***
[JANUARY 2005]
I woke aloft; I ran into the sea.
A smiling person shared some soup with me;
and then I went to market, for a look,
and left with two big brooches and a book.
My footsteps trod in time to Philip Glass.
I sat beneath a tree. I made a pass.
With Auckland on my mind I wrote a speech
and did some sums to prove that I can teach.
The designated tour guide was me –
all day (and night!) in Melbourne’s CBD.
When not engaged by academic trends
I played some games with new and older friends.
I conjured up a bureaucratic storm
of signatures. My life’s in Rondo form!
Some days are free of any trace of hurry,
but full of love and Indonesian curry.
What causes us to celebrate the zoo?
It’s hibernation, babies, dust and poo!
The menu for tonight was perfect Thai
then pashing in the park while lights flashed by.
Is being rich a trauma or a joke?
I pondered wealth while watching Queer as Folk.
I wore white thongs to work and then to pray.
I sang some songs and saw a funny play.
I got a friendly email from York’s Centre
for Medieval Studies – I can enter!
I boiled an egg, for my mid-morning dish,
then added lettuce, noodles and canned fish.
I like the works of Gleeson. They display
an optimistic model of decay.
I met a lovely man – who’d like to smother
my world with his – and then I met his mother.
My friend ‘came out’, and went to get his car
from BMW, where morons are.
I read their work and sent them each a letter
with tips about how best to make it better.
I heard some music, read a book and wrote
a page of notes – then went to meet a boat.
It’s always worth the time (and cash) to spend
an evening in a garden with a friend.
As massive orgy’s on for Melbourne’s queers.
I’m at an old man’s birthday party: cheers!
There comes a time when all a man can handle
is taking baths and playing with a candle.
My Sabbath days are times of silent reading,
conversing, cleaning, slumbering and feeding.
If poetry is colourful, then prose
exposes whites and darkness. You need those.
A tent gets hot. The desert Israelites
detested summer mornings, relished nights.
The sea’s the nicest spot to while away
a problematic public holiday.
I sounded like a grown-up man, until
my dinner (and nostalgia) in Box Hill.
An MA day: present a paper (twice)
and meet the Latin teacher (who seems nice).
Another barber sat me in his chair
and sabotaged a short month’s length of hair.
The chips and flounder made the lounge-room smelly.
We gorged ourselves while screaming at the telly.
My college bedroom’s six floors up a tower.
It’s got three lightglobes and a steel-floored shower.
[FEBRUARY 2005]
On one of Auckland’s islands (in my jocks)
I slid from shore to water (on the rocks).
Amidst a scholarly, pretentious space
a Maori pressed his nose against my face.
You’re calling me a cheapskate? I deny it!
(But gladly scoff free salad at the Hyatt.)
I printed empty boxes, heard some rants
and ate some beef in flared safari pants.
Can conferences be other than bizarre?
Felicity named me ‘a future star’.
Volcano-climbing’s a rewarding sport.
Once down, I caught the Airbus to the ’port.
I’m pleased that I’ve returned home from New Zealand:
their anthem rhymes the nation’s name with ‘free land’.
When printing readers you can choose between
a range of hues. I picked Woodpecker Green.
I went to church for penitence and ashes
then to the park for symphonies and pashes.
While Dante gives diversion without fail
Boccaccio lights up the Franklin’s Tale.
Since KFC for breakfast is obscene
I rushed to work and bit a nectarine.
If getting 10 to yum cha’s good, I’d say
that 14 at a concert makes my day.
The carnival was weakened by the sun,
the microphones, and no-one having fun.
For festivals of love do what you know.
I introduced him to the ACO.
Now, even with sustained dramatic pauses
a sermon can’t survive on just 2 clauses.
It’s overt oddness (more than moves and muscle)
that motivates the brilliant Kung Fu Hustle.
At gay bars, what starts out as subtle glancing
segues to outright gaping if you’re dancing.
At church I asked: ‘does rage make me a sinner?’
At George’s place I made four people dinner.
Perplexed by acronyms and homophones
Majak just grinned. I do like Bridget Jones.
I kept on reading ’til he understood
the magic strength of the Enchanted Wood.
For driving home after a BBQ
I’d recommend a BMW.
These O’Weeks are eternally the same.
I opted out with medieval shame.
In 629 I drank a lot of tea,
compared pay-rates and crafted chapter 3.
At galleries the people stop and stare;
I waste my strength on wishing they weren’t there.
If Mahler be the food of love, play loud!
My schoolmate did old Mitcham Primary proud.
I ate a peach and watched The Aviator.
Dicaprio was great, but Cate was greater.
A grand new age of grooming has begun:
I grinned, and gave myself a Number One.
A language class gave pleasure; then I strolled
to Brunswick with a book – it wasn’t cold.
[MARCH 2005]
All afternoon I muttered ‘sum es est’,
and – suddenly – I want a Latin test.
I did some morning work, but that was all:
distraction led me to the concert hall.
In record time the class achieved rapport.
Rhiannon asked: ‘have you done this before?’
I bought a disc of avant-garde-ish rap,
insisting – fervently – ‘it isn’t crap!’
Completing Bleak House gave as much elation
as chats with Clare about the incarnation.
On weekends universities are only
frequented by the loners and the lonely.
I used to relish tramrides. Now I’m liking
my never-ending miles of urban hiking.
I scaled a tower. Finding no-one there,
I closed my eyes and curled around a chair.
The gamelan competed with the breeze.
They took my blood to check for STDs.
The indoor form of cricket’s somewhat spastic:
your score goes down; the wickets are elastic.
We drank to what is coming and what’s been,
to someone truly special: to Ilene!
A modern-day equivalent of Babel
takes place when Thiels surround a kitchen table.
I played the organ and the people sang.
I swallowed cheese and chocolate in Milang.
When ordering the Blue Train’s famous dhal
you have to call it ‘Golden’, or they snarl.
The Poulenc piece was not without its charms,
but Housemate plays a very special Brahms.
I queried Dr Thai about the ratio
of viruses transmitted through fellatio.
Communal study adds a new dimension
to tackling that obnoxious third declension.
Why can’t an office worker walk away
and rest in peace? Because there’s more to say.
At Federation Square a queue was forming.
In Richmond Morgan’s brand-new house was warming.
The Sunday that keeps churchyard palms in fashion
is just the day to hear Saint Matthew’s Passion.
The windows turned to mirrors as I thought.
I wrote some phrases of the average sort.
To cap a day of plenitude and plenty,
in Latin I scored 22 from 20.
I waved to little children in the park
then muttered to myself ’til it got dark.
At times when you’re unhinged and cast adrift
I don’t suggest you teach the Great Vowel Shift.
A day of crucifixion isn’t Good;
I saw a crush of Catholics touching wood.
If you want festive snacking, here’s a tip:
try Gingernuts with avocado dip.
We motored the Maroondah. Driving east
we would have seen a trillion trees, at least!
I crafted something consciously banal
and bought a little book by Roald Dahl.
Diversion’s what a thesis-writer needs,
but not a festival of single reeds.
Abode in Britain is my right: I’ll sever
Australian ties and live in Kent forever!
I didn’t play the piano, but I read
and wrote and ate and thought and went to bed.
[APRIL 2005]
The next day was less beautiful, because
the beanbag made me realise what I was.
The lights went down. The students did some skits.
Their show was life (without the normal bits).
‘The pope is dead!’ was headline of the day.
I purchased Boring Postcards USA.
I heard 3 papers (goodness, what a bore!)
on Playboy, urban parasites and war.
I’ve booked some tickets on an aeroplane.
I’ll stop at London, Bangkok and Bahrain.
I read my lecture thrice. My throat got sore.
My primary terror? Sounding like a bore.
I didn’t need applause enthusiastic
to know my maiden lecture was fantastic.
I spent a day unbalanced by an ear
which felt as though it housed a chandelier.
Does Panadol for breakfast make you thinner?
I compensated with a cheesy dinner.
My healing body put me in the mood
for strolling city streets in solitude.
A movie premieres just underground
from where its action happened once: profound!
To cultivate a gorgeous shoulder muscle
will not reduce the strain of being Russel.
Maria Bamford makes my face contort,
not only with guffawing, but with thought!
An idiot’s been lying to Renee;
I called her up and told her what to say.
‘Ah Philip – you’re my saviour,’ squawked Ganilla,
who’s like a Swedish version of Camilla.
We gave the second Lockwood-Thiel award
to Leigh, and forced bystanders to applaud.
The joy of Warhol’s movies is what’s missing:
The Kiss is just an hour’s worth of kissing.
Tom Burton wrote a scintillating reference.
I’d marry Sarah, but for sexual preference.
The photo-shoot included hands on hips
to activate a thirst for scholarships.
We shared a snack; the Volvo drove away.
The sun – ironically – shone bright all day.
My supermodel supervisor giggled,
insisting that my intro’s fine. I wriggled.
A supermarket trip was getting urgent.
I bought a big red bucket and detergent.
I’m living with a living superstar.
My parents took my bed; I took their car.
They wanted me to demonstrate the town,
but every plan elicited a frown.
On April 25th I hide away
and watch disruptive cinema all day.
I rather think I’m overqualified
to say if morning tea be baked or fried.
When films are not exposed as boring farces
I favour complimentary double passes.
Is shouting slogans all that we can do
to halt grotesqueries like VSU?
I sucked a straw and ate a Whopper (twice) –
and that was after lunch (a bowl of rice).
At Williamstown we talked about our lives,
our differences and why we can’t be wives.
[MAY 2005]
Since clapping isn’t welcomed after Psalms
I let Larissa’s concert hurt my palms.
Preparing for addressing the Roundtable,
my mental health was chronically unstable.
Both Dahl and Chaucer always pull a crowd,
because they resurrect when read aloud.
One day I slept a lot and did no work
(except Renee’s). My family’s gone berserk.
I’ve got the perfect job: I’m getting paid
for reading Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde.
On days when she’s resisting getting dark
I don’t like reproducing Joan of Arc.
We saw a film. We crossed a bridge. We talked.
And then he said ‘you make me sick’. I walked.
We’d made a brilliant mess of things, and knew it.
All day we’d sew a stitch, and then undo it.
My boyfriend called, embittered and confused.
Were I a Jew, my liver would be bruised
or cut, perhaps, by sad-man-with-a-knife.
To cope, I bought a soundtrack for my life.
An i-Pod can replace a mobile phone
for those who speak their wisest words...alone.
The mutual exclusivity of learning
and lust’s a Dumb Idea, and needs ‘adjourning’.
Tchaikovsky’s final symphony’s a dirge
which – one night – matched my mood. I felt the urge
to dig a little hole and lie inside it.
I needed hope. Tognetti would provide it.
I proved that I was not infatuated,
but not before my cheeks were saturated.
When what was once a track becomes a file
it gains prestige (it’s data; it’s worthwhile).
My buzzword of the day (‘Diversify’)
provoked a heart-shaped chocolate with my chai.
Professor Simpson explicated terror.
The first word of my website is an error.
My fascination bordered on suspense
while learning the deponent perfect tense.
The launch was fun, and free from chips and smarties,
for medievalists do perfect parties.
There are some wobbly bridges – though we’re buddies –
from History to Literary Studies.
In Murray Bridge I counselled Mum (who’s grieving);
in Adelaide, my sister (who’s deceiving).
I told my friends of fragile love affairs;
then Leigh presented four world premieres.
My breakfast featured artichokes and spice;
but that was just the start: I dined out thrice.
My siblings joined to exercise free speech
and execute some backflips on the beach.
A queer need only stop and theorise
to win a $1500 prize.
Darshana’s research hinges – if I’m right –
on differences between the nip and bite.
I looked at drafts; I looked at DVDs,
and spent the evening trying not to freeze.
I sprinted to the railway station, painfully,
then stared at the evangelist, disdainfully.
When Shakespeare is directed by John Bell
you can be guaranteed that all is well.
I spent 2 hours in pursuit of Wade.
They don’t know much about him, I’m afraid.
[JUNE 2005]
It’s Boot Camp June. I did my 20 laps.
Does swimming sharpen writing skills? Perhaps.
I caught a train, and then procrastinated.
I bought some tasty cheddar, which I grated.
I spent a day distracted by misanthropy,
despite respect for theories of philanthropy.
I finished The Corrections, shaved my head,
drank flavoured milk, and made the floor my bed.
The worship at Saint Francis’ is sublime –
and that extends to Ordinary Time.
My morning lap-count multiplied to 40.
These days my patron Spicegirl must be Sporty.
I marked 3 papers. 2 of them were great;
the other nearly made me hibernate.
I’d write a couplet, if I had the space,
about which preposition takes what case.
I slept in Brunswick, where the walls are red.
I haven’t met the owner of my bed.
We ordered coffees, sat down in the sun,
and all agreed that something must be done;
Then I – while far from stoned and hardly tipsy –
embodied the aesthetics of a gypsy.
I loitered on the station platform, reading.
My life seems full yet – tangibly – unspeeding.
My latest book is Hollinghurst’s: The Spell.
He paradoxes dangerously well.
In Rosie’s tea-shop everything smells wild.
Olfactory excess makes me a child.
I lost my wallet, for a little while.
Its rescue energised an ugly smile;
I can’t be certain, though – I might have frowned!
I helped my teacher move her books around.
I met a flight attendant. We had sex,
and woke with ghastly bruises on our necks.
I ravaged Prue's collection of CDs
and saw a movie, very Japanese.
If I scoffed hot chips every day, I'd fatten.
My language of the day was whispered Latin:
in person – as in number, tense and voice –
the verbs of that dead language spoil for choice.
'Adorable!' a gushing student writes,
comparing my performance to a knight's.
I bantered with prospective PhDs
to some of whom I'd given H2Bs.
I visited the uni sports facilities
where undergrads disguise their disabilities.
Examinations make me want to dance.
I gave the Night Cat's floor a second chance:
my hermit soul, neglected, shed a tear.
I spent a day with Rembrandt and Vermeer.
I looked at England through the eyes of Waugh;
it made me rather desperate to be poor.
I wasted 7 hours shifting sound;
I'd make a list, then shuffle it around.
Philosophy, when read in isolation,
engenders less trascendence than frustration.
I didn't send a card or get a call,
but calls and cards were orchestrating all.
I said 'you make me angry' then apologised,
but fail to see why drinking is mythologised.
[JULY 2005]
Postgraduate symposiums exude
outrageous concepts and an anxious mood.
I helped my friends establish their new place.
It is, in short, an undepressing space.
At church I felt a blend of peace and sadness
as sacred music blew across my badness.
I heard a flautist (famous, far from poor)
but Willy Wonka moved me rather more.
The nightmare's noise was just my father phoning;
I answered with a bout of wolfish groaning.
I crafted lines on what Victorians thought,
then saw 8 movies – some of them were short.
While open-mouthed and pacing reverentially,
I finished Dante's 'Comedy' – eventually.
It's held that Barbara Bonney's fun to burn –
but so are Yo-Yo Ma and Isaac Stern!
My birthday balanced ecstacy with pain
(and all I did was wander through the rain).
As if my life was just a search for treasure
I cruised 3 houses for 3 types of pleasure.
Another person made my plasma thicken.
I rehydrated over deep-fried chicken.
I found my mirror splintered by a guest –
now where am I to gaze while getting dressed?
King Lear's colours range from black to grey:
I'll never see a more despairing play.
'Assistance' of the Research type translates
as loving labour that your teacher hates.
I took old friends to lunch, and then I flew
down South to meet a yet-more-ancient crew.
I bought some boots from Salamanca place,
as well as coal-black long-johns, just in case;
the boots made pretty markings in the snow:
I spent gay minutes leaping to-and-fro.
A bus, a plane, a bus, a train, then trudging.
At home – at last! – my body wasn't budging.
I ran a search for 'Order of the Garter'
then sifted through the (mostly useless) data.
A fresh Piers Plowman scandal: I don't mind it!
I danced around my room, and redesigned it.
Awoken by a Honolulu phone
I laundromatted every sock I own.
I relished campy chats regarding Proust –
but Max supplied the day's most tactile boost.
The media concocted altercations.
The MSO played Russian orchestrations.
We hadn't even made it home before
I'd made my houseguest cry about the war;
to compensate, I ordered him a cab.
The Chinese film was masterfully drab.
With Handel in my ears I took a nap –
this i-Pod is an academic trap!
Concluding is more fragile than beginning:
each sentence stops a different plate from spinning.
When asked if I had finished, I sad 'yes'.
An envelope contained my new address.
If 'Pucker' named the first film – and its meaning –
pornography defined the second screening.
4 girls and I escaped to Sassafras,
resulting in 3 weeks of missing mass.
My new cathedral featured on a pot.
The trees were tall and falling. I was not.
[AUGUST 2005]
I took the vibrant weather as a sign.
Our French guests liked our dumplings, and our wine;
in fact, they liked precisely what I'd show them,
which made it rather wonderful to know them;
and, furthermore, they liked to play guitar –
we gave a gig; the Frenchman was the star.
The 12 apostles reared their ugly heads
while Nerida and Ray arranged our beds;
we left with stars still shining, roos still leaping,
to see the ocean while the world was sleeping.
I saw 2 movies (neither cost a cent)
and then earnt 60 bucks – a day well-spent!
Self-designated shyness is a pain.
My pink umbrella lifted up the rain.
I booked a room at Hotel Mandarin
and felt Migration Craziness begin.
Is Stephanie the world's most brilliant teacher?
Indeed! – for she's a prophet, not a preacher.
Another protest took me to the street
where outrage and blind optimism meet.
I failed to feign indifference (I did try!)
when Briley told me Dumbledore would die;
I ran away to finish off the Rowling
and, sure enough, there's quite a lot of howling.
My thesis lacked a certain glamour. So
I played with fonts and moved things to and fro.
With 2 days 'til submission, I found mates
for films, flirtation, fun; in short, Hot Dates;
but then I sought advice from these same friends
about the way in which the thesis ends.
It's thrilling when a finished work arrives.
I proudly named it 'Anxious Afterlives'.
Submission sounded sexy. It was not,
in part because the office lacked a slot.
My mantra was 'I don't care what you buy, Max!'
(We'd grown apart since visiting the IMAX.)
I know my family loves me, for they tell me.
We gathered to eat seafood, and farewell me.
We followed this with yet another party,
preceded by some oysters and gelati.
I visited the churches of the city
that share my past. They're drowning. It's a pity.
If you desire closeness to a friend
just highlight that proximity will end.
I flew back home to Melbourne. We embraced.
I mocked the ticket-Nazis, angel-faced.
Acknowledging loose ends is not quite...tying.
I surveyed cameras but resisted buying.
I cursed the Liberals in a range of styles
then read the rhetoric of paedophiles.
We welcomed Emma Kirkby's coat with cheering,
but not before some prime-time pamphleteering.
I drank (to help my Physical survive)
and danced (to keep my Spiritual alive).
My friends are all good-looking, smart and funny.
We engineered a picnic. It was sunny.
I stripped the room where once my body slept.
Rereading ancient documents, I wept.
Old Thackeray's obsessed by wealth and vanity!
(His lengthy books intoxicate my sanity).
I garbage-bagged a wardrobe's-worth of shirts,
then offered up my birthday suit. That hurts.
[SEPTEMBER 2005]
I steeled myself with several cups of tea,
then went to school and handed in my key.
I emigrated on a cloudless day:
a lucky sign? or Melbourne screaming Stay?
Meanderings through Bangkok (all alone)
were interrupted by a toothless crone.
A Thai massage is brutal and fragmenting –
and only barely mutually-consenting!
I caught one plane, and then I caught another.
I'd never ventured further from my mother.
Some sites of London time has rendered plain:
they're so iconic as to be mundane.
At least the God-forsaken sufferer Job
avoided awful acting at the Globe.
I looked at Chaucer's tomb and thought of bones,
then elbowed through a crowd of Royalist clones.
To counteract 6 tubes rides in 1 day
I settled with Picasso and Monet.
The whole collective psyche of the Poms
is tickled by the last night of the Proms.
My first UK communion tasted sweet.
The Dean's address was (wisely) indiscreet.
I advocate disruptive conversations
when taking part in shared perambulations.
I lifted up the telephone, and dialled;
I saw the English countryside, and smiled.
Each Oxford church employs a world-class choir
and manages at least one Dreaming Spire.
I saw a Roman statue, lacking arms,
but sculpted chests are not without their charms.
I dined with Michael, Alison and Leigh:
a most delightful (if surprising) three.
The air was full of ecstacy and smoke
as I got high on Earl Grey tea and Coke.
I knelt in Christ Church, sat in Gloucester Green,
and wandered through a travel magazine.
I ran a bath (accompanied by Bede –
a furious if formulaic read).
I took the road that Chaucer's pilgrims took:
but I was in a bus; they, in a book.
An energetic afternoon was spent
exploring sites along the coast of Kent.
A pre-pubescent choir makes a noise
more suitable for sperm whales than for boys.
Before engaging Frida Kahlo's stares
I analysed a piece on grizzly bears.
I travelled north, for something else to do,
and met not 1 Mancunian, but 2!
I saw a church-choir sing and, wanting more,
I heard a rock band in a record store.
A slumber party's alternately serious,
convivial, unseemly – and delirious.
I played a gig in England – aren't you proud?
The band was soft; the audience, quite loud.
Inside a church, an organist was booming;
outside, a coal-black northern sky was looming.
It's love (as much as agony or loss)
that unifies the stations of the cross.
A mile of neon lights announcing curry
will flip a hungry man into a flurry.
[OCTOBER 2005]
An afternoon's wet labour in the garden
made my resolve to see Canal Street harden.
I saw, I danced; I got to sleep at 5.
My waking thought? "It's good to be alive."
(It's sick, I know, but there's an explanation –
since I was 4 I've suffered from Elation.)
My single bed looked oddly incomplete
within my lofty, light-bespeckled suite.
To reach the shops I strolled along a wall
from which, one day, I'd rather like to fall.
To cure my cold I swallowed citrus, sliced,
and read Cistercian thought concerning Christ.
I woke at dawn and, sipping tea, I mused.
York's nightlife left me bleakly unenthused.
While not a famous sportsman, on the whole,
I donned some shorts and blithely kicked a goal.
Who doesn't gain a certain elevation
from big cathedral tinntinabulation?
At last I went to school. My peers were pale –
if grinning was assessed, the class would fail!
I stormed to campus, cursing British banks,
who mean "we hope you die" when smiling "thanks".
A childhood feeling swelled up from my knees
while charging through the forest, climbing trees.
I riffled through the archives of the minster
and chimed declensions for a scary spinster.
I murdered Virgil; lots of brains were splattered.
I stood to leave and 60 seagulls scattered.
I rather like to moralise and preach,
but only rarely practise what I screech.
I placed my third black coffee on its saucer,
which freed my hands to praise the Kelmscott Chaucer.
I fell asleep in ancient paleography;
I'd rather study Javanese ethnography
(which says a lot). The next day's class was blander –
could it be time for aid work in Uganda?
I got a chequebook; tins fell to the ground
enacting an apocalyptic sound.
My teacher loudly urged me: "seize the chance
to ponder early Anglo-French romance!"
but I like Anglo-Saxon (incer! inc!) –
it's perfect for reciting while you drink.
I got a bike for free and got it wet,
then mingled with my oddest Catholics yet.
For me the muttered phrase "go take a hike"
translates "depart, do what you really like."
Italian offers speakers who are living
(a gift that Latin's not so good at giving).
I overslept, but then got reimbursed;
my Middle English drama group rehearsed.
A woman gave me food; a man, a flower;
a second man, some chocolate and a shower.
Because degrees are governed by chronology
I read a very early martyrology
plus Augustine's Confessions (what a saint!);
I then acquired rouge and body paint
to angst the duller folk of my new town
by conjuring a terrifying clown.
At Saint Olave's they venerate their bells
and like creating sacrificial smells.
My bike lacked lights; by 5 I had to hurry.
Inside my bag, the writings of Les Murray
[NOVEMBER 2005]
(who makes me cry but also makes me think).
I glanced at the cathedral – it was pink!
To cycle through the countryside is pleasant.
I saw an empty barn; I saw a pheasant.
I proved myself an expert finger-licker
before imbibing Riesling with the vicar.
My football playing put me in a muddle;
I woke to find my body in a puddle.
Does high-church mass still qualify as feast
when it's just you and Jesus, plus the priest?
10 random types (5 female and 5 male)
trecked through the nicer parts of Nidderdale.
When just a boy I relished stirring mince;
I've favoured well-done fry-ups ever since.
It rained a lot, which hardly rates as news;
I worked from 9 'til 9 without a snooze.
Hawaiian Guy appeared in York. We ate
a Yorkshire pudding each, and stayed up late.
The ancient town was circumnavigated,
which took more strength than we'd anticipated.
Max took his leave; I sounded out a lecture
replete with criticisms and conjecture.
I tested Leeds and then, in turn, was tested;
I did my best but – in the end – was bested.
A well-lit morning found us in the park
exchanging news best suited for the dark.
I played my fiddle for an eager crowd
of folk who drink where listening is allowed.
Back home, I brewed some tea and dropped my script
allowing me to punch my wife, who tripped.
(I speak of melodrama, anxious readers...)
I queried Romance with a bunch of breeders,
then tried, in tones both grandiose and frantic,
to woo the other side of the Atlantic.
Ophelia cavorted 'round the stage
as if her arms could paint the show un-beige.
In Leeds I met some people of the street;
they drank their grog, I swallowed smog. I eat
a lot of loaves but hardly any fish,
so stirred some salmon in a salad-dish
then watched my drumsticks sizzle in a pot.
Attempting to become a polyglot
takes field-trips; so I booked a continental
escape. Self-diagnosis? Temperamental.
Some Stuttgart singers made my ears expand
by making canine yelps seem weirdly grand.
Bad actors formed our cast's most crass majority –
they lacked experience, but craved authority.
Saul's singers were controlled but luminescent,
to match their giant set, which was fluroescent.
Madonna helped me walk, and to deny
that looming shapes were patterning the sky.
Outside, directors screamed at one another;
inside, I scrawled some thoughts about my mother.
Some ice fell from the sky onto my jacket;
I gasped, but then decided I could hack it.
I'm in a happy class; we have no qualms
concerning talks that terrorise the Psalms.
A bishop was enthroned. I read a book
that taught me how to love, and how to look.
[DECEMBER 2005]
It took a quarter-century for me
to have a person ask for my ID.
The first pew held a highly-strung professor,
in front of my new friend (a fine undresser) –
so how was I to act? I felt conflicted.
My hose defined my hamstrings as "constricted".
I sat beneath a dome and read some French,
since Latin priests had made my molars clench;
I loosened them with roasted aubergines,
and wondered what the Revelation means.
I bought some giant lilies, ripped their stems
and set them in a vase beside my gems.
I pushed my bed against a wall, exposing
a room as good for dancing as for dozing.
A sold-out movie left me in the lurch
before I died (by poison) in a church;
the Brontës karked it, too. I saw the chair
on which the second died. They've kept her hair!
Examiners' reports will never match
the heat it takes to make a thesis hatch.
My brother got engaged; I got some tea,
and wrote on topics meaningless to me
but absolutely central to my study.
I took a stroll; my rubber soles got muddy.
I made some joyful music with my mates,
and sent my applications to the States.
My sister sounded closer than she was.
I ran away to see a film, because
in Manchester I just don't do enough.
My essay's tone was smooth; its message, rough.
I passive-smoked by sleeping on the couch,
then studied Hell's eighth circle, second pouch.
Guitars are not as violent as I'd feared;
I stammered out a minor chord, and cheered.
A train returned me to my native village
at which I danced, and dodged unsober spillage.
I made green curry from a jar of sauce
and served it to a reader of Old Norse.
Like Edmund, I'm a lover of the witch
(my second-favourite literary bitch);
King Kong is less seductive and less scary,
and not sublime as much as, simply, hairy!
Some ancient readings made me feel elated,
but Ryan left me sexually frustrated.
Blood tumbled from my nose; I went to bed,
and read the latest work of Armistead.
I had a day of festive conversation
both in and out of my adopted nation.
The Christmas jigsaw featured 2 small horses;
the Christmas dinner, 3 enormous courses.
I fare-evaded in Milan. The Metro
was quite efficient, if distinctly retro.
I curled up in the corner of a hall
whose usual function's linked to basketball.
It snowed; I smiled. (The people of the city
seemed less inclined to find the downpour pretty.)
A chaperone protected me at prayer,
with bovine cheekbones and a mongrel stare;
I doused him with a multilingual moan
and learnt that it is good to be alone.
The year has been a great one, I suppose;
I crowned it with a luminescent rose.
[JANUARY 2005]
I woke aloft; I ran into the sea.
A smiling person shared some soup with me;
and then I went to market, for a look,
and left with two big brooches and a book.
My footsteps trod in time to Philip Glass.
I sat beneath a tree. I made a pass.
With Auckland on my mind I wrote a speech
and did some sums to prove that I can teach.
The designated tour guide was me –
all day (and night!) in Melbourne’s CBD.
When not engaged by academic trends
I played some games with new and older friends.
I conjured up a bureaucratic storm
of signatures. My life’s in Rondo form!
Some days are free of any trace of hurry,
but full of love and Indonesian curry.
What causes us to celebrate the zoo?
It’s hibernation, babies, dust and poo!
The menu for tonight was perfect Thai
then pashing in the park while lights flashed by.
Is being rich a trauma or a joke?
I pondered wealth while watching Queer as Folk.
I wore white thongs to work and then to pray.
I sang some songs and saw a funny play.
I got a friendly email from York’s Centre
for Medieval Studies – I can enter!
I boiled an egg, for my mid-morning dish,
then added lettuce, noodles and canned fish.
I like the works of Gleeson. They display
an optimistic model of decay.
I met a lovely man – who’d like to smother
my world with his – and then I met his mother.
My friend ‘came out’, and went to get his car
from BMW, where morons are.
I read their work and sent them each a letter
with tips about how best to make it better.
I heard some music, read a book and wrote
a page of notes – then went to meet a boat.
It’s always worth the time (and cash) to spend
an evening in a garden with a friend.
As massive orgy’s on for Melbourne’s queers.
I’m at an old man’s birthday party: cheers!
There comes a time when all a man can handle
is taking baths and playing with a candle.
My Sabbath days are times of silent reading,
conversing, cleaning, slumbering and feeding.
If poetry is colourful, then prose
exposes whites and darkness. You need those.
A tent gets hot. The desert Israelites
detested summer mornings, relished nights.
The sea’s the nicest spot to while away
a problematic public holiday.
I sounded like a grown-up man, until
my dinner (and nostalgia) in Box Hill.
An MA day: present a paper (twice)
and meet the Latin teacher (who seems nice).
Another barber sat me in his chair
and sabotaged a short month’s length of hair.
The chips and flounder made the lounge-room smelly.
We gorged ourselves while screaming at the telly.
My college bedroom’s six floors up a tower.
It’s got three lightglobes and a steel-floored shower.
[FEBRUARY 2005]
On one of Auckland’s islands (in my jocks)
I slid from shore to water (on the rocks).
Amidst a scholarly, pretentious space
a Maori pressed his nose against my face.
You’re calling me a cheapskate? I deny it!
(But gladly scoff free salad at the Hyatt.)
I printed empty boxes, heard some rants
and ate some beef in flared safari pants.
Can conferences be other than bizarre?
Felicity named me ‘a future star’.
Volcano-climbing’s a rewarding sport.
Once down, I caught the Airbus to the ’port.
I’m pleased that I’ve returned home from New Zealand:
their anthem rhymes the nation’s name with ‘free land’.
When printing readers you can choose between
a range of hues. I picked Woodpecker Green.
I went to church for penitence and ashes
then to the park for symphonies and pashes.
While Dante gives diversion without fail
Boccaccio lights up the Franklin’s Tale.
Since KFC for breakfast is obscene
I rushed to work and bit a nectarine.
If getting 10 to yum cha’s good, I’d say
that 14 at a concert makes my day.
The carnival was weakened by the sun,
the microphones, and no-one having fun.
For festivals of love do what you know.
I introduced him to the ACO.
Now, even with sustained dramatic pauses
a sermon can’t survive on just 2 clauses.
It’s overt oddness (more than moves and muscle)
that motivates the brilliant Kung Fu Hustle.
At gay bars, what starts out as subtle glancing
segues to outright gaping if you’re dancing.
At church I asked: ‘does rage make me a sinner?’
At George’s place I made four people dinner.
Perplexed by acronyms and homophones
Majak just grinned. I do like Bridget Jones.
I kept on reading ’til he understood
the magic strength of the Enchanted Wood.
For driving home after a BBQ
I’d recommend a BMW.
These O’Weeks are eternally the same.
I opted out with medieval shame.
In 629 I drank a lot of tea,
compared pay-rates and crafted chapter 3.
At galleries the people stop and stare;
I waste my strength on wishing they weren’t there.
If Mahler be the food of love, play loud!
My schoolmate did old Mitcham Primary proud.
I ate a peach and watched The Aviator.
Dicaprio was great, but Cate was greater.
A grand new age of grooming has begun:
I grinned, and gave myself a Number One.
A language class gave pleasure; then I strolled
to Brunswick with a book – it wasn’t cold.
[MARCH 2005]
All afternoon I muttered ‘sum es est’,
and – suddenly – I want a Latin test.
I did some morning work, but that was all:
distraction led me to the concert hall.
In record time the class achieved rapport.
Rhiannon asked: ‘have you done this before?’
I bought a disc of avant-garde-ish rap,
insisting – fervently – ‘it isn’t crap!’
Completing Bleak House gave as much elation
as chats with Clare about the incarnation.
On weekends universities are only
frequented by the loners and the lonely.
I used to relish tramrides. Now I’m liking
my never-ending miles of urban hiking.
I scaled a tower. Finding no-one there,
I closed my eyes and curled around a chair.
The gamelan competed with the breeze.
They took my blood to check for STDs.
The indoor form of cricket’s somewhat spastic:
your score goes down; the wickets are elastic.
We drank to what is coming and what’s been,
to someone truly special: to Ilene!
A modern-day equivalent of Babel
takes place when Thiels surround a kitchen table.
I played the organ and the people sang.
I swallowed cheese and chocolate in Milang.
When ordering the Blue Train’s famous dhal
you have to call it ‘Golden’, or they snarl.
The Poulenc piece was not without its charms,
but Housemate plays a very special Brahms.
I queried Dr Thai about the ratio
of viruses transmitted through fellatio.
Communal study adds a new dimension
to tackling that obnoxious third declension.
Why can’t an office worker walk away
and rest in peace? Because there’s more to say.
At Federation Square a queue was forming.
In Richmond Morgan’s brand-new house was warming.
The Sunday that keeps churchyard palms in fashion
is just the day to hear Saint Matthew’s Passion.
The windows turned to mirrors as I thought.
I wrote some phrases of the average sort.
To cap a day of plenitude and plenty,
in Latin I scored 22 from 20.
I waved to little children in the park
then muttered to myself ’til it got dark.
At times when you’re unhinged and cast adrift
I don’t suggest you teach the Great Vowel Shift.
A day of crucifixion isn’t Good;
I saw a crush of Catholics touching wood.
If you want festive snacking, here’s a tip:
try Gingernuts with avocado dip.
We motored the Maroondah. Driving east
we would have seen a trillion trees, at least!
I crafted something consciously banal
and bought a little book by Roald Dahl.
Diversion’s what a thesis-writer needs,
but not a festival of single reeds.
Abode in Britain is my right: I’ll sever
Australian ties and live in Kent forever!
I didn’t play the piano, but I read
and wrote and ate and thought and went to bed.
[APRIL 2005]
The next day was less beautiful, because
the beanbag made me realise what I was.
The lights went down. The students did some skits.
Their show was life (without the normal bits).
‘The pope is dead!’ was headline of the day.
I purchased Boring Postcards USA.
I heard 3 papers (goodness, what a bore!)
on Playboy, urban parasites and war.
I’ve booked some tickets on an aeroplane.
I’ll stop at London, Bangkok and Bahrain.
I read my lecture thrice. My throat got sore.
My primary terror? Sounding like a bore.
I didn’t need applause enthusiastic
to know my maiden lecture was fantastic.
I spent a day unbalanced by an ear
which felt as though it housed a chandelier.
Does Panadol for breakfast make you thinner?
I compensated with a cheesy dinner.
My healing body put me in the mood
for strolling city streets in solitude.
A movie premieres just underground
from where its action happened once: profound!
To cultivate a gorgeous shoulder muscle
will not reduce the strain of being Russel.
Maria Bamford makes my face contort,
not only with guffawing, but with thought!
An idiot’s been lying to Renee;
I called her up and told her what to say.
‘Ah Philip – you’re my saviour,’ squawked Ganilla,
who’s like a Swedish version of Camilla.
We gave the second Lockwood-Thiel award
to Leigh, and forced bystanders to applaud.
The joy of Warhol’s movies is what’s missing:
The Kiss is just an hour’s worth of kissing.
Tom Burton wrote a scintillating reference.
I’d marry Sarah, but for sexual preference.
The photo-shoot included hands on hips
to activate a thirst for scholarships.
We shared a snack; the Volvo drove away.
The sun – ironically – shone bright all day.
My supermodel supervisor giggled,
insisting that my intro’s fine. I wriggled.
A supermarket trip was getting urgent.
I bought a big red bucket and detergent.
I’m living with a living superstar.
My parents took my bed; I took their car.
They wanted me to demonstrate the town,
but every plan elicited a frown.
On April 25th I hide away
and watch disruptive cinema all day.
I rather think I’m overqualified
to say if morning tea be baked or fried.
When films are not exposed as boring farces
I favour complimentary double passes.
Is shouting slogans all that we can do
to halt grotesqueries like VSU?
I sucked a straw and ate a Whopper (twice) –
and that was after lunch (a bowl of rice).
At Williamstown we talked about our lives,
our differences and why we can’t be wives.
[MAY 2005]
Since clapping isn’t welcomed after Psalms
I let Larissa’s concert hurt my palms.
Preparing for addressing the Roundtable,
my mental health was chronically unstable.
Both Dahl and Chaucer always pull a crowd,
because they resurrect when read aloud.
One day I slept a lot and did no work
(except Renee’s). My family’s gone berserk.
I’ve got the perfect job: I’m getting paid
for reading Chaucer’s Troilus and Criseyde.
On days when she’s resisting getting dark
I don’t like reproducing Joan of Arc.
We saw a film. We crossed a bridge. We talked.
And then he said ‘you make me sick’. I walked.
We’d made a brilliant mess of things, and knew it.
All day we’d sew a stitch, and then undo it.
My boyfriend called, embittered and confused.
Were I a Jew, my liver would be bruised
or cut, perhaps, by sad-man-with-a-knife.
To cope, I bought a soundtrack for my life.
An i-Pod can replace a mobile phone
for those who speak their wisest words...alone.
The mutual exclusivity of learning
and lust’s a Dumb Idea, and needs ‘adjourning’.
Tchaikovsky’s final symphony’s a dirge
which – one night – matched my mood. I felt the urge
to dig a little hole and lie inside it.
I needed hope. Tognetti would provide it.
I proved that I was not infatuated,
but not before my cheeks were saturated.
When what was once a track becomes a file
it gains prestige (it’s data; it’s worthwhile).
My buzzword of the day (‘Diversify’)
provoked a heart-shaped chocolate with my chai.
Professor Simpson explicated terror.
The first word of my website is an error.
My fascination bordered on suspense
while learning the deponent perfect tense.
The launch was fun, and free from chips and smarties,
for medievalists do perfect parties.
There are some wobbly bridges – though we’re buddies –
from History to Literary Studies.
In Murray Bridge I counselled Mum (who’s grieving);
in Adelaide, my sister (who’s deceiving).
I told my friends of fragile love affairs;
then Leigh presented four world premieres.
My breakfast featured artichokes and spice;
but that was just the start: I dined out thrice.
My siblings joined to exercise free speech
and execute some backflips on the beach.
A queer need only stop and theorise
to win a $1500 prize.
Darshana’s research hinges – if I’m right –
on differences between the nip and bite.
I looked at drafts; I looked at DVDs,
and spent the evening trying not to freeze.
I sprinted to the railway station, painfully,
then stared at the evangelist, disdainfully.
When Shakespeare is directed by John Bell
you can be guaranteed that all is well.
I spent 2 hours in pursuit of Wade.
They don’t know much about him, I’m afraid.
[JUNE 2005]
It’s Boot Camp June. I did my 20 laps.
Does swimming sharpen writing skills? Perhaps.
I caught a train, and then procrastinated.
I bought some tasty cheddar, which I grated.
I spent a day distracted by misanthropy,
despite respect for theories of philanthropy.
I finished The Corrections, shaved my head,
drank flavoured milk, and made the floor my bed.
The worship at Saint Francis’ is sublime –
and that extends to Ordinary Time.
My morning lap-count multiplied to 40.
These days my patron Spicegirl must be Sporty.
I marked 3 papers. 2 of them were great;
the other nearly made me hibernate.
I’d write a couplet, if I had the space,
about which preposition takes what case.
I slept in Brunswick, where the walls are red.
I haven’t met the owner of my bed.
We ordered coffees, sat down in the sun,
and all agreed that something must be done;
Then I – while far from stoned and hardly tipsy –
embodied the aesthetics of a gypsy.
I loitered on the station platform, reading.
My life seems full yet – tangibly – unspeeding.
My latest book is Hollinghurst’s: The Spell.
He paradoxes dangerously well.
In Rosie’s tea-shop everything smells wild.
Olfactory excess makes me a child.
I lost my wallet, for a little while.
Its rescue energised an ugly smile;
I can’t be certain, though – I might have frowned!
I helped my teacher move her books around.
I met a flight attendant. We had sex,
and woke with ghastly bruises on our necks.
I ravaged Prue's collection of CDs
and saw a movie, very Japanese.
If I scoffed hot chips every day, I'd fatten.
My language of the day was whispered Latin:
in person – as in number, tense and voice –
the verbs of that dead language spoil for choice.
'Adorable!' a gushing student writes,
comparing my performance to a knight's.
I bantered with prospective PhDs
to some of whom I'd given H2Bs.
I visited the uni sports facilities
where undergrads disguise their disabilities.
Examinations make me want to dance.
I gave the Night Cat's floor a second chance:
my hermit soul, neglected, shed a tear.
I spent a day with Rembrandt and Vermeer.
I looked at England through the eyes of Waugh;
it made me rather desperate to be poor.
I wasted 7 hours shifting sound;
I'd make a list, then shuffle it around.
Philosophy, when read in isolation,
engenders less trascendence than frustration.
I didn't send a card or get a call,
but calls and cards were orchestrating all.
I said 'you make me angry' then apologised,
but fail to see why drinking is mythologised.
[JULY 2005]
Postgraduate symposiums exude
outrageous concepts and an anxious mood.
I helped my friends establish their new place.
It is, in short, an undepressing space.
At church I felt a blend of peace and sadness
as sacred music blew across my badness.
I heard a flautist (famous, far from poor)
but Willy Wonka moved me rather more.
The nightmare's noise was just my father phoning;
I answered with a bout of wolfish groaning.
I crafted lines on what Victorians thought,
then saw 8 movies – some of them were short.
While open-mouthed and pacing reverentially,
I finished Dante's 'Comedy' – eventually.
It's held that Barbara Bonney's fun to burn –
but so are Yo-Yo Ma and Isaac Stern!
My birthday balanced ecstacy with pain
(and all I did was wander through the rain).
As if my life was just a search for treasure
I cruised 3 houses for 3 types of pleasure.
Another person made my plasma thicken.
I rehydrated over deep-fried chicken.
I found my mirror splintered by a guest –
now where am I to gaze while getting dressed?
King Lear's colours range from black to grey:
I'll never see a more despairing play.
'Assistance' of the Research type translates
as loving labour that your teacher hates.
I took old friends to lunch, and then I flew
down South to meet a yet-more-ancient crew.
I bought some boots from Salamanca place,
as well as coal-black long-johns, just in case;
the boots made pretty markings in the snow:
I spent gay minutes leaping to-and-fro.
A bus, a plane, a bus, a train, then trudging.
At home – at last! – my body wasn't budging.
I ran a search for 'Order of the Garter'
then sifted through the (mostly useless) data.
A fresh Piers Plowman scandal: I don't mind it!
I danced around my room, and redesigned it.
Awoken by a Honolulu phone
I laundromatted every sock I own.
I relished campy chats regarding Proust –
but Max supplied the day's most tactile boost.
The media concocted altercations.
The MSO played Russian orchestrations.
We hadn't even made it home before
I'd made my houseguest cry about the war;
to compensate, I ordered him a cab.
The Chinese film was masterfully drab.
With Handel in my ears I took a nap –
this i-Pod is an academic trap!
Concluding is more fragile than beginning:
each sentence stops a different plate from spinning.
When asked if I had finished, I sad 'yes'.
An envelope contained my new address.
If 'Pucker' named the first film – and its meaning –
pornography defined the second screening.
4 girls and I escaped to Sassafras,
resulting in 3 weeks of missing mass.
My new cathedral featured on a pot.
The trees were tall and falling. I was not.
[AUGUST 2005]
I took the vibrant weather as a sign.
Our French guests liked our dumplings, and our wine;
in fact, they liked precisely what I'd show them,
which made it rather wonderful to know them;
and, furthermore, they liked to play guitar –
we gave a gig; the Frenchman was the star.
The 12 apostles reared their ugly heads
while Nerida and Ray arranged our beds;
we left with stars still shining, roos still leaping,
to see the ocean while the world was sleeping.
I saw 2 movies (neither cost a cent)
and then earnt 60 bucks – a day well-spent!
Self-designated shyness is a pain.
My pink umbrella lifted up the rain.
I booked a room at Hotel Mandarin
and felt Migration Craziness begin.
Is Stephanie the world's most brilliant teacher?
Indeed! – for she's a prophet, not a preacher.
Another protest took me to the street
where outrage and blind optimism meet.
I failed to feign indifference (I did try!)
when Briley told me Dumbledore would die;
I ran away to finish off the Rowling
and, sure enough, there's quite a lot of howling.
My thesis lacked a certain glamour. So
I played with fonts and moved things to and fro.
With 2 days 'til submission, I found mates
for films, flirtation, fun; in short, Hot Dates;
but then I sought advice from these same friends
about the way in which the thesis ends.
It's thrilling when a finished work arrives.
I proudly named it 'Anxious Afterlives'.
Submission sounded sexy. It was not,
in part because the office lacked a slot.
My mantra was 'I don't care what you buy, Max!'
(We'd grown apart since visiting the IMAX.)
I know my family loves me, for they tell me.
We gathered to eat seafood, and farewell me.
We followed this with yet another party,
preceded by some oysters and gelati.
I visited the churches of the city
that share my past. They're drowning. It's a pity.
If you desire closeness to a friend
just highlight that proximity will end.
I flew back home to Melbourne. We embraced.
I mocked the ticket-Nazis, angel-faced.
Acknowledging loose ends is not quite...tying.
I surveyed cameras but resisted buying.
I cursed the Liberals in a range of styles
then read the rhetoric of paedophiles.
We welcomed Emma Kirkby's coat with cheering,
but not before some prime-time pamphleteering.
I drank (to help my Physical survive)
and danced (to keep my Spiritual alive).
My friends are all good-looking, smart and funny.
We engineered a picnic. It was sunny.
I stripped the room where once my body slept.
Rereading ancient documents, I wept.
Old Thackeray's obsessed by wealth and vanity!
(His lengthy books intoxicate my sanity).
I garbage-bagged a wardrobe's-worth of shirts,
then offered up my birthday suit. That hurts.
[SEPTEMBER 2005]
I steeled myself with several cups of tea,
then went to school and handed in my key.
I emigrated on a cloudless day:
a lucky sign? or Melbourne screaming Stay?
Meanderings through Bangkok (all alone)
were interrupted by a toothless crone.
A Thai massage is brutal and fragmenting –
and only barely mutually-consenting!
I caught one plane, and then I caught another.
I'd never ventured further from my mother.
Some sites of London time has rendered plain:
they're so iconic as to be mundane.
At least the God-forsaken sufferer Job
avoided awful acting at the Globe.
I looked at Chaucer's tomb and thought of bones,
then elbowed through a crowd of Royalist clones.
To counteract 6 tubes rides in 1 day
I settled with Picasso and Monet.
The whole collective psyche of the Poms
is tickled by the last night of the Proms.
My first UK communion tasted sweet.
The Dean's address was (wisely) indiscreet.
I advocate disruptive conversations
when taking part in shared perambulations.
I lifted up the telephone, and dialled;
I saw the English countryside, and smiled.
Each Oxford church employs a world-class choir
and manages at least one Dreaming Spire.
I saw a Roman statue, lacking arms,
but sculpted chests are not without their charms.
I dined with Michael, Alison and Leigh:
a most delightful (if surprising) three.
The air was full of ecstacy and smoke
as I got high on Earl Grey tea and Coke.
I knelt in Christ Church, sat in Gloucester Green,
and wandered through a travel magazine.
I ran a bath (accompanied by Bede –
a furious if formulaic read).
I took the road that Chaucer's pilgrims took:
but I was in a bus; they, in a book.
An energetic afternoon was spent
exploring sites along the coast of Kent.
A pre-pubescent choir makes a noise
more suitable for sperm whales than for boys.
Before engaging Frida Kahlo's stares
I analysed a piece on grizzly bears.
I travelled north, for something else to do,
and met not 1 Mancunian, but 2!
I saw a church-choir sing and, wanting more,
I heard a rock band in a record store.
A slumber party's alternately serious,
convivial, unseemly – and delirious.
I played a gig in England – aren't you proud?
The band was soft; the audience, quite loud.
Inside a church, an organist was booming;
outside, a coal-black northern sky was looming.
It's love (as much as agony or loss)
that unifies the stations of the cross.
A mile of neon lights announcing curry
will flip a hungry man into a flurry.
[OCTOBER 2005]
An afternoon's wet labour in the garden
made my resolve to see Canal Street harden.
I saw, I danced; I got to sleep at 5.
My waking thought? "It's good to be alive."
(It's sick, I know, but there's an explanation –
since I was 4 I've suffered from Elation.)
My single bed looked oddly incomplete
within my lofty, light-bespeckled suite.
To reach the shops I strolled along a wall
from which, one day, I'd rather like to fall.
To cure my cold I swallowed citrus, sliced,
and read Cistercian thought concerning Christ.
I woke at dawn and, sipping tea, I mused.
York's nightlife left me bleakly unenthused.
While not a famous sportsman, on the whole,
I donned some shorts and blithely kicked a goal.
Who doesn't gain a certain elevation
from big cathedral tinntinabulation?
At last I went to school. My peers were pale –
if grinning was assessed, the class would fail!
I stormed to campus, cursing British banks,
who mean "we hope you die" when smiling "thanks".
A childhood feeling swelled up from my knees
while charging through the forest, climbing trees.
I riffled through the archives of the minster
and chimed declensions for a scary spinster.
I murdered Virgil; lots of brains were splattered.
I stood to leave and 60 seagulls scattered.
I rather like to moralise and preach,
but only rarely practise what I screech.
I placed my third black coffee on its saucer,
which freed my hands to praise the Kelmscott Chaucer.
I fell asleep in ancient paleography;
I'd rather study Javanese ethnography
(which says a lot). The next day's class was blander –
could it be time for aid work in Uganda?
I got a chequebook; tins fell to the ground
enacting an apocalyptic sound.
My teacher loudly urged me: "seize the chance
to ponder early Anglo-French romance!"
but I like Anglo-Saxon (incer! inc!) –
it's perfect for reciting while you drink.
I got a bike for free and got it wet,
then mingled with my oddest Catholics yet.
For me the muttered phrase "go take a hike"
translates "depart, do what you really like."
Italian offers speakers who are living
(a gift that Latin's not so good at giving).
I overslept, but then got reimbursed;
my Middle English drama group rehearsed.
A woman gave me food; a man, a flower;
a second man, some chocolate and a shower.
Because degrees are governed by chronology
I read a very early martyrology
plus Augustine's Confessions (what a saint!);
I then acquired rouge and body paint
to angst the duller folk of my new town
by conjuring a terrifying clown.
At Saint Olave's they venerate their bells
and like creating sacrificial smells.
My bike lacked lights; by 5 I had to hurry.
Inside my bag, the writings of Les Murray
[NOVEMBER 2005]
(who makes me cry but also makes me think).
I glanced at the cathedral – it was pink!
To cycle through the countryside is pleasant.
I saw an empty barn; I saw a pheasant.
I proved myself an expert finger-licker
before imbibing Riesling with the vicar.
My football playing put me in a muddle;
I woke to find my body in a puddle.
Does high-church mass still qualify as feast
when it's just you and Jesus, plus the priest?
10 random types (5 female and 5 male)
trecked through the nicer parts of Nidderdale.
When just a boy I relished stirring mince;
I've favoured well-done fry-ups ever since.
It rained a lot, which hardly rates as news;
I worked from 9 'til 9 without a snooze.
Hawaiian Guy appeared in York. We ate
a Yorkshire pudding each, and stayed up late.
The ancient town was circumnavigated,
which took more strength than we'd anticipated.
Max took his leave; I sounded out a lecture
replete with criticisms and conjecture.
I tested Leeds and then, in turn, was tested;
I did my best but – in the end – was bested.
A well-lit morning found us in the park
exchanging news best suited for the dark.
I played my fiddle for an eager crowd
of folk who drink where listening is allowed.
Back home, I brewed some tea and dropped my script
allowing me to punch my wife, who tripped.
(I speak of melodrama, anxious readers...)
I queried Romance with a bunch of breeders,
then tried, in tones both grandiose and frantic,
to woo the other side of the Atlantic.
Ophelia cavorted 'round the stage
as if her arms could paint the show un-beige.
In Leeds I met some people of the street;
they drank their grog, I swallowed smog. I eat
a lot of loaves but hardly any fish,
so stirred some salmon in a salad-dish
then watched my drumsticks sizzle in a pot.
Attempting to become a polyglot
takes field-trips; so I booked a continental
escape. Self-diagnosis? Temperamental.
Some Stuttgart singers made my ears expand
by making canine yelps seem weirdly grand.
Bad actors formed our cast's most crass majority –
they lacked experience, but craved authority.
Saul's singers were controlled but luminescent,
to match their giant set, which was fluroescent.
Madonna helped me walk, and to deny
that looming shapes were patterning the sky.
Outside, directors screamed at one another;
inside, I scrawled some thoughts about my mother.
Some ice fell from the sky onto my jacket;
I gasped, but then decided I could hack it.
I'm in a happy class; we have no qualms
concerning talks that terrorise the Psalms.
A bishop was enthroned. I read a book
that taught me how to love, and how to look.
[DECEMBER 2005]
It took a quarter-century for me
to have a person ask for my ID.
The first pew held a highly-strung professor,
in front of my new friend (a fine undresser) –
so how was I to act? I felt conflicted.
My hose defined my hamstrings as "constricted".
I sat beneath a dome and read some French,
since Latin priests had made my molars clench;
I loosened them with roasted aubergines,
and wondered what the Revelation means.
I bought some giant lilies, ripped their stems
and set them in a vase beside my gems.
I pushed my bed against a wall, exposing
a room as good for dancing as for dozing.
A sold-out movie left me in the lurch
before I died (by poison) in a church;
the Brontës karked it, too. I saw the chair
on which the second died. They've kept her hair!
Examiners' reports will never match
the heat it takes to make a thesis hatch.
My brother got engaged; I got some tea,
and wrote on topics meaningless to me
but absolutely central to my study.
I took a stroll; my rubber soles got muddy.
I made some joyful music with my mates,
and sent my applications to the States.
My sister sounded closer than she was.
I ran away to see a film, because
in Manchester I just don't do enough.
My essay's tone was smooth; its message, rough.
I passive-smoked by sleeping on the couch,
then studied Hell's eighth circle, second pouch.
Guitars are not as violent as I'd feared;
I stammered out a minor chord, and cheered.
A train returned me to my native village
at which I danced, and dodged unsober spillage.
I made green curry from a jar of sauce
and served it to a reader of Old Norse.
Like Edmund, I'm a lover of the witch
(my second-favourite literary bitch);
King Kong is less seductive and less scary,
and not sublime as much as, simply, hairy!
Some ancient readings made me feel elated,
but Ryan left me sexually frustrated.
Blood tumbled from my nose; I went to bed,
and read the latest work of Armistead.
I had a day of festive conversation
both in and out of my adopted nation.
The Christmas jigsaw featured 2 small horses;
the Christmas dinner, 3 enormous courses.
I fare-evaded in Milan. The Metro
was quite efficient, if distinctly retro.
I curled up in the corner of a hall
whose usual function's linked to basketball.
It snowed; I smiled. (The people of the city
seemed less inclined to find the downpour pretty.)
A chaperone protected me at prayer,
with bovine cheekbones and a mongrel stare;
I doused him with a multilingual moan
and learnt that it is good to be alone.
The year has been a great one, I suppose;
I crowned it with a luminescent rose.
20 statements | make a statement