Sunday 14 June 2015

Which place are you from?

This is home                         now
brightly painted room
faded carpet             mustard recliners
matching cushions

malodorous wafting odours
rose scented freshener
vanquished

you look vacantly
the screen blurred
your gaze falls on me
follows me around the room

Apo pio meros eisai?
Which place are you from?

stroking my hand             seeking connection
meeting of eyes
a shared colour            a shared tongue
strange familiarity





brittle fragments of memory       like bone
dispersed inside your head
the blithe state of youth
the blue of the ocean
olive groves            left behind



faces clear with misplaced names
warm August nights            eating figs
ripened by the sun
seasons clear            with purpose
soft pallor of young skin now worn
life’s map             a destiny

Apo pio meros eisai?

Published in Social Alternatives January 2015


1915: A Fobwatch

an heirloom- fraught
sepia- stained memory
a fob watch
yearns                        ticking

images of home
woman heavy with child
olive trees             ripened August figs

you never return
a memory remains
the woman clothed in black

Published in Pash Capsule January 2015




Parts Remembered

I remember you in pieces
body parts and silence
less painful this way

Fingers first
long, lean, guitar strumming
lingering on a note

Your eyes follow  
dark and searching
persistent   

No longer tormenting
I remember you in pieces
less painful this way



Published in Pash Capsule June 2015 

Monday 8 December 2014

Out Of Nowhere...

Out of Nowhere


Bangalore. 
It’s five fifty five a.m. The air is already oppressive in its humidity. The stench of decay inflicts itself upon my western sensibilities. Through my nostrils it enters and surges in the pit of my stomach. It is a feeling I haven’t experienced before. I am overcome with this heaving sensation to throw up. I kneel but dry retching is all I can manage. I stand again, somewhat dizzy, determined to keep walking. I place a handkerchief over my nose. A rancid taste fills my mouth.
As I approach the mounts of soil I am confronted with piles and piles of rubbish. I make out food wrappings, bottles, decomposing carcases. I can see a computer monitor and consider the person responsible for discarding this model to update to the newer, faster equivalent.
A cacophony of seagulls hovers, swooping at the scraps of food. The yellow greying sky ominous above.  
A truck arrives and comes to an abrupt stop. Wiry, barefoot children jump off and scramble in different directions. They keep in small groups grazing. This is the one industry that is always hiring. They are known as ‘waste pickers’, salvaging recyclables for sale or personal consumption. Their skinny brown bodies talk of their malnourished, worm infested insides. They carry the one tool required of them in this industry, a large plastic sack. They taunt each other and call out when a discovery is made. Prized amongst these are the raw materials, glass, paper and plastic. These yield a higher return.
A man appears out of nowhere. His hair greasy and combed back over his balding head, wearing opaque sun glasses, his pace slowed by his protruding gut. He is perspiring and screams at the children to stop talking and keep working. Supervising the rubbish dump, he receives a bonus for allowing large numbers of children to wade through the labyrinth of waste. He approaches a young girl; she can’t be older than ten, strokes her hair and leans in to her.
 I gawk at him. Lakshmi touches my elbow, letting me know that he is ready to be interviewed.
A few of the children nearby look over in my direction. They are smiling.

Published in Right Now: Human Rights in Australia April 2015




For Marsiale

WAITING FOR TINKY

In the evening he waits
an anticipatory meandering
peering out the window
he stands over the sink
filling his glass
water pouring freely
he waits to hear her bell


He calls her Tinky
although that’s not her real name
we suspect it’s Frankie
we heard someone
over the fence
near the lemon tree
call out to her
we’re pretty sure its her they were calling out to
he offers her smoked ham and pets her
a nurturing side to him that is pure and childlike

That is before Tinky came into our lives
fostering a feline seems to come easy to him
I guess that makes me foster mother to a cat
to the neighbours cat
who has disappeared
we last saw her two weeks ago


Fretting now as to her whereabouts
he sighs
where could she be?
maybe she won’t appear again
maybe she’s dead
hit by a car
stunned by glaring headlights

Shh! There is movement in the tree
maybe oh
please let it be her!
he puts his glass down and walks hastily past me
maybe she’s back
Tinky tinkerbell…

Short Story Regarding Cream Puffs...

OBSESSION WITH CREAM PUFFS
1
His grandmother, adoring and indulging, as many are, often dropped off left over cream puffs on her way home from Patterson’s cake shop, where she worked three days a week, as assistant to the pastry chef. There were different flavours; coffee, strawberry, vanilla and on special occasions berry and even lemon citrus.                         He peeled back the icing and felt the sweetness smother his taste buds. Then he proceeded to tear apart the shoestring pastry revealing the scented cream whipped to perfection.
This was the beginning of his love affair with the cream puff.
2
The aspiring pastry chef didn’t like to play outside with other boys his own age but preferred to observe his mother and Gran cooking and baking. He particularly admired the desserts they assembled with what looked like minimal effort. Layered cakes with cream and decorative icing on top, ornate biscuits that resembled oriental tiles. He often heard his name being called from the street but retreated to his room until the culprits had disappeared. He would then emerge in his white apron readying himself for the minor tasks his mum and Gran delegated i.e. licking the cake mixing bowl, taste testing the finished products and washing up. He felt energised by the activity that was taking place in the kitchen.
3
His mother often yelled at him to stop eating the biscuits she had prepared for the numerous tea parties held in the afternoon for ladies in the neighbourhood. These were often premeditated events conjured up to raise money for projects his mother thought worthwhile. The selection of biscuits, sandwiches and sweets, usually determined the amount of money raised. Of course when cream puffs were on the menu, depending on how quickly Gran could get them to the house after work (Saturday was their busiest day and the preferred day for tea parties in Prahran) the donations exceeded everybody’s expectations.
4
He quickly learned the value of a cream puff, especially one that had texture, subtle flavour and pastry that was not too stringy.
5
Whilst studying for his pastry chef qualification he met Louise, an aspiring Chocolatier who couldn’t understand how cream could consume his every thought. ‘Chocolate is a passion’, she patronised him constantly, ‘the cocoa bean, its rarity, its ability to alter perception, the sharing of a stimulating substance. What does the cream puff excel in? Its an antiquated sweet used to deflect from the progress man has made’
6
She was one of many who refused to understand him and his passion. He had no problem attracting the opposite sex, most of which purported to loving desserts. However, it was not enough. He and his cream puffs always fell short of satisfying their needs, and they, his. His lovers often found him in the kitchen at three in the morning whipping cream and testing flavours. In his boxer shorts he was obviously aroused.  ‘You’re more interested in making cream for these silly balls’, was the outcry he frequently had to endure, and ‘I always come second’. He resolved that once he perfected the cream puff he would be ready for an equal relationship (though even then he had his doubts).
7
Travelling the world he sought wisdom and guidance on cream perfection and flavour enhancing revelations.
London beckoned, as did Paris and New York, the centres of gastronomy. He worked with the masters. He was a sponge, soaking up the methodology and technique unique to each. In Paris he secured a position as assistant pastry chef at Angelina’s, an old world establishment dedicated to extraordinary dessert making. His achievement was to assist in creating the Mont Blanc, the most sought after chocolate extravagance.
As he and Louise were no longer in contact he could not experience the envy she would surely have felt, although he often relished the thought.
At Laduree he achieved unprecedented fame by whipping cream to perfection, adding sublime essences and using a shoestring pastry never before witnessed in Parisian circles.
8
New York presented additional challenges, which, he tackled like a true professional. Giving master classes, workshops, book talks and television appearances. These were difficult times; the pastry chef felt lonely and was often alone, especially away from the kitchen. The critics were particularly harsh, ridiculing his use of essences as superfluous and labelling his whipped cream as too airy.
He rang his mother back in Australia at least twice a week. He would often ask her about his childhood and the cooking that had inspired him. He wondered whether he had always been interested in cream puffs, quickly reassuring himself that indeed he had.
9
He grew despondent. He tired of travelling. He longed to return to Australia and inspire pastry chefs in his home country.
10
Travelling through his own hometown he felt more alone than ever. He worked at a number of patisseries in Melbourne and Sydney, hoping to encourage the younger generation of chefs passing through. He was not appreciated for his skill and unprecedented talent and soon became depressed and disillusioned. He started drinking vodka in the evenings and then, during the day as well.
11
He left the cities and travelled through the country confronted by the ‘giant’ in everything. A giant sheep, the giant pineapple up north, the largest beer can in the world. This manifestation was overwhelming and increasingly he became exhausted by the mediocrity in anything so enormous. At every giant object he cursed the idea that bigger is better.

12
Eventually, his alienation led him to conjure up the unimaginable. He started working on a giant cream puff, to be displayed at the food and wine festival, as a tribute to Australian pastry chefs.
His mother and Gran came to admire his skill and progress and were very proud of his achievement. They did not see the irony in his work, or failed to mention it.
13
On his final night, before the exhibit was due to open to the public, he had consumed a bottle of Smirnoff vodka (his favourite) and was contemplating whether or not he should add more vanilla essence to the cream. The cream had already been whipped, encased in the giant shoestring pastry shell and ready to be iced. But the cream DID need more essence, it did.
And so he tore apart the pastry case and walked in with the eyedropper full. It only needed a drop or two, that’s all. He felt intoxicated by the smell and texture, and probably the vodka.
14
The following morning the organisers had to announce the strange and mysterious death of the famous pastry chef, who had perished accidently finishing his greatest creation, the giant cream puff.









Published in FOURTEEN WAYS OF LOOKING, Edited by Andy Jackson

Thirteen Ways of looking at a bicycle
1
Sneaking out the opaque window
On a frosty morning
The bicycle is waiting
To carry her home
2
Crossing the busy highway
A group of bicycles are bonding
While their riders chat in Lycra
3
Riding to work, crispy dawn
Wish I had my boots on
My naked feet are freezing
Resting on bicycle peddles
4
Jump on your bicycle
Ride as fast as you can
If a stranger approaches
 Child was warned
5
Abandoned by the riverbank
A mode of transport
The bicycle becomes the means
By which lovers meet
6
Child is learning quickly
Practice wheels are spinning wildly
The bicycle becomes the teacher
Growing, growing fast


7
It’s like riding a bicycle
You never forget
 A measure of all achievements
8
A man and a woman
A man and a woman and a bicycle
Two lonely lovers
Cycling around their fears,
Their dreams, their hopes
9
Wheels in motion, never stopping
Keep on rolling, rolling, rolling
It’s the way of the bicycle
10
Get on your bike
11
A line of stationary bicycles with spinning wheels
No movement
Trapped indoors
12
Hot, dusty, wheat belt country
Muted colours, suffocating silence
Pretty girl in printed dress
Peddling, peddling fast on her bicycle
13
Oh insecure men of the world
Why do you imagine red Ferraris?
Do you not see how the bicycle
Glistering in the wind, blowing your hair back
Toning your thighs
Is in the dreams of the women around you?