Ken Stone: Two Poems

Hunter River

 

I

 

It begins amid the rocks

of Mount Royal Range—

damp spots near moss carpet,

a runnel here, a glimmer;

a thin surge in rain time.

 

Forest dapples where parrots feed.

Tree ferns unfold with the lyrebird.

Water braids through aggregate:

the first mind picture—

a child’s stirred scribble.

 

II

 

Lower down, water is teethed—

reptilian scurry and splash.

A dingo at Ellerston snuffles

netted fencing then melts into depth.

Reeds blend with its hair.

 

It shakes at  cattle crossing

near range of household,

where men breathe mist all year.

A gunshot rings out and dingo

blood tints water.

 

III

 

River, you asserted your name

at Ten Mile—in gust and deluge

a stockman swept under,

his last breath bubbling—

his last thought drowning.

 

After a spate of telling,

a ballad was born.

A poet found cadence in water,

a horse clattering on gravel

and crows alerted

 

IV

 

Jimmy Governor scavenged here,

remote from noose, while knowing

his blood might mingle with water

if daybreak brought rifle crack

with white cockatoos.

 

He feared rubbing sticks into flame,

when smoke betrays.

He sheltered at outcrop,

knowing water plunges—

cold and sharp like a blade.

 

V

 

Pioneers became their tillage,

but the river endured.

It meandered through pasture,

where prosperity enhanced edges

with willows and geese.

 

Men in jodhpurs and spurs contrived

distinctive autumns and tamed

headwaters into paddle ponds,

before Glenbawn Dam

served cisterns and taps.

 

VI

 

Storm corner rouses the river.

It hurdles levees, and wallows

across cultivation.

Excited by hint of sea salt, it submits

to a harbour, where Newcastle sleeps.

 

Farmers dream of mountains,

which creased their faces;

dream of vistas where their youth rippled—

dream of grandfathers who gnarled

felling blackbutt to plank cadent waters.

Ken Stone

 

Country Trains

(Circa 1970)

Central Railway is an old movie

played until the sprockets catch.

The same players lurk and suave

is outdated like Errol Flynn.

 

One is there simulating Bogart’s face,

cigarette and forties hat.

It’s not his best film or finest morning.

The script is unscripted waiting

and dialogue is ad-libbed.

 

Where are my lines, Dorrie?

I can’t remember the words.

Lines, Bob? Be alert—

the trains are on them.

 

Dorrie squandered her prime.

Now she indulges her breasts,

allowing them to chuckle long after

the joke has ended—

a God-given knack like all talent.

 

She practises Monroe’s lips

and translates Bogie’s glance.

Nobody’s perfect, love.

Marilyn’s are a bit smudged now,

but these are still trying.

 

Bogie rolls another cigarette,

in hope of dialogue arriving, fresh

and crisp like celery.

A janitor sweeps a miniature Parthenon

of tumbled filters—Dorrie smokes tailor-made,

allowing them to dim at her feet.

 

Never tread on them. It’s poor form

like crushing cockroaches underfoot.

Cancel a Charlie Chaplin, Meg would say.

She never amounted to much, did she?

Meg had a face that launched ships—

launching all those sailors in Chapel Lane

ruined her. Time comes as one too many

and drops an anchor on all our fairness.

 

Diesel throb animates Bogart’s lookalike.

Is that a train? he wheezes—revitalising

the glow of his roll-your-own.

 

Is that the best you can do, Bob?

You’re chronic from the neck up.

This place reeks of trains,

and miserable tomorrows.

 

Bob fumbles his tobacco tin.

We mustn’t miss it,

I want to board our train.

 

An old movie flickers numbers

and titles flash—

I see our town, says Bogie,

his words crisping like celery.

Dorrie pouts, gathering sundry bags

about her like toddlers.

 

Platform five. That’s us, honey!

Bogie’s cigarette plays Hollywood

on his bottom lip and he’s almost

with script in Casablanca.

 

Dorrie festoons with luggage

and her lips play redness

like Marilyn’s in Bus Stop.

 

Come on, help me with this lot!

And for God’s sake, straighten your trousers.

Nobody would believe that my world

was going to be a movie.

Ken Stone