"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)

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

SPRING IN SYDNEY

Nothing isolates you as much as the constant closeness of the city.
It tugs at your twisting intestines and planes away the sharp edges of your brain.
You conform to the formality at the corrosive cost of discarded sensibility.
Your deadened body becomes invisible to all but looters and miscreants.

Respectable institutions vie for any spare space in the scarfaced skyline,

Their foundations built on the princely proceeds of extortion and extinction,
And their stately steel frames funded by debt and stolen goods and slavery,
While the traffic terrorises you and demands nothing less than elite athleticism.

No-one else seems so beset with such forgettable anonymity -

There is unseen purpose and apparent direction in their speedy strides.
Their faces are flushed with extant expectations and rude rewards
And their eyes glimmer and glow as if they had never known loneliness.

But the harbour still shimmers in a show of deep blue and tolerates no distress

And the gardens embrace the stacked sandstone shore with bright blissful blushes,
While the bridge stands sentinel with its steely span set simply at ever eternal
And the breeze blows the boats before it and chops the chaste cerulean swell.

In the afterglow rough hope can be rekindled

But every ignition requires a fiercer more foolhardy flame.

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