I liked the flashes of flashback, Max. Did think, from my perspective, but it would cut a few stanzas down, that you could edit down here & there.
I think you want ‘seems’ here (It sees near my nostrils now)?
The memories stick with you, & now us…
Doug
On Jul 9, 2014, at 5:55 AM, Max Richards <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> In Fawkner Park
>
> The reek of fuming asphalt –
> pungent sweet yet acrid –
> exerts a quickening
> in my slumbering
>
> antique memory bank:
> the leashed dog and I lean
> into the nostril-distending
> eye-widening scene:
>
> what he smells and sees is this:
> seven men in garish hi-vis
> jackets: four merely look
> while two with spades work
>
> the sliding asphalt from their tip-truck
> into stolid wheelbarrows,
> tilting the bitumen-black
> steaming mix forward
>
> into furrowed walk-ways
> they’ve raked between
> the gates at the back
> of two tall office-blocks
>
> (tucked between these
> are our nineteen-thirties
> art-deco three-storey
> flats – cream-painted brick)
>
> and the old sealed track
> along this side of the park.
> It runs between the cricket pitch
> now marked out for soccer
>
> and the spread of succulents
> with tall red hot poker
> stalks they’ve planted and neglect –
> low-maintenance stretch of park.
>
> One workman plies the blunt brute
> mechanical pogo stick,
> hammering soft asphalt
> into hard smooth new path.
>
> And – cool! – it’s already cooled.
> No chance of soft-concrete-style
> boot- and paw-print. We pad
> through till we reach our locked gate.
>
> *
>
> What I see is: a country school
> playground – ’forties Taranaki –
> pitted, scored and tree-root cracked,
> under repair by a working bee
>
> of – mostly farmers – school Dads;
> nearby me and other kids
> sidelined on pine-needles –
> nearby cypress windbreaks –
>
> inhaling keenly while each looks
> forward to better ball bounce,
> better chucking, better kicks,
> and soon a picnic lunch.
>
> *
>
> Somewhere, everywhere, ten o’clock
> at length has struck, the tip-truck
> has un-tipped, time for the team to knock
> off for a slow drink, slower smoke.
>
> We unlock the private gate, backs
> turned on our asphalt-breath park,
> its Moreton Bay Fig avenues, monkey-
> puzzle trees, new lindens, old eucalypts;
>
> dog and I cross the winter-dank
> old-asphalt car-crammed parking
> back-area of our sixty-flat block,
> exposed plumbing and chimney-stacks;
>
> make our way – one weary, one not –
> up the steep back stairs eight units
> share, in the kitchen door, off leash
> at last, exercised, experienced.
>
> Water in bowl, coffee in mug.
> Take some deep breaths,
> respite from stimulus; rest
> snoozing stretched on the rug.
>
> Flashback outbreaks subside.
> Compound-adjective-laden phrases
> drift near. But did my Dad share
> my luncheon-sausage sandwich that day?
>
> Did he light his pipe and blow the smoke
> my way for me to savour?
> It sees near my nostrils now, the flavour
> of his tobacco and his rare caress.
>
> Do I truly recall a tip-truck?
> Slowly, surely, tree-roots stir
> beneath hammered-down
> asphalt anytime anywhere.
Douglas Barbour
[log in to unmask]
Recent publications: (With Sheila E Murphy) Continuations & Continuation 2 (UofAPress).
Recording Dates (Rubicon Press).
Something else is out there
godamnit
And I want to hear it
C.D.Wright
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