Christopher Kelen - Poetryetc Featured Poet - Series 4, #2

*******************************************

fragments from a new ars

1

start from a loose end
only way in

my indirection
goes with me everywhere

these mendicant words
all borrowed before
the clock bears down
disperses, delays them -
ambassadors of other words

there's something I can do
no one else can

I swallow it down in lieu of a duty

but mainly have this old bent cup
to my crippled hand
am patching the hole
till it's smaller than cents
I'm patching the copper here full of old skies


3

I come from a disturbance
and I am to make one

cannot keep my eyes quite down

I have objections to the way the world is run

midst of my dreaming
the body's strange song
the vehemence of sight, of senses
their much to hide

the day's least corner is poetry

in it I have heard footsteps


4

should I fall into belief
faith catches just as the unwary wend
to know their lines in time set

I scribble a kind of Braille as I go
but faith is all intaglio

mindmuzak
a leaf falls
spun from seeing

I don't catch up with myself

these faces I dream
inexplicably mine
and not

enough land to live
enough to be masters

in my brutal view
the jazz feat of burying tunes
in something more general
is a rare kind of poise
trophy of mind
a never quite catching
blank mind
blank heart
a sudden colour comes to me
through sirenfolds of smoke

I make my rough account
I am writing to everyone who will read
singing for every ear left out
no matter understanding



9

in lieu of a duty
take words to their depth
past sounding
past the thus-far of their mean
to bring them to book

know where to release them
where to set them aside

beer thirst from the fields I come

like ink from the page
the eye forgets
this scratching home to surface

age of the invisible
is there before that?

religion excuses the soul
of well lived fear

sweet poison of
choosing the lie with which to frame truth

choosing between lives
this every instant



10

days on the mill and hunger mistakes me

the teeth of the same
and death's big democracy

- how subtly indifferent
which gods can do that?
not triumph over some sad foible

mine like those eyes up
in compulsory prayer
fasten across a seeming sea
of the devout
a kindred
community of unbelievers

like a blind man
keeping the view company
in his poverty of valleys unfolding
light falling over him
regrets the years he squandered sight
inside office or factory, eyes down at dumb clods

years of no savour
the perfection of tragedy eludes
we go on
to see the shape
of going on about it

scenes of a crime we recollect
something outlives us
like the sound of the river
the tap left
tea pouring

*******************************************

Republic


The past won't know us now.
We're changing the locks
on motley desire. We are
among strangers. The villages
are wished away and the kingdom
of six o'clock closing.

Shall I invoke you as an ultimatum?
Threat or promise? Secret republic
declared long ago. Oracular republic
of shillings and pence. Of bush week,
of whims assembled to towns, strung on tracks
till the tar melts in summer. Republic of the burning
bush. And the sand blows over us, crusts all our dreams.
Shark infested floater, sand ringed, bright in a fly blown
shielding the eyes sort of way. Republic of oldest curses,
latest luck. Of shopkeepers smug in wise saws,
free with advice but tight with their credit.
Postmasters weighing and measuring doom.
Profitless waste of quids to be made.
Survivor's republic. Lost causes. Found comforts.
Of great good fortune talked itself down to dust.
Of greater regrets. Republic of ought to be, smog,
grim defiance, of the empty gesture, the endless beach,
of the sun never setting, the clock runneth over,
jumping the queue and the waves break forever.
Republic of terrible skies higher than others.
Of the world's bluest ocean, of dragging
through court, all colours cancelled
by the office of jealousy, its new tax
on everyone's everyday spark.

Republic of the fair go, empty republic thought up
by pisspots and murdering bastards. Of loud writing,
of scribbled bark smaller than hands. Of the roaring deaf
taunted to fists in the pub of the serious business.
Terra nullius and the borrowed jukebox.
Republic of the old truths hidden.
Of never bothering to say you're sorry.

Republic of uncontrollable nights, thighs danced till dawn
without fear or favour or memory either. Of the world's weary
paws come to rest here at last. Of the happy-go-lucky sat up like
Jackie. Jungle republic of crocodiles waiting, sharks in the shallows.=

Stripped assets and staff sent home. Republic of gullet,
of gulping it down. Of half-pissed regrets for same follies
repeated. Republic of not knowing how it got home
or forgetting to go or wherever it came from.

Republic of strangers trying to please.
Of refugees sprayed on arrival, of burning the boats
and they still wash ashore. Banana republic, uranium glow.
Anorexic, bulimic, mumbling excuses. Beery republic
with its balls on the barbie. Of the borrowed aphorism, of we
told you so. Of having your own way. Us and them in the convict
republic. Of the past, of the few. Of doing to others what they've
done to you. Republic of redistribution. Of the lost agenda.
Of stumbling in mood swings. Monster republic and six heads
can't agree the wedge's thin edge and the floodgates of peril.
Of two Wongs and a horde of whites.

Of the class and of the gender. Of the great forms fallen into
disuse. Of magazine royals, involuntary intrigue. Of service
disgruntled, of dreamy afflictions, of not yet, of not yet.
Till it's knighted itself for services rendered. Republic
of garments sewn up in abjection. Shoes heeled
there too, of nothing is mended.

Republic of Tories who take the horizon having
their effortless way with all labour. Big baby republic
of lottery winners. Sniffs its own flesh in the fire it's still
building. Surly republic grudging the chore of choosing its stupor.
You beaut republic of having your cake, eating it too.
Boys' own packrape republic. Of the weak
applause, of the wild jeering, the frenzied bid.

Of diggers, of dim regrets, lunch in the trenches, head in the sand,
hang dog mouth. Chips on both shoulders, lording the penguins.
In love with its clich=E9s of distance, of dullness. Shiny republic
of suits and ties trading the future forever for dinner today.
Of the union gone blue in its shivery underwear.
Disintegrated communists who won the big battle.
Of flash ideas condemned to slow death,
sold overseas for want of cash, for another cask
of our own Chardonnay.

Inimitable republic of lost lines, hand-me-downs,
five fingered discounts from the horn of plenty.
Lakes of too little and lakes of too much.
Of lusts and grim appetites. Mongrels from anywhere.
Their last legs, the shortfall. Of the hand over fist and the fist
moist for fun. Inevitable republic of the little lie down, of the nee=
dless
worry, of the needle exchange. All vices at once, pissing itself
with good honest fear. Ad-blackened lungs - asthmatic republic
forgetting to breathe. Till its allies remind it. What do
we care? Toil and ease all at once. Too many roos
in the top republic. Having a word with itself.

Having it off. Thumping away at the coital cot.
Sweaty summer republic of love's one mosquito
seeking us out. Republic of the few intent at their tasks,
the many fixated with watches, tempering passion, regret.
Sad swellings, tumescence. Alighting at Redfern.
Maddening republic of the limits of the physical.
Of the two year old's tantrum of 'no' to suggestions,
of 'no' to its dinner of medicine meat. Republic
of me and of me and of me. Blind eye to the neighbours
all in atrocity. Blind eye to big bullies footing the bill.

Matey republic - all best intentions.
Men off moving cattle for their solemn reasons.
Sworn secrets. Of their knowledge is a little thing
in the vastness of what will be. Flat, grey republic neither for nor
against. Republic of light falling for us, heaven's gifts, of the sun
running towards us or running away. Of the shifting line through
the tree. And the tree goes on living, half its limbs either side.
Republic of fenceposts, where no one owns the boundary
or the line of thought that runs between
greed's kingdoms which are our
common wealth.

___________________________________________

The Sociology of Paradise

First I came through a hoop of flesh.
I didn't jump I swam.
There was an endless mud plain
and another storm coming.
Rain beat the rice shoots
green out of the soil.
Millions were huddled
round the still ether.

The century dragged on.
I missed the boat, swam out
to the island. And the air
was still in the sun's quarter
and the half a sky
where waves could have been.
The moon washed up
where the tide rusted into the sand.

Cars came out of the twentieth century.
Coca Cola came ashore, washed
on the hard live shell of paradise.
A coconut fell out of nowhere
onto my child's head. I didn't stumble.
There were stars and bars everywhere.
I could hear the west crackling through
looming shadows of bliss.

Back-country hills were dense with trees,
=

dissidence, notches for climbing up.
And curled into a noose of straw
the disappeared hung, swaying
- invisible burden of paradise. I jumped
through a hoop of gold. I had
the ring of confidence then
and a flag the colour of mud.

Helicopters filled up the sky.
At lunchtime and late in the afternoon
when the noise came
birds shifted forward in a straight line
black, palm to palm, fifty metres.
Then when they came back
there was nothing the wind could move.
Trees clung to a rock in the sea.

On dry land I had a good steady job
in the flyspray factory. They paid me
in cigarettes so naturally I took up
smoking. The mist from the nozzle
formed up a halo
to martyr the very air.
You couldn't call it a leak.
It was more like missile testing.

Each day here proud of the fallen -
brainless slaughters to glory in.
The earth makes up a place for each.
The new rice sings from the earth.
The colour of the mud in our veins
is a flag billowing over a hoop
of bright gunmetal: the welcome mat.
I didn't jump I swam.

___________________________________________

Dad

man with chainsaw sought
for primal scene

a beer drowning, gut sweat
great strides show

he is a voice at first
far as time's extremity
aside of where I'll be
- a cure

his winter's wood
to frame those blows
to catch at chimney walls come light

and nails blacked deftly scratch
the hairs in which air noses
the presence of no one over this paddock

that is a knowledge rendered me
one step inside you'll always stand
knowing this arcane resolve

skies open on
it does no good

o gather close you mute attenders
hear my paradoxes, pleas

and soon the dark folds
fortune brings
fat the road behind
to whistling
itself

o father forgive
the shed throws this spirit

it's then the kookas sing

old keys and the form dry
type is worked home

___________________________________________

Land of the Lottery Winners


In the street of the newcomers bitumen
is dark with oars. You can hear the beating,
unbearable brightness. Solace of kitchens -
a dripping somewhere revenging contraption.
Mastering bedroom - a frenzy, for fears.

There's no work in this play of acres, nothing but the flesh
won't have. This is the finished world. These are the winners.

Edges are trimmed and the bindy-eyes harvest, mouth of a ghost
lies under that tap new washers won't fix. It's all new though.
Kerbs are in order, gutters all flow down there where the urchins
and each of us makes fair a beginning, begetting if the prime
should come before the knowledge. Hearth dark
of forbidding is pressure, all thumbs.

In the suburb of lottery winners (hinterland golden
and green with its luck) losers have mortgaged their skins
to serve. They've left off ancestral much loathed resentment,
old days of curfew and eat more of this.
No one's from here. Nothing is made. All kept to a rhythm.
We lend. We're repaid. Howmanyfold? Howfarahead?
Consult us for an oracle.

Our lackeys are ox-strong, hunt in wire paddocks.
Everyone does what you or I would. You start out
dirt scraping, you don't change your name.

In the home of the lottery winners like this:
each has a magic pudding or pizza, a cake and eat it too I mean.
The bone breaks your way every time. A kind of bottomless
dole with no questions. Still there are whingers. It's still not
enough.

As luck would have by the short and the curly
everyone knows what you want. Anonymity's as good
as your gold. They won't object, it's what they're here for,
unless you wish them to of course. The brief is not to disappoint.

Nothing does. No doubts shape the body.
There's labs where life keeps at the odds. Miraculous skins
stretched agony thin but all their own. Still there are those
cashed up hereafter. You should see the big send-offs
on Pyramid Street. All statues and thanks for the memories,
cramming last calories in if they can.

As the young in their prodigious strength and talent for abuse,
lift without labour, draw strength out of torments, so of a certain
shape and years a man comes to his lottery.
In this there are no causes, flags. A volume of air
we purchase our children, theirs. They will repay.
What can we bring them? The holograph tree?
We can watch the sky buries. Over the entering gate
the sign says:We the world's best.We fortunate few.

Self made Immortals! Ours the last country!
Hard by the rainbow - yes! There is heaven
for lottery winners.

Believers we'll bus you. Drought or some vengeance?
I have the pictures. There's only one language - winners'.
Statistics. Ours in the newsagent when we say
this one any good? or another, the same.
I too have a ticket - luck swells my pocket
I check the paper, know a day soon
my name among all the proscribed.
No saying when the lottery claims you.
Life is charmed just to be by the tale.

Here's postie's whistle
and dog after bike.
It's bob-a-job day
in the land of the sinners.
Egg in lard and bacon slabs,
bread as white, as bright
as hope, our highway
- all God given tomorrow
and here at the table
His beard is all eggy.
But you can't tell God, can you?
Besides He's got something there
for later.

There's something rubs off.
There - that's a good privilege.
There's retribution
- that's gets them in.
Best thing
in the land of the winners,
God's whiskers caught in the light.
It warms the crutch to serve
and we're unending
in congratulations.

___________________________________________

My Flag

     is a beachtowel
heavy with sand
     whole tribes tangled in it

involuntary sky -
          heart's refuge
     in the true of dark
mind's refuge in the heart

          the flag
     must be all things to all
- a mirror aloft, reflection unfurling
that should make everyone happy

in a room with the queen
you'd see the queen
and she'd see you, her subject
- one among the many flags

in the bush would be magpies to fly in and tangle
- catch them like that when they get territorial

on the front of the big boss's car
- more of chrome
dark tarmac

in the night you'd choose the stars
- bright pinpricks from another sky
in which
the true flag must fly, be windblown, limp
from the accustomed pole -
a square cut of heaven and no strings attached

___________________________________________

virtual republic

One might raise the question whether a thing can be in itself -
everything being either nowhere or in something else.
               - Aristotle, the Physics


you could say it started with the walkman
and now that everything's everywhere
nobody is where they are anymore
everyone's anywhere
and all at once
spread so thin that
no one's really with you
no one's anywhere at all
stay put and you won't be missed
we're virtually gone

it's like God or Santa Claus
- with welcome houses everywhere
what good does it do them?

up in the sky you see planeloads of them:
the-dissatisfied-where-they-are going somewhere else
that's what they'll call our time when it's over
- the age of somewhere else

of course people love to complain about it
'I spend so much on my phone bill', 'I'm always commuting '
no one can get where they want fast enough
and when they get there of course they want
to be somewhere else. Everywhere's such
a disappointment. For one thing everyone there
got there before you. In fact the faster life gets
the more of a waste of time it seems

the Japanese bow on the phone
and with mobiles they bow while they walk
in Korea last year was the world's first
mobile phone fatality - a man walked
into a tree on the phone
I guess his mind was elsewhere
and then he was gone

but it's not just the phone
I was in the supermarket today
and none of the people working there
worked there. The fish company does
the fish shelves. The dogfood company
does the dogfood. None of them know
where anything is except right where
they are. I guess you could say to
the fish people. ' Where's the fish? '
and they could hand you a packet
and say 'It's right here.'
and you'd call that presence

*********************************************

    Christopher Kelen was born in Sydney in 1958 and though sometimes
resident in the Myall Lakes area of New South Wales, Australia,currently teaches
at the University of Macau in South China. He holds degrees in literature and
linguistics from the University of Sydney and a doctorate on the writing process
in poetry from UWS Nepean. Kelen's poetry has been published and broadcast
widely. In 1988 he won a first prize in the ABC/ABA national poetry competition
for his poem'Views from Pinchgut'. He has won a number of other awards in
Australia and overseas, and his first volume of poetry, The Naming of the
Harbour and the Trees received an Anne Elder Award in 1993. In 1997 his second
volume Green Lizard Manifesto was published by Cerberus Press. His long poem
M–bius was released in book form in 1998. This year his fourth book of poems,
Republics, has been published by Five Islands Press at the University of
Wollongong. And in June 2000, Tai Mo Shan/Big Hat Mountain, Kelen's (English and
Chinese language) collaboration with visual artist Carol Archer, was exhibited
at the Montblanc Gallery in Hong Kong's Fringe Club.



%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%