After Long Silence*

For the (fictional) series, "Edges"
His Voice 



After Long Silence

"Oh, darling!" I say in my heart,

"is it really you? This is a miracle!

This is all things marvellous." But

out loud it's not like that. No basking 

in each other's smiles ... or arms.

Her face freezes hard after the first

blank surprise, disbelief. She is not

the slightest bit glad, but rather, is looking

shocked to see me. I start towards her

and she recoils. Then she's laughing –

but bitterly, thinly, no hearty warmth.

It's clear she perceives me as intruder.

"It's been too long," she says in parting.

"I don't know you any more." Non-plussed,

I pick up a stone, add it to the old cairn.

She can't fail to mark the action

or it's meaning. She stops, hesitates, 

then slowly bends to reach for one of her own.

*The title also belongs to a poem by William Butler Yeats about a meeting between old lovers. 

Making a Pilgrimage

For the (fictional) series "Edges"
His Voice 



Making a Pilgrimage

When I would rendezvous with her,

it was island, oasis, outside of time,
between the worlds. We were complete

in each other, free with each other,

uninhibited as creatures of fur or feathers,

wild and playful – and happy, happy!

How much further now, to that place

deep in the forest, that place where the trees 

merged, closing out the hostile world? 

It seemed to be all turning hostile then.

I was seventeen, and beginning to burn

with passions both political and personal.

On the verge of owning the world (we believed)

and planning to remake it closer to perfect,

in fact we retreated from it, to each other

and to our sanctuary. We raised a cairn of stones

back from the surge of the tide, hidden

from beach or path.... I know it must be near.

A Homecoming

For the (fictional) series "Edges"
His Voice 


A Homecoming

I was just a whelp

when we first came here,

the best part of fifty years ago.

Can I sever

this old man from the child

I was then, tasting heaven here?

My daily bread

suddenly became manna.

I still wish we'd never left.

Now that I've found again

the exact blend of elements

in unchanged perfection –

there is also terror.

It's the same I felt then

when we went away, lost from here.

I send up prayers

to a God I no longer believe in.

"Let me stay. Let me keep it this time."

Deepest Love

For the (fictional) series, "Edges"
His Voice 

Deepest Love

Rinse away the grey

from my heart, blue ocean!

Tip out the sludge

from my soul, upending that

as the swift surf tosses me

when I'm careless or cocky.

I savour your salty kiss, dear sea!

Who needs mistletoe? You give me 

drowned weeds, intricate shells,

the weathered ribs of dead ships,

jewel-like fragments of glass

with the cutting edge smoothed.

Whimsical, skittish, moody,

even downright dangerous – 

still, you have never hindered

me from living my truth. Here

with you, I am free to be silly

or wise, stormy or placid ...

I am, perhaps, a reflection

of you, my true companion.

I drink you in, mother's milk. Or 

am I becoming other? Apparently fish, 

to disport in the shallows. Then 

shall I turn, dive, sound the depths?


Linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #414

In the Presence of Fear

For the (fictional) series, "Edges".
His Voice 



In the Presence of Fear

That first howl,

beyond the circle

cast by the fire,

seemed to crowd

or herd us,

no-one saying aloud

the sudden fear,

though all cowering.

The sour smell

of our sweat

brought us down

to the truth. 

This place, renowned

for certain "incidents",

shook with power.

Out there was 

no kitten's miaow.

Once we faced

our desperation – strange,

there came clarity

and sudden courage.

We built up

the fire, huge,

and took turns

guarding and sleeping

all night until

moonlight faded and

fresh day flowered.


Linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #412

The Stopping Place

For the (fictional) series, "Edges".
His Voice 



The Stopping Place

When we began,

our bodies clung.

But then, sundered,

we walked away

on different paths –

sun and moon

(which never meet)

not more separate.

The piled lumber

outside my cabin 

resembles a wall.

Like a drum

the axe rang,

chopping and splitting.

I stuffed logs

on logs, tight-packed.

It needed courage

first to walk,

then to stop.

Not the rough

courage of brawlers – 

a quiet perseverance.

How lovely, now,

to rest here.

Do I think

of what was?

Funny – I'd say

always and never:

both are true.

It's distant thunder,

a rumbling undercurrent …

background, not upfront.


Shared via Poets United's Poetry Pantry #410

On the Headland

For the (fictional) series, "Edges"
His Voice 


On the Headland

Up here, back from the edge,

the sod is black, damp.

The clumps of spiky grass

are slick and boggy.

"Monsoon weather," people mutter,

straggling from church, and shrug:

a dour flock. I decide to avoid

walking here on future Sundays. 

I am used to the lot

of wayfarer, not sojourner. 

Now, the potted meat I'm pressing

under the table leg says I'm settled.

As the weather grows hotter

I start to acclimatise, becoming slowly

acquainted with this combination

of the wild elements.

I don't speculate how long I'll stay here. 

I expect forever – or whatever's left

to me of forever.... Why bother hurrying 

to put down roots? They'll deepen.

Hut at the Edge of the Forest

For the (fictional) series, "Edges".
His Voice 


Hut at the Edge of the Forest

To haul myself along this river –

hauling the oars repeatedly

over and over, bending and straightening,

pulling from the shoulders –

is more obligation than pleasure,

more a habit of falling into rhythm,

the body accustomed, than a welcome

dance of arms and boat and water.

But it serves. Forthwith I am there.

My spirits always brighten on arrival –

just as if you would greet me ... as if 

you'd still be there waiting, coming to meet....

This poor, bare shack isn't home. Not now.

Home is the ocean and the lonely shore.

But this is a shelter sometimes required.

I can live with that necessity.

Besides, they are short winters here,

even though stormy. I can be under a roof

for a few weeks; I can tolerate walls.

As for your ghostly presence ...

The flaw in this argument is that you

are no ghost at all, not in the real sense.

Yet you ghost in my head as though 

you were dead. You might as well be.

I'm as forlorn without you either way:

uncomforted at night, dreading morning.

Still I go about my business. I am efficient

in the practicalities of this existence.

And for sure, there are pleasurable moments,

if not as before – the small moments

involving creatures of land or sea,

or sky, which holds the whole together.

In the gauzy wing of a dragonfly

or the light filtering slowly, in stripes

and irregular patches, down through

the tall trees of the rainforest,

in the rustling of insects in the dry leaves

underfoot, the calls of currawongs

flying over unseen, or the caw of a crow ...

sometimes I can find peace.

It's a gorgeous world still. I try

to live in it as if it were not also sordid,

tainted, wrong. In this corner where so few

intrude, I can keep some illusion.

Linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #405

One Day, Not Unwelcome

For the (fictional) series, "Edges".
His Voice 


One Day, Not Unwelcome

Let it mean what it must,

believe it or not as you choose.

The facts will remain the facts.

The Reaper will come 

and I'll find it sweet 

to see him glide in on the tide 

in the dense heat – like a surfer,

or Jesus walking on water –

and by that I'll know him.

Or up on the slope, the scree 

will shift under me and I'll topple

into his waiting arms, happily.

"Here you are!" we'll say to each other

with a little squeal of delight, like old friends,

comfortable and right together.


(I'm not the speaker of this poem.)

Linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #404

Some Still Leak Through

For the (fictional) series, "Edges".
His Voice


Some Still Leak Through

What I have seen and forgotten

comes back in dreams,

but remembered there strangely.

When I wake, I still feel the shapes 

of those events, distorted from mediocre

into the rare and disturbing.

But then everything tends seaward,

dreams and memories reeling away

like clouds gusting to the horizon.

Are they messages, coming indeed from you

whom I work to forget and diminish; are they real?

Is your soul seeking mine even as we sleep?

It is foolish to think so. I brush away tear

and dream at once. Both are illusory here,

where I choose again the immediate moment.


Linking to Poets United' Poetry Pantry #403

Failure of the Revolution

For the (fictional) series, “Edges”
His Voice 


Failure of the Revolution

In the violent days,

the final days,

everything went flying away fast.

Hope was too high to reach,

too shiny.

When my brother and I were accused: “Liar!”

it turned us shy ever after.

But the truly benighted

were those in the heirarchy

who permitted that slight.

I'm just letting this series of "persona poems" take me wherever, not finding anything out until it appears on the page (or actually, screen). But I am starting to get the feeling that this mysterious person – beachcomber, ex-seafarer, and now one-time revolutionary – might be male. And quite on the gloomy side!

Later: As time went on it became clear there were two "voices", one male, one female. I have now labelled the poems accordingly. (And yes, as you see, this is the man.)

Linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #402

Beached, Low Tide

For the (fictional) series, "Edges"
His Voice 


Beached, Low Tide

Coy, tiny crabs

hide in their tide-bared tunnels

whose marks pucker but don't despoil

the shell-scattered sand.

The only annoying thing on this beach

is the one smelly blowfish. Inside the corpse

poison is still coiled.

Or so we say, using this fact

to frighten fascinated boys

into leaving it alone.

My boat is buoyed at anchor

just out there.

My lucky coin is in my pocket,

my duffel bag's packed –

but I can't find a ploy to persuade myself

out again across the bar

where the hoity-toity young daredevils go.

To gaze and dream but stay moored is safer.

(Never say joyless.) On the turn of the tide

I head inland.


23/4/18 Linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #400

From This Edge of the Pacific

For the (fictional) series “Edges”
His Voice 


From This Edge of the Pacific

The beauty of this long shore

will soon be more so, as winter

makes it stark. This is rude, raw nature,

unlike the civilised cities; true to its own

place and time. You cannot smooth it away.

The once-lucid water is agitated, ominous,

a cruel wind scaring sea-birds quickly distant,

a moody green glint replacing the radiant blue.

Our concept of beauty is fluid. The savage change 

is welcome, embraced. Yet it's all the same pool.


Linking to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #396

No More Adventuring

For the (fictional) series, "Edges".
His Voice 



No More Adventuring

The same bodies around the table,

the same faces peering from the windows,

either too early or late for that big event

called life – really living. The owner of the place

is ailing and the others just milling about.

Even the rain, throwing them together,

fails to create a bonding against

the world out there, of trade and greed.

They delay their departure longer each year,

too anxious and afraid to keep seeking the Grail.


Also used for April 2018 Poetry Month, day 10

Linked to the Tuesday Platform for 10 April 2018 at "imaginary garden with real toads".

The Baggage

For the (fictional) series,"Edges".
His Voice 


The Baggage

I love to wake to the smell of the sea

carried on the wind. The pain I also wake to

ebbs a little, along with both fame and shame.

All the trappings of my life stay dormant 

(brief gift of this place in first early light)

which amazes me – though it's only for a moment.

Then the list re-chalks itself onto the slate

along with the judgments of the mainstream.

If only I could start again: a baby, a blank.

But it cannot be. I shoulder my freight.