Drew's News

Category: Poetry

  • Into the Jacaranda-Garden

    Into the Jacaranda-Garden

    ‘And the end of all our exploring
    Will be to arrive where we started
    And know the place for the first time.’
    – T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets

    Laid out lulled in luscious green, 
    sweet muslin drawing on the breeze
    Springtime in our courtyard
    with the jacaranda tree

    Misty mauve effusive, 
    Her visitation draws on us
    to merge in her 
    ethereal embrace.
    Allure miraculously sudden –
    bomb blast brilliance born in colour
    leaves yesterday’s bleak and scribbly limbs, 
    all dark and winter cool, 
    suspended alive 
    somewhere beyond 
    the sandstone certain tower clock that ticks in drifting deep blue sky, 
    yesterday’s bleak and scribbly limbs, 
    all dark and winter cool –
    footfalls, echo in the memory
    Down the passage which we did not take

    The blossoms lift, 
    float weightlessly round, dressing things up 
    time’s indigo brides.
    I follow their lead –
    accompanied sweet by pigeons’ refrain, by choirs streamed down stairs 
    to Muru Dturali,
    new ‘Pathway To Grow,’ new First Nations Garden.

    And I wonder about Botany Bay, 
    about Great Grandpa Stanley and Gallipoli, how he survived
    and how he loved Sydney with all his heart….

    Slipping, quicksand rapid so
    mind’s eye dissolves
    To vanish underfoot. 
    A million tiny points of view, 

    A million bit mosaic –
    displaced, reimagined, piggy backed back together
    and where’s a spot to land?

    So many whispers in these hallowed halls,
    Whispers of the past –
    Past Revs, Chefs, seasons, students,
    All plugged into a venerable slipstream
    With Einstein, Byron, Kant and Keats….
    And through it all there’s surely, too
    Eliot’s ‘voice of the hidden waterfall’
    Between two waves of the sea.

    Laid out lulled in luscious green 
    Sweet muslin drawing on the breeze
    Springtime in our courtyard
    With the jacaranda tree

  • IMPERMANENCE

    IMPERMANENCE

    DANCER, FIGHTER 

    The lamp rests steady 

    Behind a sea of black lingers.

    The flame, dances and rides,

    Upon the rhythm of passing breeze

    Bringing a light,

    A little bit of warmth,

    To the surrounding darkness.

    And for long the flame rages

    Neatly seated in her little glass cage,

    Petit to any wandering eye

    Yet ferocious to those close by.

    The dancer draws its fuel

    And once again lurches with evermore joy.

    But such is bound to exhaust.

    The flame sucks more.

    Faster.

    Harder.

    The darkness closes in on that little dancer

    Creeping from its surrounds,

    Crawling towards the bastion.

    Our flame fight on, 

    Flickering: spirit of resistance,

    Fierce to the touch,

    And malleable to blow.

    The flicker grows lower regardless

    Calling and gasping,

    Yet chocked from within.

    Such is the plight of the little flame of the lamp,

    The little warrior,

    Upon the moment I chose to dream.

    In Embrace of Steel & Dirt

    Above, the leaves of gum, of balga, of tuart, 

    below the bottlebrush fall, sitting in the grove of the banksia, 

    surrounded am I by that which extends from me. 

    Yet, I am not exclusive to the bark and soil, 

    for above the roof of the karri, the metal and concrete reside, 

    the call of the blue wren, a twitter among the canopy. 

    I approach the steeple, 

    yet, find myself adjoined; 

    banker, chippy, senator, elder 

    all congregate below the cross of I.  

    Not for sermons or scripture of old, 

    but rather the hymns of the Mali 

    and the organ tune of rivers a flow. 

    On this hill I perch, a sentinel,  

    behind sprout the emerald-green fronds, 

    yet at the foot the Ute roars on winding avenue, dividing earth from the Bilya. 

    Hark! 

    Do not protest that of my ordinary day: 

    car and building and phone, 

    are the seeds which sow this kingdom and are not so different. 

    Karri, end my angst with chorus of your leaves, 

    As the mothers laughs, so does her child. 

    But friend, I must depart, 

    far I fly, my brusque end awaits! 

    Of golden white and beauty,  

    and endless swirling tides. 

    In earnest I must confess, 

    my gaze of green extends long and far, 

    not mere eucalyptus, but pine and oak as well, 

    for all grow just as tall under heedful eye o’ mine

    Expiring Lungs

    The cigarette held up above my eye,

    Its ember sits in front of the lamb post

    As I squint, 

    They share light.

    Above the sun seems to rise,

    A gloomy orange tint on otherwise black.

    Trees rustle as if,

    To heed the warning of dawn await.

    Burns the embers next to me,

    Between lips and slurred words,

    Conversation with little meaning,

    Or purpose

    Or end.

    Mere ramble of youth:

    Drinks, jobs, cars, food.

    Ember draws close to my finger,

    Heat now touches me.

    On my nails and my tongue.

    Dirty nails.

    Dirty tongue.

    Both linger in knowledge that such times,

    Are almost spent.

    Sun rises closer,

    Ashes keep falling.

    A pause in talk to watch it fall,

    Perhaps a little too long,

    As thoughts come to stay.

    So I talk again.

    Soon we will wake,

    With sun high in the sky,

    And nothing left to say.

    But until then,

    The trees will rustle,

    And the cigarette will burn.