My studies have given me a legacy of interest in many and wide-ranging social, moral and ethical fields and concerns, as well as the politics of power. This piece is a manifestation of that legacy.

"The world is splitting open at my feet like a ripe, juicy watermelon." Sylvia Plath.

On her gravestone: “Even amidst fierce flames, the golden lotus can be planted.” Wu Ch'Eng-En.

He...

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This poem is a reverie and contemplation of my mother.

Time and Windows

If the past is a tattered old book,

then why am I a ghost

at my mother's window,

so clear I can sense her mystery,

and her brown eyes, so alive?

Look, I can fly to her

through the high windows

of my memory

until I'm so close that she disappears,

and the curtain flutters silently.

A...

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Stone Poem

The church yard is restless in winter shadow;

dying elms fret in a wuthering wind

beyond the wide hoar-frosted meadow,

whistling by headstones, cold as sin.

Then a raven croaks its grating chortle,

black eyes casting glances down

to where dark-clad people mourn a mortal,

who yielded her soul to Lucifer's crown.

One, a priest of tainted...

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This is my vision of a certain cast of English village (not so much in springtime).

Winter Town

March winds stir listless eddies,

fluke in tired gusts over thin pools,

flare through fields of stubble

then flag, exhausted, sour and wheezing

from the blowing day;

coughing, rubbing arthritic fingers,

cold as a church bell sounds the hours.

Spring will be late this...

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Slow Train to Freedom

Have you ever had the feeling, late one night,

that you're pounding down an ever-narrowing path

without the strength to either flee or fight?

Your feet touch with fear this wanton, ferocious earth,

but the stars reflected in your teal-blue eyes

are the brazier-fires of a homeless hearth.

Then a slow train, velvet-clad under coated skies,

pass...

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“ …. every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness” (Beckett)

every word

Be born, live, cry, die; always cry.

Why cry?

Why not?

I am not on Earth

to fail to exist,

or any other madman's fantasy.

Sammy found something

worthwhile:

he found

- Nothing.

Eat, move, create, decay;

earthen in earth

for the Archaeologis...

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This poem has its origins long ago in a jaunt on the Mississippi river on board the paddle-steamer SS Natchez.

Dream River

As water-light dances through cabin blinds

in scintillant counterpoint to her chattering bow,

a brooding threnody of whistles fills up the big boat's horizon-lines;

the mate checks the bearing of her painted prow.

Well-worn warrior of river life, paddles slap...

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Cowaramup is a small farming and tourist community in the Margaret River wine region of South-West Western Australia. My visit long ago remains an unsettling memory of alienation.

Moon Pool

The blue-black raven night

draws opal-scented folds

from quicksilver sparkle, scattered

like smashed glass over meeting grounds.

So it is, at this paddock fence

beside the scoop o...

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This poem was written in memory of my mother.

Stone of Love

Pietà lies abandoned

on pavements

of Augustus, Caius, Caligula,

a kernel of rock

in the heart of Rome.

For love in stone

was never so feared

as the atrocious Emperors

who turned Love toward

such stone,

and fixed pity for ever

with boiling madness;

yet Pity was feared:

becaus...

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This poem follows from my earlier work "Wet", set in the city of Cairns, Far North Queensland. Having reached the place, the next challenge is to figure out how to survive in the prevailing weather conditions: 100 percent humidity and massive daily rainfall. Air conditioning helps, somewhat.

Water Street

Summer was the waiting for the Wet:

On Water Street, old Queenslanders

creake...

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The Glowering Mists of Autumn

As I travel life's journey I'm often-times struck

By a vision both novel and possibly true; that serenity

In a dangerous world without luck,

Is impossible; but is there a temporal divinity?

Perhaps the root causes of wonder and joy

Really are in the sky, or on Dante's fine peak,

Or my fireside, where the dance won't annoy

In the compa...

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Perignon

Bush-light shadowed footsteps

through seamless, speechless

desert places,

followed as we trod slipping sandhills,

the sibilant, curling wind

twisting lips around;

lay black,

motionless,

pinned by envy like butterflies

on grey trays of jejune absolution:

tired eyes traced satellites in sun-fires,

as sirens whooped in our memories

and night m...

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Sometimes, inspiration and imagination have strange effects.

De Jeune

Swallows dive, swoon

like wind-swayed ink drops

down, and beyond the light:

swallowed by the sky,

flown blue, over

road-birds – honed

by simple flight.

Like arrows in Canada

in thunderhead afternoons:

clouds rolling, rutting hinds

in migration, pounding sand-trails,

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While visiting the ancient fortified town of Chinon in the Touraine region of the Loire Valley, I noticed examples of both kinds of protagonists mentioned in this poem. Although the latter proved harmless (at least to our group) I much prefer the former, especially at sundown.
 

Great White Heron

A great white heron struts through

tangled water meadows

in search of boneless mor...

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Life by Numbers

1. My father walks the sea-edge and is young, as a child is young.

2. My father's voice is hardwood, and timpan drums.

7. My father's eyes are tired.

16. The cyclone clouds hang swollen sheets above.

19. I am afraid.

20. I shall put fear at the bottom of depths the deep blue made.

25. My brothers' arms surround me.

31. We sit on the brim of laught...

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Australia Centurion

Heidelberg light, hard edged;

not sharp-cutting wire

knifed thru fractured mica.

as old canvas turns

gold to sepia, brown to aged

ebony, in descending years

gone back, down, away,

to where we survive

and lie cocooned – like pupae

of paper wasps

in interstices of time, locked

in desiccated people-nests.

alive and dy...

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Air Worthiness

The Harris hawk is sleek and fast; fine-boned,

she swoops free from an armoured glove

towards some distant, perfect perch,

only then to see and hear the falconer's call; to search,

then sweep down to the hand that feeds and nurtures.

A hooded hostage; in restless freedom she presents a bleeding dove.

Trimmed hawks hunt in packs on Argentine pampas...

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Lady Porcelain Kindness

A lady with clear pale skin, few blemishes

mar her daily perfection, playing a flawless part

in her sharp European presence.

Inclining her head like a brisk marching soldier

into First Year lecture theatres, she convinces

the boys of the glittering sincerity

of her blue, blue eyes. Somehow wise

beyond her twenty-four years,

she does joie...

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The Tower of the Winds was built in marble more than 2,000 years ago in the Roman Agora (meeting place) of Athens. It is believed to be the world's first weather station (and public time-piece). Almost intact, its octagonal construction echoes the eight principal compass points. Saved from the depredations of Lord Elgin, who plotted its removal to Britain over 200 years ago, the restored Tower now...

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I have always hankered after the life of the artist - including the world of the visual arts. In retirement I have the opportunity to follow that yearning.

The Humble Heart of the Craftsman

As corruption sheds its sting when seen

from lofty heights,

so humility shows its mettle

in the steady care of the gifted creator;

turning one's gaze from skilled hands

to the thi...

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The Quiet Soldier

Why am I fighting these foes of mine?

(I know it's a soldier's fate)

to shoot my gun and die – yes, me as well as him,

when I see the blood on his cape

and his dead eyes shine;

by then it's too late for me and him alike -

but to the battle I return

with rifle and defiance primed

and hoards of bravado to turn and strike

when the muzzle-blasts out...

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Pavane

When I am a sculptor, famed

in the shadow of Moore or

Hepworth, I shall fashion

in black marble an image of eternity;

Aphrodite shall dance a slow pavane

without her customary passion, and

shall shine within the foaming waters

of this brutal and ungodly Earth.

Chris Hubbard

Budapest

2016.

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Please note that this poem is pure fantasy!

Tone Poem

Oh, really, I find it so unutterably tedious

to be polite when faced with one so odious

as you. And yet, I must say

that you do, at times, take my breath away,

at least when I forget all your manifold flaws,

and the gold stashed beneath your creaky floorboards;

but I don't mean to be too unduly unkind,

...

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The Imperfect Gardener

Someone once said, long ago or last week,

that it's futile on a finite and populous planet

to seek a truth, or a finely polished apple,

in the still-life-on-canvas we daily behold,

and by such uncouth behaviour

we are mostly confounded, and fail to grapple.

So we're prisoners here, in uncounted millions,

unable to leap high or fast enough to...

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Sun - Kings

The Aegean sleeps in sunbreath,

sparkling like a gift

to children on a beach;

splashing whales breach among the caïques

while drifting, effortless, to baked islands

harsh as truth, gentle as giants.

On shattered Santorini riders thread Vespas

along sea-shores and white-dusted heights; whores

cling tight with promises to come.

Corniche poseurs dri...

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Arthur Stace, a First World War veteran and illiterate alcoholic, was known as “Mister Eternity” . For 35 years he inscribed the cryptic precept “Eternity” in yellow, waterproof chalk, using an inexplicable copperplate hand, on pavements throughout Sydney. Asked why, he would merely reply “Makes 'em think”. Arthur's dictum was sent around the world, emblazoned in huge letters across Sydney Harbour...

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This piece, over twenty years old, came to me largely in a dream about being a poet.

Adamson Adrift

We sat on the wharf at East Balmain,

where the ferries make the Harbour

never still,

and Robert Adamson floated away

with grace on the violent tide,

as we looked on the streams

of the living

(as in air, we were in motion)

and in action, and relative calm

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Who said reusable resources are a modern invention? Rubbish!

Palimpsest

It's said that no-one should ever die wondering

on which road to travel, how not to go blundering

in dangerous places, when it's best to be pondering

why the rain plays its tricks, why there's no distant thundering. . . .

As the years pass us by we add to our history,

little by little we work out...

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Three Nocturnes

While poring over dusty corners of an ancient night

I sang in darken'd evening flight, a voice edged

by the pain of doubt, a tempered blade to fight

an inner shout; the fearful dredge

of insomnia, the purgatory of my silent gaze;

remembrance too of sultry Australian dog days.

South-West karris loom ink-black, and rustle

as night-walkers, stepp...

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The Fire and the Rose

If death greets us singly, one-by-one, alone

And asks why we should not be taken back,

The brave will say (or else the wiser grown)

That little terror lies along that track;

Since each knows well he lives in separate rooms

Though sometimes letting others stay awhile,

But still the doorway closes as a tomb

Excludes affliction, slights the sinner's ...

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Solitude

Autumn solitude
in a world of two colours
the rush of the wind.

Chris Hubbard

2016
 

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The Sugar Glider is a gliding marsupial, native to Eastern Australia and Papua New Guinea.

Sugar Glider

The sweetest thing

I ever saw

Was a Sugar Glider

In a syrup-of-fig tree.

I looked at her,

She at me,

And we swooped down

To canefields of Eden.

Chris Hubbard

Perth

1995

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This poem first suggested itself to me while looking at the magnificent mountain scenery of Interlaken in the Bernese Oberland of Switzerland. Beautifully dangerous!

A Mountain Cameo

Silvered by many alpine peaks, an orange sun

reflects, glass-like, off still dawn meltwaters,

a fireball inside a snow-white aural gleam

thrown carelessly into a child's rockpool.

Streaming no r...

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Who can identify the town that is the primary focus of this lament?

The Sky Reflects Our Labours

Her calloused hands and tired eyes,

are grey and wet and green and steely;

her gaze is stoic, and often flinty

at the JobCentre counter, as her future dies.

The grey-blue smoking ramparts march,

graven beyond the terracotta houses;

their Wellsian vision of War arou...

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Quiet River

When the morning's flight

lifts the darkened blind,

and slows the speed of time,

be ready in your heart and mind

with gratitude, as you drift

on a sweet and quiet river,

lined by silent watchers;

remember their gifts, and the jewels

                           of the givers,

For that light is sure to glow

fierce and steady in your memory -

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The Eye of Morning

I am the arrow of dawn, and

rise as the archer kneels,

strains his bow, sets the sky ablaze,

dissolves at the borderland

between light and shade, Heaven

and Hell; his firebrands mere crass

cascades of incendiary petals,

guttering in chiaroscuro swells.

Behold the evanescent rose-glow

of morning's opening eye.

Chris Hubbard

Perth. 201...

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This poem carries faint echoes of winter in a Mediterranean climate, in this case the South West of Western Australia; limpid skies, stormclouds threatening, people in overcoats walking hastily. Rather like an English summer, I would have thought!

And Now I'm Old

And now I'm old as softening apples

left forgotten on a sideboard

after a windy day,

the murmur of the evening room

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"... any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankinde; And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee...

— John Donne, Meditation XVII.

Saint Christopher Bell

We seem to be collectors

of memories and junk,

piles of the stuff;

both kinds lean against damp walls

in self-support, waiting

for purpose,

finding little but ...

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This is my humble commentary on that matchless Middle Eastern and Indian story-book “One Thousand and One Nights”. Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov's symphonic suite of the same name is the perfect musical accompaniment!

Scheherazade

Tell me, Scheherazade, how you fled

the evil emir like a bleeding lion,

his twisting, vengeful face now full with

requieted lust; your wisdom shines

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Solitaire

I walk alone across a pale beach

at midnight, lit by shaky moonlight

reflected from the black ribs

of disturbed sea-shallows. A sharp breeze

beckons from the dunes; inviting warmth,

with duplicitous intent. My ease is not available

for casual enticement.

No, I seek a place of peaceful aloneness

where sloughing sand is my choice,

and possibilit...

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This is an attempt to capture the alien strangeness of the Nullarbor Plain which borders the Great Australian Bight. Despite its name it has plenty of hardy trees in places, but no surface water whatsoever. It is a totally flat expanse of bedrock almost seven hundred miles wide, and I have driven every inch of it!

The Traveller's Eye

O the light flows quickly over this blasted plain,

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Passions of the Soul

Like a lighthouse set on rocky shores

we gaze at the world within our sight

with scant regard for any cause;

indifferent as the mosquito's flight,

and chatter gaily over tea or beer

on friendship, crime, or the next career.

But I am ego: I stand alone,

a moral agent in time and tide.

With resolution I keep my own

counsel; hermit-like, my thou...

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As a former educator and writer on international relations, and especially on nuclear issues, my students often tried to inveigle from me my own position on the worst of all weapons. I never succumbed.

Oppenheimer

Listen:

the distant siren

entices, fades;

Horizons clatter in fusillades,

cracking barrages warn the Furies

to grasp the running

menace

of desir...

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This poetical rumination reflects my own ambivalence, as an immigrant to Australia almost half a century ago, towards my Australian existence. Is one's life largely the result of mere serendipity or is it, at least partially, malleable in our own hands?

Atlantic Elegy

Shall I reject a life lead so far

from home? Or lament the existential negligence

of fifty years I did not ha...

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This is a commentary on living, when the living is hard.

Invisible Rain

Dawn has come to smother the light

in my house.

As I douse the candle's flicker

its feeble flame shines at the window,

lifting the road beyond

into patterned pathways, glinting

in the early bright;

the soft rain of midnight's darkling succour

is almost gone.

It will return tomorrow, u...

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 Mirage

Beyond these indifferent walls

lies a second carapace,

pierced by small, green eyes

in a shimmering face.

It is not my own,

but lies are truths for actors;

they bandage wounds

when the liars rebel

while fleeing, open-mouthed,

from their savage selves.

Christopher Hubbard

Perth 2016

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Doors and Windows

The simplest of houses,

doors and windows framed in white,

contains a universe within -

immured in the aura

of its keeper's light.

Chris Hubbard

St. Romain-en-Viennois.

France

2017

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Salt and Light

Lofty and proud, the mighty cathedral stands,

grandly waits for its faithful servants

(more on fine days - they're not exactly fervent).

Tourists chatter in, grow quiet in its shadowed womb,

some trace vanishing points among the tombs.

A child holds his mother by the hand.

Distant echoes rebound through quire and transept

as the stained glass kaleid...

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This poem was written after a day exploring Omaha Beach, one of the D-Day invasion beaches of Normandy.

Aurora

Before the dawn the north wind rails

at electric curtains of purple, acid green;

soft and terrible sails

that drape the stars,

flare bright as crystaline arctic nights.

Shall I walk far through silver beech

to reach hibernating huntsmen? Snow-shoed,

can I f...

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This is my return to the submissions list after seven months of travel, during which I was often either incommunicado, or almost so. Technical wizardry does not always work as advertised. I do not seem to be able to suppress my historical bent.

Lincoln Triptych

Part One: Defiance

A land made soft

by Heaven's tears, cried

thru' blankets hung aloft.

Some ask wit...

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This beach experience has nothing to do with Yorkshire, except its name!  And yes, it does get that hot.

On Scarborough Beach

flash dry fades

        in the turn of the world,

a shield of furnace flame

    as callous sears

        your flickering city

where dance of sea-glint,

        fixed near

and cannily coast-wise

   primates gather, cower,

crouch in ...

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This poem is a short affirmation and image of a small holiday island some eleven miles offshore from Fremantle, Western Australia. It began as a prison for aboriginal men and boys after 1838, and from 1902 served as a gubernatorial retreat from the intense summer heat. It is sear and dry, bereft of natural surface water, and now is a watery playground for fishers, boaters, surfers and many others....

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This poem is about flying into the city of Cairns in the far north of Queensland, and its lush and dangerous tropicality. This is an exotic part of Australia I know well. Specifically, it recalls my experiences of the wet season, when the rain falls in torrents, crocodiles inhabit the suburbs, and the humidity is like a sauna.

Wet

Tall drips of confusion

bombard flying fox invad...

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Silhouette

Midday's sun lifts to touch the faint horizon,

a pale discus rolling slowly along,

then gone. The lonely writer, limned in crimson

at her window desk, her ego strong,

her spirits cold as the icy scene before her,

shakes her head, breathes deeply, turns blind

from winter as snow begins its feathery fall;

The heater roars its warmth like an angry hin...

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A friend of mine recently completed the Camino pilgrimage of Saint James from Lourdes in France to Santiago de Compostela, in Galicia, Northern Spain. He did it in two section a year apart, and walked, rather than cycled, all the way. I have no idea how he got there.

Saint James of the Field of Stars

I'm a travelling cyclist

(the type with panniers,

sturdy boots, waterproofs)

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This poem is about growing old.

The City Shadowed

I cannot remember my name. And

where I came from. Or when I came here.

I am not from this place, this city, and

its silent people, its pale-vaulted sky,

its black shadow silhouettes

flickering lightly across blank walls.

Here the bar staff talk in lilting Irish

cadences, and look straight through you

as ...

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Saudade is one of those inexpressible words, Portuguese in this case. The clearest meaning or definition I can come up with is  'melancholic nostalgia' or the like. This is my attempt to take that thought one step further.

The poem is best read by first reading the non-italicised stanzas, followed by the italicised ones.

Saudade

Proteus, Old Man of the Sea,

Neptune's shepherd...

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Back in 1995 I seem to have been a whole lot angrier than I am today! And more lost. But there's certainly some energy here.

Lost

Lost when your eyes are too wide,

lost when the sky

shouts high notes

when it should be whispering;

lost when the fires die.

Lost when complete strangers

give you the finger and grin,

or when the beer and the noise stop

and y...

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I went to an extraordinary exhibition last year called "Spirit of Anzac" which was touring all over Australia. It came closer than anything I've seen in capturing the daily experiences of those who fought, and died, in the First World War, and especially in trench warfare on the Western Front. I have tried to express something of that experience, as I understand it.

Adagio of the Heart

...

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This poem, from many years ago, is a fantasy about the liminal stage of a rite of passage. Looking back, I can see Celtic sensibility here that I was previously unaware of.

A Man I Know

A man I know stood beside me.

Looking up at paradise birds

in flight,

he reflected their colours

with steel eyes in blinding

scintillations. Carefully,

he began to speak:

“...

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This allegorical poem came out of my awareness of time passing, and a sense of the ultimately insubstantial or superficial qualities of much of this life that, as we grow older, seem less important or valuable than they once were.

Losing Faith

Faith, old friend, so wise and fulsome,

faded beauty at end of day,

draw me aside in a beechwood spinney,

make me swear on the code with...

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Everyone deserves a dream or two.

Sleeping in a Forest

Light and fire and music

all dance within me

in this perfect, silent forest

as she welcomes me to her breast,

full with fallen seeds and crinkled leaves

for my head; my bed of ashen river stones,

murmured possums, and repose. Long I slept

while overhead the white-hot starfields

bent to their nightly arcs...

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A while ago, before I retired, I was concerned for the welfare of my students on reading a piece discussing the alleged widespread use of the psycho-stimulant Retalin by Australian university undergraduates. As a performance enhancer it was said to often be accompanied by depressants to reverse the effects. For some, it may have served as an introduction to more addictive and even more pernicious ...

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This is my attempt to understand both the dangers and rewards awaiting those who dare to write - and then send the results out into the ether.

Bright Sky

Writing is exquisite pain and pleasure, bound

in sprayed-on railway walls, in tapping dry

black torrents like gushing wells: ill-found,

spectacular but slowly emptying to reveal

a vault of sky so bright, so slyly hiding its...

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All I can say about this poem is that I am fascinated by deep history, and especially Greek and Roman history. I do believe that many mediate the distant past through myth and allegory, and of course our personal narratives. But human nature never changed, and never will.

A Rider

How willing are the many

who run races they cannot win, to peer

in fashioned sin to sear a rival? How ...

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This poem is for all those still searching for home.

Sailing an Inland Sea

A stark white galley, sail aloft,

Knifes liquid mirrors, softly heaving,

Its pattering stem a story-teller

For fishers caught

On idle frontiers, poised

Between vaults of washed cerulean.

Its Master sighs to distant shores, yearning

For Phoenicia's Thalassa; a place of purple -

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A while ago, I was reminded by my brother that our grandfather had fought in the Battle of the Somme, on the Western Front in 1916, where he was wounded and evacuated back home. This is for him, and for everyone.

Snow and Lightning

When winter paints the churned land white,

and splintered trees hang like sentinel flames,

snowfall that dusts bloody parapet stains

hardens to a sa...

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I was idly thumbing through Youtube a while ago when I came across a short piece showing Bobby Kennedy on the back of a flatbed truck in a poor district of Indianapolis, Indiana on 4th April 1968. Announcing the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, he was able to calm a crowd ready to riot at the news. He did so by the force of his words, his rhetoric and his humanity. As many American cities ...

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This poem emerged after I had seen a documentary programme about Macquarie Island, an Australian but sub-Antarctic dot-on-the-map in the Southern Ocean, south of New Zealand. Coleridge's 'Rime of the Ancient Mariner' seemed a suitable matrix on which to build it.

Ocean Wanderer

The big bird spreads its vast black wings

over high-flown, tufted, blustering clifftops,

takes...

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This poem came to me after a visit to London, where I was thunderstruck by the  scale and beauty of the restored Reading Room at the British Museum. I was also wrestling with Existentialism at the time.

A Book of Hours

There was Time when its Arrow

flowed like a ticking clock

as it carved the future from the past

like a blind sculptor in one dimension

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This is an experimental poem, written to discover whether I can handle a Petrarchan or Italian Sonnet. The rhyme scheme is trickier than I expected! I enjoyed writing it, and I hope you enjoy it.

Light: A Sonnet

A beacon light would soothe the thoughtful soul,

and show the over-wrought their handsome fate,

quell fearful dread, stem terror-rivers' spate,

and illuminate, shun cha...

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