Protected: «Chronicle of wasted time» [contents]
Protected: People like us
[There lies Peter Clutterbuck now]
There lies Peter Clutterbuck now
still fourteen, on Phillip Island
where he was sent, and where he died
in 1935 parentless and poor
to the Newhaven Homes for Problem Boys.
His sister could not move him from this grave
since with him is another child
named Victor Hardy, still eleven.
The grave of P Clutterbuck and V Hardy is in Cowes Cemetery, Phillip Island.
[Years ago, when I was reading]
Years ago, when I was reading the philosophical works of Schopenhauer
I heard a sudden eruption of laughter on the street.
I looked up to see what the cause of this laughter was.
Across the road, an old man
extraordinarily obese, was heaving his immense body
along the footpath. He used a cane to help balance himself as he walked
and to relieve the strain on his back
caused by the great bag of fat hanging from his stomach.
It required considerable effort for him to walk only a short distance.
I felt revulsion at the sight of this man.
There were feelings of pity, too.
I knew immediately
there are no counter-motives to humiliation.
We live by climbing over each other
struggle to keep our heads
above despair
and try not to think of harm that’s done.
I lowered the book and listened to the sounds of birds
a howling dog, a small child in the street
asking something of her parents —
every voice repeating the inner nature of the world
and I knew what trouble and pain was
still to come.
Sr Pessoa
Of course, in times of crisis I do not write
poetry—a consequence of having escaped
pretences about pain and metaphysics.
Last night, though, my head was full
of dreams—most particularly
that my friend (a euphemism)
had decided it was time to leave—
bringing us to the long struggle (an embrace,
perhaps, but it may have been a death-clutch).
And when I woke
everything in my world was ruined
and in fog.
So, it has been impossible to speak
a word that makes sense
and there is no pleasure in a pun.
After all the excitement
I am just another child sleeping
face-down at the edge of the abyss.
Come over some day—
I can offer refuge
in tired abstractions.
I will put on my red dress,
make tea, and then
ignoring Life, we will walk or write.
Protected: The rays from my eyes
[cathedrals in their middle age]
cathedrals in their middle age
sourly contemplate
the platitudes of worship
(what longing made
the history of their long struggle
and what prayers like smoke
stain the minds and hands
of old men
): their structure is a torsion—
pleasure and silence
twisted
at invisible altitudes—
below, the dark
icon of betrayal
above, a whispered light
revealing nothing.
without ceremony
no voice to read
a lesson
or to preach
and no believers (especially
if there are no believers)
at the end of worship
silence is their business.
if I was such a man
—my eyes removed
for safe-keeping
through the wars
my memory buried
in a field—
how could I then say
what my body meant to say?
