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DOLPHIN Dorothy AuchterlonieDorothy

X "d r* O Ö rn X H OROTHY AUCHTERLONIE Dorothy Auchterlonie, in ordinary life Mrs Dorothy Green, was born in Sunderland, England and educated partly in that country and partly in Australia, at the University of Sydney, where she distinguished herself in English and in Oriental History. For some years she was a reader and journalist and news editor with the News Service of the Australian Broad­ casting Commission. After her marri­ age to H. M. Green, she was for some time a housewife, and then in turn headmistress of a large girls’ school in Queensland, lecturer in English at Monash University, and senior lecturer at the Australian National University. Her special interests are in drama, poetry, and English prose. The present volume is her first since the publication of Kaleidoscope in 1940, but in the intervening years she has continued to contribute verse to journals such as Meanjin, Quadrant, Southerly, and London Letters. Her poetry is marked by its reflective in­ sight and its metaphysical passion on the one hand, and by its intense in­ volvement in contemporary life and political events on the other. Though her output is small she has made her mark as one of the outstanding poets of her time and country.

A. D. H ope

Jacket designed by Roderick Shaw

$A2.50 This book was published by ANU Press between 1965–1991. This republication is part of the digitisation project being carried out by Scholarly Information Services/Library and ANU Press. This project aims to make past scholarly works published by The Australian National University available to a global audience under its open-access policy. THE DOLPHIN THE DOLPHIN

Dorothy Auchterlonie

AUSTRALIAN NATIONAL UNIVERSITY PRESS CANBERRA First published 1967 This book is copyright; reproduction in whole or part, without written permission of the publishers, is forbidden Text set in 11/12 point Linotype Georgian and printed on 85 gsm Burnie machine finished paper by the Printing Department of the Melbourne University Press, Carlton, Victoria 3053 Printed and manufactured in Australia Registered in Australia for transmission by post as a book

Library of Congress catalog card no. 67-31147 National Library of Australia reg. no. AUS 67-1338 To J. and D. B. W., poets in their own way

‘Poeta agit de inferno isto, in quo, peregrinando ut viatores, mereri et demereri possumus.’ ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Some of the poems have been published before, and I should like to express my gratitude to the following for granting permission to reprint: Age (Melbourne): ‘The Dolphin’ and ‘Present Tense’; Australian (Sydney): ‘The Lament of Brangäne’, ‘Drought’, ‘Even-song’, and ‘Meditation of a Mariner’; Bulletin (Sydney): ‘The Tree’, ‘Anser Barbara‘Resurrection’, and ‘After-dinner Speech’; Canberra Times: ‘A Consent to Mourn the Death of a Man . . .’, ‘Service Numbers’, and ‘Questions for Kaspar’; Mean jin Quarterly (Melbourne): ‘The Second Tree’, ‘The Last Tree’, ‘Question for Thomas’, ‘Release’, ‘Morning and Evening’, ‘Chess by the Sea’, ‘Labour-saving’, ‘In Absentia’, ‘A Problem of Language’, ‘Night at the Opera’, ‘Questions for Kaspar’, and ‘The Second Coming’; Overland (Melbourne): ‘Apopemptic Hymn’; Quadrant (Sydney): ‘Rope Trick’ and ‘Spring Song’; Sydney Morning Herald: ‘Nativity’ and ‘Magpies at Night’. ‘The Knife’ was first published in Modern Australian Poetry, edited by H. M. Green (Melbourne University Press, 1946), and ‘Soldiers Abroad’ first appeared in Australia Week-end Book (Ure Smith, 1943). D. A. CONTENTS

Acknowledgments vii The Dolphin i The Tree 3 The Second Tree 5 The Last Tree 8 Question for Thomas 10 Release 11 The Knife 12 Morning and Evening 13 Nativity 14 Rope Trick 15 Magpies at Night 16 Anser Barbara 17 Resurrection 18 First Night 19 Jour Perdu 20 The Lament of Brangäne 21 Apopemptic Hymn 22 Chess hy the Sea 23 Labour-saving 24 A Consent to mourn the death of a man, hy fire, in Sydney, 1965 27 Missa Brevis 28

ix D ro u g h t 2 9

Spring Song 30

In Absentia 3 1

Present Tense 3 2

Waiting for the Post 33

E q u a tio n 34

A Problem of Language 3 6

E ven-song 37

After-dinner Speech 39

Night at the Opera 4 1

Service Numbers 45

Questions for Kaspar 47

Wilhelmine and the Red Herring 49

The Second Coming 5 1

Soldiers Abroad 56

Meditation of a Mariner 57

D a n kgesang 58

Index of first lines 59

X THE DOLPHIN

Swiftness, diligence and love: The gifts the dolphin brings In simple joy and innocence Are richer than a king’s.

The foot is quick, the hand is deft Where love has room and right; The dolphin lives to serve a god Whose absence is the night.

He who strikes the dolphin down Blasphemes the generous sun, The motion and the energy By which his will is done.

The poet on the dolphin’s hack Sets his course with ease Through solitudes of sun and moon, On dark prodigious seas.

Stay your hand before you cloud The dolphin’s candid eyes: When swiftness, diligence and love Are gone, the whole world dies.

i THE TREE

He watched them as they walked towards the tree, Through the green garden when the leaves stood still He saw his scarlet fruit hang tremulously: He whispered, ‘Eat it if you will.’

Knowing as yet they had no will but his, Were as his hand, his foot, his braided hair, His own face mocked him from his own abyss: He whispered, ‘Eat it if you dare!’

Without him they could neither will nor dare; Courage and will yet slumbered in the fruit, Desire forbore, they still were unaware That doubt was set to feed the root.

God held his breath: If they should miss it now, Standing within the shadow of the tree . . . Always the I, never to know the Thou Imprisoned in my own eternity.

‘Death sits within the fruit, you’ll surely die!’ He scarcely formed the words upon a breath; ‘O liberating seed! Eat, then, and I For this release will die your every death.

‘Thus time shall be confounded till you come Full-circle to this garden where we stand, From the dark maze of knowledge, with the sum Of good and evil in your hand.

‘Then you will shed the journey you have made, See millenniums fall about your feet, Behold the light that flares within each blade Of grass, the visible paraclete.’

3 The harsh Word stirred the leaves, the fruit glowed red, Adam’s foot struck against the root; He saw his naked doubt and raised his head: Eve stretched her hand and plucked the fruit.

4 THE SECOND TREE

They watch him as he walks towards the Tree: Black, like an upraised finger on the hill, No scarlet fruit, no leaf’s green broidery, Disturb the fierce direction of its will.

He bends beneath the weight of its one branch, Rough-hewed, misshapen, void of sap and breath, Life stirs within that living cannot staunch, The tree of being is a tree of death.

With his own hands he stripped his tree of fruit, Turning its energy towards its source: No waste fecundity, only the harsh root Soars from the ground upon its upward course.

He cleaves the thickened crust of time and space, Back from his endless journey into man; Resolves his own divisions, face to face With self once more, where selfhood first began.

They watch him as his way draws to an end, Turn their resentful eyes upon his face, Drawn after him, against their wills, to rend Divinity from its sole dwelling-place.

How can they know it if they do not kill? Or love unless they cast their love away? They raise desire upon a barren hill And then lift up love’s weapon, strike and slay!

Take back your godhead from us! is their cry, Lest we should lose it now for evermore: Leave us our hard-won privilege, to die As you once died for Adam, long before.

5 Once you withdrew to give your creature room To move, where nothing moved but you alone; Withdraw once more within Time’s procreant womb, Die once again—your dying shall atone

For this our life, forced on us by your will, The gift you gave us, here we give again; Be now our sad mortality, O still Accept our death of us, our human pain.

From the harsh soil of our rejection you will spring, From the great rock we press upon your grave, Fairer than if we now had called you king, Take now the life only your death can save.

He watched them, as he walked towards the Tree, Heavy with love, with pity and despair: All these I have created endlessly, To doubt and dread, to dream, exult and dare—

Only to know me from a vast abyss, To apprehend me from the end of space, To touch me, blindfold, in a moment’s bliss, And to deny me if they see my face.

These are the issue of my ancient tree, The fruit of doubt, of evil and of good; My God, why have you now forsaken me? Stretch forth your hand and rend the living wood!

Doubt and division, these are your absolutes: Forsake these people if you wish them well; Nourish them with death’s astringent fruits, Without the barren certainties of hell.

6 He watched them as the nails were hammered in, He saw the sword and felt it probe his side, Each human sorrow, every separate sin Stabbed home with it in anguish, and he died.

Descended into hell, where all is still, Far beyond hope, where all doubt is denied And no wind stirs to wake the sleeping will, No scent, no light, no echo from outside.

Nothingness is here, without negation, Absence without estrangement’s agony, Here uncreates itself the whole creation, The void returns, the primal entropy.

He knows at last humanity’s dark night, When certitude has fled beyond dispute, Blind no longer with excessive light, Emptied of God, his severance absolute.

The circle of redemption is complete: The stars reel over and the cosmos stands Rooted in dust beneath his quiet feet, And good and evil fall from his torn hands.

7 THE LAST TREE

‘who in the same night that he was betrayed, took bread . .

He watched his own familiar friend, Who drank his wine and ate his bread, Approach the long-appointed end, And felt his own heart leap in dread.

The water trembled in the bowl, His hands ached, as he made them clean, To still the terror in the soul, To heal the anguish yet unseen.

He heard his own voice rise and fall In warning, as he dried their feet: ‘For you are clean, but not all . . .’ Then once again they sat at meat.

He watched their faces round the board, Puzzled, intent, self-conscious, pained, Embarrassed by the naked word, They pressed for judgment, guilt-constrained.

He looked at Judas and at John, And knew that death was in the bread, That life and love and bread were one, That John would live by Judas dead.

He dipped the bread deep in the dish, Then lifted it against the light, Poising the will against the wish: Judas went out. And it was night.

8 The light was stirred within the room, It glowed and flowered on wall and wood, Blazed forth the meaning of his doom, Consumed betrayal where he stood.

He hung with Judas on the tree In Akel-dama; for upon The bitter hill of Calvary He knew him in the face of John.

9 QUESTION FOR THOMAS

Would there have been a bitter tree, Or vinegar on Calvary, Or lesser miracle have been, If Christ had kissed the Magdalene?

His foot was still beneath her hand, And tranquilly he shrove her clean, Serenely did not understand The tears of Mary Magdalene.

Did gratitude at loss of sin Make Mary’s breath go out and in? And what could sin or spikenard mean, If Christ had kissed the Magdalene? RELEASE

This is the last thing—now all is done, all is said, The house is empty and the far hills glow; The wine is drunk, and broken all the bread, The doors are open: it is time to go.

To go—to be able to go: This is the meaning and the deed, Cause and effect, to be led and to lead, To free and to be freed.

To withdraw, and withdrawing, to unfold, Not to be held, not to hold— To cast off, like an outgrown garment, The once-needs, the once-fears.

You are gone: there are no more tears. THE KNIFE

When shall I expel you from my blood? When drive you forth from the heart of me, Untwist you from my nerves, tear you forcibly Free from my brain? O if I could

Sever you from the pulse that beats all day Far in the deep, labyrinthine soul of me, Cut you from my sinews, and deliberately Rise and thrust you once for all away.

Except a lancet bid it silence keep How shall I still my tongue from calling you? How shall I stay my hands from holding you— When they stretch out to find you even in sleep?

The wind shall sooner wear away the stone Than I obliterate you from the hone. MORNING AND EVENING

Morning breaks and I must go Where my true love waits for me; The sun-lit hours are long and slow And the red road winds so endlessly.

Evening falls, and I must go Far from my love, far from delight; How swift the sunlit hours grow To clouds that hide him from my sight!

13 NATIVITY

Blacker than night, beyond space, The self expunged, the reason stilled, Pain beyond pain, the extreme of grace, Desire fails, the heart has willed.

The spinning darkness pricked with stars Of agony, recedes and falls, Engulfs and rends; the terror soars Above the fortress and its walls.

Lean to the blast, oh heart, be still; The wind roars over and is gone . . . Light wakens light on the calm hill: You are alive and have a son.

•4 R O P E T R IC K

I tossed a rope into the air, It twisted, turned, gyrated there, It ebhed and flowed and flashed and fell, I ruled it and it served me well.

Time passed and I improved my skill, Two ropes I had to do my will About my body and about, Two snakes of lightning, in and out.

From town to town along the land The crowds applaud my cunning hand; They watch my rope’s athletic grace But not the peril of my face.

I toss my rope into the air, And smile to see it hover there . . . My fingers hold Time’s noose in check: Then draw it tight about my neck.

*5 MAGPIES AT NIGHT

The liquid silver woke and stirred, And all about us was the bird— The descant in the wondering tree, Argent, a flare of harmony.

And widely round the staring moon Lay the delusive ring, that soon Withdrawn from cloud and dark and light, Waited and dreamed through the pale night.

Silver and sable, dark and light, When shall I hear, through the long night, The urgent note, the procreant word, The imperious singing of the Bird?

16 ANSERBARBARA

‘O wild one, stay, O restless bird, Ride no more on the wind away; Feathers folded and quiet feet, 0 wild one, stay!’

‘I am my flight, the wind my breath, All motion is my point of rest, Trim not my wings to your heart’s beat, Slay not your guest.’

‘See wild one, here is your dwelling-place, Enter, possess, this is your own: My knife is sheathed, my sword laid down On the proud stone.’

‘Lay not down your arms for m e: 1 am the strife in the cosmic dust; Keep bright your sword; for me no knife Shall gather rust.’

‘And have my hands no power to hold, My heart no warmth for your cold wing? No word to stay you from your flight Where the stars sing?’

‘Withdraw, O hands, and I will come And dwell in you, in all, in none; And shut my ears to the singing stars When desire is gone

‘Where flight is gone, and the wind is fled Where silence falls from the lips of God, Beyond the worlds, where his own foot Has never trod.’ n RESURRECTION

And in that morning on the grey and sullen plain, They heard the last notes of the trumpet wake the day, And stretched their bones and shook the dust away, Flexed their stiff shanks and stood erect again.

Their sockets danced with pain in the white light, The new winds lashed each frail anatomy, Roared in their ear-holes like an angry sea, Shattered the peace of their millenial night,

Died down, and then in fury stirred afresh: Each grinning skull grew fixed with sudden fear, Felt the old agony of breath draw near, The nameless terror of returning flesh.

They stretched their bony hands in silent dread And wordless prayed the blank, unpitying sky . . . But blood returned, with brain and tongue and eye And space resounded with their bitter cry: ‘Lord God have mercy, let the dead stay dead!’

18 FIRST NIGHT

The house-lights fade: see how the darkness shines! Drown the vapidities with rising strings . . . The god lifts up his hand, his eyes are bright, I know my cue, I listen in the wings.

But no voice comes. You do not know your lines. The spotlight sickens, the whole scene turns grey. The red injunctions pierce the barren night; The curtain’s down and there has been no play.

l9 JOUR PERDU

Red Autumn flung a day of blue and gold Down through the mist and hade us use it well: All day I waited till the air grew cold. How was it that you could not tell? Not read the message of the trembling sky? Not see the shadow fall behind the sun? The day is lost, the blue and gold and I, And the red dies, though winter’s not begun.

20 THE LAMENT OF BRANGANE

‘Be it deadly earnest or a game, He is just as you would have him.’ —Gottfried of Strassburg

Christ is no wind-blown sleeve for me, He will not cling about my arm Smoothly nor close, but stands aloof And leaves me to my bitter harm.

No Ysolt I, no facile Queen, Who found Him pliant as a reed, For when I try Him, see, His face Grows hard, His lips refuse my need.

Ysolt laid hold upon the iron, The hand that held it was not scarred, She lied for love, and God was pleased And gave the lie its true reward.

My hand lays hold upon the iron, And heart and hand have truly sworn, Yet are rejected and consumed, And this the pain that must be borne.

For Christ will neither save nor damn, Will grant no liebestod to me . . . The sleeve blows rigid in the wind, A cold wind from an alien sea.

21 APOPEMPTIC HYMN

All was as it was when I went in : The pictures right-side up, the chairs in place, The flowers stood stiff upon the mantelpiece, I knew the voice, I recognised the face.

Outside, the same sky held the same earth fast, The green leaves shone, dogs barked, the children played; But suddenly, inside, the air grew cold, The evening ceased to sing, I was afraid.

The chairs began to dance, the pictures screamed, The suppurating flowers smelt sickly-sweet, The white walls clashed together, silence howled, The floor collapsed in darkness at my feet.

The door slams shut, the wind is in my hair, The sun has gone, and in its place there stands The mighty stranger, blotting out the sky; I turn and feel my way with cold, blind hands.

But where I turn, he stands before me still, Annihilating time, bestriding space, Chaos is come, my daughter is unborn, And blank and featureless my own son’s face.

No point of recognition but the grass— Even the tree betrays me in the end— Oh blind hands, feel the toughness of the blades And the cold ground beneath them as your friend.

22 CHESS BY THE SEA

The tide is rising with the wind, Wave answers wind in the hlack pines, The dolphin dies upon the heach— Behind your head, the darkness shines.

Cold, cold upon the widowed sand, Death opens up his ancient game; His hooded face is white and wise, He moves a pawn and names my name.

The firelight stains the squares you drew, Teach me to play, the night is long: The dolphin’s eye is wild and sad, The surf beats loud, the wind is strong.

Move for move you play Death's game; Outside, I see his shadowed hand. Love knows no rules, my moves are blind, The dolphin dies upon the sand.

A game I have not played before: Make all the moves, but tell no lies . . . The first is last, a castle falls, The queen is taken by surprise.

The queen is taken, now the king Falls to your strategy of fear: Death sweeps the pieces from the hoard, The dolphin dies, you shed no tear.

23 LABOUR-SAVING

The dead leaves make a mess: cut the oak down, Then pave the lawn and fill the centre-bed With coloured gravel; the hedge is overgrown, Uproot and burn it; build a fence of stone. The trencher-friend, with cold, voluptuous paws, Keep her: her milk at least makes no demands, You can discount her trite, contemptuous claws, Faint tracery of spite upon your hands.

But the dog, the dog, the mud upon the floor! The tunnelling for hones, under the roses’ feet! The adoration clamouring at the door, Hunger and longing that ask for more than meat. Send the hitch away and you will be At ease, all the long Sunday afternoon, Each evening you will feel yourself more free To walk or not to walk . . . and soon Will cease to feel the absence of the eyes, To miss the faithful and ecstatic greeting, And sit alone, with no demands to meet, Enclosed, secure, exempt from all meeting.

The house to yourself at last! Why be afraid? Dog or a shadow? Dead leaves under a tree? Grass, or the holy anagram betrayed? The faces in the darkness merge and fade: Is it the cold that makes you tremble now you see?

24 A CONSENT TO MOURN THE DEATH OF A M A N , BY F IR E , IN SYDNEY, 1965

No war, no hunger here To raise the hidden heast, No sudden danger to excuse the deed; Only a quiet sleeper in the sun, With folded hands, eyes closed against the light. But the light hecomes fire and the agony of fire, Flames are the eyes of fiends where pain consumes the day, The whole world burns and turns and the mind turns White with astonishment at such a jest.

Why should folded hands and quiet eyes offend? Or stillness he an affront? Or evil wear the faces of children, Moving their hands—to what end? Who could have sired these children, suckled them, Who nurtured them to this? Who can plead madness for them, Or shield their eyes from fire? Who can excuse them, who can defend? The burnt flesh smells to heaven; gloss not this crime With specious explanations, hut brand it upon all hearts: This is the fruit of our whole sickened tree; Rooted in greed, the crop must come to this; All branches bear this fruit, all have nourished it; The tree is ripe for burning; Lord stay its time!

Mourn him in anger, his ending was horror, Mourn him in pity, his ending was pain: Yet let this flame illume the darkened heart, In fire let all men see their faces plain.

27 MISSA BREVIS

Introitus: the darkness falls And street-lamps shine outside these walls.

Lord, have mercy in this room, Let gentleness decide our doom.

Now all the heavens their glory shed To hless the wholesomeness of bread.

Be sanctified, O living wine, And blessed the root that feeds the vine.

Behold, the Lamb, ablaze with light, Consumes the darkness of our night.

Miserere: grant us peace, The benediction of release.

Outside the walls, the first cocks crow, The mass is ended, rise and go.

Mass ends, but still the singing bread Endures, and they who hear are fed.

2 8 DROUGHT

It pours out when you turn a tap: Thirsty, you drink, soothe your body, Make grass grow, wheels turn, And watch it run to waste, caring not a rap . . .

W ill not rain fall forever, rivers flow, The sun suck vapour from the sea? Will not clouds team endlessly, Springs gush from the hidden heart below?

How should the prime foundation perish? See How absurd your doubt is! Drink recklessly, Accept and give no thanks, take without a word. Am I water to you? O then cherish me!

2 9 SPRING SONG

\ . . the seasonal increase of suicide incidence is still mysterious.'—Stengel

Out from the dark thrusts the leaf, The bud crimsons the night, Sap stirs through the cold stem— Man turns from the light.

The suicide season returns, The graph climbs with the sun . . . How can mind face the light When love is gone?

The icy heart, left alone, Feels at ease with the cold. But the paradox of spring Brings pain untold.

Here is no place for snow, No foot-hold for grief; The dead heart has nothing to say To the bud and the leaf.

30 IN ABSENTIA

The door closes; night leaps out again, Extinguishes the light, damps down the fire; The swift hlood falters and the hands grow cold, And all the voices of the dark conspire To prove your absence by my present pain.

Here is the empty cup you drank from; here The pillow holds the pressure of your head, Your shadow stands behind me in the glass, And when I stretch my arms along the bed They trace the enchanted circle of our fear.

The voices lie: the night is deaf and blind, And cannot hear my pulse beating your name, Nor see your sign-manual hidden in my flesh Burn out your absence with its living flame, Claiming the kingdom you have left behind.

31 PRESENT TENSE

‘Nothing can ever come of it’, he said. —Outside the window, the white rose waved its head, A late bird sang, insouciant, in the tree, The sunset stained the river red.

‘There is no future, none at all’, he said. —She stretched her arms up from the tumbled bed: ‘What future has the river or the rose?’ said she, ‘The bird's song is, and nothing comes of red.’

He held her as the river holds the red Stain of sunset; as, when the bird has fled, The tree holds the song. ‘Listen,’ said she, ‘Bird, rose and sunlit water sing from this bed.’

32 WAITING FOR THE POST

No black and swirling cloak, no faceless grin, No poised and shining scythe, no hour-glass . . . Death has a freckled nose and wears a khaki shirt, And rides a bicycle. I watch him pass

Day after day, climbing the same hill— The housewives time him by their kitchen-clocks. Today I see him pause, undo his bag, And drop a letter in my box.

I hear it fall, and hear the whistle blow Its shrill parody as he walks on up the hill. I hold my doomed love in my trembling hand: The earth turns over, though the street is still.

33 EQUATION

‘If a man were to give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be contemned’

The sum came out quite neatly. According to the rules. He put his pen down, sighed with relief. Much easier than he’d thought. Went home early to dinner, was rewarded with a kiss. Lunched at the cluh next day, And spoke vigorously at the monthly meeting. As he went on his rounds, or dug the garden, His public image smiled hack once more At its inventors. Everything was normal again. As far as he knew. And if a public image makes a cold bed-fellow, Well, people have to choose in this life. Not long after, he set out for the next. Took the sum with him, just for the record. —It’s all right, I think, he said modestly, I checked the figures twice: Profession, children, colleagues, wife, Customers, relations, friends, They're all there . . . —Are they? said God mildly, running his finger down the page. You remind me of a young man I knew once in Galilee. Nice chap. Too much money, though . . . His finger paused. —There’s a symbol missing, said God gently. You’ve left it out. In my algebra Everything has to he taken into account . . . —Missing? he said, and shifted his weight to the other foot. —The woman I gave you, said God. So that you might know who you are. Not the habit you lived with, acquired in accordance with custom,

34 But the woman I gave you, said God. Did you not notice my seal? What happened to her? He took his celestial pen and altered a number. —The answer, said God, Should he nought. There was silence in Heaven For about half an hour. —Where is she? he whispered, from behind his hands. —Oh, she’s here, said God. Came some time ago. You can see her if you like, said God. From a distance, He added, walking away. But you will never he able to touch her. Never.

35 A PROBLEM OF LANGUAGE

How praise a man? She cannot vow His lips are red, his hrow is snow, Nor celebrate a smooth white hreast While gazing on his hairy chest; And though a well-turned leg might please, More often he has knobbly knees; His hair excites no rapt attention— If there’s enough of it to mention. She cannot praise his damask skin, Still less the suit he’s wrapped it in; And even if he’s like Apollo To gaze upon, it does not follow That she may specify the features That mark him off from other creatures. No rime can hymn her great occasion But by a process of evasion; And so she gives the problem over, Describes her love, but not her lover, Despairs of words to tell us that Her heart sings his magnificat.

36 EVEN-SONG

Let me be still water to you, or the faithful grass: Not only the lightning that strikes the rooted tree, Not only the thunder, nor the storm-winds that blow Wide the webbed window and howl upon the hearth.

But let me he emptiness, when the parched winds pass, The absolving silence on the evening sea, Or incense of washed fields rising sweet and slow In benediction from the ravished earth.

37 AFTER-DINNER SPEECH In an address to a literary gathering in Sydney not long ago, the editor of an Australian newspaper said that what Australia needed more than anything was a Dryden or a Swift; instead of bothering about anthologies of poetry, we should concentrate on satire. The question what would happen if we did was not raised at the meeting . . .

‘Satire’, he said, ‘is what this country needs; It's time you stopped encouraging this jingle Of pretty poetry that no one reads, And raised yourselves a Dryden or a Swift, With pens to set your feehle brains a-tingle.’

With rounds of masochistical applause, They cheered him to his seat, and not a single Murmur of dissent was heard, because It's not polite to argue at a dinner: Logic and lobster-mayonnaise don’t mingle.

Next day, his typist, opening his mail, Issued, reluctant, from her glassy pingle, Bearing a dingy paper, penned in pale Sad ink, the writing somewhat thin and crabbed, And, nonchantly smoothing her neat shingle,

Fluted: ‘Some clergyman just left this stuff with me, A gloomy fellow, set my nerves a-jingle, Looks like a pamphlet knocking Christianity, He said his name was Dean or something like it, What nerve! They ought to beat him with a tringle.’

‘I’m busy now: who’s on Church rounds this week? I simply can't read every hit of fingle- Fangle stuff; and what confounded cheek To think I’ll wade through bilge that isn't typed; I’d sooner read the Log of Thomas Cringle.’

39 Church Rounds, who kept an eye on Education During his leisure-time, had not a single Minute to spare; he read, with irritation, The first outrageous page and then the last ‘Whoever this cove is, he’s lost a shingle!’

‘Tell the boss’, he said, ‘there’s nothing in it, The chap’s more foolish than a cod or zingel; Don’t waste the paper’s time another minute: Slang Christianity—without an affidavit! They ought to choke him with his own surcingle.’

It seems, we fear, that if the shade of Dryden With Swift’s astringent spirit could commingle And find some Austral poet’s pen to hide in, The Press would think his verse too rude to print: The pea-shooter’s its weapon, not the swingle.

It aims from firm positions on the fence And hard enough to make small victims tingle, But not enough to topple heads; it’s sense To try to please the donkey and the man: Principles and profits never mingle.

Experts, of course, are hired to shoot the peas, Specialists—approved varieties—may mingle- Mangle simple issues when they please, Quite often when mere amateurs have raised them The devil take them—to a deep dark dingle!

4 0 NIGHT AT THE OPERA

The sail appears: Isolde tells her tale Of death and longing, through the rich dark wail Of horns, and expiates all lovers’ sins In the vicarious orgasm of violins.

What could she do but die on Tristan's breast? Maison ä trois, or Tristan as a guest, A spell of domesticity when force prevailed? They’d tried them all in turn and all had failed. Theirs was an age without the neat resources Our science offers and our creed endorses; Their death-in-love at least was swift and sure, And what they had they held and kept secure. (The audience sighed and cleared its throat and rose, And here and there a lady blew her nose, Or bent to catch a program as it fell, And wiped her eyes. The husband murmured: ‘Well, A cup of coffee and a cigarette, I think; Perhaps it's not too late to have a drink, I really need a whisky after that; Come back to supper with us at the flat . . .’)

Lovers since then, of course, have grown more wise: Love is cjuite nice, it’s true, hut compromise Is necessary now, if we’d survive In perfect comfort, while we're still alive. Iseult, you must admit, is in a fix: Love is a luxury when you’re twenty-six, And what’s the passion which the poets sung Beside the comfort of a mod. brick hung.? All her former school-friends, one by one, At last gave in, liked what they got; alone She sits and dreams all will come right, Until, waking from sleep, in a long night,

41 She sees the cold face of solitude Mocking her truth. Her old despair renewed, She bids farewell to her high, imperial quest, Accepts the bird-in-hand and waives the rest. And in the dark, at first, give her what's due, She hardly knows the false Tristan from the true.

Tristan is pleased enough: he needs a mate To calm his blood, so he can concentrate On getting on; a nice, efficient wife Gives a good man a solid start in life; The right clothes, the right guests to entertain, Church connections—marriage is pure gain From every practical business point of view, (With any luck, it might he pleasant too) And married men, he hastened to reflect, Carried more weight, commanded more respect In conferences; and, he’d often noted, The married men were earliest promoted. The managing-directorship’s his quest, He’ll take the cash in hand, and grab the rest. His trustiest weapon is his fountain-pen, His cheque-hook is his shield gainst other men, And the white hands of Iseult clasp the cheque With far more passion than her Tristan’s neck. The fortress they have built to keep out fear Is a brand-new triple-fronted brick veneer, With clean oil-heating (wood-fires make a mess, And slow-combustion heaters not much less; And their electric blankets, after a fashion, Warm the twin beds faster than Tristan's passion) With Swedish furniture and plastic flowers, And television to while away the hours Between the evening meal and going to sleep: The rising young executive must keep To schedule to succeed in his career: Sex is for Sundays, Saturday for beer

42 With the boys, a round of golf, or fishing, The flicks sometimes, to keep Iseult from wishing She'd stayed at work, or that the kids were grown, Or that the horns would blow for her alone . . . She knows within her heart they never will, That the true Isolde waits upon the hill, Ready to put to sea should Tristan call; The echo of wind and waves far off is all She ever hears of the heart’s long dream; The sail stays furled above the forward beam.

Tristan is on committees now three times a week, He’s been elected to the club; is sleek, Discreetly-suited and wears English shoes, And has his picture in the social news Beside his wife, wearing her new mink stole And the face of one who sees at last her goal In sight: the long-awaited sublimation Of a genuine Vice-regal invitation. (The violins sound their dark orgasmic tune . . .) Iseult’s dispensing tea this afternoon To help the Spastic Centre; though she’s never been To see it yet, she’s really very keen To work at some deserving charity, And spends much time and trouble serving tea Or having coffee-parties, organising halls, W riting official letters, paying calls. Her family keeps her busy, too, it’s true; She has the routine four, two girls and two Boys, one exactly like his father, At hoarding-school, of course, although she’d rather Have them at home; still what is one to do? Their father went, and so the hoys must too. Tristan, she sighs, has joined the club committee, Four times a week now he stays in the city; But pottery at night keeps doubts at bay, And Yoga classes help to fill her day.

43 She sees him long enough to say ‘Good morning’, Reminds him sometimes of the doctor’s warnng To take things easy; his coronary occlusion Didn’t surprise her, it seemed a fit conclusion— The final status symbol of success. She missed him at first, of course, but rather less Than she had thought she would. Her son re urned From school, stayed home awhile and learned The business, acquired a girl and married Most suitably: three children (one miscarriec). Iseult is busier than ever baby-sitting, And pottery’s abandoned now for knitting. Both daughters married well; her only pain Is the problem of her younger son again. A married woman! Think of the disgrace! What would his father say? She hides her face In her once-white hands, looks up again and soies Her ancient longing in her young son’s eyes, And turns her gaze, compelled against her will, To where Isolde waits upon the hill, Hears the waves crash and the true Tristan call, Sees the white sail flying over all, And through the thundering surf, the anguished foam, The horns begin to rise, summoning her home.

44 SERVICE NUMBERS

Let us with a gladsome mind Praise The Post-Master General (for he is kind), For his mercies aye endure, Ever faithful, ever sure.

Time answers to his stately measure, And Sport and Food speak at his pleasure; For him the Stock Exchange discloses How all the world its wealth disposes; Calm and Storm at his command Reveal their presence close at hand; Our Leisure hours have been his care: He knows the programs everywhere; He will not slumber, will not nod, In case we wish to ring up God; The PMG will have Him there: Lift the receiver, dial a prayer. People need no longer bother— The PMG is like a brother. Though you may sit at home alone For days beside the telephone, Knowing it will never ring For love, for gold, for anything, If you should crave for human speech The dial is within your reach. Let not your heart in silence grieve, Only ask, and you shall receive: In accents faithful, tone sublime, A voice will let you know the Time, And measure it in strokes of three Till it becomes Eternity; Unless th’ Exchange should interfere And cut all Time off, in your ear . . .

45 Then should we not with gladsome mind Praise The Post-Master General? (for he is kind), And if his mercies you endure He will be faithful, he will he sure; And those who can afford to 'phone Know they need never be alone.

46 QUESTIONS FOR KASPAR

‘Why are the soldiers off to war? 0 grand-sire, tell me please.’ ‘They fight to right their wrongs, my dear, A nd ward off enemies.’

‘And these men that we fight, grand-sire, Have done us injuries? They wish to take our land from us, And rule us as they please?’

‘Well, no, my child, the men we fight Have never caused us sorrow, 1 cannot think they want our land, Today, nor yet tomorrow.

‘We fight them, child, because their friends Have filled us with unease, And might, we think, in time to come Do us great injuries.’

‘But have they done so yet, grand-sire? And do they want our land? And if they have, and if they do, Why fight them second-hand?

‘If Peterkin might like my doll, Or covet my ginger-bread, Is it quite right for me, grand-sire, To fight his friend instead?’

Old Kaspar shook his head: ‘It’s plain Maids cannot understand How high affairs are carried on By the elders of the land.’

47 Now up spake Peterkin: ‘Grand-sire, If I wish to fight another, Should I not then take arms myself, And not send my baby brother?

‘If, as you say, our land’s at stake, Why are not grown men fighting, Are not these soldiers much too young To know which wrongs need righting,

‘If they’re too young to choose the men Who send them into battle . . . ?’ Old Kaspar frowned: ‘You go too far, Children should learn, not prattle.’

Said Wilhelmine: ‘One question more, And then I shall have finished . . . If, as they say, this war he long, Shall we not he dim inished?

‘If you should slay the flower of your flock Each year for ten years more, Will it then he as good a flock, As ever it was before?’

Old Kaspar rose and shook his stick: ‘My little Wilhelmine, Children, in an Old Man’s world, Should neither he heard nor seen.

‘Be off with you and spin your wool, You’ve work to do in plenty— And Peterkin, I’ll deal with you, As soon as you are twenty.’

48 WILHELMINE AND THE RED HERRING

To Sir Alan Watt, who admonished Peterkin

Said Peterkin: T cannot think That grand-sire did not hear; The questions that we asked were plain, We asked them loud and clear.

‘Why did he put words in our mouths, Words that we did not say? And answer what we did not ask? Why did he laugh, I pray?’

Said Wilhelmine: ‘Both age and power Hear what they wish to hear; Corruption from a lack of use Will blunt the sharpest ear,

‘As too long gazing on the self Will dim the keenest eye, And clownish laughter, neatly timed, Make truth seem like a lie.

‘The politician’s practised long At turning argument, His crah-like motion serves him well To dodge, to circumvent.

‘The patronising smile of age Achieves a like intent; ’Twas ever thus, O Peterkin, With mortal government.

49 ‘God is not mocked, if men be deaf, And some have ears to hear, And hear the questions that you ask And have their answer clear.

‘They know they have no coward heart And claim their ancient right, When they are asked to die, to know Whom, and for what, they fight.

‘They do not wish to gild the lies Of mere expediency; Nor use a blameless land as shield To keep their country free.

‘To keep their country free—for whom? From whom? Fear breeds fear . . . And lies and fear bring that about Which we have cause to fear.

‘No good would come of it at last Even if we should win, The infamous victory would remain The record of a sin.

‘The spoils of conquest left to us As long as we draw breath, Would be the lie deep in the soul, More terrible than death:

‘God will reward the men who pray For life at any cost, With what they ask for—may they then Remember what they lost.’

50 THE SECOND COMING

A Video-progress in Five Fyttes

Fytte the First: Canberra

The grey sky clears: the curtains of the cloud Open, gilt-edged, above the waiting crowd; The scene is set, the rainbow in its place, Chorus drawn up at the saluting-base. Listen! Far-off the sacred engine hums Warning the people that the saviour comes! The super-giant wings glide slowly down To yield their burden to th’ expectant town. The stairs ascend, behind the door, concealed, Johnson (or Jesus?) waits to be revealed . . . Johnson it is: needless the brief dismay— This tribute is within our means to pay. And if, at first, response to the demand Seems moderate, then a presidential hand Well-placed upon the nearest childish pate Begets a reverence at a faster rate.

The cars move off: we watch the show begin, The modest greeting swells now to a din; As brass hands toll the knell of parting day The guest proceeds on his deliberate way, And makes his party speeches at the gate, With no compunction that his host should wait. Both friend and foe, it seems, must stay his pleasure, Expect to see him only at his leisure And if he choose to slip through a hack-door, Refrain from thinking such behaviour poor; Some little comfort the remembrance brings That punctuality’s a grace of kings.

51 Fytte the Second: Melbourne

But while he sleeps, the Tenth Muse has been busy: Publicity has made all Melbourne dizzy With ticker-tape and banners and the bray Of amplifiers thick along the way, With subsidies of flags for childish hands, With bigger marching girls and better bands, And measures for the prompt and firm removal Of those expressing doubt or disapproval. A pressman beaten up can hardly matter, When the sole civic duty is to flatter. Police provocateur and plain-clothes spy On civil freedom turn a threatening eye; Whatever reservations may he made, The safest judgment is: It’s good for trade.

Fytte the Third: Sydney

Then Sydney waits to fall beneath the spell, With floral hats, koalas and Dobell. With Art as back-drop, gum-trees as decor, Distinguished guests assemble at the door, And as their vigil grows the more prolonged And the gallery becomes more densely-thronged Noses begin to shine and eyes to glaze, And conversations flounder in a haze Of boredom. From far off a roar Falls like the surf upon a rock-bound shore; The ticker-tape swirls down like driven snow, And through the storm the Mormon organs blow Braying their welcome hymns to drown the faint Noise of protest offered to the saint. The Juggernaut moves on: we hardly know Whether the prostrate forms are friend or foe; Policemen quickly quell the sudden doubt, Remove obstructions, deal a well-aimed clout

5 2 At those who struggle . . . The cortege gathers speed, Now to the waving crowd pays little heed, Follows the cycles through the hand-out banners— Only the hosts it seems must have good manners, And if a woman’s knocked down by The Car, Well, all is fair in politics and war. On then in haste to the historic place Where Phillip raised his flag once by God’s grace; Another flag is broken on the mast, And one more link is severed with the past. Another anthem sounds its solemn tone, And the gathering hardly waits to hear its own. Here where a land in agony was horn, Scarcely a heart today is moved to mourn Its passing. In the history of a nation The lasting conquest is assimilation.

The ritual surrender quickly ends, And to the Harbour now the conqueror wends His genial way, prepared to fall in love With all the enticing charms of Sydney Cove. The launch, it's true, is hardly Pompey’s galley, With two triumvirs missing from the tally; And Caesar’s majesty is here scaled down To fit the image of a Texas clown, Who, though he rides in turn on Fortune’s wave, ’Not being Fortune, is but Fortune’s slave.’ Now hack to Canberra for a lightning stop, To say good-bye and eat a grilled lamb chop.

Fytte the Fourth: Brisbane

The Sunshine City outdoes all the rest, Unanimously roars to greet its guest, Anxious to show him all that she can do, Remembering how hack in ’forty-two,

53 She played the starring role for a brief day, The far-flung outpost of the U.S.A. What Southerners can give, she can give more: Here’s golden lambswool for the bath-room floor, Soft flattery for the presidential feet, And flags to grace his passage to his suite. Here, where MacArthur laid his august head, Our second saviour will he put to bed, If he can fight his way through the tight mass Of human sheep, gathered to see him pass. Frenzied with worship now the shepherd’s near, They call for speeches they can hardly hear Though if he bade them die for Uncle Sam, They'd fling themselves beneath the Ashgrove tram Creeping behind them, where they rock and sway, Yearn for a master, desperate to obey.

Fytte the Fifth: Townsville

Up in the North he finds his schedule tight, Consults his watch and pauses in his flight; (God after all has endless Time to spare, His seat is safe, he doesn’t have to care) Still, fifteen minutes is not much to pay To have the Church’s blessing on his day. The Bishop sets the seal on gratitude, Bids him farewell with a Beatitude; In case we miss the subtle implication Harold provides us with the explanation.

And so the circus ends: the great furore, Leaves everything much as it was before: ‘Cease fire and we’ll withdraw; if you do not, We’ll both pitch into you with all we’ve got. With phosphorus and fire, napalm and “lazy-dog” And other items from the catalogue Of instruments for swift pacification

54 We’ll soon ensure sincere co-operation. Peace at our price is all the peace we bring; We call the tune—it’s up to you to sing; And whether you sing or not, we cannot lose, And if our children reap our sowing, who's To worry? We shall not be there, A crop of hatred isn’t our affair.’

Meanwhile a political campaign Conducted far removed from home terrain Should compensate our heroes handsomely Now Tweedledum can speak for Tweedledee. And as th’ Ambassador explained precisely (Pleased that we’d all behaved ourselves so nicely): Investors now will look with keener eye On the rich fields beneath the southern sky; And though it seemed a shame a small minority Should drown the voices of the great majority, Still, since we’ve proved our willingness to please, Reformed our currency and bowed our knees, Wall Street will kindly overlook polemics Of violent, bearded, long-haired academics, And Pontifex’s praises shall resound While profit makes the brave new world go round.

Envoi

Our turtle-dove now wings his homeward way, Leaving the rest, perforce, to L B J, Still with him in the spirit, to be sure, Especially now his flesh feels more secure. We know his slogan; what is more worth knowing: Does Harold really see where Johnson’s going?

55 SOLDIERS ABROAD

Will you remember nothing but the singing, The shouting cities and the laughing girls, Children waving flags and women clinging While music swirls?

Will you forget, long after, in returning, The blistered marches and the choking sands, Terror of sunlight and the stench of burning, And desolate lands?

The friendliness of shoulder touching shoulder, The warmth of bodies, the divided jest, Ties of weariness, the secrets older Than Helen’s breast:

All these you will remember . . . not the slaughter, The sightless eyes, madness, the sudden cry; Anguish and fear, disease, heat, foulness of water, Shall all pass hy

And be forgotten . . . If men clung to pain Not holding the thought of high, bright moments only, They would not send their sons to murder sons again, Leave women lonely.

56 MEDITATION OF A MARINER

When you scuttled the ship, the shore was still in sight, You were in good fettle, swimming strongly, the enemy withdrawn For a moment, perhaps discouraged and in full flight; The sea was clear, slow-moving, flowing east to the dawn.

And it was a fine piece of driftwood came floating past, Buoyant and hard, just as your arms began to fail. You could hang on now for hours, days, weeks, perhaps, till at last You caught a glimpse of smoke to windward, or was it a sail?

It was then that the unsuspected foe struck from the smiling sea And took the fingers of your right hand at a blow, The red stump trailed in the water uselessly, Inviting a second monster from the depths below.

The sail has hardly moved—no doubt a painted illusion, Born of solitude and the sea’s immensity, and pain. The remaining fingers still hold on, in deep confusion, While the enemy hides his moment and will strike again.

Why do you will them to hold, those cold, cold fingers? Loosen their grip and put an end to doubt and death! Is it that hope of touching land still lingers, Or mere joy of breathing, while you still have breath? Is hand simply to hold, to grip: is that the whole story, The last affirmation, the only deed of glory?

57 DANKGESANG

For A. D. H.

Sometimes a thread of light drops through the leaves, Parting the suffocating vines, And marks the track again, where the blind foot cleaves, Glances a moment on the hidden signs; And a voice speaks softly in the waste Of silence, in the dialect of home; The leaves lift and turn once in the vast Jungle of night as the words come With the light, hearing the darkness down: I hear, and henceforth wear your praise like a crown.

58 INDEX OF FIRST LINES

All was as it was when I went in: 22 And in that morning on the grey and sullen plain, 18 Blacker than night, beyond space, 14 Christ is no wind-blown sleeve for me, 21 He watched his own familiar friend, 8 He watched them as they walked towards the tree, 3 How praise a man? She cannot vow 36 I tossed a rope into the air, 13 Introitus: the darkness falls 28 It pours out when you turn a tap: 29 Let me be still water to you, or the faithful grass: 37 Let us with a gladsome mind 45 Morning breaks and I must go 13 No black and swirling cloak, no faceless grin, 33 No war, no hunger here 27 ‘Nothing can ever come of it’, he said. 32 ‘O wild one, stay, O restless bird, 17 Out from the dark thrusts the leaf, 30 Red Autumn flung a day of blue and gold 20 Said Peterkin: ‘I cannot think 49 ‘Satire’, he said, ‘is what this country needs; 39 Sometimes a thread of light drops through the leaves, 58 Swiftness, diligence and love: 1 The dead leaves make a mess: cut the oak down, 24 The door closes; night leaps out again, 31 The grey sky clears: the curtains of the cloud 51 The house-lights fade: see how the darkness shines! 19 The liquid silver woke and stirred, 16 The sail appears: Isolde tells her tale 41 The sum came out quite neatly. According to the rules. 34 The tide is rising with the wind, 23 They watch him as he walks towards the Tree: 5 This is the last thing—now all is done, all is said 11 When shall I expel you from my blood? 12

59 When you scuttled the ship, the shore was still in sight, 57 ‘Why are the soldiers off to war? 47 Will you remember nothing hut the singing, 56 Would there have been a hitter tree, 10

6 0 The Ilex Tree Les A. Murray and Geoffrey Lehmann $2.10 . . the best first book of poems by really young writers to have appeared in Australia for a considerable time’. Bulletin (Sydney) ‘. . . accomplished technicians, sur­ prisingly mature and unrestrained writers [who] by frequently assuming personae other than their young selves, avoid first-book dangers of monotony and excessive intro­ spection. . London Magazine