the first writing ended in madness, but for twenty years the words stayed in your head trying to find shapes that would speak. this time you return to drafts of delusion, but the draughts of delusion return you to this time. on the ladder you think of what to write, the second coming. at that precise moment the words, the music and the man meld. meaning meets you and you understand the pulse of the place, the beating of hearts, the chorus of uncertainty, the construction from nothing, the coming back to fix the temple, the houses of sticks, the clutching of straws, the building with beaks. sometimes when the writing is good and the music is too it is like you are wired. as you listen, the melody, the lyric, prompts you, supports you, sings your sentence and the breeze pushes you, gives you direction, tells you which way to go, which path to follow. the breeze breathes.
Published – ‘time’ an anthology of microfiction and prose poetry ed Cassandra Atherton. Spineless Wonders, 2018
the 11.39 from north gong took him towards the leadership course. from central station he walked up to martin place, before heading across hyde park to his destination on the corner of oxford and hope. people were practiced in giving him space, although some weren’t expecting his presence at that time and he could see their surprised recognition. mostly he looked into their eyes as he moved up past the great southern hotel. at the qvb he stopped at an art stall and chose a black and white print of three figures standing on chairs next to an empty one. it seemed plausible for the time was near. he stopped next at the tin of a man and his dog, before turning into the place where the homeless camp was moving. the tents and the soup kitchen were exposed and the awnings in front of the bank were boarded up blackboards with triangular chalkings of maslow’s hierarchy of needs. with nothing more to offer them, he stepped to the edge of the road and pressed the button.
Published – Australian Poetry Anthology, EDS Jill Jones & Bella Li, Vol 6 2018
Photo of Maslow’s hierachy of needs, by the author – Martin Place 18 July 2017
I walk that day seeking the signs carrying in my backpack Words, trustworthy and true. My letter to the Herald didn’t make the opinion’s page but I wasn’t surprised as it was poetry, Today’s clouded sky is a gauze bandage to heal this infection. It always begins at Central and I head down past the sleeping-bagged cocoons, still grubby and yet to emerge. In George Street two more are attached by dribbling threads to the steps of St Peter Julian and the Central Baptist Church. At Saint Andrew’s Cathedral a mural of Jonah and the whale reminds me, I called to the Lord out of distress and he answered me. So I cross the road and from the footpath pick up a card, a crossword–the Gospel truth, All that the Father gives me will come to me. And at Dymock’s I buy some Vonnegut, remembering the first time I was mad with Revelations and Slaughterhouse 5. At Martin Place the wreaths from Anzac Day remain clustered around the Cenotaph and I wonder if I am meant to cry, but there is no rainbow, only Lawrence begging in his great coat. After I palm him twenty, we take communion with the Continental Cup-a-Soup they are giving away. He is a socialist so when he doesn’t finish he hands me his remains and I drink them before we part. Still thirsting I head to the Mercantile but Duncan’s gallery trips me with Christ amongst the landscapes and for our family’s Bible I choose The Passion because Mel made it look real to me. I take these things with me to the Quay, only stopping to buy music from the Koories playing there. Climbing the concrete steps the Utzon Room is empty but for a suit coat draped on a chair near the tapestry so I try it on and it fits and I cry out in the Opera House. In the gardens of Farm Cove I pilfer the pockets for answers. Three pens, one a fountain and a message from Anais Nin stitched into the lining, Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage. Inflated, I leave my words at the Art Gallery of NSW and at St Mary’s Cathedral I recite my mother’s rosary and pray, Make me the channel of your peace. I stop to speak to Lawrence again at the intersection of George Street and Ultimo Road and at Central a silent Jehovah’s Witness hands me a pamphlet to read on the train trip home.
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Tim Heffernan - Poems 