Sunday, December 12, 2010


“Everybody knows that you and I, from that trembling branch picked the apple.”
Forough Farrokhzad, Conquest of the Garden (translation: Maryam Dilmaghani)

We were both so raw back then.
I still have our photos
And they look
Almost primeval.
You were sharply cut
And I was chiseled.
You were like a goddess
From a fifties movie.
I was more like the hero
Of a forties western –
Grim greys and watery whites -
Ashen against your deep shades
And your eyes’ glossy lights.
But we found something
There in each other;
And, with loving hands,
We sculpted two into one,
One day – one wonderful day -
In the ancient Near East
(As diplomats used to say).

Once you were so close
That I could smell your perfume.
Every now and then
A wisp of your hair
Tickled my cheek.
You seemed so gentle
And you looked at ease
Even though
You were so close to me.
I longed to kiss you
And pull you closer;
But I could not do it.
And yet you looked at me –
Your flashing eyes
Said you wanted me to react.
But I could not do it.

The next time we were so close,
I was just grateful
For a second chance.
So we kissed
And I held you so tight
You should have swooned
But we stayed upright.

And so it began – you and me.
Your body squeezed so hard against me
That we regretted only our clothes.

Monday, December 6, 2010


There’s noise in naked night
That Shakespeare never heard;
Rumbling rubber on roads,
Whirling wheels on straight steels,
Shrieks from the late late show,
Buzzes, bells and muzhak,
Din from domestic discs,
Air conditioned exhaust.

Those among us who can soundly sleep
Never hear these constant crass squalls,
Ever drifting much more inwards,
Content in dozing detachment.
Others endure all the static,
Seeking to unravel meaning,
Before sliding to slack slumber
And dreams that end halfway to hope.

Friday, October 8, 2010


David Morisset's first novel is now available for purchase through Amazon and also via CreateSpace. To buy it at Amazon simply go to and search for books by David Morisset. Alternatively, for CreateSpace, visit and follow the simple instructions.

Inspired partly by 'Bijan and Manijeh', Ferdowsi's epic romance, 'Conquest of the Persian Garden' is the story of two people from vastly different cultures who fall in love despite established loyalties and the chaos of Iran's Islamic Revolution. David Morriset brings to life the vibrant city of Tehran as it was during the last days of the Shah and traces the fortunes of vulnerable individuals as Iran's new rulers begin eliminating potential opponents.

Friday, July 2, 2010


Trumpets stream sticky strains of juice
And jugular contortions.
We've heard it all before,
Complete with conceit,
Tongue-twisted with distortions.

How many nights this week
Have you cried before sleep?
How many months these years
Have you stopped to stifle tears?
Add them up and check the sum,
Then count again before the auditors come.

You know it's nearly over
When the trombones belch and blast.
Then the soprano saxes soar and trill –
More breathy terror than throaty thrill.
Responding seems so useless
But you try a march at the scary score,
Which is just so bloody hard to do
With your feet nailed to the floor.

What romances can you truly seek to begin
When there's no more willing hearts to win?
How does the end of hormonal heavings display -
Pure boredom, or some silly kisses to mark each day?
And yet your weak mind urges new climbs both hard and long -
Like those you scaled when you were still so young and almost strong.

Then the drums rumble to the front of the room –
Bang and bash and kaboom!
There's expectation and longing
And perhaps a chance to resume.
But the horns move back to the fore
And brass sets the tempo just once more.
So you creep to the edge and you cry,
Knowing all that is left can live on if you die.


In the quotient of quiet granted
To the deep hours of a winter morn,
There's a continual hum
That scars the calloused cold
And cuts the tender dark.
And you can hear the occasional rumble
Of a train, with its jarring warning horn.

Somewhere in the distance
A siren screams escape
And, closer, a black dog begins to bark.
But sly sleep brings its sleek deliverance
And ferries the fragile dreamer away
To places you can't get to
In the leering light of day.


I never once threatened the world order.
I was far too shy and inclined to mumble.
I never ever pulled at Atlas’ sturdy ankles
To see if I had the strength to make him stumble.

Yet I was earnest and committed enough
To make some progress at doing some good
While I provided adequately for all my own
Because I felt the cold state never should.

Then those pathetic putrid looters
Came up behind me to bully, ambush and bash –
Callous bulls in a fragile china shop
Plundering nothing less than someone else's cash.

All my years of work and all my days of faith
Counted nil, indeed much less if it be fully known,
And hateful hyenas picked my carcass dry
Then they let sun and rain and wind grind each bone.

So now I recline here rendered dormant,
Never again to dare, never again to choose,
Wondering if it feels in any way better
To lose when you have much more to lose.

Thursday, March 25, 2010


The Fellowship of Australian Writers recently held its annual presentation of National Literary Awards at its Melbourne headquarters.

David Morisset's poem, "Persian Princess", was 'Commended' in the John Shaw Neilson Poetry Award (sponsored by Melbourne's Collective Works Bookshop).

The poem was based on a pivotal passage in David Morisset's novel set in Iran at the time of the Islamic Revolution.