3 Poems from Ian C. Smith.

Dirty Surrealism.

A child pedals her tricycle across new country
which gleams like a desert after rainfall in spring,
chubby legs pumping, white frock billowing,
past low vines, under a breakfast cereal sun.
Overlaid music, strange instruments not yet
invented, or lost long ago, this music
-- is it a melody? -- might have hung around
the air waves, mingling with voices from other lives.

That kid, before she knows it,
she'll pedal clear out of this opening scene
& into her mosaic of a woman's life.
Oh juicy juicy experience!
But this is no glossy travelogue. She'll move
under high-tension wires, past rotting wharves
& occasional fires beside the road
which begins to buckle & crumble,
& into the canyons of the treacherous city
where the wind moans & her wheels could stick
in tramlines smelling of rust & abandonment
while pop singers leer from empty doorways
issuing lewd invitations with pelvic thrusts.

When she finally tires of the danger, the thrill
she'll journey on, out towards soft hills
where Jack & Jill climb with their pails,
sometimes tumbling, shrieking in pain, but mostly
surviving, patched up & ready to advance
across grasslands & through avenues of evergreens,
fording streams, breathing honeysuckle air
until...with a swiftness that bewilders,
the sky which had once seemed so high
over this unambiguous country
lowers over stunted pines struggling
in hard ground where the rocks are sharp, with
sudden pitfalls, & our traveller listens
for the sounds of stones kicked over edges into
dark chasms, hears them land with dull thuds far below.

After this she'll reach an even lonelier tract,
beyond a politician's promise, where greed
is an echo, where her needs diminish
& memories swarm, where a skinny dog,
whining for shade, pads over baked earth
which absorbs spilled blood without trace.
In this place of monotony until zero hope
the ruins of something, crumbling masonry,
suggestions of an ancient civilisation,
skulls poking up through tufts of yellowed grass
like victims of Pol Pot or an ad for S.B.S.

A classic case of fatigue, you might say
-- uh oh -- what's that ahead?
Yes, a cliche of circling vultures!
If only we could press the rewind button,
take that woman back, allow her to glimpse
on the horizon, the towers of the city
be that kid hearing the music one more time,
feeling the breeze puff out her white frock.


Return to Go.


He has taken what he could from life
but if (oh, dream on) given another go
would strip this lurid lot bare.
His time now is an abandoned house
thoughts, feral cats in fetid air
crouched, waiting, unblinking eyes
piercing inexorable decay.

Composure ranks in this wistful plan
desire, too, let’s not ignore that.
There’s such a range of options
meditation, sin, the martial arts
money seems a fine career
suitably selfish for muffled hearts.
Does regret or greed prompt this rewound time?

But his born-again gig is studded
with avoidance of fouled footpaths
glimpsed by the (now) knowing traveller.
He fantasises surrendering his love
ecstasy to a discerning few
then cherishing a map of memories
when he reaches the review.

He wonders if he would be fit enough
for the rigours of this suppressed life
brave enough, that is, for his
has been the easy route around strife.
He knows elusion leads to disillusion
luring him so deep into the maze
only lonely bones might be found there.


Tunnel Vision.


I chip through the solid wall ahead
persisting with my escape plan.
To master this dangerous course
I concentrate on the dream
of asylum, a life of books
that lights my way in this tight space.
Knowledge and reason will be my rewards.
I leave my residue behind like clues
with no backward glance to the fetid air
where those brutes sneer and jeer
unlike my future friends, the wife
her people in quiet studies
colleagues turning pages, open hands
extended in scholarly welcome.

Past the point of no return, alone
I drip sweat like shed ignorance
struggle onward deep in the night
through Chaucer, Eliot, even Joyce
who makes me feel like an idiot.
At the end of this literary labyrinth
of my choice, I see a degree
of freedom artfully calculated.
The dark mills’ din a memory dimming
I force my way to the distant light
a glow, somewhat dull, when I emerge.
I imagine ivory towers glimmering
but no, the same searchlights of the past
surround me, sweeping the dark ground.


"Ian C Smith’s work has appeared in The Best Australian Poetry, Descant, Island, Magma, The Malahat Review, Southerly,& Westerly His latest book is Lost Language of the Heart, Ginninderra (Adelaide). He lives in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, Australia..."

One Short Story by Angela Whitworth.

At the end of the day

by Angela Whitworth

Nixie touched a single toe against the water.  The temperature was tepid and manageable, the same as the outside air.  She remembered being able to plunge straight into the pool when she was younger.  Back then she had always taken a chance on the inevitable bite and freeze of the water. It was invigorating to let go and dive straight in. She was more cautious now as an adult but secretly yearned for that youthful carelessness again. Nixie started revisiting the pool for exercise and entering the water had turned into a delicate procedure. Dipping toes first, sliding in one leg and then slowly the other, acclimatising to the temperature until she was ready to immerse more of herself.  It wasn’t ice cold but she still bit her lip and made hushed “oohh” and “aahh” noises as though the whole practice was a painful ordeal, particularly as the water reached waist height.

After her initial toe dip to ‘test the water’, Nixie found a sunny spot on the grass and dropped her towel and belongings.  She sat and soaked up the morning sunrays listening to her stomach gurgle and digest her muesli breakfast.  She yearned for a cup of coffee.  Whilst there were few people nearby, she coyly removed her clothes to reveal her shiny new bathers underneath. She fiddled with the tightness of the strap on her goggles, biding time and gathering motivational thoughts to begin her swimming routine.  There was a distinct aroma of onion weed filtering through the balmy morning air, mixed with faint scents of jasmine and honey blossoms. Summer was moving in quickly and Nixie paused to breathe in the warmth and fragrances. The smells were intoxicating and her mind flooded with nostalgia as she looked out over the rippling water. Her thoughts drifted to summers past; when as a child she would clamber up the hot asphalt road from her family home to the very same swimming pool.

Wearing nothing but her bathers, a scrappy t-shirt and a Snoopy towel slung over her shoulder, Nixie would spend ten minutes prior to her departure nagging her mother to drive her up the road to the pool. It was always met with the standard response: “It will take you five minutes to walk darling, don’t be a lazy bug and get some exercise.”  She’d stand arms folded, pleading, then huffing and giving her seemingly illogical mother a look of utter disbelief.  Shaking her head, she knew her mother had never done the arduous walk herself, and “five minutes” was a gross understatement of the time it actually took to get there. Also considering the sizzling heat outside, the walk would be long and sweltering. The sheer anticipation of needing to be at the pool immediately, made the walk seem like a year long hike up the side of a mountain.  Nevertheless,  she’d set off, slightly deflated, but never defeated, along the nature strip under the December sun, picking stems of grass and wild flowers and avoiding the sting of the searing hot asphalt road.

Often times she would gather a couple of chums along the way.  Local kids from her school who lived on the street, cycling around in circles on their BMX bikes. “Wanna come to the pool?” Nixie would call out. “Sure, Pixie Nixie!”, her scruffy haired friends would call back as they threw their bikes on their driveways, ran into their houses to gather towels and togs and join her on the journey.  Bare footed gangs of raggle-taggle small people clambering along the grass and taking short-cuts up embankments and through unknown backyards, sneaking past barking dogs and picking apples off other people’s trees. Sprinklers hurtled water across lawns and Nixie would dash under the fine sprays, giggling and savouring the touch of chilled droplets on her skin.

It cost only 40 cents to get through the pool gates which usually left Nixie with some coins to buy a snack. Difficult decisions were made between the purchase of Sunny Boys, Burger Rings and Redskins.   She would run to meet her friends and they would laugh and squeal, hold hands and jump straight into the pool.  Hours on end were spent flipping, splashing, somersaulting and playing in the water. Games of tag and belly-whackers off the haphazard diving board then turned into under water tea parties and mermaids diving down into oceans deep.

Nixie knew most of the kids from the neighbourhood.  Sometimes nasty names were called and adolescent tiffs broke out.  An unfortunately large boy from school would arrive and a chorus of ”TIDAL WAVE” would echo around the pool as he barrelled into the water.  The boy she fancied from her class at school would show up and tease and pull her ponytail, lick his finger and stick it in her ear, which both disgusted and secretly delighted Nixie.  They’d race underwater and share melting icy poles on the grass together.  Everywhere the ‘No Running’ rule was defied as children took over and ran amuck.  As the day drew to a close and the sun dipped lower in the tinted sky, people would start packing up their belongings and leave the watery playground to get home in time for dinner.  Older people would appear, pull on their swimming caps and begin methodical freestyle laps back and forth into dusk.  

Nixie would loiter until her friends and the bustling families with irritable children disappeared out the gate, and take the opportunity to dive down deep underwater.  Grazing the bottom of the pool for treasures. She liked the muted bubbling quiet of being in the underwater world. She pulled her goggles on tightly and scanned the depths of the pool. She would look for stray coins and had a particularly keen eye for shimmering gold.  She knew to avoid bandaids, clumps of hair and anything unidentifiable at all cost.  She liked to glide and curl under the water and could hold her breath for what seemed like forever. She swam until she had gathered up enough change for a substantial treat at the canteen. Sometimes Nixie would collect enough for a meat pie or a Big M.  She felt guilty profiting from other people’s lost fortune so she never let her scavenging secret on to anyone.  Trudging home with one hand buried in a large bag of salt and vinegar chips, her mother would always greet her at the kitchen door with “...and where’d you get the money for that Miss Pixie? You’ll ruin your dinner!”  Nixie would shrug her shoulders, role her eyes and lick the salt off her fingers.  Her secret was safely kept at the bottom of the pool.

Until recently, Nixie had stopped swimming. She had felt frumpy in bathers in her teenage years and shied away from moments where she would have to disrobe down to nothing but a revealing swimsuit in public. She felt too uncoordinated for competitive sport and was intimidated by muscle men pumping iron at the gym. Realising that swimming laps was the only solo exercise she enjoyed, she gave into the lure of the pool. She wanted to let her inhibitions drift away and feel like her young self again.

After finally getting into the ‘medium’ paced lane of the pool she launched herself into a seamless freestyle. The rhythmic pace was cathartic and her troubles began to float past her down the lane as she soared through the water. Breathing in deeply and measured on ever fourth stroke, her heart rate rose and she felt the tug on her lungs as she tried to steady her breath. Too many big nights and smoky drinks with friends in her later years meant she felt like she could not hold her breath like when she was a girl.  Her thoughts slipped back to skimming the floor of pool as she attempted a tumble turn at the lanes end and suddenly swam full force into another body.

She emerged spluttering and coughing to meet face to face with the body she had collided with. 

“Were you trying to overtake me? Wait your turn!” she panted at the person.

“You should be swimming in the ‘slow’ lane”, the man grunted at her. She looked over at the ‘slow’ lane and the elderly woman slowly bobbing in the water. It was hard to tell if she was actually moving, until Nixie saw a very slight splash of water erupt behind the paddling senior citizen.

“Perhaps, you should be in the ‘fast’ lane…if you think you’re so fast!” Nixie snapped back at the man. His swimming goggles were worn so tightly around his face; she though he looked like a squashed insect. He grimaced back at her as they swayed in the deep end.

She watched him glance over to the ‘fast’ lane.  It was buzzing with swim-squad hopefuls, furiously torpedoing through the water, tumbling flawlessly at each end to push off the wall with a velocity that neither Nixie nor her new counterpart had.

“There’s too many people in that lane…..they should open more lanes up” he snorted. 

She should have come earlier in the day, Nixie thought.  As lunchtime approached and the day grew warmer with the midday sun, the lap lanes began to fill up with families and screaming children.  She was amused by how excitable people were.  Eyes widened as they entered the squeaky gate and approached the glistening pool. Young people running and ‘bombing’ off the edge, creating waves and submerging into the crystal clear chlorinated water to avoid glaring eyes from the ever present life guards. Whistles were blowing shriller and more frequently and Nixie overheard the stern words of one lifeguard… “NO RUNNING!  I DON’T WANT TO CLEAN UP YOUR BLOOD IF YOU FALL AND SMASH YOUR HEAD OPEN ON THE SIDE OF THE POOL”.  Surely lifeguards weren’t meant to speak that way to children, she thought.  But it was effective.

 “I think we’ll just have to share the lane, if you can handle that”, she finally said to the man.

She was growing tired of the standoff they had created and she could feel the presence of a lifeguard looming over them. He approached them promptly.

“NO STANDING AT THE END OF THE LANE” the pimply faced lifeguard barked at them, as he towered overhead.

Nixie and the man looked up at the lifeguard and then at each other. It seemed like such an unreasonable order, considering they were the only two people in the ‘medium’ lane. Technically they weren’t ‘standing’ either, but were suspended in floatation with their feet a metre above the bottom of the pool.

“You go then,” the man said calmly to Nixie.

“Well you should go first,” Nixie replied. “You’re just going to overtake me again anyway”.

“We could race each other”, the man smirked.

“In one lane? It’s not big enough!”

“Are you scared that I’ll win?”

“Are you goading me? Of course you’ll win, you’re faster than me….I’m really “slow” remember?” She smiled cheekily at him.

He pulled his goggles off his face and looked straight into Nixie’s eyes.

“Prove it”, he said with a grin.  Suddenly Nixie’s heart rate sped up. She wasn’t sure if it was the challenge suddenly thrown at her, or the intensity of the man’s look that made adrenalin flood into her veins.  She thought he had amazingly iridescent blue eyes for someone so inconsiderate.

She agreed to a race. It felt like her heartbeat had moved up into her throat as she steadied herself at the end of the lane beside the man.

“Well, today it’s Ralph Dawson from Australia racing the 50 metre freestyle against…what’s your name?” he asked her.

“Oh….my name…is Nixie” she said hesitantly.  Ralph looked curiously at her.

“umm…I had hippy parents…” she continued. “It’s supposed to mean ‘water sprite’, I guess…a bit like an aquatic pixie.”  She blushed and laughed awkwardly.

Ralph smiled. “Well, let’s see if you live up to your namesake Nixie”, he laughed.

“I TOLD YOU TWO ALREADY, NO STANDING AT THE END OF THE LANE”…a voice boomed above them. The lifeguard was back, glaring down.

“Yeah, yeah….we hear you,” Nixie said defiantly.  She glanced over at Ralph, took a deep breath and yelled out “GO!” as she pushed off the wall and darted down under the water. 

She didn’t look back to see if Ralph had started at the same time.  The force with which she pushed off the wall sent her gliding effortlessly down below the surface.  She could sense the shape of Ralph approaching, but she kicked harder.  She naturally soared through the water and was filled with a sense of liberation as she finally let herself go. She moved seamlessly with ease and grace.  She dipped up out of the water quickly for a breath of air and sashayed back down through the water, concentrating on the finish.

A golden glint in the distance caught Nixie’s eye and she surged down and along the bottom of the pool. Magnetised towards the shimmer, her eyes twinkled as she remembered her covert childhood under water missions collecting the coins others left behind. She rushed forward and dove down to pick up the treasure, emerging out of the water holding it high in her hand. She gasped for breath and laughed as she looked at the old dollar coin in her palm. Leaning back against the edge of the pool, she noticed that Ralph was three quarters of the way along the length of the lane.  Finally he caught up and stopped with a jolt at the end.

“You were so bloody fast!” Ralph exclaimed as he peeled the goggles of his face.  “But you had a head start though.  Do you water pixies have gills or something?”

Nixie shook her head and showed Ralph the coin. “I was swimming for the gold” she laughed.

“You swam along the bottom to get a buck?! You bloody tight arse! I used to do that as a kid. Go swimming after everyone left the pool so I could get any money that dropped out of their shorts.”

Nixie smiled at Ralph. “I did that too”, she confessed.

“Wanna go see what we can get from the canteen with this then?” she asked him.

“Sure…maybe I might need my wallet too. Things are a bit pricier these days.”

Both of them heaved themselves out of the pool and ran towards the canteen.

“NO RUNNING” the lifeguard yelled after them. 

"Angela Whitworth lives in Melbourne and likes swimming and recently started writing little stories about this and that after doing a creative writing short course..."

'Three Poems' by Louie Crew.

 Sport.

Git the hosepipe and crackiz ass,

that en yonder, the rich high-class fairy.

Don't mess up now, else the Klan'll get crap

from the Commie Jewish bankers.

An don't waste time bashing Nigger queers

when they kin'll do it for us.

See!  See!  Watch the edge of that sweetie's mouth!

"Too  good fer us? huh?  We'll show ya!"

I told ya them rich is the kind what has to be watched.

He ain't real, just whining and crying

in that blood from the teeth ya knocked out.

Leastaways they might put up a fight,

but ya can't find no man in any queer;

they's all alike.  Send em to the devil

quick as ya can, like the Bible done.

Surveillance Way Back When.

Remember how we made love

     two whole weeks once?

We took time out only for meals,

     some beer, or a swim,

and did not tire at all,

     nor push to finish

or to prove anything.

     We were just being

24 and 21, both tan, both horny.

How very private we were about it all.

Beside the pool

     we argued who would

make the World Series,

     who would take Wimbledon.

We girded our lust

     for the short while

as effortlessly as we had turned off

     the fan until we returned.

Not once did we even dream

     our room was bugged,

that our every private groan and giggle

     was broadcast in the crowded room,

that they would delete

     only our snores

and the silence of our sleep

     --material too regular,

too routine, to unnecessary

     to build the D.A's case

against us.  Sodomy.

    

Count Down to a New Age.

Give me one, give me one, give me one;

I see ya:  one cracker smile.

Give me two, give me two, give me

two cracker smiles.

Who'll make it three?

Three cracker smiles?

Who'll make it three?

I see ya!  Three cracker smiles.

Three going once, three going twice,

Sold for three cracker smiles

this pretty little pickaninny's

photograph just before they blew up

the Sunday School.

Give me one, give me one, give me one;

I see ya: One good ol' boy's grunt.

Give me two, give me two, give me

two good ol' boy's grunts.

Who will make it three?

I see ya: Three good ol' boy's grunts.

Who'll make it four?

Now surely some one of you recognizes

a real bargain when you see one.

I mean, it ain't everyday that you gets

to see wimmin libbers hauled off to jail

and raped.  That's better:

Sold to the Colonel there,

one 8 millimeter projector with the full details

for four good ol' boy's grunts,

with a pair of the panties thrown in for good measure.

Give me one, give me one, give me one;

I see ya:  One basher's knuckles.

Who'll make it two?

I see ya.  Two basher's knuckles.

I see ya.  Three basher's knuckles.

Well, folks, trading's fast here today.

I see ya.  Four basher's knuckles.

Come on now, who'll make it half a dozen?

Four going once, four going twice

Six basher's knuckles, I see ya.

Half dozen once, half dozen twice,

Sold, for half dozen basher's knuckles

bid by that man yonder in blue overalls

for one sissy school teacher, with all of his fancy clothes.

Give me one, give me one, give me one.

Who'll give me one?  I see ya.

Two.  Who'll give me two?....

Sold to America.

"Louie Crew, 74, an Alabama native, is an emeritus professor at Rutgers. He lives in East Orange, NJ, with Ernest Clay, his husband of 37 years. As of today, editors have published 2,053 of Crew's poems and essays. Crew has edited special issues of College English and Margins. He has written four poetry volumes Sunspots (Lotus Press, Detroit, 1976) Midnight Lessons (Samisdat, 1987), Lutibelle's Pew (Dragon Disks, 1990), and Queers! for Christ's Sake! (Dragon Disks, 2003). The University of Michigan collects Crew's papers... check out Louie's wiki entry..."

'Last Rites' by Jerome Brooke.

Last Rites.

Ancient of days, the holy woman stood at the altar,
Holy place of Isis.
Her robe was tattered, her face lined, the temple in ruins,
Wisdom lost.

Libation did she pour, last rite, her final day decreed,
By the new order.
No more tithes came to the coffers of Isis, first fruits,
No longer hers.

New creeds, new ways, new faces, new prayers for the day,
Isis now only stone images.
Her life now over, her stone heart no longer felt pain,
Portion only of her last servant.

"Jerome Brooke was born in Evansville, Indiana. He now lives in the Kingdom of Siam. He has written Our Lady of Silk and many other books..."

'#1 & #2" by Rachel Williams.

#1

eyes like cloudcuffs or the almostman i met who gave poor hugs and poorer words but for who i

l

            u

                        st.

(advanced)                  ed

                                                after so profoundly.

he was so different

is so different

than the man here now

they’re different physically

                        at least.

blue                                                                                                                             eyes.

whata surpr(essed)-eyes.

someone might have

fallen for you,

i hope you know.

                                                                                    maybe you don’t.

                                                                                                       shouldn’t.

                                                                                                       wouldn’t

                                                                                                       couldn’t

                                                                                                       flood

emot

                                                                                                            ions carrying

                                                            whatisnt andwhatisnever

but

whatcouldbeis                                    

another story

#2

greatest illuminations spring forth

you’re a pool you’re a well

you’re the ocean full and bright

you’re eternal don’t you know

you’ve got soul

eternal in this tiny, tiny word

of passing glory

            shine on

                                                                                                shine true

blue blue blue

you’re the best

                                    and something gives me the impress-ion

you’re here.

because there’s something i see in you

that everyone seems to glance over

and i’m not sure

if it’s be

                                                            cause

i’m the wrong

or

if they’re just(ice)

            un

                        observ

                                                ant

                                                antantant

the brightest stars

make me feel               as if

                                    i’m just like

                                                                                    an ant

but

maybe that could

change.

"Rachel Williams lives in Southern California. She spends most of her time researching, reading, writing and eating. She writes for her school newspaper but prefers to write poetry and fantasy in her spare time. She is currently working on a novel and collection of poetry."

Six Photos from Eleanor-Leonne Bennett.

About Eleanor Leonne Bennett.