“I have composed my stories as reporters write
their
accounts of fires – mechanically, half-consciously,
“with
no concern either for the reader or myself,”
fire
being the given, the sudden cause of all decisions
the
story tells as people run one way snatching belongings
or
would stay put and fight heat they cannot beat.
Leave
now, it is too late to leave, abandon your plans
is
the language of fire coming over the hill towards us.
Staying
doesn’t make you a hero. Fire came from nowhere.
We’ve
lost everything. The whole place has just gone.
Fire
quietens the township’s dreams of a world trip.
Fire
has leapt the road and closed all access.
Summer
in the city, a fine time to read Chekhov,
Anton
Chekhov short stories over hardly before begun.
The
provincial in few pages hides how he’s lost everything.
Loss
is official once it’s named by a celebrity.
The
look on the face of the spokesperson hardly finds words.
Subscripts
serve up statistics at a blinding rate, old mate.
The
secret life of a firebug is blazingly on view
whilst
elsewhere stories emerge of unlikely saviours.
Fire
remains unmoved where it comes to rest
air
brown with dry meanings for days afterwards.
Certainty
is that at the end of these short stories
everyone
will stand up, brush down and keep going,
at
least one of whom will write a letter to a friend
explaining
his technique of showing without emoting.
Pages
caught and puffed and burst in the firestorm.
Online
reports disintegrated inside of burnt-out terminals.
Fire,
the character, looks like nothing but smoke till close up
changing
direction with unpredictable speed.
Stare
at it how we will when fire’s under control
plain
speech wants a way forward, left with nothing.
A
blank page survives fire’s disappearing act
where
writers make accounts, deft on show, light on emote.
