Indecorous Grace

 


Railing at institutional incompetence isn’t a
gauge of wit unless it is to abuse, admonish,
assail or berate, and having aired that lot, lay
the blame, castigate, censure, chide, criticize,
or lambaste; the blank looks received suggest
you may need to lecture, give a talking to, or
lay down the law, even denigrate, disparage
and denounce while still staying ahead of it

Then comes the notion to rake over the coals
along with intent to reprove, reproach, ream,
reprimand, scorn, tongue-lash, vilify, maybe
vituperate a bit about how better things in a
world would be if these ineffectual imbeciles
didn’t grandstand themselves

You see it isn’t working by the way they are
thumbing through Thesauri with amaze that
so many words expressly describe treatment
appropriate for their ailments; shaking your
head is the most sensible modus of exit and
you do so with indecorous grace
© 30 April 2013, I. D. Carswell

Definitions Of What Matters

 

While not saying I’m giving in, clearly
they are plans for such contingencies,
like simply agreeing alternates to the
main route with lesser stress although
distance doubles; and that’s sanity in
a new flavour to trouble you – novelty
in definitions of what matters, a taste
too obviously out of the left field

That it redefines itself as anarchy isn’t
lost either, not that you care knowing
I won’t get my own way but will get to
where I want to go, and I can live with
it; making the adjustments shapes an
illusion this World’s actually real
© 29 April 2013, I. D. Carswell

Dead Poet (rev)

 

I’m sure it would be easier to survive as a dead poet;
I mean it in the surmise I won’t be tempted to revise
or rewrite a poem I wrote last night, or poems I wrote
last week (which make me cringe when I read them
again), or reading poetry of way back then, poems
of a pimply boy wracked in the paroxysms of youth,
that I won’t be savaged by mortification, seized by
towering rage, patronymic patronism, devastated
by how far I’ve come apparently without simply
moving an inch.

All the while I thought I was improving, faster to the
interior rhyme, quicker to the slick rhythmic change
of pace, the clever about face in the turning of a
line, wee dab of assonance, some slick alliteration,
the sublime ending. In the final rendering I am still
the same stationary, sole survivor, alive because I
never really learned how to die.
© I.D. Carswell

Full Moon

 

A full moon loomed huge out of the East
hanging free, no mistaking its omniscient
presence, no clouds veiled the slate grey
face remarkable in a twilight sky; to the
West blooded hints of setting sun flared
brief farewells. It was an easy afternoon –
talking babies names with the parents to
be, finding comfort in their intimacy

Marika and Ed grace this pregnancy with
an affection freshened in elegance, it is
so appealing we’re wooed, charmed, see
stars engaged turning celestial wheels –
there are good omens riding the waves
singing songs safely guiding them
© 25 April 2013, I. D. Carswell

Tubbing

 

Tubbed me old mate ‘Podge’ this arv,
wasn’t too fussed but for standing up
with paws on rim like he’s the one in
charge; seriously, in JRT lingo bath’s
a deviant, dirty word with fantasies –
so we called it a shower, no way’s he
ever being bathed – so ‘a sensuous’
massage ensued with lots of froth

He’ll cop the worst of a wash with a
veteran’s sang-froid can he escape
to roll luxuriously in crap soon as it’s
done – but not today; he had been
hoodwinked clean by a mate who
carefully planned his incarceration

So he’s cooped up in the guest room
listening to radio with doors secure
for an hour or more – then we’ll see
whether he’ll stoop into conformity
with a view deeming ‘clean’ dogs
don’t need smell of chicken poop
© 23 April 2013, I. D. Carswell

An Awe-Filled Age (rev)

 

An awe-filled age, not to be misinterpreted in
arthritic clichés or sagging epithets, it was the
era of endeavour, and there, in centre stage,
mid scene, the most stunning sister you’d
have ever seen.

She was radiant, not just beautiful – that is
wind compared with Etna’s expressions of
grandeur, an exception and a rare proclivity.

To think she was just one of us, an ordinary
soul who cared, and still delights, dared to
break a mould, yet shared her triumph –
spread and aired her faerie wings in flight.

Had she aspired to dizzy heights she could
have flown the coup of sedentary vision,
but it was decision time, she knew collisions
of the course she flew would reeve her heart
but she was smart and good enough to
guarantee her soul was always true.

And where she flew was there into the
learning children’s hearts. A teacher born
and true who made the classroom view as
one that still delights
© I.D. Carswell

ANZAC Day

 

The night before Christmas has less angst
than the eve of this celebration – we don’t
see it a fête normally, but then it isn’t any
ordinary suggestion a placatory tot of rum
wont ameliorate. ANZAC Day, in its own a
vaguely confused conglomeration of battle
reminiscences pooled into harmony, ideas
of the supposedly ‘greater’ commonsense

I’ve seen more children marching at dawn
than the sad veterans I knew, recognising
a few as heirs of fellows and friends, once
or twice removed, but I’ll take my chance
solitude of a rum tonight before a sunrise
demands the next impossible advance
© 24 April 2013, I. D. Carswell

This Cue

 

Perhaps it is the theme today, things
so certain yesterday are cast in a new
hue, expected events don’t ring true
to perception, the supposed gremlin
infected antics of my PC judder back
to cosmopolitan views. There’s scent
of revelry evident & I know hence I
should be even more suspicious

But not today – I’ve been played the
fool too often to miss this cue; if it’s
my swansong begun – so be it – I’ll
walk the plank gaily knowing the sea
is deep & really wet. An ambiance of
this munificence is too good to miss
© 24 April 2013, I. D. Carswell

Thinking Straight

 

Another of those dirty little ‘secrets’ – we’d be well
within our carbon reduction ambit had we reduced
immigration; seems theatrically blasé and drear so
soon after our first debate to make the observation,
but worse is to come, there isn’t an honest enough
Canberra politician to agree. Their security’s based
on population growth, if natural birth rate won’t do
it then it’s over to an immigration panacea

So if you wonder why annual population growth is
OECD’s highest don’t fall for their ‘larger families’
explanation; as long as there’s an increase of 1.7%
per annum for political (& economic) security, you
won’t likely see a change in debate. Demographics
only say ZPG is dead for ‘affluent’ minorities

A claim we will have 40 million people here within
20 years isn’t hard to equate, but it’ll be damned
difficult to brake current carbon emissions enough
to provide a stable living environment; of 23m we
have already you’d like to think a few could see it
as a lay down misère without a future in it

What we need is a debate on political expediency
equating failure to decrease carbon release to an
equally balanced reduction in representation – be
rid a politician a year as analogous to greenhouse
gas target reductions a megaton each, initially
at least until they can think straight
© 23 April 2013, I. D. Carswell

Our Demesne

 

Doesn’t pay to make plans as they haven’t
a chance in this diocese; not that I’m in the
least clerical, it is a term I use with a sense
of awe – the little I know about such things
is a confessional too much. Not that I’m an
aficionado – or an adept, but there’s a fine
line of irony in viewing the ecclesiastical as
a mess of good expectations gone awry

Bit like my cleaning the washing machine –
excuse me you’ll say, that’s bizarre, maybe
it is but washers don’t ‘agitator self-clean’ –
takes intervention, dissembly, wasting pre-
allocated time to achieve, delaying the next
load of washing and hanging out to dry

So why bother? Hard to say, maybe sotto
voce propositions activated a guilt-sense
with results justifying the intervention; if
it was meant to be, so be it – who knows
if or what is rationale, or for that matter,
honestly whispered common sense

But somewhere along the track is a logical,
no-nonsense belief you’re not even close –
so the morning rolls on until we’ve a time
niche, an occasion to scan the next event
before a morning shopping trip like we’re
actually in charge, as we’d planned

Sequentially we’ve corned beef cooking,
bread to bake, banking to write up, plus
reminder lists of grocery shopping items,
easy-peasy if you like while my morning’s
poetic creation’s in being & underway but
less an uncomplicated conception

Sad to say it’s the third time I tried to end
this epistle – something’s amiss in my PC,
some assorted s**t hits the fan freezing it;
after two restorations failed cleaning it any
guarantee of defeating those demons who
purportedly lurk within seems –

The unmitigated choice of our demesne!
© 22 April 2013, I. D. Carswell

Something Simple

Making an issue of something simple as A B C
isn’t exactly out of this World when the letters
you see are ∑ ∂ ₭, or maybe I got that wrong
and we’re not heeding anything except vivid
imaginations; if I’m headed down a path that
suggests revelation isn’t at least ‘ooh ah-hah’
away perhaps we should wait a bit. There’s a
big gap between responding to a question as

Verbal cues suggests you must, and actually
understanding what to say. The Lawyer in me
asks, ‘Just what do you mean’ and I respond –
‘It is best not for me to say – and frankly if I
did I’d most likely be putting the exact words
I want to hear into your mouths’
© 19 April 2013, I. D. Carswell

Appraisal

 

Having tried to stay away from measures made
in an anarchy of arcane machinations - & failed
leaves me lesser than the leery discards of old
aphorisms; where one believes truth is counted
as numbers of kind words or even agreements
without inane or profound commentary on any
inconsequential observation, and including the
term ‘toilet seat’ – I’m amazed it was left up 

Fate usually pees discretely by sitting down so
to speak, and it’d figure for what’s termed the
‘normal’ seat configuration; anyway that’s bye
the bye in this day and age where we’re told a
new set of rules apply, but no-one’s appraised
just how we should write, or leave the seat
© 5 April 2013, I. D. Carswell

The Useless Years (rev)

 

Supposedly our Friday lunch ritual was to be
seen eating somewhere on Lambton Quay,
we always discussed the ultimate military
sandwich between pints of Guinness, or
whatever took our fancy.

Then meandered our way through the City,
aiming to be at the Annexe by 4:30 pm, for
Home Command happy hour. They were lazy
days, crazy days, matched with mad memories
which made the City bearable.

Hazy days and easy ways to spend the useless
years ranging lower rungs of the rankings. And
in the thankless potpourri of an overmanned
and under-achieved Army we were free
to come and go as we pleased.

You’ve paid your dues I was told, there is
nothing for you to prove, take a break – relax,
go for a jog if you’ve surplus energy. Leave
the mundane business of running the place to
the Brigadier and old staffers like me.

You’ll be posted to a line unit again soon, then
you can be as Regimental as anyone can and
grin and bear it. Meantime get out of here.
You look too goddamned Gung Ho in that
scarcely worn-in Lieutenants uniform.
© I.D. Carswell 2007

Formerly ‘The Ways To Spend The Useless Years’

Apologies to Benny Hill

Viral Lethargy

 

Well, mower #1 wouldn’t start – not that
I tried making diagnoses of what might
have been wrong, that’s too clinical for a
tiny bit of lawn remaining from mornings
ride-on fly-by; it’s the wee bit where pot
plants were placed out to soak last night
in welcome rain, a dismounting difficulty 
– call it laziness, caused that omission

So mower #2 agreed to start after fuel
was added to the dry tank, #1 just sat
contentedly, impervious to threats and
won its case for a return to the garage;
maybe it explains that a lassitude I’m
unable to shake’s a similar viral strain
© 18 April 2013, I. D. Carswell

Revelation

 

It was thus dressed in common-sense and
placed away from the crumbling edges like
an uncanny recognition; if debris it seemed
more an articulate addendum reflective of
sincere regret, expressively coherent, and
there was room to take it in without being
overwhelmed or alienated: you mean new
views are the same old ways, you suggest

Ensuring echoes of awesome tranquillity –
no affirmation is needed to comprehend, a
clear and unapprehended understanding
comes as an adrenalin rush; now who’d be
mislead such by revelation thinking aloud
you ask needlessly – and silence agrees
© 5 April 2013, I. D. Carswell

Gee Whiz

 

Not amused, just slight chagrin [ '∫ægrin,
∫ə'grin ], i.e., annoyed, irked, peeved, but
it’ll pass; this commentary’s supposedly a
‘Les Walters’ smartass bit of journalism in
its dialect, don’t ask, hawing at us cursing
foreigners too easily scoring our ‘sacred
Aussies only’ jobs – which they do easily.
It’s all about accuracy and speed to whit

Its writer cites a foreign-born comedian as
ventriloquist’s dummy or stool pigeon in a
pathos of flippancy where we’re flung into
time-honoured burlesques too pathetic to
be real except in cynical humour dressed
as our national character – oh, gee whiz
© 8 April 2013, I. D. Carswell

The Stakes

 

No dearth of lethargy to strain my muse
no rhyme or reason intervenes – a clean
and quick but tedious decease would up
the stakes. One can’t forsake the scenes
where ageless energy proliferates, that’s
repeats of comfort’s theft of memory – a
wage one pays as errors make the grade
too steep a climb without a walking aide

A cane bequeathed me in my wayward
youth defends a view I’d ever heed the
truth, and if I did would soothe a move
dependency quite ruthlessly dictates –
so I make my way with words I choose
before they too are drafted all astray
© 11 April 2013, I. D. Carswell

Famous Victory

 

momentous occasions, an Aussie winning
the US Masters (first time since 1934) &
me cleaning the fridge; not that the time
difference equates to similar events, the
record’s duration implies either stymied
lack of ability until recently or the news
inundation this morning tracing strokes
of the playoff – maybe it got me going

Augusta isn’t the realisation as much as
side-tracking creative avoidance through
endeavours buoyed up by Adam Scott’s
victory; conquest of chore evasiveness
complemented by a win such that even
later both celebrations seemed real
© 15 April 2013, I. D. Carswell

Tides Of Excess

 

So I can replicate the electricity bill in an
Excel spread-sheet – bully for me; there’s
due sense of success, the figures agree
their calculus of cryptic extension – ‘tho
veiled in disbelief that I’ve accomplished
anything in reality. So I know how power
generated in our solar panels accredits,
the figures do agree, bonus’s do accrue

But there is no way I am convinced it is
truly saving the planet from overheating
or worse, sinking into the morass of our
blessed overindulgent-beliefs; so I just
can’t see carbon futures weighing true
to the tides of excess we’re navigating
© 17 April 2013, I. D. Carswell

For Harry (rev)

 

He cut his hand and it bled, the flesh
inside was red and the hurt discounted
vibrant flows of blood that pulsed eagerly
from the wound. But he was a warrior,
a son whose mien did not countenance
the pain so he stalked scornfully from
the field of death, the wound bound
casually in strips of flax

When he returned from the dead he said
he cut himself hunting pigs with a bayonet.
I remember the way he said it, bandaged
hand borne nonchalantly, a shy smile, an
unambiguous admission, but he was scared
more than I knew and dared I should know
for I learned, and we made amends for his
sore, disabled hand. I wrote for him as I
couldn’t read the words he penned to tell
our teachers what he knew, and thus I
learned a new Harry.

When I wrote the first poem he said
it was too much for such triviality,
the death was metaphoric, after all.
Time passed quickly as it does
and our meetings were rare,
and then I was told he had died.
I cried, I was ashamed I never spoke
with him and his beloved fiancée,
telling that I cared and shared their pain.
Now forty years on I am writing again,
but Harry, poor Harry, is dead.
© I.D. Carswell

For Harry Walker, my Training
College roommate in 1964