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David Barnes
AUSTRALIA
db@aceonline.com.au
Editor: Poetry DownUnder
http://www.aceonline.com.au/~db/
David Edward Barnes
Born in Australia - 1943 - Paddington, New South Wales, . He began
writing at 18 years of age when he took up folk guitar, song writing,
and performing at folk centers around mainland Australia, and
Tasmania. He worked as a carpenter in Melbourne, leaving for the bush
in the early 60's, finally settling in Perth in 1972. He worked as a
Real Estate Agent for 24 years until the death of his wife; becoming a
fulltime writer poet in 1996. He has been an active Internet poet and
has been published in Australia, America, and England. Recently he was
published in the Paris/Atlantic, an International Journal of Creative
Work. Spring issue: 2000. He is also the Publisher of Poetry Downunder
an online poetry site in Perth Western Australia. Recently some of his
works were published in an Anthology released in Perth W.A. November
2000, with further publication of his work in Firefly Magazine,
Tennessee U.S.A Volume 29 - 2001. Further works of David are due for
release in Perth Western Australia in another Anthology due to be
released in November 2001. |
Storms In Childhood (series i - v )
Outside the thick bluestone walls
exposed branches sway like whips,
lash at the air;
and the shriek
of the wind rose shrilly
through the gaps in the dormitory;
an echo,
another voice, priest administering
the thick lash,
in tempo, bruising,
the dreadful sound drowned in silence,
beneath the noise of the storm.
(ii)
In silence
what large dark hands lifted to winds,
wielded somber, menacing;
obdurate, muted
pale pallor wept within the dormitory;
outside, snarled passionate savage anger.
A voice,
tangible, sliced through the upsurge,
ominous, the lash ceased onslaught.
The sapling rose
frayed as branches, whipped stripped bare,
to follow behind the priest.
Angry, silent,
irritable priestly hands stir air,
furious, night whistles tempestuous sacraments,
wrath, unbridled,
penetrates glazed casements, obstinate as the limb
just lashed.
(iii)
Lighting,
flashes on the window,
the priest, hand upon the door, instructs,
withdraws as jagged surges flare,
against the black frame.
In the room, centered,
two aged wooden chairs pushed together,
inflexible, stark in the yellow glow,
my bed tonight.
I would be left alone,
cold seeping through frayed pajamas,
alone in wretchedness, held by the night,
He, would have it so.
My god how this bruising pulsates.
It aches in me.
Choked by furies, thunder, lightening,
quivering fear weaves to a fleshed heart,
through the long night's darkness.
In the morning,
gusty winds blow, I look at mountain walls
through frosty panes, alone,
cut off from streets I have not walked.
Bells chime. Awaken.
(iv)
In shadows, dawn awakens,
rich, shallow fog, veils remnants of night;
the sun captured, blunted by overcast skies.
I turn away.
A sea of faces lift,
gaze toward me, beds stripped, undressed,
lights glow; we shiver in the drafty room;
floorboards creak, footsteps approach, and
a new priest enters, scowls.
His voice snaps, "Line up!
Showers! Move!"
As water falls,
rolls over bare flesh, life is a sluice of sensations,
tepid water varies hot and cold,
chilly air slaps you, crimson chilblains sting.
Showered, I grab a towel, dry myself,
sprint to the spartan dormitory.
It's a frenzied hive,
industriously preparing for inspection;
at the foot of our beds, eyes front, we stand,
avoid glancing at his scrutiny,
locker tidy; bedcovers straight and neat... strip it again?
How many times must we make a bed?
Anxiously,
we await his instructions.
"Chapel, ten minutes."
(v)
In single file,
I walked along glistening floorboards;
young hands continually toil, burnish them,
and the old stairwell,
which leads to the basement chapel.
It's beautiful; leadlight windows,
ground level, color stunted by first light.
The altar is draped in purity,
multihued wall tapestries hang,
and cover arched brickwork.
Silently,
we filed in to take our places.
The priest stood, somber...
in white-gold fluid garments, a crucifix before him,
his heavy hands lift in supplication before the altar -
higher, his voice rises in tempo, as he prays,
for our salvation.
I did not know his god.
I did not know his god.
In the beginning, I did not know.
© deBarnes August 2001 - 02 - 18th
Trains roared - screaming - in my mind
1950 - 51 Melbourne Victoria - Finders Street Station--
A Grand Victorian station, laced in monumental grandeur
towering in architectural beauty, a benign time piece - history.
I was seven, eight-year-old, selling Wattle day badges to passing people,
perplexed, in an alien world - I stood at my allotted selling place--
a name - tag attached to me, rattling, shaking my collection tin
calling, buy a badge, a badge for St. John's home for boys
Help St. John's home.
we were never taught much as children - about life - the outside world,
we seldom saw.
such a nice man approached, smiling at me, offered to donate two pounds
a real pound note for a badge; midst the bustle of the crowd swirling,
a seething mass of flesh, I followed the kind man in ignorance, as people
raced by, giants,
scurrying not to miss their trains.
he took me to the public toilets--
Sweet god...! Trains roared - screaming - in my mind.
It is still part mental block today, fourty eight-years latter in my
twilight of life.
I cannot fully remember, remember those events, how I got back to the home
they told me I was ill - my child's mind wounded--
a wound so deep, doors would, could not be opened - even under hypnosis.
age opens photoflashes that blur, screening past minds eye, sickening -
memories.
being outside the walls of the home was strange, selling yellow flowered
Wattle badges
Victoria's Emblem blazed in innocence, and in those distant images,
I see the man.
And as a man - I understand, what bestial, rapist, men can be to
children--
I still have an aversion for men.
even to this day, I prefer the friendship, warmth companionship of women
I was sent away - to Sandringham, a seaside family home, run by a married
couple
looking after eleven boys, not eighty boys, crammed, fighting;
behind bluestone walls like dogs
preying on each other, and you fought, survival of the fittest,
the strong preyed on you;
you preyed on the less strong--
and now I raise, watch my son - like a feral wolf --
delight - in his child hood innocence, his youthful energy, and I dream
dreams,
of what might have been;
the joy in his eyes bring silent tears, happiness within, to me a father--
a mother since she died of cancer.
it is why I give all my love, to children, humanity, no matter what color
race or creed.
Wouldst that all of mankind would do so, for there would be no sudden
stops,
in the station of their lives--
So now you know...!
© deBarnes May. 1999
Things happen
When I wake
in the mornings not wishing to rise
longing for the liveliness
of yesterday,
not this back-broken being
snared by daily
confines,
where the only things
that can dance anymore
are eyelashes.
What will happen
when I can no longer walk:
when my steel mind
or one of my knees abruptly surrenders
and I fall
mind-wounded,
an insect trying to claw
back up the wall at 3 am
burning,
counting the hours of solitude
not knowing if my shout will be heard
by my sleeping son.
It's a stone yet to be turned.
(c) debarnes November 2001 -23rd
Life's affectations remain in us
("They who are without --
cast the first stone".)
Why do
we do, the things
that we do.
Say those little white lies
which leave a bitter aftertaste
in your mouth;
caught out
deny
guiltiness,
when it was obvious
beforehand
It could turn on you,
and it does:
perhaps it is genetic
why we do these cruel acts,
pull the wings off butterflies
Drink Drive.
It is all there, within us
Just beneath
the surface:
and we never seem able
to sever the strands
of those the little things
that mean
so much
and we forget it.
© debarnes November 2001 -24
© All Copyright, David Barnes.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By
Permission.
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