Soon after my recent return to Australia I exchanged a few emails with Australian poet David Barnes. I’ve spoken of David many times. It was on David’s early online poetry website Poetry Down Under that many of my early works were published in the mid-90s. He’s had significant health problems over the past few years, but he battles on. I believe his poetry just keeps getting better and better. With David’s permission, here are three recent examples:
entreaties
i do not sleep much anymore
unremittingly it is naps and snacks
pen in hand, inscribing words at 5 am
i have prayed for relief
there is no answer conversing with God
if thought
exceeds the velocity of light
would he hear
a single muted plea
it seems life
is a continually moving flash
an inside-outside ache
this leaves no thought
on how to spend
the days
its Easter holidays
and the only man
with the solution died
carrying his fated cross
i surmise
i will have to continue
carrying my own
somewhere
between toast and coffee
the aftertaste lingers, like prayers
waiting for God
© draft 1998 : ® debarnes 2008
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Picasso and time
Picassos hang on museum walls
he had his time his time
a time of multi-coloured madness
his tormented short-lived mind so alive
paintings unrivalled over time.
scholarly academics
publish copious papers and books
as if they were Sigmund Freud
trying to dissect him –
he strolled though the countryside of his friend
stopped to paint lilies in the field.
His old Parisian world
of stained ceilings tarnished windowpanes
lipstick smears on dead-end butts
ashtrays spilling over
blood-red wine stains and leftover
bread crumbs on tables.
A clock ticks and ticks telling time
the night’s discussions and revellers depart
the door closes for another night
another time in time.
outside they walk past the drunk
sprawled in the sidewalk gutter
paper bottle still held in his hand
water spilling round past him down the drain
is it his time-time is irrelevant
there is no time at this point in time
Picasso hangs ageless
like this World.
© debarnes April 2008
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Intermingled memories
I still miss
your clothes,
the trail sprinkled
around the bedroom,
the times
we hastily undressed,
half-tripping stripping
scattered clothes mingled
together;
hurriedly
kicked off shoes
resting close
to each other;
and after
all these years,
I still wonder
if I had a fetish;
for I was turned on
by the caress
of your toes,
up my thighs.
And now
only memories
of scattered
clothes remain.
© debarnes 2008
______________________ I’ve never met David face-to-face, yet I feel like I know him well. Keep up the great work, mate.