King

 [King]

 

a cat may look at a king

it’s up there for thinking

though what she may see has no knowing

 

a mood swing is a commoner element

signs of showing he’s intelligent

though strangely indifferent to sentiment

 

a cats-eye notes him on his throne

slumped in the dejection zone

emit a low administrative groan

 

a dog sometimes, the way he barks orders

romps with fellow cross-sworders

or glares fiercely at transgressed borders

 

a bird other times darting about

a hair’s breadth away from being found out

winging it while he has the clout

 

a pool is peace to him

makes him feel like he’s in the swim

while it only keeps him vim

 

a kidney may be thrown her way, sardines

chin tickles, tummy rubs, the stroke routines

better than the other extremes

 

news drives him into a deep absorb

this is what comes from having an orb

his portraitist adds an extra daub

 

a penny for his thoughts

is a proposition fraught

best not guess is her best thought

 

his subjects by and large think he’s great

but she’s lost interest in the head-of-state

and wanders off through the garden gate

 

sleep is nice in the halls of power

whiling away a dreamy hour

her neurons soft as a spring shower

 

though even then when time is down

a cat may look at a clown

in her dream trying out his crown

 

Clerihew

 The Big Re-Set Resaid  

The Conference in Clerihews

Report of the Australian and New Zealand Theological Library Association Conference (Theme: 'The Big Re-Set') held in Melbourne Naarm 18-21st of November 2024 

Melanie Hechenberger

Zoomed half-hour surges

Sorted X in Pettee with brio

And assistance from baby Theo.

 

Melissa Parent

Made time well-spent

Sharing the latest updates, cluey

Everything on point in Dewey.

 

Philip Harvey

With a history

Took the hard slog out of cataloguing

But how do we describe non-stop blogging?

 

Michael McGirr

Could but concur

Cultivating memory gives us hope

As he took his next call from the Pope.

 

Mary Carroll and Simon Wakeling

Sang the same hymn, no mistakening:

People expect more than can ever be done

Libraries should cater for everyone.

 

Melissa Parent

Signed, sealed and sent

A love letter to the future, a starter

Writ in most impeccable metadata.

 

Liz Staer and Kate Wimer

Did not work by egg-timer

Information is abundant, universal, undeniable

But what is valid, valuable and verifiable?

 

Kerrie Stevens and Gillian Cain

Made the statistics perfectly plain

People expect more and we deliver more

Despite reductions, budget cuts and … more.

 

Nick Gellatly

Most gallantly

Proposed overhaul of what’s

A perennial puzzle – AULOTS!

 

Cindy Derrenbacker

Described a home tracker -

Belief in self, the righting of wronging

Makes for an architecture of belonging.

 

Susan Ebertz

Drew on experts

Herself giving boxloads of stunning expressions

For any and everyone’s planning successions.

 

Helen Greenwood

Quite understood

The unlikely but legal need for a quorum

And scribbled furiously though the Forum.

 

Sai Santoyo, Neil Horvath, and Mark Hangartner

Iambic pentameter (almost) partners

Proved themselves worldly-wise

With the hundred meanings of ‘rightsize’.

 

Huw Sandaver

Tagged ‘Engraver’

With incisive subfields on work forms cerebral

And multiplied entries for medieval cathedrals.

 

Albrecht Dürer

Welcomed tourers

Who engraved and incised as he pleased

But could only imagine the Antipodes.

 

The Royal Botanic Gardens

Contained gigantic bargains

Flowers galore popping up like Kusama dots

And canopies spread like cathedral tops.

 

The State Library of Victoria

Hushed inside, outside noisy noisier

Bookended walks from naarm ngarrgu (‘Melbourne knowledge’)

Noisiest travellers tramping noisily then back to college.

 

Geoff the Chef

Treble clefs

Arias and trills enjoyed from Grace Notes Singers

When not making dinners that were real humdingers.

 

Elizabeth Greentree

El-e-ment-ar-eeeee

Not, fashioned AI assistants by having chats -

Lack imagination but nice enough chaps.

 

Philip Harvey

AI? Who, me?

Wrote these clerihews -

He couldn’t refuse.

 

 

 

Window

 

[Window]

 

Window 1 a single mum

standing resting in all she’s got

about to deliver god

 

Window 2 a motley crew

of farmers scratching a living

with what the climate’s giving

 

Window 3 a Christmas tree

blasted at the root in shock

will form an execution block

 

Window 4 reflects the scores

of faces peering at every angle

glimpses as of living angels

 

Window 5 they keep alive

their patients burnt and shot

doctors overtime where bombs are hot

 

Window 6 the gifts a mix

gold of dignity, incense sweet spread

and myrrh speaking for the dead

 

Window 7 asking for heaven

amidst the mindless desolation

the lost meanings of their nation

 

Window 8 is not too late

a child in his out of the way place

teaching to all available space

 

Window 9 equine and bovine

watching with their seeming sadness

the child graced midst all this madness

 

Window 10 the hired men

who carry out the infant killing

the hard men at herod’s willing

 

Window 11 a queue uneven

of displaced persons refugees

and others now with unheard pleas

 

Window 12 the shelves and shelves

of self-satisfied Santa sales

megastores’ only holy grail

 

 

Lies

 

[Lies]

 

It’s all eyes

on the prince of lies

that’s his aim his ultimate prize

 

hell applies

all hail false disguise

he disinformation plies

 

human cries

their words he denies

who will live and then who dies

 

hows and whys

october surprise

he mendacity supplies

 

rooms of spies

who sells and who buys

january uprise

 

bridge of sighs

takes the prince of lies

from courtroom to court, where highs

 

are lows, mice

men, love means despise,

and yes no, and hi! goodbyes.

 

 

 

Dot

 

[Dot]

 

Panning back

from the dot of a long black

in its deep white cup

 

The wakeup lineup

orange dot and white and tangerine

pills for the blood and tissue

 

By day the traffic lights

dotted lines and homes beautiful dot

each advance of pedal and sun

 

By night the lightbulb

a dot in a thousand passing windows

turns square beneath the moon

 

You who are there

needing only a touch of the dot

on my phone to be here all our words

 

Florescent city

fluorescent at night city

dot on a map chaps elaborated

 

Moon soft airless white

dot amidst trees or long clouds

smooth light on the skin

 

Planet of an aquamarine

dot rising from its far horizon

in an old moonman’s photo album

 

Iris psychochromatic

a pupil of light the dot inside

widening contracting resting

 

As much as to say

the dot at the close of a sentence

is not an end but a start.

Phone

 

Iso-mandala No. 273 (2021)

[Phone]

 

Lost my phone means

a day without my phone

no news to speak of

 

made to gaze at flowers

for hours now

I cannot take their pictures

 

left wondering what to do

true due to absence

of my concentration app

 

missing my friend the podcast

their confident voice

in any gender and mood

 

and almost didn’t get out

of the carpark alive

missing you satnav you jezebel

 

someone is trying to reach me

I’m trying to reach them

I could revert to postcards

 

maybe I left it in the cinema

or that supermarket shelf

I will have to cancel next week

 

perhaps my lifeline

is safe inside an inside coat pocket

hanging in the wardrobe

 

time is buried in there

and all my contacts

their names dancing on a pinhead

 

please phone me now

and we can celebrate the find

unless it’s on silent mode

 

let me this once

give you a picture with no pictures

a zen ringtone

 

I guess I’ll watch the weather

in the absence of a forecast

and make up my own in real time

Follow

 Reflections for the Twenty-Fifth Sunday after Pentecost, the 10^th of November 2024, in the pew notes at St Peter’s Church, Eastern Hill, Melbourne.  Written by Philip Harvey.

Immediacy is a hallmark of the Gospel of Mark. The storytelling is constantly in the business of cutting to the chase, leaving the listener to intuit the finer detail. The very declaration that “the time is fulfilled” (Mark 1: 14-20) is a case of medium in sync with message: we are placed in the immediate now, and faced with a choice.

Jesus’ ministry starts where he’s at, in the here and now. He calls certain local fishermen to follow him. This doesn’t look like some takeover master plan. It’s entirely relational and personal, just between them. What happens next is anyone’s guess, though the first step we are told is to repent.

 

We also learn immediately that Jesus is deft with a pun. These fishermen can be fishers of other people. What can this mean? The line dangles. Net-working takes on a new meaning. The men’s work and livelihood is affirmed, but at the same time they are challenged with something new. It’s not even clear what this new thing is, but it doesn’t seem to be just something extra thrown in.

 

Reading this call of the first disciples, we know that the Gospel is the outcome of long and deep experience. Reflection on all of the subsequent events has taken considerable time, focused prayer, difficult learning, and transformed awareness. Yet the recollection of that calling is, for them, its immediacy. They drop everything, even the family business, and follow. They are determined to find out what’s going on.

 

They are about to discover Jesus, a person who exists in the present moment. His teachings, his sermons, his actions and miracles are immediate responses to the need of the moment. His stunning talent for analogy is so breathtaking that they start talking in parables themselves, the world around them coming to life in whole new ways. Half the time, they don’t even get what he’s on about, yet later the way they recount what he did and said shows they learnt well. They know their own limits. His presence never leaves them and must be declared to others. The need of the moment is met through attention to his presence.

 

It is this openness to the unexpected call that animates their first encounter, and every subsequent encounter. And it is this story, retold in clear-cut immediate words of a parable, that we ourselves hear now. In turn, it is not just that we are confronted with change in our lives, but that change is possible.

 

Sweep

 

 The 1883 Melbourne Cup which was won by 

Martini-Henry, ridden by J. Williamson. 

From the original edition of the Illustrated Sydney News.

[Sweep]

 

They’re off Blinkered Gambler

and Blood Sport start well

with Hyper Announcer making the running

 

Late Scratching, Careless Riding

on the first turn spread out

with Whip Suspension and Tamarisk Row.

 

As they settle in it’s Bob Each Way

Have A Flutter, Sure Thing,

Left At The Post, Dodgy Bookie

 

Blew My Dole Cheque looking good

Better In The Wet, Finding Form

and forget the rest.

 

Now Jonathan Swift is moving up

on the far side Houyhnhnm in the box seat

and Yahoo looks a threat but oh dear

 

Glue Factory’s in trouble

it seems to have had a fall and

with it Careless Riding and Whip Suspension.

 

It’s Pompous Trainer, Own Your Owner

Carrot And Stick, Lady Muck, Super Swooper

turning into the straight and oh

 

it’s Drunken Punter and Lady Muck

Drunken Punter and Lady Muck

Drunken Punter and Lady Muck

 

neck and neck nose to nose

they’re at it hammer and tongs

but on the outside yes

 

it’s the New Zealander

No Illusions what did I tell you

the champion a bat out of hell

 

passes Wibbly Wobbly

Mr Ed, Fat Chance, Warned Off

and Write Your Own Ticket, the stayer

 

crosses the line easily ahead of

Correct Weight, Sudden Plunge

and forget the rest.

Garbage

 

LRB No. 3: Lowdown Revue of Kooks (2021)

[Garbage]

 

Garbage speaks the language of garbage

garbled packaging empty of content

throwaway lines rubbish lies

 

Garbage piles up the garbage

side looks on sidewalks gauge it

more rubbish than ever even last week

 

High visibility garbage

nasty garbage

stream of consciousness garble

 

Garbage garbages forever even

the apotheosis of wasted time

front and centre the junk that’s left behind

 

please put a lid on it landfill it

well-earned jail time stale time

where the sun don’t shine