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Poems

Matt, what are the Americans you've encountered like? Or what is an Australian impression of America? That really interests me. Tell the truth!
 
Americans I have encountered have been nice people. Australian's like America for the most part. We don't understand the strong gun culture or the popularity of President Donald Trump but we like the people for most part and have many American companies here and a lot of American tv.
 
Australia does seem pretty America friendly, I think there are a lot of commonalities. I did not understand the gun business either, and then it was actually a friend of mine from England who said she had been out into the far West where there were no police and no protection and no neighbors for miles. She said she began to understand, at least, the Western gun culture and that made me understand it myself. I am confused by the President, because very few people will admit to voting for him, and yet someone must have, because there he is!
 
on leaving the castle

v.

This is the misty time of the year, put you lips together,
take them apart and form the words thank you,
before you even know what you are saying, say thank you,
thank you,
remember the ark of gopher wood and the ark of acacia
which brought you here.

Sometimes I make myself do the right thing.
It isn’t done from the natural kindness of my heart, but from a reminder
like a ruler standing beside me,
and I cannot tell if you would do the right thing by me
When I sit down here I’m not incredibly sure what’s going to come out,
I’m never in control of my dreams,
In the beginning, before the beginning man was not created,
no, but God woke him from the long dream of animals,
and so man stopped being a monkey and became a living soul.
We were born in dreams and that’s why wise men say the dreamtime
we were born in dreams and to dreams we shall return

I have been listening to the BBC
I am tired of book clubs on books I will never read spoken about by
people whose top lips never move when they speak between their teeth,
I am tired of slam poetry in cockney and northern accents by minorities,
I hate that shit,
shut the fuck up and write something.
Slam your cock into my north country
don’t give me your voice, give me your fucking
then give me your fucking silence.
Get up, speechless, leave this room after you come,
while I lay wrecked and satisfied
and you walk out, trying to hide the confusion of your come.

I didn’t plan to write any of this anymore than I planned to
dream about Alan
I didn’t plan for the sun out to day, the sun out to day,

What do you say to a miracle? What do you say to life?
You say thank you, and accept it.

There are days when you get up and the light is the color of gold and silver.
This is the misty time of the year, put you lips together,
take them apart and form the words thank you,
before you even know what you are saying, say thank you,
thank you, remember the pillar of fire by night and the
pillar of cloud by day which brought you here.
Thanksgiving is the time of the end of amnesia,
remember everything you have forgotten.
If you cannot thank the Lord, say than you say thank you,
if you cannot thank your friends, say thank you.
If you cannot thank your mother or your father or you sister
or your brother, thank the strength in your hands,
thank the skull you live in and drink from every day
for bringing you right here and at this moment,
go to the chapel in your chest and light a candle,
thank you thank you.
 
on leaving the eight gated castle
vi.

We have heard of her, this kindred spirit. I went to the library
looking for her,
searching through volumes of poems before I finally found her,
when I found her name in one place I went and I brought back the
book that contained her. I brought that volume to the altar like the
coffin of a long lost friend, a treasured love left out on the moors,
now you are here, a wreath and a candle on the book, burning to
call you home.
I hope one day another witch will find my remains and being me
to her circle

This is the beginning of hope and the end of our despairing.
Salve regina! This is the quiet space of peace
I did not know what to call you,
and then the word whispered to me, this is the tide of hope.
Oh, Lady we hope in you, we bring you in with the flower crown
and the burning star at your feet.
Your hands are held out to all who weep, and you know this has
been a valley of tears,
and you know tears are water, like rain, here we sit at the waiting,
full of quiet hope and remembering your blessings
they are pink and rose and red and pearl, like the crown on your head,
bless your feet, bless your hands, bless your lips, bless your friendship,
She says, be gentle in your hope, for you have pinned all hope on me,
and even though I am the great woman, I am just one woman,
I need time,
Wait for me, be merciful for me, be patient with me,
be me, she says,
hope in me, love in me, live me

listen, this is the time to love,
love,
love others, love yourself,
love the air around you, love your lovers,
love me,
forgive,
forget,
offer yourself on this altar called hope

THE END
 
Advent

before the eve of saint nicholas

It always takes so long to get here.
I’m a little like a junkie.
I went out last night, at two in the morning and walked under the electric stars,
the glowing Christmas tree lights of this town,
and found that everything I’d written was a record of everywhere we’d been,
and the lines and the paragraphs were belts and girdles to pull in the fat on my life.
After all the times I’ve told myself off for being a lazy bastard,
in the end I sit right here with a half cool cup of coffee, smoking cigarettes,
and the sun shines for the time in days.
It is the day before the night before the feast of Saint Nicholas,
before the first holy fast.
After the circling of the year we’ve come to Advent at last.

And I thought we’d accomplished something at the leaving door
to the Eight Gated Castle, but it isn’t time to accomplish.
Now is the time to be. Though it is cold, take your heaters and your blankets,
your yellow dogs and gin, your cigarettes, and then,
sit down with your friends at the sea hut,
sing your winter songs to mermaids and remember that sometimes worship
is just another word for freedom.

Here is the truth. You were hardly brought up by barely moral people,
Your mother never learned he difference between her mind
and her own mother’s group and your mothers and their mothers
and their fathers were given the ethics of white men with whips,
the view of a slave filtered through a preacher,
filtered through an old black woman who died forty five years ago.
No, your mother doesn’t know and your father doesn’t care,
but you do, so do be quick to reject it, and sit here by this sea hut

You were told God dwelt in a church and was stiff,
and you should be stiff and discontent with longing,
like a tight collar or a choir boy’s cock.
But here, with your beer and cigarettes,
singing in the black night lit with orange fires,
you wait for the mermaids to rise,
to the sound of ship bells they do,
and they sing,
“Look at our hair, our shells, our breasts, look at us singing.
We are God too.”
 

saint nicholas

On the Feast of Saint Nicholas we are half drunk
and quick to bed as soon as the sun goes down,
the fishes and fishes and loaves and fishes,
the early Christmas wine took its toll after the day of fasting.
This day was like thin wine, cold and sweet and the sun on the river,
and now we can’t it any more.
Pass into the dark for five hours, and in the sable night
waken to the chimes and the deep voices of the hymn to Nicholas,
saint of the sea.
Before he had reindeer, he had a ship, Nicholas,
you who watch over merchants and sailors and those
who do not come out of the cold,
who remember that there are all sorts of voyages,
currents of time and currents of concrete,
currents of air and wind and stream,
Nicholas, saint of the sea, as we sing this night,
Now thou look over me.

There are three red candles and one white,
burn just one on this last night,
the journey of this first week we put last things out away
in the greyest of winter wood,
we carry a light, on a lantern on a staff to return to where we started again.
And it is true that no white man ever came down a chimney
bringing things to me, but this man, in red miter and brown skin,
this saint of water and saint of god, beckons us to ask for better things
than I ever could have asked in childhood.

“Have you been good this year?”
“No, not particularly”

“Then tell me what you want from me.”

“To be good, to be alive, to remember why I came here
To
Find home”

“Follow the light that’s in your hand.
It will take you to the blessed land.”
 

Bethlehem

Once I had a lover and he came from Bethlehem
Anton was an Arab with eyes as deep as jesus and the resurrection kiss
He’s a thick haired business man in blue suits now
but then he was all sex, he rode to my house at twelve o clock at night,
I took the man in Bethlehem to my bedroom.
I took him in my mouth
He was big as incarnation I could not deny the man from Bethlehem,
though unsteady
I must ready me to run hands over the golden flesh of the boy from Bethlehem,
kiss and taste and place my tongue in the cleft of Bethlehem
He said your home is lovely and unfenced,
Anton from Bethlehem, and as casually as suffering people speak, he noted
there were walls and wires now around his Bethlehem
 
On Yule

i.

It’s on a day like this that someone less wise says, I hope the winter never comes.
This day is a reprieve from truth made of sun and blue and green.
Even the bugs come out, come out come out, get out as soon as you can,
the shortest day of the year is here and
Soon comes mother night.
With the ancient knife and older tales, come walking over the hills to
the sacred island. It is always there and sometimes there is goose island,
sometimes it is seen and sometimes just high enough for bird feet to walk,
and there, tumbling in blue and yellow and the shadow of branches
and the last fall leaves, is the cauldron pool to the underworld someone
almost let you forget.

How far we’ve traveled from the Eight Gated Castle,
just to stand here and cross this bridge over the trickling water,
just to come into this place of trees.
And you heard that some people practiced their rituals here,
that some covens burned incense here, that some witches took wands
and knives and traced out stars like scars on the ground,
but let outside be outside and let this be the sacrifice you give it,
to watch every goose and love every leaf, to rejoice in the breeze
and the sun on blue water

Let this be the worship, to be here now,
to see the red berries on boughs and praise the God of all things before you,
hold the thorns and berries in your hand, brown long sharpness, red again,
and pray for the renewal of small things.
It started out thirty degrees here, and in the night it’s nearly fifty,
as if the old woman of the sky is heated with the secret of the return of light
And someone who thinks she is a witch and wants you to think it too tells you,
after this long night the sun will return,
but the sun never left,
and you can’t tell this long night from any other except on faith.

We sit here on this sacred evening,
sit here in the blessed dark,
and the light we wait for is only,
in the most fragile way,
the light of the sun
 
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