The Land Islands of Wannackladdin
Ephemeral see, daily vapor veils the cross-hatched old reedbeds
Layoring this striated imagine-ocean up measures of dream. Old names
Come in the mist, Ballaymarang and Garem Gam, Eumemmering
Is neighbouring, near to Gin Gin Been and Panty Gurn Gurn. And
West of Toomah by Torbin Urruck is Carrum Carrup, where
the lost land islands of Wannackladdin lie, and then lay down.
Behind all mediated waddings of curtain pasts, chinks to a seeing
reveal a pristine land, an ageless, longed-for welcome home
comes, where sleep goes. There the islands of Wannackladdin
Rise as the lost havens for our longing in this our own land.
Submerged under suburban from Mordialloc to Frankston, as
Gold leaf fallen from our crown in the autumn of our bloom,
Those lost beauties where our younger skin was shed.
The old maps show the early names, like an orphan’s father’s
Attention and trustworthiness, an orphan’s mother’s embrace.
Our shores rise out of these drained lands of hard despond…
Fences of impenetrable thickets morass up a veneer of streets
Where even the young grow leery with shame and cynicism
Like stranded people old before their time, in no place here,
Not now, or then, even lost from the islands of themselves.
There are no land islands anymore! And how is land at sea?
Land islands are a stupid idea to the rationalised dice of spun fact
And compromise! The land is for the subdivision, the lot! Cast
Your spirit from your life! Your soul is asked for in return for
Comfort and a living here, in the streets where that old map
Shows that the Land Islands of Wannackladden went down
Like first losers in the Anti-Olympian games.
© Wayne David Knoll Jan/Feb 2008
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
95 THESES - the Peace Sequence
Out of love for the truth and the desire to bring it to light, the following propositions will be discussed at Wittenberg, under the presidency of the Reverend Father Martin Luther, Master of Arts and of Sacred Theology, and Lecturer in Ordinary on the same at that place. Wherefore he requests that those who are unable to be present and debate orally with us, may do so by letter. In the Name our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
Disputation of Doctor Martin Luther on the Power and Efficacy of Indulgences by Dr. Martin Luther (1517)
Thesis 92-95
92. Away, then, with all those prophets who say to the people of Christ, "Peace, peace," and there is no peace!
93. Blessed be all those prophets who say to the people of Christ, "Cross, cross," and there is no cross!
94. Christians are to be exhorted that they be diligent in following Christ, their Head, through penalties, deaths, and hell;
95. And thus be confident of entering into heaven rather through many tribulations, than through the assurance of peace
Out of love for the truth and the desire to bring it to light, the following propositions will be discussed at Wittenberg, under the presidency of the Reverend Father Martin Luther, Master of Arts and of Sacred Theology, and Lecturer in Ordinary on the same at that place. Wherefore he requests that those who are unable to be present and debate orally with us, may do so by letter. In the Name our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
Disputation of Doctor Martin Luther on the Power and Efficacy of Indulgences by Dr. Martin Luther (1517)
Thesis 92-95
92. Away, then, with all those prophets who say to the people of Christ, "Peace, peace," and there is no peace!
93. Blessed be all those prophets who say to the people of Christ, "Cross, cross," and there is no cross!
94. Christians are to be exhorted that they be diligent in following Christ, their Head, through penalties, deaths, and hell;
95. And thus be confident of entering into heaven rather through many tribulations, than through the assurance of peace
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
The Scorching
( Scorching to Warm )
The air roars
over there and here…
not for breathing.
It’s for burning
as the great sucking
fast fire consumes…
It roars its consummation,
Scorching along! Scorching.
And here we live
at the loud gates,
on the very lane-spun
side of trafficking…
in this great fire of us
being the city where
we hope to warm.
8.30 am 17 May 2006 © Wayne David Knoll
near Mountain Highway, Bayswater, Victoria
The air roars
over there and here…
not for breathing.
It’s for burning
as the great sucking
fast fire consumes…
It roars its consummation,
Scorching along! Scorching.
And here we live
at the loud gates,
on the very lane-spun
side of trafficking…
in this great fire of us
being the city where
we hope to warm.
8.30 am 17 May 2006 © Wayne David Knoll
near Mountain Highway, Bayswater, Victoria
Peace is a Town Ready to Burn
( Tasting the ash of our material dance )
A Northerly: flatulent stranger from out
of Melbourne, lets out the untamed secrets
of the ready Elements rage.
Its furnace wind blows hot off the dried-up
Inland, portending Acts of God in thermal force
that pushes at all loose human ways,
all tied hanging at the ends, all made things
grabbing into the deceptively sought human
havens – the peace of an inside world.
Out there, beyond windows, outside this
tooth surgery’s waiting room, already the Electric
Poles are ready, wanting to fire dance
hot consummation. A melt wax of column cypress
trees shows the materially-rigid poles how,
breaking columns of taught straights,
Warmed to an elastic bending of heated force
the licorice-line of the insulated wire softens
to a dripping pipe of flexible tar.
The windmelt gets a grip on wide insulated wires,
now swaying, cross arms of the braced Power pole wriggling,
straining on its bolts, ready to arc materials down.
The starter flickswitch is on ready, sounding
in the wind’s engines; blast jets aloft in wide formation
invisibly blitzing raw summer’s sky.
Houses harboured on the power grid go all at sea,
bobbing on hawsers hanging at air-conditioners wired
in wind flexing thin biceps like spent whips
while a wrought iron cross on Christ Church stands
bravely, unmoved, facing north like a martyr above
the church tower’s roofed pyramid iced
with a lid of roosted steps of dry pigeon shit:
Listen! I hear a cooing: “Calm is guano accreting,"
and: "Peace is a town ready to burn.”
A red music of flames, exciting torch of its quick
relays will soar up, blare out, and run, run, run
when everything material catches.
Our teaming readiness to join the refining waits
a single spark - a match will meet- opening dynamic
doors to a wild-gone city fire, readied to dance
the good oil of our combustibles, off floors of a citied world;
the consuming fire-steps are printed daily in papers
by flash-pointed signatures of coming flame.
21 Jan 2006 © Wayne David Knoll
Brunswick, Melbourne, Australia
A Northerly: flatulent stranger from out
of Melbourne, lets out the untamed secrets
of the ready Elements rage.
Its furnace wind blows hot off the dried-up
Inland, portending Acts of God in thermal force
that pushes at all loose human ways,
all tied hanging at the ends, all made things
grabbing into the deceptively sought human
havens – the peace of an inside world.
Out there, beyond windows, outside this
tooth surgery’s waiting room, already the Electric
Poles are ready, wanting to fire dance
hot consummation. A melt wax of column cypress
trees shows the materially-rigid poles how,
breaking columns of taught straights,
Warmed to an elastic bending of heated force
the licorice-line of the insulated wire softens
to a dripping pipe of flexible tar.
The windmelt gets a grip on wide insulated wires,
now swaying, cross arms of the braced Power pole wriggling,
straining on its bolts, ready to arc materials down.
The starter flickswitch is on ready, sounding
in the wind’s engines; blast jets aloft in wide formation
invisibly blitzing raw summer’s sky.
Houses harboured on the power grid go all at sea,
bobbing on hawsers hanging at air-conditioners wired
in wind flexing thin biceps like spent whips
while a wrought iron cross on Christ Church stands
bravely, unmoved, facing north like a martyr above
the church tower’s roofed pyramid iced
with a lid of roosted steps of dry pigeon shit:
Listen! I hear a cooing: “Calm is guano accreting,"
and: "Peace is a town ready to burn.”
A red music of flames, exciting torch of its quick
relays will soar up, blare out, and run, run, run
when everything material catches.
Our teaming readiness to join the refining waits
a single spark - a match will meet- opening dynamic
doors to a wild-gone city fire, readied to dance
the good oil of our combustibles, off floors of a citied world;
the consuming fire-steps are printed daily in papers
by flash-pointed signatures of coming flame.
21 Jan 2006 © Wayne David Knoll
Brunswick, Melbourne, Australia
The Not Watchers
Every cobblestone sparrow
watches for the terror
sparrow hawk.
Any self-respecting stable
mouse watches, expecting that
Terrorist cat.
A sun-lazing rockery lizard
is alert., for the terrorist
butcher bird.
Wet round the ears, a billabong frog
sits watchful for the terrorist
brown snake.
Even the rat takes
careful run, sniffing the night
for the terrorist owl.
On golf courses, kangaroos
rise up, watchful of the terrorists
wielding clubs.
In the desert, cunning dingoes
take wide berth, to guerrilla raid
our kind’s terrorgarten.
In the mountains, wild horses
watch out in terror
of a man.
It is only tame-dulled humans
who go into the airport
the pub, the school, the street
...not watching.
5 April 2006 © Wayne David Knoll
watches for the terror
sparrow hawk.
Any self-respecting stable
mouse watches, expecting that
Terrorist cat.
A sun-lazing rockery lizard
is alert., for the terrorist
butcher bird.
Wet round the ears, a billabong frog
sits watchful for the terrorist
brown snake.
Even the rat takes
careful run, sniffing the night
for the terrorist owl.
On golf courses, kangaroos
rise up, watchful of the terrorists
wielding clubs.
In the desert, cunning dingoes
take wide berth, to guerrilla raid
our kind’s terrorgarten.
In the mountains, wild horses
watch out in terror
of a man.
It is only tame-dulled humans
who go into the airport
the pub, the school, the street
...not watching.
5 April 2006 © Wayne David Knoll
Sand, Time & Summer
Parched gusts
in heated rage
fan littered streets
of human dust.
Pages of paper news
float in hot circles
coke cans rattle
rolling empty
Streets half-empty
of 4-wheeled ovens;
desert roads
a soulless shimmer.
The caravans are gone
the oasis crowded,
canned holidays
rattle rolling empty
Hot sands
full of people
on beaches
of no release
flee hot streets
and houses
of discontent…
scorching hollow as
Coke cans empty.
Is that all?
Another season goes
With a time-man’s
sand between
my toes
and in the surf
Coke cans wash,
floating empty.
I turn over my
New Year leaf
another page of
heat-blown whirl
wind scenes?
will life continue
as Coke cans rattle
rolling empty?
1977 © Wayne David Knoll, St Kilda East, Victoria, Australia
Originally Published as "Tourist City Summer" in ‘Theos Sun’ Summer 1977-8
[The world over, tourism and trash go together like the take-up and put -dowm of fashionable celebrity love-lives. This was my second poem to be published. I believe it may owe something to the book of Ecclesiates.]
in heated rage
fan littered streets
of human dust.
Pages of paper news
float in hot circles
coke cans rattle
rolling empty
Streets half-empty
of 4-wheeled ovens;
desert roads
a soulless shimmer.
The caravans are gone
the oasis crowded,
canned holidays
rattle rolling empty
Hot sands
full of people
on beaches
of no release
flee hot streets
and houses
of discontent…
scorching hollow as
Coke cans empty.
Is that all?
Another season goes
With a time-man’s
sand between
my toes
and in the surf
Coke cans wash,
floating empty.
I turn over my
New Year leaf
another page of
heat-blown whirl
wind scenes?
will life continue
as Coke cans rattle
rolling empty?
1977 © Wayne David Knoll, St Kilda East, Victoria, Australia
Originally Published as "Tourist City Summer" in ‘Theos Sun’ Summer 1977-8
[The world over, tourism and trash go together like the take-up and put -dowm of fashionable celebrity love-lives. This was my second poem to be published. I believe it may owe something to the book of Ecclesiates.]
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Attilla's String: or A Thread We Hang On
For a change from un-occupation
in the late second millenium one morning
I went down to Lawrence’s place
to see Michael who used to be shearing
and knocked at his self-hung door.
No answer! I knocked louder
It was then I heard his pre-occupied
Tenor, lamely thrown - like a misball
in a serious game - across echoes of roof
I’d helped him with, saying: ‘I’m round here!’
I marched around the selfbuilt brick
of the house to look for Michael.
There, up site, on the departed earthmover’s bank
he was below the rotary clothes hoist, reaching
down to a bucket - to clip at pegs.
Yes! He said, smiling in wooden taunt.
I am a direct descendant
of Attilla the Hun, and here
I am hanging out wet washing.
November 1998 © Wayne David Knoll
First published in the book anthology ‘Hush, Men Are Speaking’ 1999, Woodendm Victoria
in the late second millenium one morning
I went down to Lawrence’s place
to see Michael who used to be shearing
and knocked at his self-hung door.
No answer! I knocked louder
It was then I heard his pre-occupied
Tenor, lamely thrown - like a misball
in a serious game - across echoes of roof
I’d helped him with, saying: ‘I’m round here!’
I marched around the selfbuilt brick
of the house to look for Michael.
There, up site, on the departed earthmover’s bank
he was below the rotary clothes hoist, reaching
down to a bucket - to clip at pegs.
Yes! He said, smiling in wooden taunt.
I am a direct descendant
of Attilla the Hun, and here
I am hanging out wet washing.
November 1998 © Wayne David Knoll
First published in the book anthology ‘Hush, Men Are Speaking’ 1999, Woodendm Victoria
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