowhere? stones washed raw the mountain in theory is indivisible if it leaves by the truckload truckloads are left

22

8 some divination senses me under these weathered hands of season I make out the character for mountain a bell sounds where the path comes still which deities does the mountain guard? faces worn with kindness uphill in shanty sides and tricks of dwelling even this bent old joke of a mountain half erased and ready for more eyed but if the dollar bids idle in such fraught desire I honour hoping that theres honour in it

23

9 uphill choose one rock to sit on the mountain limbs rest two bodies together which stills the way? the fewer my footfalls the more in the mountain stood among clouds its windows thin mists my mountain on the window here of which the clouds are capable

24

10 dusk is a last turn wrestles the mountain descending, picking burrs from clothes plucking ants from my fur sweat dries cold chill sets on my neck I learn I have given the mountain my scarf further down the mountain offers a glove and then another for the same hand different, another colour I decline again look in the morning how the mountain still stands no hint of gloating

25

11 still life that we have ornamented catch the angles from it casts over pales by comes under a spell nights home I face the mountain my building casts a shadow over the mountain shows no face I play the guitar a tune on the mountain quavers like sparks spun the stars such comrades dim about me the mountain frames days buried looks on in its auspicious graves inauspicious though to look once in a hermitfold black night of barking under your smoky blanket of breath grass curls up toes jackhammer blowtorch these are the fauna a postcard in the museum of what was the mountain a foolish old man grinds tiger bones

26

12 after the days tides lock up the mountain we all do, on all sides the mountain is no longer at large ever since night upended here these bells wrung in this vindication the mountain pursues me in my darkness and in my knots of future I kneel for the mountain until it recalls me we have all the worlds time here god of the mountain answer me this to be true to this place and to the earth under to be true to this air, my here and now whom must I mock? how? Christopher Kelen

27

The Imperial The Swords sliced the stage right open Electrifying chaos in a three-piece suit Torn t-shirts and a gaping head wound Stitched shut after last nights riot The headline act at an orgy in a canefield One month to the crush and time to let loose Here seasons cannot be challenged The canecutters slow to start this year Watching with dark eyes from the side of the stage Ready to leap on overenthusiastic punters A churning mass of tanned bodies Rumbling to the music in front of them Sweat drips from the ceiling fans In a cavernous club by the river The crocs cock an eye then doze again To the sound of the Swords in mid-song A makeshift nest is all weve got A swag, a tarp, some fishing line for a clothesline Well travel to the next town soon enough Construct another campsite on the high ground And work to the sounds of cicadas humming You sit outside now, away from this crowd Eyes bright in the blackness of night Sitting on a rock soaking tired feet in the swollen creek As I watch another Sword cut Thick air with a razor sharp guitar lick The fish left the river years ago Once the Imperial started Friday night Punk night And the backpackers came to stay Lynda Hawryluk

Sandalwood Sunset Grey butcherbirds scatter into the silence of a lazy still afternoon Housebound felines settle back to sleep, antagonised no more The last shrill peep of a honeyeater Changes blue sky to a pinkish sheen Full green leaves of a mango tree rustle And shake from invading masked bandits Batwings stretched out against a deepening dusk Its so quiet on Zonkas Hill you can hear the waves lapping at Fishermans shore The screech of little blacks like fingernails on a blackboard Breaking the gloaming in two Mango tree murder spree over they head towards Wreck Point Sharp silhouettes against a glimmering bay the full moon ripe and pendulous hanging over the headland a mound of dense bushland, solid and still the tide bounces off the Bluff and a cool breeze blows through the Pandanus like a sneaky possum stealing forbidden fruit darkness settles over Cooee Bay like a mosquito net protecting us the red glow of a coli in the window blinks in the moonlight candles flutter dancing by themselves a radio in the next street floats across to us as we sit and soak in this sandalwood sunset Lynda Hawryluk

The sky is darker at night A balmy breeze blows through palm trees Happy in their natural environment And sleepily watching faint lights flickering in the distance They might belong to a car or a house Or something you dont want to think about Every tree could be an abrupt ending to the journey home And every shadow beckons you closer towards the dark A thousand eyes line the roadside Watching and waiting for the next car to pass Who knew kangaroos were voyeurs? Driving along though endless blackness Belying the vast and empty country; its out there someone In the car is cool and comfortable And gives a false sense of safety But it could all be over in seconds The sky is much darker at night Without the benefit of the reflected light Of a humming cityscape A different kind of city sits out there in the dark Hiding behind bushes, away from the headlights of an oncoming car Lynda Hawryluk