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A Christmas Book
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Panic Poems
Most of my neighbours have come here for freedom and peace. No human community, however, can fully permit either of these qualities, and limits access to them. Even here, in such a remote community as this, we have to adjust to the proximity of other peoples' dogs, machinery , use of water, fire, noise, and all this amidst our own struggles for survival against the eccentricities of an infringing wilderness.
These poems arose from my own adjustments to life in a very small isolated community, in which I've now lived for six years. In spite of these trials recorded here, I wouldn't leave it for anything.
Leicester Kyle,
Millerton.
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1.
There’s no use explaining
As Yeats said:
To have too many reasons
is to be not quite well-born
And there’s the sharper point —
that to explain myself
is to bore
I’ll live on amiably
me and my dog
shall mow the lawns
as proof of life
paint the house
for responsibility
grow a bit of pot
to be one of the boys
get some mail
have a visitor or two
for the connection
lest it be thought
that my existence
is not as others are
my generation
spontaneous
You must have antecedents and connections, be traceable, else they’ll think you’re out of Auckland, which is almost as unpleasant as the old belief that life bred spontaneously from dung-heaps. Aucklanders know neither fire nor weather, and are useless for anything but driving on motorways and making a certain type of money.
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2.
That I am not too well
must be pretended
and be seen
To be fit at my age
is to boast
My liver must be spongiform
memory lost in the shorter term
there must be aches and pains
from nights spent drunk in
in the blackberry
Halt and weary I must be
as I answer the knock
at the door
lest I condemn my neighbours
It must be clear
to all who call
that I who live here
am of the earth
we live in
When you are an older-type person you must appear to show your age, else those who are younger, and who for reason of self-indulgence are not so fit, will take your exuberance as a staged and personal reflection upon them.
I, to avoid such suspicion, frequently and tactfully insinuate both the shortness of my days and of my breath, and hint at maladies more threatening than my neighbours’.
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3.
At the end of every day
I kneel beside my bed
and pray
Not for any thing
not grace nor gift
but that there be no
empty space
and eternity be peopled
invisibly
who need not be addressed
and are anonymous
who have no need of me
but are there
at that last lonely choice
that there be company
indigenous
and for me
There is an ironic reasonableness in the concept of angels. Somewhere, in the whole vastness of space, and in the infinite complexity of space-time continua, the is a community of beings who will accept me.
They needn’t love me like me nor know me, but at least they will let me join, with no suspicion that I be from Auckland.
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4.
The sore rewards of insight
In which I waver
as if there is a need for pain
a pleasure in it
That they won’t ring
Though I am my own man
and adult
on my own feet and no
dependent
I tell myself again and again —
it’s my life
I’ve made it
and they are adult too
in theirs
But I’m drawn
by the sweet scent of victimhood
Need of return
for those nurturing years
The thought that one might have lived in vain is a hard one; that the children don’t need you, that your friends are more inclined to forget you, and that you’ve only your feet to stand on, is unwelcome.
It’s no use complaining — WINZ might hear of it and give you a job, even if you’re on Super.
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5.
A ditch on one side
a bog on the other —
It’s a narrow path that takes me
through a dark place
I’ve spent too much on food
and don’t know what to do
From fear of running out
and in case of guests
There’s nowhere to store
some’s in the garage
and I can’t eat more
of
sweet
cake
made
meats
chocolate has limits
and spirits
though they tempt with comfort
when the telephone doesn’t ring for days
and no-one comes to the door
I must eat plain
I say to myself
I must live that too
me and my dog
If you choose to live on the top of a hill, only those who can climb will call,
except for the meter-reader, one or two who are lost, a curious friend, and those who want a loan of your trailer .
You need to look after yourself: buy another fridge for comfort food and put it in the garage. Equip the home with nicely-judged prosthetic devices like SKY, a cookery book, and effective cleaning devices.
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6.
Similarly
it must not be
that I take a woman
I will be heroic
live and die lonely
and not be two again
I want to be my own
though the physical is lovely
and its want tedious
With women I am kind
in a conquering way
to signal the familiar
lest I be despised by my neighbours
suspected of that fearful flaw
that puts a man
outside
To have the neighbours’ trust you must have a partner of the opposite sex, or - at the very least - give an impression that you could have one if you tried. A fact-based bias against the opposite sex will work only for a time.
If you haven’t, no-one will come; there’ll be nothing to talk about and they’ll misunderstand you when there’s trouble.
Even at the surgery, dentist and doctor will be indefinite, and if you push too far your name will vanish from significant data-bases.
This you might think advantageous but, once again, will cause trouble when there’s trouble.
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7.
Tapping out in galactic code —
I’m prisoner at 404
being fattened for food
by a dog named Dirk
though in truth
like poetry
I’m counterfeit
and make things that are not
as though they are
Imagination has greater claim to my commitment than has fact, as poetry holds more life than science.
My invented world is warm, its language harmonious with songs that must be sung.
The truth is cold and makes me ill.
The dog’s name is Red.
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8.
No
it’s not said free —
Judges are the fruit of sterling silver
which has no sense
but lingers from a sleepy state
which took me while I wondered
what to do
to tell them I’d be over the hill
or not
If I do I’m ‘at it again’
If I don’t
I’m out of touch
in accident
A dilemma
for an isolated state
solved as well in sleep
by revelation dream by automatic writing
as by thought
It’s no use being public, for everyone else here is where I was at 40, and mine is an end-life crisis.
I’ve moved on out of all that and don’t want to go round again; I’m impatient, and want to be alone to think.
But if I’m too private, where is help when I need it? No-one will know my need.
If I drive off the road, who will see the marks?
There’s no help in logic.
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9.
But I would like to stop —
to lock the door
cut the phone
slash the net
and not go down for the mail
to be at peace in my bed
alone in my house
for a while
with a choice to not know
what anyone else in the world
is doing
It would be a cleansing rite
restorative
There’s too much happening
a crowded house
too many
It’s the last days it’s like
the Apocalypse
There must be revelation too.
Apocalypses don’t stand alone; they require divination, so there’s cause for holocaust and purpose to judgement,
So when all this fuss is done something better will be left, which is what I’m waiting for, why I pay the rates and keep the house in order.
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10.
Their loss
is as great
from drugs
as mine
from age
I’m twice theirs
With them
senescence is promiscuous
Decay creeps upon them
as moss on a rock
on mind and body
house and car
But they’re still of this world
and look at my survival
as a plot
I
ingenuous
don’t think it is
Though I’ve planned it for years, unknowing.
I’ve left it late to implement because of conditions, and hover at the boundary now, uncertain where to put my aged feet — one on this, the other on the next?
The boundary’s opaque and there’s fog, like in a forensic.
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11.
The cake tastes of shampoo
and I have to eat it all
but that doesn’t matter
it’s not nourishing
Keep things in their categories
and all is clear
It makes for wisdom
to interpret the inscrutable
as it must be faced
She’s not coming over after all —
troubles have stopped her
my bed is forlorn
its rituals aborted
What do I do with my masculine intent?
Go outside and polish up the truck
clean the spouting
repile the shed
delay is just for a month or two
then her peace returns
Walk around with the chain-saw and big boots
Put each step deliberately down upon the earth hard, to say It’s mine and I’ll rule it as a man should,
as I would if she were here
which is probably why she’s not.
It must be hard for the earth to be ruled levelled ploughed and fertilised. Better for the doer than to be done by.
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12.
Now
after three-and-a-half metres of rain
the sun
in a glass sky
and the bush crackling
The creek’s at a murmur
What do you think of that —
will it rain again?
It stayed cold forever
will it be hot for as long?
It’s these vagaries —
everything veers extreme
and nothing’s at the mean
Whatever is
seems insupportable
and always to be
But why?
No-one’s trained for this
It’s prophecy —
You take what is and say it will go on forever;
If what you say is bad, everyone will agree, because misfortune seems to be the natural order, and we all think the pessimist is wise.
We forget good chance, and the average between.
Science makes a packet out of this, and politicians power.
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13.
I talk to myself a lot
and to the dog
(it’s refreshing to speak to the wise)
but when the sun shines
the people come out
I walk about
and speak to a few
until the next rain
At 4.0
I should go to Happy Hour
at the pub below
but I’m disinclined
It’s encouraging to reminisce
with others of my age
but it worries me
I talk too much
and fuss
my head aches
and I want to escape
and besides —
speech makes entanglements
which I may not want
to untie
It’s best to stay home
with myself as company
and the dog
who by nature retires
The guilt that comes from doing what you want is about the same as the guilt you get from not doing what you want.
This makes God a necessity.
The alternative is a maintained mood of suspended somnolence — you smile and nod and doze with your eyes.You say nothing,until whatever is goes away.
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14.
They come to this disordered world
today late
when the sun sinks in a silvered haze
and the birds sing
They will be excited
at the space
and will sleep
Then in the morning
go for a walk to the end of the track
come back tired
and say they’ve been lost
I will give them a drink
cook a meal
They won’t talk much
they’re still lost
they don’t know where
It’s an incomprehensible space
that hasn’t been explored
The tracks go into shadows
There are marks on them
The only space we know is our own.
When we come to someone else’s we go in armed – with sunglasses lotions insecticides hat stick preconceptions walkman insulating interests for life support, to protect us from the alien air,
and microbes.
To go further out we take a ship.
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15.
Soon I will be slow
in my slippers
in the sun
and the grass will grow long
trees will crowd
the spouting block
and spiders web the window
I will sleep in the afternoon
and use more electricity
It will be too much
to chop wood
and make repairs
to paint and stop leaks
to dress in the morning
change the sheets
and wash them
there will be few who know me
Should I fall
who will find me?
This is the way of it
and I’m content
you can live youth at ease
To age takes strength
Some say this is sad; I don’t think it is.
Promise makes youth happier, knowledge makes age fuller. You know how to do things, the way of it, how to get peace, and how to make use of a sleepless night. There are other strengths.
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16.
Six steps down
and three floors up
it goes
erratic and uneasy
until the end
when you lie
finished
Work is done
the kids grown
the house paid off
There’s no further use for you —
you’re costing too much
and make worry
It’s time —
unless
of course
the Director has a job for you
one no-body’s thought of
like saving The Planet
(he doesn’t say which)
No such luck
you’re done
you’re off
and you’ve left your spleen
(the body part you valued)
to posterity
You have to leave something for the children; they’ve inherited your will already. Attitudes aren’t welcome, so leave some words, guidance ones, a story or two, a pithy epithet, or something they can quarrel with and thereby keep the peace. You can rule by division, even from the grave.
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17.
Ho you
who are accomplished —
As the Preacher says:
have care for us
who are at whim
who at the crossroads
might as well return
We’ve no idea
of where to go
of stop or go
front or back
One idea’s as good as any other
no time nor deed more valued
than another
not life
nor death
Strength has uses
consciousness none
and we are the majority
Have mercy
On people like us, who live at a bad address,
that the district council would like to suppress,
who’s people often forget the law,
who haven’t much money and don’t want to have much,
who, if we had influence, wouldn’t know what to do with it,
who are too pushed to know what an accomplishment is,
and are too tired to understand.
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18.
It’s this that made me kick the dog:
Neville had a leak at his header tank
so no water was crossing the creek
Debbie and the girls and me dried out
and Jimmie and Eva
Pete and Mike and Dinah
Henry too
Someone muscled in on things
and didn’t do it well
The IRD sent another demand
It rained when I sprayed the moss
Al wanted more for the fridge
than he paid at the first
It was all these things put together
Then
when we played
at the end of the day
he nipped me
But it’s me that should have been
kicked in the butt
and shut in the shed
to shiver
The shed’s a place to shiver in. You can close your mind and centre on the labour of repentance, the dusk and dirty windows, spider-webs, old tools, rubbish round the edges and memorabilia, half attempts at things, forgotten causes, samples of bad workmanship.
It’s like a mind.
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19.
The rest of the world is a dangerous place
and you don’t know where
it’ll hit from
I stay put
for safety
but
people say things
that don’t matter
so why do they say them
That’s what hurts —
the motives
not the words
What have I said
what have I done
to provoke
Memories and imagined scenes
crowd and jostle
in my mind
for reasons causes facts
to justify
They make me fret
and be outcast
until time
or a happy chance
brings confidence again
Gardening’s the worst, amongst the strawberries, pulling out euphorbia and twitch; it lets memories in, of things said and done by me or by others to me, embarrassments I want to forget, that no-one with sense would think of. I want to hide until I feel shameless.
I must accept that fear and chance and sentiment may sometimes be too much for me.
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20.
I catch her
if I can
between games
A note at the door says
‘Back Tomorrow’
but you can’t tell which tomorrow
Another says
‘Back In Ten Minutes’
and leaves the same doubt
Hours are
Tuesday to Friday
8.15-5.0
Which gives flexibility
if you add away-time
and tournaments
So I drive to town at 8.0
and wait at the salon door
in case
My hair has grown like bracken
She comes at 8.45
and I take the chair
Been keeping well, I ask
Oh yes, she says, and busy
It keeps me out of mischief
That’s a loss, I say
as a man should
to hint at himself
How’s bowls
It was a shame, she says
I disgraced myself
I’m better off at work
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21.
It’s in the public places
and the parks
The Protected Natural Areas
and the reserves
In the gorges
wherever you go
among the rocks
for a scramble
It’s tended and pampered
and hid from the helicopter
And from predatory greed
that scuttles on the pakihi
to cut and plunder
in the dark
I’m afraid in the dark
Even my friend might
do this in the dark
The thought destroys
takes sleep robs rest
I can hold no trust
in anyone
I live lonely
and in dread
that he might so desire
Pot and paranoia go together.
The peace you have from smoking it is denied by worry about it.
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22.
And other vaguer presences
like the time it snowed
when I wanted it to snow
But mostly it doesn’t
I get up in the morning
and it’s dull
It’s cold, I light the fire
and it clears
Or it’s fine, so I paint the house
but it rains
Life should prefigure itself
in shadows, hints
rhetorical gestures that
we recognise
a message in the sunset
sequences we know
It would save a lot of money
make it surer with the wash
but mostly
it would set my mind at rest
I wouldn’t need to worry much
and stuff like that
If life could be like the compliance officers of our Regional Council, who ring up offenders before they visit them — just a message a token a hint — something to say ‘we’re going to happen’, and if it could be written into the constitution, so to speak, to take out surprise and put in prediction; it would save on health, the police, and capitalism generally.
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23.
It’s Monday
I know
from the radio
Last week
I did the wash on the wrong day
I thought it was Saturday
Once you’ve lost track
the calendar’s not definitive
If you didn’t know yesterday
you can’t tell today
and have to turn to the media
for the formality
It matters most
to the rest of the world
and not much here
We don’t much care
except for appointments
and programmes on TV
Though it would be a help
if the seven days
had signatures
colours perhaps
or songs
or each to one own sin —
venal, of course
not deadly
That’s the trouble with time, it doesn’t define itself to be easily read; we have to do that, make special days like Christmas, mark the seasons, make history, and be self-conscious about night and day, or else we would be like the animals who don’t know death.
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24.
Welcome from the World
Sunny days and midnight rain
Green things go wild
and reach up writhing
But I am not green
and am sick in my soul
with longing for life
whose movement is not to death
where these green beings
can grow in splendour
in themselves unchanged
and flowers
where age is to strength
and does not mean decay
where rest is no loss
Age would be a pleasant thing if it didn’t weaken.
To grow from middle age into strength and experience would be a just return for the effort put into getting so far, and would encourage more people.
Life needs to give more to show for it, besides children and stuff.
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25.
My eyes are slow
I can’t tell
on the open road
who’s driving
A wave to a stranger
is a wasted thing
yet I don’t like to give offence
and worry
when I get home
how to do it acceptably
Do I keep my hands
at the top of the wheel
a firm grip
and a muscular wrist
Do I lift one finger
from the right
in dignity and discretion?
Extend an arm
fascist and friendly?
A flick of the hand?
A toot of the horn?
Manners change
Requirements are reviewed
by society in its course
I like etiquette
and I like to be right
I dream a lot when I’m driving, and can’t tell who’s passing until it’s too late; then I’m surprised and wave carelessly, instead of in the ordered way of a man in control.
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26.
Fog thick as a burning
and I can’t see traffic
on the road
There is no wind
There’s the sound
of fine rain sifting
and of the trucks
as they labour up the hill
unseen in this dark
which must be perpetual
They go to no visible goal
are only noise
All I hear
all through the day
is the same again
And there’s a dog barking on and on; its lonely need’s the same as the
trucks —
someone’s got to drive.
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27.
Alien as my name in the bush
or a word from a dog
it rings against
the sound of the land
There’s water, wind
small animals
and a rushing from the moor
like the sea
And this
that a garden bird
has learnt
which brings me running
in case
it’s family
and editor impressed
a friend about to visit
or edifying news
Sometimes
it’s killed in a storm
and I forget
for weeks
until someone hints
at my isolation
Then I remember
and it’s fixed
Again I’m part
of the world of news
of alien images grafted on
and countdown time
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28.
Today I’m stooped
from cutting gorse
and must hold myself
The legs work but there’s heaviness
in the head
and my eyes fall shut
when I forget them
If I sit
it is senseless to stand
If I stand
there’s nowhere to go
The day falls flat
no pattern
no things to be done
no need
There’s no part for me
I’m shut out
lest I infect
and spread
the malaise
How to exist with no need, nothing that needs to be done in this world in which I have no speciality; there’s nowhere only I can be.
There’s the dog; no matter how far off I might be I would come back for the dog.
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29.
Tonight the sea
is an apricot shade
and flat
The sun’s a blot
the horizon out of sight
You can’t tell
in the sky
where anything is
There are reasons for this
that are these:
1. Bushfires on the other side
2. Old still damp air
3. A time of small tides
But these are just the factors
are not the fact
The sky’s decayed in its own dust
The clouds are mould
the sun corrupt
Some might rhapsodise at sunset’s effect, as they might say an open-cast mine’s a grand thing; but I say that’s destruction, and this light in the sky is the effect of old weather.
It’s best to keep to the fact when you can find one, in case the end-time finds you ill-prepared.
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30.
It’s the Day of Rest
and we sleep in
each quiet as a baby after breakfast
Even the birds
are somewhere else
and motorbikes are mute
But rest from what?
We did little last week
and have no plans
for the week ahead
We don’t make plans
if the present’s right
and we don’t do
in case we do wrong
We let each day
look after itself
and the chores too
We don’t do mornings
very much either
But on Sundays especially
we doze on
because it’s good
to keep in step
with the world
Which is over the cliff by the sea at the end of the road, and is not much wanted by us much of the time, except for entertainment and necessities, but we didn’t come here for necessities, and can do without a lot of the time, until we get nostalgic, and think it would be nice to have the rubbish collected.
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31.
All things being equal
on a morning like this
I should go to see Rick
about the moths that eat the broccoli
and go on to see John
about how he’s placed his tank
(I’ll have to do the same myself
sooner or later)
or call on Nev
about the rust in my truck
Then there’s Dinah and her house
(she’s away)
Jim and Eva
(they’re not well)
Debbie and the leaking pipe
and the blasted mid-town water supply
But they’re not
and I don’t care if it is
Today I’m myself
with book pen and paper
water and tree
the dog in the sun
and not a word said
to anyone
You have to ask yourself: if you stand on your own feet, will they carry you? Because of the prevalence of showers, most people have bad feet. They don’t see them in the shower because they’re standing on them, and toes go wild without their knowing.
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32.
From my bed
I look over the sea
yet my eyes are shut
when I’m in bed
There are moonlit nights
and fishing lights
and storms at night
but through all these
my senses are asleep
Water lulls them
and the softness
and the dog at my feet
I dream
and puzzle when I wake
as to what the dreams mean
But if an arrangement
could be made
with my body and my mind —
then I might see
when I sleep
the sea
have rest in the night
and peace in the day
The bed is like television —
it leaves me with the feeling that I don’t get enough out of it. Like life itself it’s always there, but is not used well enough. I don’t remember what I did when I was in it asleep. Warmth, comfort, security, and the other good things of dreaming sleep, aren’t sufficiently savoured.
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33.
In this weather
we mope a lot
Sun warms
and lessens pain
but cloud conceals—
there’s only the ache of it
under the rain
This is what it feels like
the past
(not what it was):
a cell
of stinging snakes
an underground
of wasps
a long inimical cul-de-sac
Weathers change
cloud dissolves
and the sun comes out
then this is what it is:
a morning at the end of the year
dawn upon the best of times
the marvellous of each season
in one day
Out of town, as Dylan Thomas said, there’s too much weather; it drives us in or lets us out. Its barometric episodes are ours, its fogs and katabatic frets set our days.
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34.
By the end of the week
they’re grey —
flannels dish-cloth towels
the pillow’s smudged
They’ve been used as they ought
but carelessly
on convenient terms
and will have to be soaked
on Friday night
before they’re washed
with the sheets the socks the shirt
handkerchiefs and underwear
a pair of jeans
The dog’s things will have to be aired
and my bed
as part of my insistence
that my house
and my person
is respected
and by respect preserved
Grey is an unnatural colour —
it looks like something’s wearing out
A good wash puts things right — windows, sheets, shirts, towels, the kitchen floor, even one’s face.
It’s good to start and end with.
It’s a quick return for labour, and in this capitalist world is sure to make one well valued.
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35.
A fine mild calm day
High cloud at first and last
You left at half past eight
with the Powelliphanta for Kath
At 9.0 I went to the Birchfield swamp
to botanise with Red
we found a clematis
a jointed rush
an orchid and a water-weed
sphagnum mounds
some typha
and we lunched on the floating turf
in the sun
Home at 3.0
I washed the mud off Red and the truck
cleaned the fire
and set it
a cold tea
2 rings
read the paper and watched TV
and now I want to go to bed
to close my eyes
and rest my mind
I miss your comfortable self
and in my own unease
grow tired of tiredness
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Published by Heteropholis Press.
Further copies of this publication may be obtained from P.O. Box 367, Westport, Buller, New Zealand.
ISBN 0-476-00084-X
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© Leicester Kyle, 2003
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PREFACE
The text is an adaptation of the last page of a pious biography, ‘The Life of St. Mary tbe Harlot’, written by her uncle, Ephraem, deacon of Edessa, around the year 370.
‘The Word' is a family story.
The Great 0 's' is a term taken from the Advent liturgy.
Leicester Kyle
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The Text
Sorrow,
sorrow on me, Beloved,
for my dear ones fell on sleep.
I, unapt in will, abide
and behold, winter has come upon me
and the endless storm has found me
naked and spoiled
with no perfecting of good.
I marvel at myself, beloved.
Daily I default and daily do repent.
I build up for an hour
and an hour overthrows what I have builded.
At evening I say
‘Tomorrow I shall repent’,
but when morning comes
joyous I waste the day.
Again at evening I say
‘I shall keep watch all night
and shall with tears entreat,’
but when night comes I sleep.
Behold,
those who received their life with me:
Agathon Anoub Ammonas Bessarion Chomas Lot and Or,
Doulas Dioscoros Felix Matoes Longinus Zeno and Philagrios,
Gelasios Theodore of Enaton Phocas Poemen and Paul,
Sarah Symeon Serinus Origen Mark Pambo and John,
Chaeremon and Mary the Harlot.
Their minds were never set upon the business of earth.
They with all confidence have gone.
•
DISCOURSE
•
1.
Sorrow on me, Beloved,
for my dear one fell on sleep
as one might upon a mattress of years
unsatisfactory, uncomfortable,
but better than persisting in a cold fog
of failure,
Leaving three homeless dogs
two new lambs
one edible goat
and a cat with kittens
under the bathroom floor,
As well as much unfinished business,
a great deal of rubbish,
and unwashed dishes in the sink,
Which spoke of his circumstance
and of ours,
who watched him decline
into malaise.
In privacy we let him drift
until he fixed upon the reef
where, still amidst the encircled sea,
he sank.
•
2.
And with all confidence has gone
into uncharted land,
where faith is the instrument,
and hope is with him
from this world
We know will be better,
for there was not much chance here
though room for it.
Faith was his currency
in tickets stars and new-found friends,
but courage often left right out
for weariness.
When things are bad,
while hope is a pleasure,
it’s best to go.
O grand enchanted world
warmed by the breath of God,
restless in the foliage,
like spring.
•
3.
Our minds are not much set upon
the business of earth.
The clock strikes nine
and the plumber rings
to unblock the sink
He sets the day today.
We set to cleaning
dishes the beds and the sitting room
are all as he left
there’s mould at the overflow
under the sink
moss inside the back door
under the leak
and the fridge is green
The bathroom hasn’t been used
for months
Mess in the fire is burnt to a lump
There are papers and tins
all over the floor
and here
on the shelf
a photograph
of him
Let’s sit
and be at home and quiet
until the plumber comes
and consider
that one could go so suddenly
yet leave himself behind
for when he comes.
•
4.
I, unapt in will, abide,
bound by sunsets and
rises to this rock,
shackled by life
which lets me live no
where else.
It penetrates flesh,
lights reins veins integuments,
reveals interiors of light,
makes visions of my mind,
traces roots like phosphorous
in the ground,
makes patterns
of weather
to come,
shows a future,
lightens past,
enables a present
by profile
and in the round.
In curious
and indeterminate effect
it lures me
by mystery.
Others move,
leave only grief behind,
their history
in houses like this.
•
5.
Behold, winter has come upon me.
I am stilled
where once I walked,
and cold
who once was warm.
My sun is slow to rise
and days, like time,
are short.
Kings’ concubines
can’t stir my flesh
nor warm my feet;
the comfort of the customary’s prime,
and my time is arranged
for avoidance of test
lest I prove weak.
Life is diluted now
of consequence and taste.
Things new are no matter—
but if they bring change
they drain strength.
I stay in the sun
quietly, to remember
and re-order history.
Sometimes there’s song
thin in the wind,
in patterns of past.
•
6.
The endless storm has found me
in conflict of times
- their interpretation
fragments of guilt
- bewilderment
and a great stirring
swirl of doubt
like a rose
in words of delicate sense
around fixedness of truth
and one’s judgement
of the past
of people
faces work hierarchies
Courage now
in the gust of boundlessness
the noise of names
Strength to stand
in the wind
the dust
•
7.
Naked and spoiled
by weather
which damages
by means of imports
from the aether—
dust mist enervating rays
little bits of asteroid
for chance
that burn and fling one
this and that
to bruise
for the punishment of failure
at not growing right
changing shape from the outline set
and being human at the end
for everyone to see
There’s no hiding the truth
from one who wants to look —
if it wasn’t so cold
we might as well be nude
Let buttocks blush
and toes deform —
truth prevails
•
8.
From first form
as if the new is innocent
the old value-added
and no accounting for wear and tear
nor credit for effort
The whole of life is escape from youth
its ignorance
the unformed
whose virtue is in promise
I am sick of hope
of looking for what is to be found
and must rest now
on the accomplished
There is vision at the end
of final form
and making it
of small success and delight
Only the weak
have eyes to see the world —
they are washed clear
by grief
and understanding
•
9.
I marvel at myself, Beloved
wonderfully made
to fabricate eternity
and overcome omnipotence
by thought
By word and note
make heaven in a ruin
paradise in a pot
Look both at once
behind and before
want both to claim
to keep
Find youth in old age
be wise at conception
profound in the artifice
of life
See fear in death
and make each day a knot
a web a woof
unrepeatable
not to be undone
revisited at night by dream
by vision in the day
of the unbidden
Sorrow,
sorrow on me,
Beloved,
at folly
great as the gift
•
10.
I daily default
and daily do repent
The logic
that turns the stars
turns me
as inveterately
from day to dark
and back
with contrary affections
immovable connections
and always the likelihood
that on one day
the night won’t come
the scale be tipped
to brightness
To know
I must see
and seeing want to know
Then—
O my need for dark!
the comforting of sleep
and to forget
in the night
all the sun sought
•
11.
An hour overthrows what I have builded;
hope will re-erect it,
my food my floor my building-block
unalterable aether or
the sustenance of self
delight and glory
entrance key perpetual,
by word
in play
by accident
intentional.
In all these places overthrow
in other places build
in time or out of it
as Origen has writ.
The symbol’s there,
hidden in substrata of the mind
and text-agenda,
written out in youth
and followed with surprising skill
until debility.
Then look back,
in pleasured open eyes
at all I have not done
yet lived,
though in disguise.
•
12.
At evening I say ‘Tomorrow!’
the disease will weaken.
There will be new leaves unblemished,
strong in the sun
and at work.
There will be new things
tomorrow,
the old rubbed clean,
the new just out of ground
first sight,
first use
and perfect
in vigour.
The air will not have breathed before
and water new to wash in,
everything conspiring
in support of fresh endeavour,
firm in will
I will mend and clean
mop and brush
turn resolute.
•
13.
But when morning comes
joyous I waste the day,
in pleasures that my goat will dance for
temporal,
as has three times
and never is the now,
which like the rain across the hill
inexorably comes
with rustling,
the sound of sorrow for one
and hope for the next;
they couple
and produce it
for taste.
The others are eternal.
This
on which I spend myself
the now,
not really is,
though it might fall
silver in the sun
with rain.
•
14.
I shall with tears entreat
to believe it away,
lest decay make my species
as a medlar
when it blets,
to separate the pure,
lest heat from corruption
make my mind convective,
dulls and drains.
I do with tears,
and not for long,
like those who found
their life with me
who with me now do fade,
who know the latter fragments—
those pieces of light.
Forgive,
in this short time.
Make what is seen
not seen.
Make it nothing.
•
15.
When night comes
I am full of sleep.
My world is a word at my ear
of half ideas and soothing,
where no choice is made.
Shamefulness comes unrebuked,
initiative runs riot,
memory proceeds
to reconstruct my life
in fantasy or hope,
as I lie still
out of straining.
People use this open door,
come in
and change to subversive desire
in rains of recollection and plastic
tints of brilliant years
incomplete,
in dances of inconsequence,
too like my waking
for question.
My feet are sore;
hands hurt in the palms,
pain in the side
in the head.
There’s no comfort in night;
sleep shallow as day,
poised restless.
•
16.
Behold those who received their life with me,
acute abstruse and in faith acuminate:
Agathon Anoub Ammonas Bessarion Chomas Lot and Or,
Doulas Dioscoros Felix Matoes Longinus Zeno and Philagrios,
Gelasios Theodore of Enaton Phocas Poemen and Paul,
Sarah Serinus Origen Mark Pambo John,
Chaeremon and Mary the Harlot,
and you who stay
who murmur still,
a low tone,
incontinent,
in some small town with lilac
at the start of an indifferent summer.
My photo holds the news.
You’ll want that information very much,
today.
•
THE
WORD
•
17.
You must know that I am work,
there is no leisure in me.
The house you see is not unpacked,
we’re living out of boxes
haven’t books or blinds or curtains or
our mats upon the floor.
Work is my being,
and is next door.
When weariness brings me home
and the pain,
I look at you and find
in your yogic pose and innocence
refreshment in fear,
air for breathlessness,
space for a cramped old age.
They were cruel.
I can’t get them out of my sense —
the smell of wet beds
the stink of drains
stale washing
old work piling up never to be done
chafing pants leaking shoes
fire-less nights and half-cooked food.
There was no need for punishment,
each day was harsh enough.
You had a life of it
but we three had hell.
There’s the cause —
she’s lovely, you say,
and she was, in a violent way,
like an alien trying to be mother.
•
18.
I don’t know how you were taken;
if it was a snapshot you were persuaded
to sit cross-legged,
and you must have been persuaded
to smile like that.
We have no such evidence of joy.
There were good times
that drudgery couldn’t suppress —
our poplars at autumn:
the leaves fell like scraps of celebration.
Sometimes it snowed
and that, like the leaves,
was a sign to me
of a new clean world
showing itself for hope.
Poplars divided the farm into squares.
Each square held its own:
raspberries, strawberries,
boysenberries, gooseberries,
coming in at different times.
Each square held its own surprise -
one might be quiet,
another picker-peopled;
one might have mushrooms in the verge
another a brood of quail.
The sun the wind the rain
made different spaces.
At harvest it was a game
with new moves each day,
and we three boys had company.
At other times we worked alone.
•
19.
There were mountains
at the end of the road.
They had significance—
for us they were freedom
from fear and fret,
something established
that couldn’t be damaged.
I imagined them in storm.
There was no impediment,
no buildings in the way no trees
no elemental guilt.
There they could rage
flood freeze and drift as they pleased.
Wilderness attracted me,
its feral peace.
No winds blew in our fruit-filled
sun-drenched squares;
they were constrained,
tree-scented, and secured
from the house;
they cleansed our heads
from bed-room stench.
Our beds were never dry.
In those young years
none of us managed
to last through the night.
We were always loosed by worry,
flooding gushing worry,
too scared to get ourselves outside
past the possibility of ghosts,
and paralysed at the thought
that somewhere in the dark
might hide the cause.
•
20.
There were a lot of ghosts at home.
You might have met some.
I remember when you came once
to stay for a week or two
and you looked frightened.
You spent a lot of time in the trees.
They came snapping at our heels
like a pack of dogs
to tear and scrap,
snarling at the remains.
They were wherever we went:
throughout the house
about the farm
at school at play at the shop —
a surprise in others eyes
a falling tone in speech and look
as if an end were near.
Sometimes it was unpaid bills
mentioned by a friend at school,
talked of at the barber’s,
questioned by the grocer,
argued at a knock at the door.
Next there would be a visit from the family
consequent quiet for a day or two,
then row upon row
of crockery and pots
tears and a splintered door
then bed for them
while we hid out in the farm.
They liked bed,
and made love with strength
as the apocalypse approached,
so eager for comfort
they forgot at times
to pull the blinds.
•
21.
The worst were from the past.
We didn’t know their names
and they sometimes dodged into the future
from where they could paralyse.
The Present was enough –
it could come in a flash
like typhoid fro the drains
at the back of the shed,
of grey water and black slime.
We were sick of it together
and in the papers.
Nurses came and health inspectors
and a lavatory.
On the other side of home square
and down the whole length of the farm
ran the water race
on the north edge,
outside the trees,
a small ditch fast-flowing
with mountain water from the river
that curved out beyond the paddocks
where the sheep grazed.
We played there in brief secret times
when Dad was away
for reasons never given,
and Mother had so much to do
she did nothing.
Here we learned the elemental lore
of purity and how to kill it,
of water light and air
how they flowed.
There were eels in the race.
We caught cooked and ate one
though we knew that was a wasteful act,
and our motives suspiciously confused.
•
22.
That water,
sun-lit between the trunks,
and the broad space beyond
of sheep and a wild river,
was an edge of happiness,
the possibility of limit
to the endless jobs always to be done
before and after school —
weeding pruning stacking packing,
putting this away and getting that,
works that began but had no end
and seemed designed entrapment.
They grew feeble in their concerns
in crisis and complexity,
and floundering.
They developed a theology of luck,
on which they based whole futures
and excuse for the past.
Because they had suffered,
reward was imminent.
For this they bought lotteries
and squandered the little they had.
They could have done well —
a handsome couple of good name,
of First Four Ships and past prestige,
but scandals from youth consumed them,
billowed and blew in a gathering storm,
and for disguise took philosophies
of that day —
‘excelsior’ ‘the glory of man’,
all dead as Empire,
affecting but despising life,
fascist but unable to fruit
and blind as a scoured-out road.
•
23.
Their distracted state disabled them,
so we must grow their berries.
We were kept from school.
They didn’t think of it,
they were too self-absorbed.
All their wrongs were blamed
on outside sources,
nothing on within.
Their own small energy was spent
on strength for their need,
which was a vortex.
‘If only - - - -
you would give,
I would get it done.
If you would give me
a lift
a hand
a gift
your self - - - -
I would do it.’
They were a fog,
in which nothing could be seen
for itself.
They were the criteria
in which values were defined.
Nothing was good true pure.
Love joy sorrow
must be pretended to.
When your photo came to our house
it had to be hid
which I did.
It couldn’t be left around,
and would have been destroyed
for the judgement it made on our house.
•
24.
a condemnation:
you seated on the floor
in the jersey your mother knitted,
legs crossed
hands on knees
your hair in curls no barber
could make.
You must have been posed
by someone who knew to work space
on that floor
to make you a force
a destiny.
At three you had a currency
and the photo was sent about.
You wear convention now,
are sad and have no radiance,
yet you had a childhood —
in that state I was stateless,
and didn’t know my loss.
I still use you for comfort.
I sit in there with you,
and look out at the storm
that shakes my house,
wears at it and erodes
by grief and doubt and the acid guilt
of never having done
that tedious toil on the farm
and the grey contagion.
They toyed with death,
it was their way,
and I think the way of the times.
All their roads were blind, dead-end,
blocked by bad habit and lost trust,
contagious all
in air by touch in water food
routine converse and rite.
•
25.
Inheritance too.
Can these necrotic knots be loosed?
By weight and test and taste-by-taste
or turn and re-invention?
In you I look to be reformed,
freed from the strategy of forgiveness
and others we used on the farm,
where each block was an island,
and life was possible between the bushes,
and diverting solutions.
Neither parent knew necessity,
could not recognise
nor catalogue priority.
Sufficiency came of its own
they thought,
directed and anonymous.
Health warmth solvency
were spontaneous;
a house was born with a roof.
Maintenance and forethought
were no true part of life,
nor provision needed for them.
A need a loss a poverty
were discords in justice
and would soon be put right
without effort.
We were set to work in case,
and it seemed reasonable.
The habits learned then haven’t died.
Even now I don’t light the fire
nor keep myself warm by other means
as I don’t know how.
My only skill is labour.
•
26.
I eat only two meals a day,
am uncomfortable with cars,
uneasy on the telephone,
have no sense of occasion nor dress.
Ours was an unsocial existence,
pressed out of berryfruit.
I still shrink at the business of survival.
You lived in a sophisticated space,
arranged and liable to time.
We knew only light and night,
and seasons with dominant toil.
The sparseness they put around you
was a power;
to seat you on bare boards like that
cross-legged
was to make a Buddha.
Carpet must have been taken up
and things removed
to make a meaning.
He could have put a light behind,
hung a pomp above,
made a baldacchino,
placed a Chinese stand,
but your pose tells the power,
and your grin puts joy
into a personal space.
Mine is a rubbished mind,
of furniture unused
and abandoned rooms.
Some rotting article
is always in the way
and dust puffs in clouds
when I move.
•
27.
This that I’m in
is my father’s chair.
It’s from my collected past.
He once had ambitions—
kept literary company,
took ‘Oriflamme’,
wrote poems of trees and chiefs
liked books,
and sometimes attended lectures.
Though ignorant
he wasn’t blissful
and was guilty at a fact,
as though it was damaged
by his incompetence.
His world became a carnivorous place
where nothing was safe
and disguise was mandatory.
He was afraid of sleep
lest the unknown come by,
and for that reason didn’t read,
yet there were the books,
all over the place,
against the walls
and under stairs,
which he had collected
as another man might cars,
for something to do
when it’s wet.
We had a choice of these
on stormy days,
and sometimes the gramophone.
Music and the written word
became for me the world,
and my necessary life a dream.
•
28.
In books, people did normal things;
home was the fantasy,
thinning as it wore out
and the printed word showed through
in debt collectors angry friends
and police.
Our things were sold for food
and necessary bills.
It grew dark and dry
in the desert they made
from a sand of crumbs
and remnants.
There was no refreshment.
It became that they lived
as if they were visiting,
not as others did
but wandering
from one shadow to another,
out of home in each
and always on the wrong side
of the veil.
As the saint condemns the hedonist
by his own existence,
so they did to life,
making it unworthy
by their own example.
Death seemed to them a seductive fate
(like a prostitute’s glance from across the street)
an easy state,
that rest is best
and death a well-made bed,
this life a waste,
and that a proper end.
•
29.
My life is out-of-date.
I’ve done most of those things
a man is to do
and learned to do them fittingly,
but I’ve not the graces you were given.
You were born in a temperate world,
and in spite of age
still move in it with confidence.
You’ve tamed the beast.
You expect a reasonable mean
as your parents did,
and like them know
to make it happen.
Mine died petty deaths
as if from ill thrift
or wilt before the wind.
He first,
in bed one afternoon.
She went soon,
from loneliness.
They left lively guilts behind.
No one of us looks back
and sees the same,
so I keep to work
and make it my script,
and for safety’s sake my eyes
and ears
all mine,
not theirs.
I don’t read newspapers
nor have T.V.
but sometimes the radio.
I no longer need to know.
•
30.
Work is my frame.
It holds together
all those things that make me,
which fall to other gravities
when a man hasn’t a centre.
And you are in a frame —
in that photo,
already all that could ever be.
Look at that elbow,
that angle,
it knows what to do
it holds in readiness for the moment
to jump from pose to act,
in fulcrum force and furious
if need be;
and the wrist —
it’s tensed for persuasion,
there’s no slack.
You were at the heart of being.
Nothing’s stationary in your frame.
Though only three
you’re a host of philosophies,
a child as proof of God.
It’s another force
that mass-produces
slaves and servitors like me.
I hope I am not stricken in my sleep,
that I am seduced by death
and know it before it comes.
Then I can go kindly,
but not before I’ve unpacked;
I would not want to go
and leave the house like me
skeletal, before its time.
•
THE
O'S
•
31.
O Anoub
of the seven brothers,
who does not lie
Teach me to hold at the end
before my past,
which stands now an angel at the gate
My eyes must recognise and I
must see there my youth,
and self interpret
to order
in the telling
fearless as one must before the fact
of immolation,
though some do shred
and others eat the consequence
which is in fire made
not for destruction
is proved in nature,
and bears my lineaments cast
as I have made them
It is in the way of understanding
and is to be mapped by line
•
32.
O Doulas,
friend of Bessarion
who made the water sweet
Make good in me the bitterness
brewed in spleen and stored there
by negligence
heaped and soured
I’ve long thought in anger
have sorted out and ordered the events
have justified my own blamed theirs
wept rivers of resents
I’ve stood on dignity
my rights the right of wrong
and spent life spendthrift
Benefit me,
spoiled and
now near winter’s end
Before darkness takes
show me the light of life
its balance boundlessness and bright
spirit
perfection of body space and
place
integument
Tire I do
of the fire
•
33.
O Phocas,
who spoke with James the fornicator,
note my body,
its ability
to do as bodies do
and are made for
Note the leg,
how it is turned
to enviable speed and utility
The genitalia,
of proportionate size
Both belly and buttock
one flat one round for use
The chest
with its pectoral cast
The arm of purpose
the prehensile thumb
of muscles and joint
to reach hold to take defend
and balance calisthenically
The neck
of arrogance
O Phocas
note the neck,
the head upon it
•
34.
O Gelasios,
whose book was stolen and returned,
show me peace
for the sight of it
To sit
at the end of the day
and watch as it nears
To sleep
as it runs on its bed
and wake
as it rises
Come forth from the house
and let me look
To own it so invaluable!
is more than I might ask,
but let me a passing glance
a touch a taste a sound
Some have killed
and lost for ever
some have stolen
and not held
but I at the end of these past years
who have laboured with no thought of it
beg now for this reward
•
35.
O Agathon,
who talked with Amoun Macarius Joseph and Peter,
give me voice
I speak as if there is no-one to hear
My words drop
like a stone in a pool
and widen, widen silently
until they are lost
and my voice is flat
as a lake
Though each word is a choice made
for exactitude
and the thought precise
there’s nothing to answer,
they are declared
pronounced from above
O Agathon
give me air
so my words might breathe
give me spirit
to impart
then I will speak
to a face to mind and soul
each thing I say will have life in it
to question, to reply
and will make people
•
36.
O Serinus,
who was sustained by God
in harvest sewing and weaving,
curious are the claims
So many
have gone before
so many
yet to come
and still we are incompetent
Nothing is effectively conveyed
and I
in my trouble
find no guide
I only am flesh
with all around in shadow
There are no maps of my land
I must blaze hack and make direction
as if this street is wild,
and leave no sign
for none will read it
though they follow
It’s the same path for all,
from life to death
posterity between
though none
at the first
believe it so
Show us of what we are made
Show us to what we come
•
37.
O Matoes,
give me a word
that is identifiable
There is much that has no knowledge of its own,
that floats and masquerades
as this or that
while I,
anxious for the truth,
say ‘yeah’ ‘spot on’
and ‘cool’
Best take trash than starve
Some say ‘Love Yourself’
others ‘Love your Neighbour’
some ‘Affirm’,
but nothing changes
no philosophy from over the sea
nor strategy for support,
which comes like the advancement of weeds
to hide scrap
ground cover
One word,
as Yes or No in truth,
will make hard standing
one word
to replenish and refresh
•
38.
Ho Felix Lot and Or!
If God should visit you now
what would you do?
Don’t speak without necessity,
watch carefully
each flame purify
Sit as it rages by
and play
something grand—
a coronation glee
a wedding of the Doge
(it’s to the sea you must go
for succour)
You have the limitations
would weep and go home,
for you have no prescription of to be
then the winter comes upon you
and the storm
Be gracefully
for that is something you can do,
and gratefully
as if the world had reasonable soul
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© Leicester Kyle, 2003
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