I
In the quiet street an
unacknowledged jettatore fixes upon
a passing feline.
II
As the modern cars move
parallel to grey pedestrians.
I take a strong dislike
to a malefic debauchee—he’s
too shoulder-close at the newspaper stand.
III
Out and about after the airline trip
I radiate ojas—apparently the women
of the city like treacle
(thankfully I do not smell
like the corpse of hatred).
IV
Though I have not met
the approaching academics, their
undulatory waves press me
breathless against a concrete wall—
I almost drop the morning paper.
V
In the hotel lobby, whilst savouring
breakfast odours, a passing porter
attempts to mesmerise me with potent od—
I dodge the fluid emotion
make for the lift
and a workaday shower.
VI
Those aesthetic goldfish, multicoloured
creatures of coral, frenzy up
as I pass—I experiment: my hands
comfort or incite
at random, at toss of a dollar coin.
Seems
I am naturally beneficent—
they will not need the fish-food
for six times seven days.
VII
Though diseased guests are
locked in luxury suites
I am forced to brave the un-medicinal air
of their corridor jaunts—right here:
the excrescent energy of a lover
stifling to his beloved.
I’m exhausted as I reach the door
of my own room.
VIII
Having showered I sleep
to alleviate the tiredness, notice
in the sprawling that
this hand
soothes the solar plexus
this other
draws living juice
from the liberated heart—the transfer
is intense
a three hour dialysis.
IX
Over-looking
dim-lit rectangles
solid with brick and concrete,
cold steel and mathematical, I feel
a rush of love—this I direct,
squeeze gently from the tea-bag
(comes rich aroma)—then collapse
among conference paraphernalia, all
strewn upon the double bed—
and know for the first time, with relief,
that your tumor will be benign
(will heal itself).
X
It is the same day
in a different city, and
the evening undresses,
opens the temporal gate
wide enough ajar, that I
can place my foot in the door.
As I do, I clasp the relic
you gave me—makes vivid
our charmed purpose.
You know that stone?
I remember it
about your neck.
As I imagine
it positively glows
and I know
that you like me to think
about you, even
from a great distance.
Ian Irvine is an Australian-based poet/lyricist, fiction writer and non-fiction writer:
His work has featured in many Australian and international publications, including Fire (UK) ‘Anthology of 20th Century and Contemporary Poets,’ (2008) which contained the work of poets from over 60 nations. His work has also appeared in a number of Australian national poetry anthologies, and he is the author of three books and co-editor of many more (including Scintillae 2012, an anthology of work by over 50 Victorian and international writers and poets). He currently teaches writing and literature at Bendigo TAFE and Victoria University (Melbourne) and lives with fellow writer Sue King-Smith and their children on a 5 acre block near Bendigo, Australia.
Links related to his work are as follows:
robin@artvilla.com
www.facebook.com/PoetryLifeTimes