for Daniel*



the country singer has gone to the city

packed all his chords and a harp

how the voice of love sings

in New York

his part in the harmony

stepping between tramways

along avenues

he finds a new stanza

picked like a flower, put

to the lips of new promise

and her meeting with

soft-eyed recitals in cafes and bars

the tenderness

singing

awakening each heart



Martinos © 2016

there are none so blind
who are
wronged and righteous

there are some seeing so clearly
who are
wronged and compassionate


MChallis @ 2015

child- small voices sag
bomb-smoke rises from the ground
far off, birds still shake

Billy Striker blown
to Holland, the north sea wind
took weeks to fall

beforemourn chimneys
slate rooves yawn hunger,
one cigarette draws breath

moon crater on the
road to Derry, limousine
sarcophagus lands

siren scream and scrape
tears rigor mortis frozen;
the sea now quiet

hands across water
missing fingers, Gabriel
silent, the watcher

he’d stopped to look
smile asking the time of day,
pressing the trigger

one small death for man
one giant death for mankind,
eyes search behind moons

bicycle wheel turns
awkward lazy arm protrudes
broken flaying skin

obliteration,
scalpel dissects argument
camera’s detail

a.m. paper print
fortresses build stone by verse
each wall a chapter

retaliation,
leopard stalking, counter plot
begun in blueprint

burnt flesh of kingdoms
republic’s frost bitten dogs
bark anger blood ***

interrogation,
splattered kneecap agreement
hands shaking silence

investigation,
no stone unmoved, evidence
a silent quarry

old man keeping dust
one eye swollen, hunching armour
his grief in buckets



MChallis © 2015

The three of you
waving your brave little hands,
smiling love and mischief at me
through the tinted glass
of the big green bus.

I’m standing tight to the kerb
screaming at the concrete
as I smile
waving back with gusto.
‘I love you ‘
mouthed in silence
‘have I failed you?’
a silent question.

I wave until you’ve turned the corner -
gone in a juggernaut like
stolen children;
the street where we laughed
only a minute ago
now more empty than a new coffin.

I walk back to the car knowing we will go through this
again and again
- every time you visit for the weekend.

dingly fingly
wickety wackety
overflow going up
crickety crackety
and all of the dangen, the
dingin and dongin and
on and on and onagain onagain

snippety snippety
spinagain spitagain
flatabout backwardsing
flatabout forwardsing
sobusy thisbusy
toobusy stressfactor
not stopping till rictus
or blowups and messfactor

notlearning notlistening
gofigures upratcheting
notseeing nothearing
ambivalence hatcheting
all in dingly the
wickety wack
the edge up approaching
from whichety which
will be no coming back


MChallis © 2015

To wonder where on beaches or in skies
Lives freedom
Or to contemplate of clouds
The nature of their making
In this
I am moved
To mouth the names of ancestors
To call in song dear kindred, for whose imprints
I sweep the sand
In fragments of faltering dreams
A search for meaning
Where breathes an origin of founding stars


MChallis @ 2015

Weather’s coming up soon lad, talk is, three days,
no catch for a week then*

Connors’ folk slough to the Arms
in the shape of four or five,
a tawny pint floats the hour,
and by seven the place is alive.

My father now by the edge of the groyne
is a gaze half mast at the sea,
as he sails himself to the brink of an isle
and turns a yard-arm to the lee.

He sets on his oars the cataclysm of waves
he casts the wind at his hair,
swears salt is the sword in the taste of this life
and not what falls with a tear.

He'll treble a note in harmonica muse
and rustily **** a bone pipe,
spit saliva colder than frost on the grease
and never complain of the gripe.

Running the wind or roaring the cape
or rounding the sound of the wire
his name is the take of all seafarer kin;
the hearth, my heart and the fire.

My father the salt, the seafaring man
a wave in the seas as they glide
now found to the ocean,
a son to the sea
the son to the father; my guide.

Of chapel bells
and after day’s dry summer wind
chimes angelic chorus
hangs in lasting configuration

My father’s rye-grass covered hills
tremble with a breeze keeper’s song
as he gathers up his grief

Mother folds away her weeping
folds away her dreams
until they are still

Mourners will soon move to chapel
to offer compassion
and glances from a distance

My brother
born yesterday, took no breath
from summer’s day

sang no breeze keeper’s song,
felt no dry summer’s wind,
yet heard
the farewell of bells

and dwelt there
harmonic
in tintinnabulation

To my dead son or daughter
I left you
Let you pass
Kept you out

Frozen
The mark of
the palmist foretelling five children
I climb this hill now with four at my side

Your memory: A shadow on the distant range
where eucalyptus is to its last
the blue mountain

Though I climb and four grow
the wife that was then is now gone
her grief and her echo

Still I sense the soft pad of your call
the tug of your passing
and then almost
the first breath of greeting


MChallis © 2015

the first line of a poem is a window,
to let the light in
across the sill

through each imperfect pane
swirls in the glass
amend perception

to look in
alters the view

the next line of a poem enters further
into a room, many rooms
where light falls diffuse;
to pass down a corridor and touch patchwork, or

thread edges of fabrics
of lived in textures

and in so touching
alters the view

the third line of a poem makes a home
for the heart
to take up residence,
to visit where spaces and shapes partly familiar,
alive at the peripheral,
perpetually shift

and most importantly,
alter the view.

Martinos © 2016

How will you show up today
Will your burdens badge you
Or will they anchor
A simple purpose
And from gravity
And with sinew
Will you continue, with will
To rise?

MChallis @ 2015

... I think I'm pregnant to you.
I think our hearts have joined.

A poem is worth so much more in the delivery, so
I place my trust in Australia Post
and the efficacy of the clearly marked post code.

I heard that love is intoxication:
so I purchased a bottle of wine grown in South Australia
and hoped to savour just a taste of you.

There’s a chemical released in your brain when
you meet someone you love;
its dying to meet other chemicals.

But I can’t cope with that kind of expectation,
and I’m too young for equanimous adjustment.
It’s too much like needing a sedative after the *** you almost had
when you thought your girlfriend was coming to stay for the night.

Don’t think I’m bemoaning the fact that you’re not coming to stay for the night,
you live on the other side of the continent.
I accept the disparity of our geography.
I accept the arterial nature of the freeway system in human relationship
after all, we’ve all been told where roads lead.

Did you know that if your name was translated in Spanish?
I'd be interpreted as a conquistador with no hope in the tropics.
And did you know that I’ve always wanted to wear a superman suit and
keep nothing out but steady rainfall?
If you think about it, this is a potent philosophy.
  
Mephistopheles considered certain questions and theorems.
He found the intrusion of chaos theory and the disruption to the order of the work ethic unthinkable.
He found the mature and calculated response simple:
he told the ******* to articulate and pontificate elsewhere.
So please don't get any ideas.

This brings me back to my remaining piece of news:
Regardless of the fact that it’s medically impossible
I think I'm pregnant to you.

Please write soon.



MChallis © 2015

Between grey sheeted sky, and
Grass green covered fields

Among dips and contours
Of clear rain water pools

Magpie and Currawong
Engage the other in carol and furtive call, in

Clear precise statements, morning reverie,
Tuneful trill and soulful segue, their

Full repertoire of robust conversation
Brings song, community and particular joy.


MChallis @ 2015

In the world
I can get busy
busy mind
getting distracted

away from where
the centre is
away from where
what matters

this poem
these poems
we share

these poets
saying hello to poetry
keep bringing me back

to what's essential
to belonging

MChallis © 2015

I look over my shoulder
you’re watching me,
with a green tree-frog sitting on your  shoulder.
You’re both smiling.
So am I.
Your photograph goes on repeating its smile, day after day,
it never tires
or has a day off,
just waits to share a bit more of your enthusiasm.

You’re there as I wake each morning
reminding me we’re inseperable.
Even now I can hear you say,
“you know the river finds its way,
you know the tree was once a seed..."

Two thousand kilometres, seperate cities, seperate lives
serve the paradox of our closeness.

Your photograph reminds me
love will reveal itself with each day.
The 'I  that loves you'
is beyond us both,
to understand it
is as impossible
as interpreting the smile of frogs or the speech of trees.

'I love you'
lives outside a definition;
there’s simply no explanation needed
as we inhale.

MChallis © 2015

I was
presumed missing on
an angry afternoons walk
across an ocean
of bitter pills
that swallowed themselves
in brown bottles
labeled caution
keep away from
me
and I feel
the scream of an angry after-blade scraping
across the glass that
keeps me
in this cell
you listening through
a telephone
grown surgically
from the hand
of providence
longevity
switching tables
when the waiter
wasn’t looking
to eat the camembert
the cream
and all the opportunity
that was supposed to go around
like loaves and fishes
but I only see
an empty pond
and you floating
fat belly
full of everything
except the guts
to come clean
and to even give
a good ******
but you don’t
and now I’m out
and you will
‘cause you’re *******
razor blades
and I understand
because
I would be to
if I were you
but
I’m not
don’t say I am
don’t ever say that
you know
that makes me feel good
when you’re on the floor
like
the ****
I ****
saying
“fark man
you’re free
you’re out
you’re clean”
and I’m all over
you
forever,
I am so over you
I’m all through you
I am you
I’m the lane
in your vein
‘freight train
to the brain’
I’m the reason
the mirror
barks back its bite
I am the only reason
you're out at night
I am your only ******* reason,
don’t forget it or
good night!


MChallis © 2015

Great heart lives
In the sea of dreams, where
The gentle soul knows
The wonder and power
Of even the smallest ripple, and to
Touch just one
With love's caress
Is testament profound
To a life well lived.


MChallis @ 2015

Rust, that un-used plough
vigilant in a swallowing green
shares the fugue
of various machinery.

And in tangible mist
milk-cans emptied flood the ground,
cows are sent back to pasture,
fence posts are made ready to burn,
in an afflicted winter
burning cold in the comfort of sorrow.

If an old crow happens at the cloudless
this is more omen
than the shrinking market.
And when the shoulders of my father
farming this winter
are no longer brave enough to carry
the sky
I carry his gun to the gate;
we walk a silent trail
to shoot an enemy
that never comes.

The cold sun; a bright nail
pinning us, the blue weight
pressing horizons from reach.

My father
searches this expanse,
his hands extend
to something...
but I see
they only move
to wave away flies.

If there is any comfort...
my hand in his
is cold this winter.

crash the barriers
test the waters
ask the curious question
make a list of to-do’s
include
-  put the weapon down:
abuse
glock
razor
fire-cage
gelignite?
whatever
just put it down - if not
how should you proceed?
terror rises in the east
fear rises in the west
does each
respond in kind?
curious word, kind
no kindness in retaliation,
do solutions exist?
crash the barriers
test the waters
grieve the stricken
forgive the horror
whatever ways you decide  
remember
this is not a poem.


MChallis © 2015

For Allen*

Listen

Listen  oh heart
                           to the mystery, to
the breeze dancing trees, to the
silent ripples that cross the quiet lake

go within where they go, oh heart
go to the shore where wisdom awaits you
tread the circumference
honouring
                  honouring each discovered treasure
when you find them you will know and embrace them oh heart

they will feed you
they will be simple

MChallis @ 2015

i read:
do not read these words

too late

i read:
wet paint do not touch

too late

I read:
open your heart open your mind stop reading

just in time


MChallis © 2014

Along the swale
turned upside
down behind the windy-windy
capturing a moment
as keepsake
before – just before the foredune
crests in green belted
spinifexes and tail-back blooms
the salty sea shakes away
and forefront washings tide the shiny sand flat
as we marvel gambol frolic free;
liminal at the margins


MChallis © 2015

I’m waiting for you to leave me
but you don’t

I’m waiting
for perspective
to re-appear,
for
diminishing return
for warmth from distant appreciation
but you don’t leave

I’m inhabited
the meal doesn’t end
the wine re-fills itself

surely time will take you from me
a little further off
so I can wave
the small wave, of
loving friend

rather this
than retain the air
where you might have been
imagining that you hold me

as you do

wet gutter stone
submerged in the rill
blackheavy and round
and the weight beneath me:
a smooth cold killer of light

night is a forest
wet banquet of noise
small epiphany’s happening at street lights
and wild-life electric

far off are the radios
the occasional violence
hits the melancholy,
hangs with urban drifters
patches up a night sky

night is a forest, a jungle of audible character
damp activity
light and shape struggle to hold meaning,
as momentary glimpses
glistening with hope
capture an uncertain semaphore

Drown in the blue sky
the blue sea
the green land
and all the while white waves; of wash,
cloud or smoke arising.
On this rock I am every particle
I can see, and more than I am,
none of this, and separate is
my life a paradox continuum
inexplicably explained as
stable passing impermanence;
if I could drown in the blue sky
I would do it flying.


MChallis © 2015

For Douglas*

In a land well trod
not flat but deep,
etched in lines of song
on ridges red by ochre
and once upon a time, by slaughter.

This at the hands of our fathers.
Now hidden in history’s shadow
the ancient’s heritage not well understood
or anguish felt for them, whose suffering
echoes across seven generations.

What could be cherished
with such spirits – the gentle natured wisdom
that does when recognised
nourish and unblemish
the white wash of ignorance
that once invoked atrocity as necessity.

To pause and touch this capacity
for recognition, to offer meagre apology
as but a humble first limp, albeit powerful beginning,
to the ongoing actions of forgiveness and compassion to
heal this red land and join in unison
the lines of ancient song.

MCHALLIS © 2015

Domino’s as their fingers,
the numbers
eating from the menu,
squares and rounds
enjoined but not sequential

In the Jazzy Cat Café
(tail curled in my mouth)

You weren't there
The sun had dried all the tomato’s,
I was calling you unanswered
missing the rythmn of your character, and
how you reached me with each impulsive smile
remembering earlier how...

we’d climbed eleven steps to your apartment,
and entered not really sure of where to next...

In another room;
(wooden floored)
was stored a blackboard menu,
a hostess said her welcome
in the way that Sultans sometimes spin

I asked for panini without the mayo
the waiter stirred the perrier
the singer sang without destination
and implied no journey

I heard her song and
watched her lips
missing
    all the ways

that you might sing


MChallis © 2015

cursive arm
arcane
encompassing form

verdant hip
in moist tropical air

shoulder to storm or zephyr, cloud mist arising over
culdera and precipice

vulcan formed soft-soil
in fecund sleep
the circumference

paternal line
maternal steep
ancient cradle

bundjalung, first people
watchers listen deeply
this river their song


MChallis @ 2015

"In a spiral galaxy, the ratio of dark-to-light matter is about a factor of ten. That's probably a good number for the ratio of our ignorance-to-knowledge. We're out of kindergarten, but only in about third grade."*
Vera Rubin

In questioning existence
It's purpose and
Our place in the universe
The disprover looks for evidence from the Galaxy

No matter how extraordinary the measurements
Such as the size of the sun and it's distance from the earth
The ratio of dark to light matter
The number of atoms in each molecule of carbon
The countless number of solar systems
The disprovers will find no evidence of purpose or cause

I wonder if
they might be looking
In the wrong place

MChallis @ 2015

There were painter’s clouds that day;
broiled and tumbled,
moving inner silence across an easel.

Beneath them
a concrete mind mixed and etched
one long brush-stroke;
the tarmac before us.

Excited engines carried us along
and carried by us
an air befriended...

with the convertible top thrown down
your hair streamed behind
olympic colour; a spectrum of extraordinary.

Your head held back a sunrise laugh
and all the wind
belonged to exhilaration.

Ahead of us, the horizon captured another sky,
a mist-green hail filled sea; that ominous litany.

A pallet knife scratched its lightening
and the danger of no potential
that kept us moving on.


MChallis © 2015

For Jan*

as
a breath will happen by itself
as
water will find the way to flow
as
gravity will hold us to the ground

I will love you always
and this will be as
natural

From ambivalence to ferocity, she
Touching everything at times
Gently her soft hair over
Follicles and skin through
Reeds in marshes and then
Grassy planes
Across thresholds
To the leaves of autumn
From antipodes to tropics
From arctics to alps

Even the immovable
Will feel her
And they too
Will tremble

MChallis @ 2015

They have a ball here,
their backwardsing
their forwardsing;
the rainbow lorikeet, the pink galah, the dove.

Along and up and down
the ridge line of this hill
like an airway
a real high-way upon which they fly;
the joyful chattering squawks and squits
of sheer intent,
to move
quickly to the next excitement:
a blossom, a floral, a pod
a nectar.

And then again to
dash about,
to go together
to make this urgent
to make this such essential fun.

MChallis @ 2015

His fixed black eyes,
turned, like a mother's to her sorrows
eight metres down in a hole
dug for concrete.

His workmates call hoarsely from the rim
but only see and hear
his nothingness

- “he was just here a second ago"

His neck is a broken spirit,
fingernails are torn away
he'd flayed against the earth
falling indefinitely for one and half seconds.

The young concreter,
carefuly finishing his glide work
at the edge of the slab
had stepped back to admire
the reflected perfection of the sky.

His mother receives the news before the slab
is no longer a mirror,
she pictures him falling and
thinks of the last time he called,

- “I only spoke to him yesterday"


MChallis © 2005/2014

Fiona

a beach ball floated on the waves
it bobbed and rolled and went along
if i was fishing that day i would have seen it
- there on the beach  
and above
a hang glider left the grassy cliff
to swing his feet in time with
sea gulls who never tired of laughing,
he saw their white wings and the crests of the waves beneath him,
they were one and they were many
but there was only one beach ball
floating and bobbing along.     laughing
in many colours
at the fish in their sea
and the birds who looked like clouds

Angie

a happy face floats in the air
it has a curling ribbon tied to it
i think it is a balloon
a bright red balloon

Eliza

crystal jar - tight sealed lid
full - full as you can be
bursting sometimes with colourful buttons
of all sizes
they are names, and when you call them
they dance
like fireflies scattering into dark places
they light the world with campfires
we are warm,  apprehension runs away when you
sow these buttons  and
we're all well clothed
with garments so richly fastened

Cassim

a feather brushes the nose
of the giant
will he sneeze
or carry the bird?

Kat

excellent tennis is rare
I think of Wimbledon
the best of the best
the court divided
as are the spectators
they cheer, they sit in silence
they see you serve, they see you lob
they see you backhand a winner
they see the choice of the chosen
and when victorious
you acccept the trophy
and the defeated

Kat - again

ok you’re a bird
then fly
fly above the nets but
don’t stop for trees that
look like antennas
and when you pick through leaves on
the forest floor and
find the king of worms,
eat him slowly
he will feed you forever

Sheridan

the sharp sword cuts sweetly
it leaves a cool incision
knowledge is apprehended and
the red well flows over
fields are rich
strength knocking timbers
builds a house,
we live and eat well,
your house prospers
you are graceful
your love is light
and air is for breathing


MChallis © 2014
www.martinchallis.com

Rodney the Tormentor came toward me,
a slick sneer edging the mug of his leering mouth.

He prepared the next barb garnished with a delicate sliver of dry ice.
What was he going to find to ridicule this time?

My hair too long, too short?
The art assignment a pathetic attempt at literature?

My bowling action; a cross between a mental patient and a broken wind-mill?
Knees too bulbous for any normal person?

I thought, not today.

I’ve had this, like this, for almost two years
everyday
each day a new torture, a new laceration of clean practiced words
and me accepting the torment with the dull weariness that comes only from unkind relentless repetition

allowing the beast fresh meat
thinking, hoping one day he’ll stop
surely he’ll tire of the incessant need to ridicule
believing one day the ‘****’ jokes will dry up

but they never do

such is the never-end brutal articulation, the
verbal incision, the cruel words of blunt destructive beauty:

teenage confidence stumbling like a novice boxer
dribbling with fresh bruises

but not today
the animal hunted turns
to find precision and strength in defiance  

it is the time to wound the wounder
and then all
that follows

‘Rodney the Tormenter’  going down       the windless scream of one blow
two years in the forging           one first and final blow
one strike                               one out

a fist gutting                                        and nothing gets back up

the art gallery attendent           the other students on excursion
the teachers,  all as if complicit in retribution, like a magicians audience
look the other way

and Rodney down                       solar-plexus perplexed

the swift shock in defeat
and a new entry in the part of Rodney’s brain that stores
future possible outcomes to hitherto unchecked actions

decades later I can still see his face in that ghastly micro-moment: pain, shock, horror
and most surprisingly


relief.







MChallis © 2005/2014

For Pamela*

True love is my companion
She guides me in delight
She whispers all the names for love
With soft attending might

True love is my companion
A swirling heart of one
A blaze of pure intention
An illuminating sun

True love is my companion
She dreams beyond my dreams
She is where the compass points
And all that's in between

She is sunlight bathing
A soothing gentle breeze
Water from the mountain
Harmony and ease

True love is my companion
As gentle as the dove
Within the heart's dominion
My companion true, is love

when there is nothing left
but the need for sleep
all the body can do
is close the eyes
it will not need
for a time
and find the hollowest
part of a calming memory
to tuck away into
releasing the need
to hold anything
save the desire
for peaceful
slumber

from deepest rest
there can be a return
to the world where
possibility re-awakens
and with morning
the opportunity to
go again
to attempt what had
the night before
been unimaginable
and impossible

MChallis © 2014

At the end of our road
A straight road
Of dusty gravel
Well trodden in all
Our passing,
The waning eyelid moon
Rises omnisciently, anointing
a bedazzled sea;
light-scape dappling, dancing.

On this night
at rest at sleep, as
many others, we may
not attend
the ancient eye, in
perpetual orbit
slowly winking
her way to shut.



MChallis @ 2015

it comes
in increments
inches
waves
torrents

there is no doubt
it comes

as errand rider carrying notice
as sense
or sentence

or possession
in the shape of an ember
an inkling
to be cherished or else extinguished

like fire
a most certain feeling
the writer sensing
begins to write
to see what will

not knowing yet
the finishing
or the toil to come

or what's to follow
from that first immediacy
yet knowing that it must follow
and it will

MChallis @2015

Wind patterns
Wide the grass plains

Fans dance invisible
Her caterpillars

Cloud shadow
Racing their backs



MChallis © 2015

The un-discovered country;
in his eyes
when he praises you.

He attempts to hide the nervousness
the rate of his breathing increases.
His father never gave him praise. 
Never gave him glory.
Never it seems, made him the special centre of the moment.

And yet now he works this gift for you;
does it with no experience.
Is motivated by the desire to see you grow.
To see you swell with growing.
He stumbles over foreign land.

A son: your father.
Not measured by calibration.
Not perceived in weight or wonder but
as hard stone,
the slow carved mark
sharpening on
unborn generations.

You walk with him.
Your hand in his.
The path new, yet well worn with wishing.

This image is an invocation:
Father and son, two friends like fire,
like kindling, like warmth.

If we imagine this for many sons and
for many fathers
perhaps  
it will not be
so much further off.



MChallis © 2015

Suitably respectful, and
never asking for trouble
or the time of day
I wait at home-station
like a cattle dog
My master, absent in the midst of a promise

My bones wait for flesh
My theatre
for Godot

As factories burn
As droughts become floods
As Apollo is a god sending chariots to the moon

I’m ten years beyond birth already counting ways
to escape the infirmary

The hallway mirror
holds an apparition of silence
And over my shoulder
Is reflected a leafless tree
of seeming indifference

There may be leaves one day
but who can say

I wait
like Didi
for what I mean

investigation of light shift

spanish inquisition to a button

stigmata of machinery

clear engine chrome

flow-mouth wonder

wild nozzle-play

fascination thirst learning tide

inch at a time

mouth of splash

rill
river
lip
tongue
eye-flash and
silver

spooning the slurp-wet

fleet captains patrol, cry’s,  enough

squeals for more quenching      



MChallis @ 2015

Some stars are set free to come live with us
Some live with sadness thinking they do not shine in this heaven*

sweet man
you are not abandoned

you are formed in the shape
of brilliant light

you are brilliant life
in the visage of life

a free heart brother
cry not your river

your brothers steady you
in their rock arms

and in turn, you are
the expression of this


MChallis © 2015

on a southwind eagles fly,

majestic gliders forensic eyed, poised

on shifting drafts of autumnal clear-skied air,

on breezes yearning steadily from southern seas,

from seas afar,

deep blue dark realms of wilderness and mystery

whose fathoms cold, swarm with micro and macrocosmic life;

all forms to balance and connect this natural world

by land and sea, in ocean and air, on wing and eye, all upon which

this life of ours so utterly depends, as it does

when on a southwind

eagles fly





MChallis © 2016

When attempting to recall what has passed,
or working to see what lies ahead,
our memories and predictions
will only take us so far.

Inevitably, to see all that was and all that could be,
we must humbly and boldly return
to the images that arise,
through the gift of imagination.


MChallis © 2015

Wet winter on a beach
everything is grey

sky and wet sand

decorates the feet
of seagulls
skylarking
hauling left-rights through the gusts

Seaweeds embellish the foam
Bobbing their heads
up now and again for rescue

Each rush of wind seals an escape from
sense and
silence

In the maelstrom
I merge into obscurity
The sounds of my weakness unclear

Smooth nothing
black and white
paradox

not dangerous
not visible
not cloud mist or tears


MChallis © 2015

the voice of cynicism
with imperious wisdom
informed by circumstances past
where through defeated expectation, corrupted naivety
perhaps wounded vulnerability has been
disappointed on innumerable occasions

and chanting incessantly
in a cavernous register
"there is no hope - there is no point"
and louder
"there is no hope - there is no point"
and louder still
"there is no hope - there is no point"

would have you adopt this epigram as your own
in the belief
that if you do
the prophecy of self determined hopelessness
will be affirmed and validated

its unspoken fear of course is that you will leave it there
abandoned and alone in the cavern of its own arrogant despair

so here's an idea
surprise it
take it with you
out of the pit
take it for a bicycle ride on the beach at low tide
**** it in a ruck-sack up a rocky ridge
swim with it in a lake with a sandy bottom and willow banks
invite it to the funniest Robin Williams film you can think of
above all else, let it experience your unconditional positive regard

constantly
continuously
repeatedly
offering counsel
in all the tones and voices
of unrelenting love


MChallis @ 2104

On a back street in Mexico City meal sellers tend their stalls,
dark faced men feed from ceramic bowls,
menus are simple in black-board and chalk
everything is flavoured with chilli and
huddled shoulders reveal little small-talk.
Street lamps throw more shadow than light
and gas leaking from somewhere
feeds the air with an acrid scent.

I stop for a bowl of chilli-beans,
beside me and one over at the bar
a young man with matted hair and
heavy eyes unwraps a stained cloth,
takes a shard from a broken bottle and
neatly incises a small vein in his wrist.

He lets the blood drip evenly into a saucer
beside him and in the other hand holds what seems
to be a quill made from an eagle feather or some large winged bird.
Dipping the quill in the gathering blood he begins to write
in a leather bound book
on tawn-coloured hand made paper.

I watch every move.   No-one seems
to care or notice that he does this.
He writes on and on, scratches a word,
dips again -  the blood flows more slowly;
what has gathered seems sufficient,
he spits in the saucer takes a shot of clear liquid (probably tequilla) and adds it to the mixture,
I assume this is to stop it coagulating.

My meal and appetite have gone cold watching this process.
When the blood-ink is all but used
he folds the book away, wraps his wrist in a stained cloth and
walks into the street of shadow and meal sellers steam.

The stall holder notices me and approaches:
“Si signor this is Miguel the poet of the people.
He is coming many times to write this way.”
He smiles at me. I pay for the unfinished meal and he says,
“The poetry for the people is in his veins amigo,
is this not so in your country, are you also having such a poet?”

I leave him.   Return to my hotel room.
Take out portable type writer and clean white paper

And begin to write
in blood blacker than ink.


MChallis © 2015