The Fishermen

I wish the teenage me
could see us older men -
fractured rime of shyness/
birdcall warning & invitation in our chaotic
nests of lives half finished, half lived.

As fishermen, our boat defines us.
The rods have life only in our hands.
To actually see the trout
with its filament arc of fin
slash of quaking gill.

Eyes settle on the surface,
its pillow of drift.
Then, like the Cape Barren Geese,
move to the layer below - stop!
A kelpie mind
is less than useful.

Webs of the extraordinary hang
between starved & splintered twigs.
Hard enough (in all things) to be "normal".

The teenage me
would recognise the other half.
Encouragement from some things done
then a gravel-shaking head
(I was an "old" young man)              "Did he never learn"?

Summary, epitaph always
too much thinking, not enough fun.
Reticent, weak but adaptive...
a few good stories.

This hotel is built around its fireplace, photos marking
some Vice-regal visit fifty years ago.  Ralph and I are feeling very zen
around a bunch of country men
who haven't seen an Asian since their war.
The regulars sail these walls.

We are intent.
When the publican comes
to stoke the fat gold fire
he twitches towards our talk
of winter flowers & rust.
His older smile suggests
our timeline needs more yet
of wisdom, pain & wear
before it's rich enough to bear.

Beside The Road To War

Like a currawong's wing
combing tangles of air
or the pulse of waterskin on this sated lake
                                                let me be lazy.

Beside the bat-squeal shifting, pitch fruits of a roosting tree
twigs accrete by the hand's-span brook ...
        a minute dam of tadpole consequence.
                 White cockatoos weed & grumble -
                 we cannot ask for still
                                              so let me be lazy.

Stock markets crumple then soar,
money gibbers around the globe.
Roads stretch to fit our waistlines
as soldiers camp on contended land.
The Cyrillic of white
on the black swan's wing
is no battle plan for any general.
                                      But my eyes are indolent
                                      & those paths will not crack the world.

A cranky call from the water hen to planes overhead
then I am back amongst gesticulated argument
still based in the caves -
"we need more", "they want ours". Greed & Fear again.

Willows trawl the lake,
eels archive the histories of mud.
Time to replace the old tribal gods -
they've started & won every war.
            The Peoples of the Book
            should throw those books away.
                   There comes a time when blood outweighs the ink.
My father is dead,
let the wet-coal tortoises mind the plinth
& we'll sing our hymns to fish.

A seagull is whisking a cloud in the shallows -
your sleep is disturbed! You're lunch!
What surrounds us is not serene. Crows are singing "Little Lamb", each
weed is a contest.
But it's the violence of the blinking eye, hum of the skin.
When blood is let loose
millions of cells become individual lives with their own
brief dramas & fates.  Is each worth any less
than the great lumpy thing that grew them?

I'd chain our leaders to weathered wooden benches
until the infection of birdcall subdues their hands.
         Immobilised eyelids will surrender
         to a day of casual forage.

We need peacekeepers
to patrol our heads. With lazy as our prayer,
train ourselves to say enough. Intelligence will listen as each day
becomes its own statement of intent.

(previously published in Ken Again)

Les Wicks' books are "The Vanguard Sleeps In" (Glandular, 1981), "Cannibals" (Rochford St, 1985), "Tickle" (Island, 1993), "Nitty Gritty" (Five Islands, 1997), "The Ways of Waves" (Sidewalk, 2000), "Appetites of Light" (Presspress, 2002) & "Stories of the Feet" (Five Islands, 2004).

....assembles an amazing cast of people in recognisable often dark places. With fine detail, their domestic & working lives are brilliantly portrayed. - Anthony Lawrence

He's performed at festivals, schools, prison etc. Runs workshops across Australia & is editor of Meuse Press which focuses on poetry outreach projects like poetry on buses & poetry published on the surface of a river.

Web Site

Email: Les Wicks

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