"We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started
and know the place for the first time." (T S Eliot)
"A dark and chanted verse is what I am." (
Forough Farrokhzad)

Friday, December 16, 2011

ELSINORE

I became a stranger here
Before I knew it for sure.
I speak in a language forgotten
And I remember a history forsaken.

My eyes see ghosts in every doorway
And my ears hear words of the dead;
But my voice must have been discarded,
As my shabby shrivelled body was shed.

Acquiescence is met with indifference.
Protests draw sneering black scorn.
And it's best to expect more of nothing,
While praying that nothing will come of it.

Merchants and state see me as revenue
But they no longer value my labour.
At times I'm their temple's scapegoat,
Cruelly bled white for sins of my neighbour.

Mostly it seems sleep is my only true friend,
So I spend these ghastly winters in Elsinore:
Perhaps it's death's noxious dreaded nightmare
That bids me choose heartbreak instead of the horror.

Thursday, December 15, 2011

STATUE

You stand straight up like a statue,
So I expect a state like stone;
But I touch texture unworldly -
Precious as if it were only on loan.

You speak with a sparkle,
Rippling with rhythms so strange;
My ears can hear your soft songs
And I revel in reading your range.

You veer into my vision
And I see your beauty so clearly;
Yet my feeble old eyes must blink
To take in your splendour so nearly.

You come to me so fragrant
With a perfume like pleasant patchouli;
And I swoon to its enchantment
Lost in a lair so wild and unruly.

You always draw my famished mouth
To a precocious point where I can savour
Luxurious lips and petal-scaped skin
Rewarding my love, my lust and favour.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

ABOUT BLAGGARD AVENUE


The following is the author's note which prefaces David Morisset's new novel.

When I was an economist I was always making forecasts. I was seldom sure about them. One prediction I can make with reasonable certainty is that there will be some people who will conclude that this novel is an account of the plight of Trio Capital Limited. That conclusion might be regarded as understandable; but it will still be wrong.

The first draft of this work was completed in the early months of 2010. It was inspired by a comment made by a financial journalist about the shady origins of some of the people associated with the Trio case. Taking the reporter’s lead, my story was based on a simple premise of explaining the murder of an unscrupulous fund manager. My first draft was finished well before any of the criminal realities underlying the Trio affair became known to me or to any other member of the general public.

In turning my first draft into a more coherent story over the past year or so, I tried at all times to ignore the facts that emerged as the extent of the Trio fraud was gradually exposed in the courts. My aim was to run with the story I had invented in my own mind. In my view, I succeeded.

For the sake of the investors and others who suffered because of that fraud, I hope that the whole truth about Trio will one day emerge. At this time much of it still remains a mystery to all of its victims, including me.

So this novel is fiction – nothing more but, of course, nothing less. Likewise the characters are my own creations and they live only in the pages of ‘Blaggard Avenue’.

BLAGGARD AVENUE



David Morisset's new novel, "Blaggard Avenue", can now be obtained via CreateSpace at https://www.createspace.com/3671233 and is also available through Amazon.

"Blaggard Avenue" is a simple yarn set against the complex backdrop of Australia's huge funds management industry and the country's ambitions to become Asia's premier financial hub. The plot pits the naive, the gullible and the opportunistic against the ruthless, the efficient and the powerful. Fund managers, commercial lawyers, financial regulators and criminal gangs match wits in a contest that will produce more losers than winners. The author draws on his first-hand knowledge of the financial services sector to create a fictional world where risk and return take on extreme dimensions.

Monday, October 3, 2011

NAHAL*


"Eat, friends, drink, and be drunk with love."
(Song of Solomon 5:2b ESV)


When all the poets are dead
And none can write of love,
Then the crows in black robes
Will have their victory.

But no man can stop
The sun from shining
Nor can they stop its children,
The flowers, from blooming.

More poets will spring up
From the dust of the earth
To sing and dance and laugh.
Couples will always fall in love
And know that it is good -
As God intended it to be.

* Payvand News of Iran reported in September 2011 that Nahal Sahabi had died at her own hands not long after her lover, Behnam Ganji, had also committed suicide. Both had been arrested in July 2011 and treated harshly in Tehran's Evin prison. Nahal was a kindergarten teacher and an accomplished poet. Her only crime - apart from touching upon political themes in some of her poetry - was that she was a friend of Kouyahr Goudarzi, a political activist accused falsely of being a member of the Iranian Mojahedin (MEK). Mr Goudarzi later fled Iran to continue his human rights advocacy in exile. Just before her death, Nahal wrote on her blog: ‘So it’s Thursday again ... come, Behnam ... let’s dance together on Thursday once more.’ Iran's regime frowns on dancing. Nahal's name means 'a young plant'.

Thursday, September 29, 2011

RIVO CURRIED SAUSAGES


Just for a change ... a recipe for those cold rainy nights ... and the reason that Rivo is in the name of the dish is that when the curry powder and the cayenne pepper are added at the same time they look like just the maroon and gold colours of Riverstone's rubgy league club ... so, although the cayenne pepper is optional, it is strongly recommended ... just adjust the amount to your taste (or use a mild curry powder and spice it up with the cayenne pepper) ... 

2 tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil
1 tablespoon of dried oregano
1 tablespoon of dried basil
1 tablespoon of dried coriander
2 tablespoons of curry powder
1 teaspoon of cayenne pepper (optional)
1 dollop of tomato sauce*
1 tablespoon of worcestershire sauce
1 cup of water
500 grams of cooked penne pasta
500 grams of cooked sausages (pork or beef or both) sliced
1 can (800 grams) of chopped tomatoes in juice
2 large red onions coarsely chopped
1 large green capsicum chopped
2 green chilli peppers sliced and diced (optional)

Pour oil into deep 13 inch frypan on high heat.
Reduce heat slightly and add onions, chilli peppers, capsicum, oregano, basil and coriander.
Cook with pyrex lid on frypan, stirring occasionally, until onions and capsicum start to become tender (about 5 minutes).
Add the sausages and continue cooking the mixture with lid on for another 5 minutes or so, stirring occasionally.
Add the curry and cayenne pepper and stir into the mixture with water.
Add the tomatoes (with their juice), worcestershire sauce and tomato sauce and stir into the mixture.
Heat the mixture until it is just boiling.
Immediately turn down heat and let the mixture simmer gently with lid on for about 5 minutes.
Stir the mixture and lay the pasta on top of the mix.
Simmer gently with lid on for another 5 minutes.
Stir in the pasta and continue to simmer gently with lid on until the excess liquid has evaporated.
Keep warm until you're ready to serve it (tastes even better reheated the next day after a night in the refrigerator!).

Generous servings for 2 to 4 people depending on the appetites involved!

* "for sweetness and that extra tang" (to quote Paul Kelly's 'How to Make Gravy')

Sunday, September 18, 2011

SENSES AND SEASONS


We saw under the sun
And looked through the dusk.
We watched in the dark
And made our own sight.
We woke to birds’ cries
And heard as leaves browned.
We listened in the rain
And recorded all the sounds.
We treasured scents of summer
And enjoyed them in autumn.
We played in winter’s perfume
And saved it as our pleasure.
We touched in searing heat
And caressed its fresh sequel.
We made love in cold air
And warmed its chill with us.
We tasted sweet sun’s skin
And savoured it in shadows.
We coiled in coldest night
And cuddled in crisp light.

Note: The painting is by Aldo Luongo, an Argentinian artist.

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

RUMI'S FIELD


"Out beyond ideas of right and wrong there is a field, I will meet you there."
Rumi

There's no time left to take a chance again
We wandered and left our moment behind.
At first our choice was separate paths we took -
'Til there was no way back that we could find.

You sauntered and drove yourself to wreckage,
I climbed and I tried and went much too far.
Your end was tragic and much too early,
My fall was slow but led me to our scar.

Somewhere there is time we'll spend together -
In Rumi's field where there's no right nor wrong.
And those who see us will be like we are:
Glad to be one amidst a misjudged throng.

Saturday, August 13, 2011

SONGS FROM THE SECOND CIRCLE


David Morisset's second book of poems is now available via Amazon.

It can also be purchased at CreateSpace (please see https://www.createspace.com/3659254).

The collection explores themes ranging from the romantic to the overtly political. David also endeavours to describe some of the pleasures we can know in today's messy, but still beautiful, world. Despite the shotgun-like diversity of his poetry, it is distinguished by an habitual return to the promises of new beginnings arising from failure and, at times, tragedy.

Thursday, June 30, 2011

CULTURE SHOCK

Nobody looks remotely like me
But the ladies' dark eyes are lovely,
And tresses so sleek and skin so smooth -

Gold ranging through to black-like blue.
And I can't understand a word
In the cascade of conversations -
Foreign face to face, almond eye to eye -
And loudmouth tones

On smart mobile phones.
Signs slide by in swirling scripts
I cannot decipher at all;
And alien blurs flash by foggy glass,
Waiting just to ride like those of us inside.
But then a voice breaks into my state,
Steered by static and strange accent,
And yet still clear enough to give the gist
That guides expectation:

'Strathfield next station'.

Friday, June 10, 2011

WHITE SWAN

You sailed into the creek
Of my muddy life
Like a sweet white swan
Looking for a lake of lavender
That was serene enough
To bear your beauty
And secure enough
To greet your gracefulness.

But I knew all the time
That you would paddle onwards –
Another body of turquoise water
Was always beckoning you.
Its conceit made me seem sickly,
Bereft of cerulean sparkles,
And deadly dank with rank remains
Of ruined possibilities.

So I am left at a loss
As if I’d been dredged dry;
But the remnants of ripples
And gentle wet waves
Of your perfect presence
Are still lingering -
They will finally splash one day
On a shocked shore of rock and rubble.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

PRANCING GRAVEDIGGERS


It’s impossible to make meaning of it
When you’re reduced to the lowly status
Of untrustworthy collateral damage
And the old joys of life slip into sick hiatus.

The glee of the gravediggers seems objectionably obscene
And a gross distortion of the heartbreak of accidental death.
While the decisions of state make nothing like sense
And greedy perpetrators barely stop for breath.

There were friendships lost and good names spoiled,
All because of a hijack that careened into a crash,
Leaving more wounds than anyone will ever want to treat -
Various victims were violated, compacted like tins of trash.

So the months become years as dull despair destroys rare resolve,
Until there are no lingering leftovers of life on which to advance –
All because the bad and ugly chose to loot and steal and lie and cheat.
But why, pray tell, did the self-righteous good opt to pose and preen and prance?

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

CYRUS



Born to a king and Mandana,
Bright shining like sunlight he rode,
Conquered, and then set free captives,
Justice and love freely bestowed.

False kings all fell to great Kourosh;
He saved, rebuilt and truly reigned,
Gave rights to all who sought his peace –
Persia’s empire of freedoms gained.

People across the ancient world
Called him “Father”, and called him “great”;
Cassandana called him beloved –
To his glory he fought vain hate.

But now the beard of great Kourosh
Must be drenched hot by each scorched tear,
He sees his wisdom cast aside -
His homeland wrecked, riddled with fear.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

WEAK SLEEP


When you cry instead of sleep,
They will say that you are weak;
But maybe it is your strength
That got you to the edge of slumber.

As the world's judgements
Smash you to little bits
And you collapse into your bed,
The act of lying down,
Determined to rest,
To fight another day,
Is surely victory enough.

So, if tears caress your cheeks
In the absence of any other sympathy,
Who can criticise you?
For now ... no-one.
Tomorrow ... everyone.

Saturday, May 7, 2011

MATERIAL OMISSIONS



Love is never ever anyone’s principal focus -
Always we see mostly the material world
Through tinted water-marked man-made lens,
Showing us we should never take a loss of any kind:
Diversified across the spare parts spectrum -
Not even half a hope and no chance of gain or glee -
Ever driven but never going anywhere much,
As the lights flash red and green and stick on pause.

Thus set, we briefly soar in short blank bursts until we flop,
And a chosen few acquire by cunning all of our dreams and plans,
While our children climb towards the same dreadful heights;
Until the wobbly world shifts and we turn back to love too late.

Thursday, April 28, 2011

EXTREMISTS



How can I sleep? My heart’s so full of you:
Bright smiles, dark eyes, smooth skin, sweet voice, kind touch –
Set stark against blue backdrops where we walked
As I wooed you and you gave me so much.

There were dolphins diving, sea birds swooping;
Low sun streaked lean in its autumnal guise,
And you walked wise and took my seeking hand.
We watched wet stars that burst to drench our eyes.

Each day was new: coming so clear and crisp.
Your warm, perfect body curled up near me –
Guarded by night’s garments and not much more –
Teeming moments - extreme in ecstasy.

Sunday, March 20, 2011

TOO MUCH SUN WILL BURN

The rain tonight
Is like bleeding in my thumping heart.
It pounds down so hard and fast
Reminding me that we are so far apart.

The sky tonight
Is grey like every yesterday’s defeat.
It reflects nothing of any value
But it somehow makes my solitude complete.

The air tonight
Is rank with moisture and hints of sweat.
It feels as though I have died
With only glimpses of your charms to regret.

The sounds tonight
Are washed white with watery cascades
Crashing on concrete receptacles
That throw drenched drops back up in spades.

The smell of tonight
Is fresh with the rain it freely dispenses.
But my nostrils are not distracted in any way,
Because the scent of you lingers in my senses.

The taste of tonight
Is rich with expensive ways of dulling pretences –
Spirits and froth fill me up with numbness –
Anything to take my mind off your stubborn defences.

But back to my old heart,
Which you have made young enough to flutter anew.
You know my quest has not changed and it never will –
Tonight’s sweet rain is as wet as my love for you is true.

Sunday, March 13, 2011

PERSIA'S KISSES

As I waited alone
I was aware of a low late summer sun
Pushing shapeless shadows
Towards the shifting shoreline;
And the waves shunted
Watery white foam in response,
Crashing and withdrawing
With a faultless sense of rhythm.

There were shrills
From shouting children
In the shimmering surf
And seagulls called and glided,
Gorged on cheery chips
And beery batter.
An endless stream of cars
Rolled drunkenly
Through the roundabout
And glasses of diners and drinkers
Stood frosty and dripping wet
On clammy cardboard coasters.

A figure
Made from the softest, smoothest clay
God had reserved for women
Came into my view
And smiled behind a shield
Of designer Dior shade;
With hips swinging and swathed
In scrubbed blue denim stretched taut,
And breasts swaying just a little
As if flirtingly free
Of any unnecessary restraint.

So I grinned too
And advanced my shaking hand
In grateful greeting,
While my heart leaped
And found a fast backbeat
To the cymbals of surging surf.
Then we kissed –
Or, rather I kissed both your silky cheeks,
In my fumbling way –
And I was sure
That Persia’s kind kisses of friendship
Would never be enough.

When the sunglasses were thrown back
Above your fringed forehead,
The spell of sparkling eyes
Burst irresistible
And wholly sweet for me –
Dark and dancing –
I was bewitched, charmed, and terrorised
All in one efficient swoop –
And so it began,
And so it goes on
And on.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

DIVINE WISDOM


In His wisdom
God has made us men of clay
In such a way
That we divine a thrill of sorts
From each new woman
Whom we encounter.

Whether it be sourced
In dark, come hither eyes,
Or a rounded pout
That emits a laughing voice,
Or locks of many colors
Caressing a beguiling face,
Or curves and shapes
That bounce and flounce,
Or wit that moves us
To wonder about our world.
All these marvels
Can call that thrill
To come and make us
Slaves to wants and needs.

And yet it seems so odd
That, once in a while,
One woman comes along
Who presents us with
That pleasing prod
And puzzling power
That makes more thrills
Than we can handle.
One woman – not perfect –
But lit by her own bright candle
And holding the keys –
Not to paradise –
But to a garden
Just beside its gates.
And, as we revel in its shade,
Then rest in its soft cool breeze,
We come to know
That God is truly wise.

Saturday, February 19, 2011

ANOTHER COUNTRY


The past might well be another country
But the future has no map.
All we have to unravel its righteous riddle
Are answers to questions we once asked
In some previous steady state of mind
That has long become mere mist and dismal drizzle.

Still we set our faces to some Jerusalem
And travel on towards its wailing wall
Where we expect our sea of reeds to part.
We push on as if we were immortal
Eyes straight ahead and blinkered blind
To betrayals that can truly break our heart.

At some point the end rises up to claim
All of our friendly facts and fond imaginings
Before we can mend what has splintered disjoint.
By then we have only echoes of past epochs left –
In a flooded foreign land where we majored in mistakes -
Wet with watery memories that disperse and disappoint.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

FLIRT

And so you flashed up from far away,
Stinging my tear-seared eyes,
Flinging an implicit promise
I might never ever inherit.

Then you flirted so fabulously
Like a champion of the chase -
Almost like her with her hunger -
But so different in your sweet way.

And so we proceeded -
Smiling all the while -
Never really knowing,
And never pausing to understand.

Just when it all seemed wrong,
A mutual tease of ego
Ignited a fiery glow -
So we connected in a fancy future.

And I experienced all the old thrills
While I stayed here stunned,
Wondering how to aspire to new peaks,
Worried about becoming a fool again.

And yet your face filled my dreams:
Those eyes danced dark
Across a floor of fractured fantasy,
As your lips moistened my mouth.

And I knew I might never ever see
What was in your pretty mind,
Because you seemed to belong to another:
Your heart clasped in complicated claws.

Yet knowing your warmth and kindness
Is a great reward for one like me -
Could I ever have glimpsed any part of you
But for those few brief words we chanced to channel?

And so I will sleep again tonight
With your face projected on my dreamy screen,
So that my moments of waking in hot harsh light
Surely will be briefly happy beyond explaining.

Friday, January 28, 2011

COWARDICE

I’m doing it again.
I don’t have you,
So I’m seeking others
And they will never be you.

Last time it was easier
I was young and so were they.
But now it seems too late
To admit mistakes and move on.

Now I am sure I have wronged you –
We will never ever be one again.
I should have been stronger for longer -
I should have stuck to our crooked path.

Your dismal destiny is down to me –
Careless as I was and ever wasteful –
You were left to cope with the leftovers
That drove you to scornful rebellion and more.

If I had known they were destroying you,
Would I have rescued you?
With nothing left to lose now
I carry my cowardice like a scar.

How can I expect you to forgive me from the grave?
I feel like Heathcliff - determined to join you.
But what if you rose and rejected me as I dug:
Would we spend eternity as enemies?

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

PERSIAN PRINCESS III

Tonight I finally had the heart
To cry for you like I did
On the night you were first taken from me.

Tonight I knew you were really gone
And I would never see your eyes again –
Except in a flash of an old memory.

Tonight I lost my hope of love
Because it was locked in you –
Pent up over decades and never spent.

Tonight I saw you in visions
That rose from flickering candles –
Beauty that I never valued enough to save.

Tonight I could hear you in lyrics
And new wave rhythms that jangled –
Making me swoon with longing.

Tonight I drank you in draughts –
Sweet malted swigs of caramel –
Like the exquisite taste of your mouth.

Tonight I could smell the musk
Of your soft body and my hard lust –
And I remembered our love language.

Tonight I could feel the silkiness
Of your downy skin with its beads of sweat –
And I delighted in our desire.

Tonight I could do nothing
Except regress into regret
At a loss beyond losing.

Tonight I had no other urge
But to kneel by your grave
And weep enough tears to stir the ground.

Tonight I resolved to journey
Halfway across the world that killed you
So I could be by your side again.

Tonight I decided that you
Had been everything I ever really wanted -
But I failed to realise how much.

Tonight I understood at last
That all my other failures were nothing –
Much, much less than nothing.

Tonight I deleted the rest of it
As so much meaningless dross
So I might visit you untrammelled.

Tonight I wanted to drive you home –
Along Kourosh-e-Kabir and left at Khiaban-e-Pars –
To a place we two still inhabit as one.

Saturday, January 8, 2011

PERSIAN PRINCESS II

The news
Of your death
Shredded me
Like random shrapnel
From a roadside bomb.
Jagged thorns
Tore ragged holes
In my old heart
And left it ridden
With shabby scars.
But I am so lucky
Because I knew you.
I saw you –
Watched you from a distance
At first,
And then
Looked into your eyes.
I touched you –
Sensed your warmth,
And knew I was
So close to heaven.
I talked with you –
Heard the symphonies
That sprang from your voice –
The songs in your Persian phrasing.
I walked with you –
Kept you by my side
So others knew
We were together
And you
Had chosen me.
I laughed with you –
And you were so funny
As you teased me
And told me things
I never would have known.
I worked with you –
Solved problems –
And found solutions,
As we discovered
Each other.
I loved you –
Brief moments –
Stolen and stored away,
Before we wept,
Separated and bereft.
I wondered about you –
Long years of other
As we grew old
And walked our paths.
I sought you –
Too late it seems –
And long after
Your pain was gone.
I am left
With holes
In my heart
And scars
Set forever.
Sometimes I dream of you
And some of the smallest
Holes in my heart
Are filled for a moment.
Sometimes I talk to you
And I hear you answer
In your sing-song voice
That pleases my ears.
Sometimes I pray for you
And God tells me
Not to worry –
For He has rescued you.
Sometimes I lust for you –
The hardest cut of all.
Your beauty rises up
And falls against me, softly.
Sometimes I simply love you
And my heart’s scars
Are salved so sweetly
With the joy of privilege.
You were special.
You were unique.
You were too much
For a man like me.
And yet,
After decades,
I still see your face
As it was then –
Nothing compares
And nothing ever will.