BUTCHERS PARADE

David Morisset's novel of nostalgic realism, "Butchers Parade", is now available as an ebook in all popular formats through Smashwords (at www.smashwords.com).

Set in the third quarter of the twentieth century, the stories of 'Butchers Parade' feature the quintessentially Australian location of Redgate - a meatworks town on the western fringe of Sydney - as well as the blighted circumstances of wartime Indo-China. The narratives are united by the presence of the hulking figure of Horrie, a young meatworker who spends his spare time playing rugby league and drinking at the Railway Hotel. Horrie loves his home town and its people but he is conscripted and sent to fight in Vietnam. On his return to Redgate, Horrie is a troubled man, haunted by distorted recollections of brutal battles and caught up in a romance that seems hopeless.

The hard copy version is available through Amazon and its affiliated distributors (see www.amazon.com or simply google "Butchers Parade").

CHRISTMAS

The wise men - or magi - presenting gifts to Jesus in this picture were, according to tradition, Persian scholars trained in the disciplines of astrology.

Whether there were three of them is a matter of conjecture because the Bible mentions only that "wise men from the east" brought three presents for the newborn king.

Nevertheless, the Bible tells us that they were instrumental in helping the baby Jesus escape death after Herod issued a decree to have all new born boys executed.  An educated reader of the gospels would be reminded not only of the story of Moses' avoidance of a similar decree by Egypt's Pharaoh but also of the accounts of the Old Testament that describe how Cyrus the Great of Persia secured safe passage back to Jerusalem for the exiled Jews in Babylon (five hundred years earlier than the birth of Christ).

Indeed, the prophet Isaiah refers to Cyrus as the anointed one - the same term applied to Jesus.  I gather the original Hebrew term is something like our modern word 'messiah' and in ancient Greek it would be rendered like our term 'christ'.

So this nativity scene in the style of Persian art is rich with meaning and reminds us that the history of Western civilisation owes so much to the Iranians of antiquity.

GLOBAL WARMING

From the elevated verandah

There was a view

Of the large back yard –

A well-grassed stretch

That did not quite go on forever.

A mass of pale purple pigface flowers

Clumped beside the fibro outside toilet.

A dull perfume rose

From the row

Of dwarf oleanders

That divided the yard

Into two unequal portions.

A slightly acrid smell

From the poison olive leaves

Camouflaged

Occasional unpleasant odours

From the adjacent septic tank.

The backdrop tang

Of the universal eucalypts

Almost failed to register.

At times the yard was full

Of the noise of birds –

Black and white magpies

With their symphonies,

Dirty brown sparrows

With their monotonous chirps,

And, spasmodically,

Regal kookaburras

Looking for something

To laugh about

While the turquoise tips

Of their tucked-in wings

Flashed in the brilliant light.

This afternoon it was quiet –

So peaceful

That an energetic corgi

Settled down for nap,

His front legs

With their pure white feet

Cradling his fox-like face.

Out on the horizon,

Above the cerulean blurs

Of the Blue Mountains,

The sun seemed to strobe listlessly

As it slipped lower in the western sky,

Reddening the mean remnants

Of scattered cumulus clouds.

It was a good time to dream

For people who were so inclined.

But better just to gaze,

Lazily,

At the fiery performance in the sky

Until the powder blue canopy

Turned indigo

And the evening star

Pricked its way

Into the purple gloom.

Acknowledgement: the painting is by Joe Cartwright
(see www.paintingwithcolors.com)

COLD COLLAROY

Collaroy was cold and wet today.

The surf spat like a spoiled toad

And the wind washed faces with spray,

While a dozen walkers to’d and fro’d.

Gritty grey clouds crowded

Looking stately, steely, stern and gruff;

Hulking behind the glass-eyed houses

Peering from the plateau above the bluff.

The sea took in the monochrome sky

And turned into that greeny grainy blue

That never pleases quite enough

To achieve the level of a lovely view.

Often when the slow churning sky turns dark

The cold water seems warmer than the bitter air.

But today those waves of creamy chop and froth

Were too ragged with rips and tows to try their fare.

Then the rain swept up from the south

Careening across, making bubbles like blisters on the swell.

Showered droplets drenched sand into patterned pockmarks

While walkers stretched their steps into runs of rude farewell.

BUTCHERS PARADE

"Butchers Parade" is now available for purchase at Riverstone Historical Society's marvellous museum in Garfield Road, Riverstone (just near the swimming centre in the buildings once occupied by Riverstone public school and later the home of the Masonic Lodge).

All proceeds from sales will go towards the work of the Society and the maintenance of the museum.

THERE'S (SIC) MONSTERS OUT THERE

You wake up to a silent sun’s silky light

Seeping like liquid ‘round curves of curtains

That camouflage those bleak glass plates

You deploy to keep the outside world at bay.

For a moment and sometimes

Just a little longer

The infant glare and the implicit warmth

Call you out, entrancing, enticing,

Entreating a dare;

But you can’t respond

‘Cause there’s (sic) monsters out there.

The late morning’s softer bequests

Of subtle rays

Are so beautifully dispersed

That you can rise

And consider your garden’s

Daily needs and wants.

Armed with hot tea,

Cool patience, spade and fork

You can dig and weed

And nurture and water,

Making a paradise

In your own image;

But beyond the fence

There’s no reason to care –

Because you know

That there’s (sic) monsters out there.

On the few occasions

Your courage takes you out,

You can briefly withstand

The panic and the pain;

But those mere moments

Are few and hard won –

Grim respites
When your worst memories are in hiding.

Somehow your humour

Takes over the dismal stage

And you become

The most proficient player you can be –

Such perfect performances

Can make men stare,

Which reminds you –

There’s (sic) monsters out there.

When your garden’s cold

And tiring of your prods,

And your pantry has been filled

And stacked and tallied,

Your instincts turn wonderfully

To food and drink –

Although little of it finds a way

To you and only you.

Instead you bring it

To those you love without conditions –

Those dependent

On your slim hope and your firm faith.

Your charity saves them

And quenches their despair;

For, like you, they also know

There’s (sic) monsters out there.

In the insipid darkness

That follows each fear-filled day,

And primes your body clock

To give in to amiable sleep,

You can watch the electric traces

Of wild flashes outside

Your rooms pent up with candles’ scents

And flickering shadows.

Then the prayers that your god

Has waited all day to hear

Wash back over you

Like an ointment for your scars,

Making waves like massages

You can never share

Because, you know so well,

There’s (sic) monsters out there.

When it comes your sleep is deep

As though you had drowned

In a pool of sweet peace

And bottomless dreams

Composed just for you,

Where your sad history has been revised

And is different enough

To make you wish the pictures you see now

Were wholly real and fully true.

And yet you know too well

From the night’s noises in the neighbourhood

That bounce back and forth

Like lost balls in wonky computer games;

And you recognise signs in distant sirens

And in errant horns that blare:

You are indeed so right to believe

That there’s (sic) monsters out there.

BABEL

There are pastel painted water coloured wavelengths

In the pert pulsations of a fairy-like feminine voice -
No hard hammers and twisted tongs of anvil accents

Streaming like spoken sparks from some novel new bolero.

The inflections that are there are subtle soft and smooth

And much more musical than modern method melodies,

With their rasping raps of racial ranting and rueful raging.

Instead my ears are soothed by sing-song traces

Of a foreign clime with a classical culture –

Partiality for rhythm and a beautiful bias to graces.

And yet our tongues talk best of matters of the heart.

'Tis true that for such treasures there is no limit of language

That can confine our imaginings and control our questing

To the point where all we know is black benighted bitterness.

For the heart sings only trilling arias backed by slow sweet pitched adagios

That lull the listener listless and bid him blissfully to blessing.

ESFAHAN

It is of course much more easy for us –

Australians drive long routes without complaint.

For distance also marks our land’s estate.

So we share roads of the central plateau -

That once defined the old Persian heartland -

With open minds, but expecting rewards.

Yet the outskirts of this old capital

Defy our trust and seem, it must be said,

Disappointing – more dust, more shades of brown.

But our mindsets alter quite soon enough.

The old city’s centre is all we’d hoped:

Turquoise domes and bridges of golden stones,

Water trickling below a calm parkland.

Relics from Byzantine times add colors

To a painting of a glorious past

That caresses, surrounds, persuades us stop

And breathe it while we still have the desire.

At least four days the tourist brochures say

To see all that this place can bring to sate

Our lust for sights of Persia’s old glory.

Astounded by deep imprints on our souls,

We find a red-blossomed courtyard of peace

By an ornate caravanserai’s walls –

To which great Shah Abbas once lent his name.

The air seems cool now as we sip hot tea

Amidst gurgles from the smoking hookahs.

But we retire further to plan from our

Luxurious balcony’s vantage point

Our next advance – if that is the best word –

On gracious Esfahan’s sights, smells and sounds.

Once our allotted four days are all spent

There is only regret
That we can’t stay:

Dawdle some more in the bazaar’s caverns,

Search sharp skylines of minarets and domes,

Wander by the river from the Zagros,

Savour aromatic chelo kebab,

Absorbing saffron's uplifting flavour.

So we must quit our soft place of refuge –

To seek the next delight of Persia’s heart.

SHIRAZ

You, me, amidst roses, poets, and wine:

High on the plateau, welcoming nomads,

Shiraz gives them refreshment in the cool

Of altitude and the shade of high trees.

Ample contrast seduces
                          visitors –

Wide streets, tree-lined, in the Zand capital –

A dynasty long gone and briefly strong –

Brusque bazaar, manly mosques, without a breeze.

Great poets, not kings, define this city:

Hafez from six hundred years before us –

His tomb engraved with verses that call us

To celebrate love, wine, music – acclaim!

He speaks of a softly moving creature:

A woman whose beauty he contemplates?

As we read we see once again a glimpse

Of Persia’s rich culture and classic fame.

Saadi recalls even earlier times.

We murmur together his tomb's chief pledge

To emit the perfume of love itself,

Thrilling his mourners for one thousand years.

Mausoleums and gardens invite us –

Which poet’s flag-stone will we bend to touch

And make our tribute as all Persians do?

Surely though our gesture is in our tears.

Tears for the ways the lords of our days treat

Gentle Shiraz, its roses and poets -

Even the wine has been confiscated.

But as for me – I could get drunk on love

In this paradise of measured parklands.

If only that were not forbidden too!

How Saadi must weep at the bitter sting

When political push descends to shove.

Still, for now, there are reasons to rejoice

At the colors of the carpets and kilims -

Precious gifts of Qashqais and other tribes -

Who come in from well worn tracks of the south.

You, me, primed to revolt with deep longing,

Decide to linger near the cypress trees,

Dare to indulge desire by flower beds,

Your kiss of sweet rose water on my mouth.