APPROPRIATION

The whole endeavour has been a scam.

We were tricked by the cult of the ram

And we gleaned little from rivers of gold,

Then you robbed us blind; we grew poor and old.

All those ochre mountains were trucked to the coast

And shipped to rich fiefdoms paying the most,

Ferried across seas our fathers fought to save,

Guided by sailors on the wage of a slave.

The best of us, soldiers of a grim past,

Upheld you because they loved our land;

Then you broke the promises you cast,

Set not in stone; sketched on windswept sand.

Cream from your profits bought greedy political tribes,

Because that was cheaper than taxes and royalties,

And you accepted foreign investors’ bribes.

You sold our inheritance, along with your loyalties.

Always was and always will be

Meant nothing to you;

And it meant little to me

Until you stole from me too.

LOCKDOWN

Down here at the bottom of a deep pit —

Hollowed out like a tunnel in a mine —

I see no light but I know my prison,

Where disloyal darkness admits no time.

The stones or metals once found here have gone —

Precious or base in crumbling ochre rocks.

I wait, abandoned, barred, disgraced, closed off —

No one will teach me how to breach the locks.

Noises — scrapes and scratches like guilt and shame —

Perhaps a vile creature or another judged soul —

Bring me reminders of loss and sorrow —

Contagious ageless plagues in this foul hole.

You say that I should think myself lucky,

And all bad things must pass before too long,

Snap out of it and be a man, you urge,

There are no fears when you have done no wrong.

HUDDERSTONE WASH-UP

The paperback edition of David Morisset's newest novel can be purchased at Amazon and eBook versions are available at Kindle, Amazon, Apple Books, Smashwords, and other online retailers.

The novel is a coming-of-age story about Daniel Anstiss, who is is a battler from a meatworks town on the outskirts of Sydney, Australia’s oldest city. After setbacks during his early school years, he eventually excels at his tertiary studies and joins Australia’s diplomatic service. Despite his commitment to his vocation, it gradually becomes clear to Daniel that he is an outsider with little hope of navigating Canberra’s pathways of privilege and networks of influence on the basis of merit alone.

“Hudderstone Wash-Up” begins during the 1950s in a fibro cottage on a flood-prone dirt road next to a railway line on which steam trains transport doomed livestock to nearby slaughter yards. An eyewitness tracks Daniel Anstiss’s formative years and depicts his resolute drive towards academic success at the Australian National University in the early 1970s. Then, through ad hoc recollections, a colleague provides eccentric descriptions of the political upheavals and bureaucratic expediencies that threaten to derail Daniel’s foreign service career.

OUTER SPACE

Their city should surely be almost nought

Except for harbour shores stolen and bought

For the great and good and their acolytes —

Ornaments to vocations of cutpurse.

They dub it a star of the universe —

Its inner suburbs lucky satellites

Destined to orbits of adoration,

Blessed by blistered tarmac burned by parades

And asphalt alleys and squalid arcades,

Where wealth sneers at the rest of the nation.

Out on the fringes, where livestock trains steamed,

There’s light so fiery it seems it was dreamed

To be doused by summer’s stormy raindrops

Amidst croaking frogs’ joyful jamborees.

Here it is that winter brings frost and freeze

And pallid suns blush foggy blue hilltops.

There are trundling fields and forever yards,

Space for madcap games and children’s follies.

Gardens bloom and shops stock chips and lollies

On streets of strive lined with homes of diehards.

UNMELLOW YELLOW

The sky is getting greyer by the day and

In parts, towards the horizon, it is almost glaucous.

Experts on online media lament —

Chiang Mai’s air quality indicators are unhealthy,

Approaching hazardous zones.

But pollution appears to ignore local parks and

Gardens and unkempt vacant lots and,

Now the cool nights of December and January are gone,

It is almost like the instant advent

Of a temperate climate's Spring.

Tips of new growth are evident

On evergreen trees —

A resplendent cinnabar,

Reminiscent of the tops of eucalypts

In my own country.

Frangipanis are beginning to bloom and

The pristine whiteness of the petals

Makes such a stark contrast with the dark green leaves

That one’s eyes almost pass over

The sulphur splashed hearts of the corollas.

Thais refer to frangipanis as leelawadee —

A name for resorts and restaurants and cafes.

It means something like

Beautiful in a delicate way.

The golden shower trees —

Thailand’s national flower —

Stand by streets I walk along.

Unmellow yellow petals and

Orpine green foliage

Remind me of Australia’s acacias,

Although, apart from the colours, there are few other parallels and

It is the impression gained at a distance

That brings wattle to my mind.

There are also stringy bushes with starry flowers

Gathering like vivid violet constellations

Layered over pastel replications that cascade

Like movies of mauve waterfalls.

I am told that they are known as Thailand's wisteria

Or, in the local language, as puang kraam,

Picturesquely translated as purple wreath.

STUBBORNLY SUBURBAN

As I walk,

The scenery is stubbornly suburban.

The sublime chedis of timeworn temples and

The ancient walls and

The historic moat of

The old city are almost fifteen kilometres

Away to the south.

Around here,

There are modern two-storey houses —

Some in gated estates — and

Occasional apartment blocks —

Mostly on the main streets.

There are pockets of older housing but

Few structures approach the grandeur of

The majestic teak dwellings that one associates with

Traditional Thai architecture.

It is an area that attracts teachers and

Students of the nearby university.

Like the rest of Mueang Chiang Mai,

Restaurants and bars pop up in regular clumps,

Even in the most unlikely places where

Parking is inadequate and

Almost always claimed first

By greasy motor bikes and

Glossy streamlined scooters.

The scale of these businesses is typically small and

The modest fare varies.

Emerald green advertisements for Chang beer

Outnumber the crimson posters

Singing the praises of Leo and

There is little promotional evidence of

The availability of Singha and Heineken

Despite the presence of their bottles and cans

In glacial glass-fronted refrigerators.

Mini-supermarkets vie for the best positions on

The busiest corners and,

Close to the university,

Bank branches and specialty shops

Line the busy road that eventually runs

North to Tilokarat's town of Phrao.

Some of the minor roads are dangerously narrow and

They wind through sunken paddy fields and

Vacant land that is no longer cultivated and

Probably awaits the arrival of truckloads of migrant labourers and

Thai engineers with their construction machinery.

Footpaths are apparently an extravagance and,

Where they exist,

They suffer from lack of maintenance or

They are blocked by the ever-present motor scooters.

There are also several food markets —

That most Thai of amenities — and

More novel innovations like automated laundrettes and

Cafes with their baseball-capped baristas.

Service stations and

Repair shops abound,

Catering for the scooters, motor bikes and

Cars, of which pick-ups and

Sports utility vehicles predominate,

Most of them made or assembled in Thai factories

Despite their Japanese labels.

SLASH AND BURN

It is early March and

The dry season has several weeks left to run and

The fires of slash and burn farmers are still burning and

So the skies above Chiang Mai are stained pearl grey.

Also, the mild weather of December and

January is a distant memory and

The tropical heat is becoming oppressive again even though

The sun seems to struggle to penetrate the hazy air.

Despite the heat and smoke,

When the mercury falls into the low thirties

During the final daylight hour before sunset,

I stick to my (almost) daily routine

Of walking two kilometres or

Sometimes slightly more.

As I walk I can see the blurry sun

Floating like a fat marigold balloon

That is somehow resisting

The gravitational pull of the mountains in the west

While sooty particles in the thick air

Irritate my throat and my nostrils and

The heat makes me sweat

Enough to make me believe

That the exercise is doing me good.