Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

We were told in the first week
but already knew
six would be chosen for winter
everybody free to apply.
Flexibility, affability, productivity, the attributes sought.
Shift change
room change
public holiday work day
“would you?”
“Yes,” with a smile.

We are informed individually
the floor is intensely interesting
the words are recorded
the reasons listened to later.

Neither of us is very good at this
mercifully brief . Disappointment is impatient.
Yes, everything is all right.
Yes there is another opportunity. Next year.

12 months
the time required for the earth to orbit the Sun
and return to the same point.
Opportunity and desire provide sharp contrast.

Rejection, the dark far of farthest
fragility seeks absolution
a colleague obliges
“mate, you’re not what they are looking for.”

For the back story click Backstage

Summer at McMurdo Station
too big
too regulated
too meaningless.

All those people
all those rules
all that time to fill.

Not just in time
but just in case
linesmen, communication technicians, electricians
generator mechanics
very little to do each day
not essential – just in case.

The kitchen was essential
the work, hot and often dirty
but time sprinted
sometimes warping beyond control
at Thanksgiving and Christmas
at Mexican and pizza nights
like pushing back surf.

Goodwill briittled by diner discontent
cooks’ temper
and worker disillusion
made the performance of our boss remarkable.
I commented once
on absence
on vacuum
on never heard spite.
“Oh no,” he cheerfully substituted explanation for magic
“there are many people with bad things to say about me
they’re just not here any more.”

For the back story click Backstage

Everything heard about Catch-22 was true.
funny
mesmerising
a masterpiece.
For once, a” brilliantly original” book
that was
brilliant and original.

Catch-22, original title a not catchy, Catch-18
a byword for double jeopardy
the gloom to the bright side of win-win
lose-lose.
Catch 22 compelled Yossarian to remain at war
living through a tour de force of farce.
promotions and medals for cocked up bombing raids
wheeler dealers profiting from misery
commanding officer stunned
commissioned and ranks prayed to one God
pompous colonels and generals
air-conditioned from the frost and heat of war.
Fiction right?

At the back of the kitchen was a storeroom
a long thin rectangle of floor-to-ceiling shelves
with cartons of cleaning supplies
sponges, detergent, scouring pads and powder, wiping towels.
common knowledge.
If cleaning materials were needed for private use
a quick visit to the kitchen storeroom
to collect sponge or wiping towel
decant detergent or scouring powder.
It had been happening for years – unofficially.

It came to the attention of the hierarchy.
this was theft. To be halted immediately.
The store room locked. No exceptions.
No exceptions included the storemen
boxes piled up in the corridor.
The unauthorised still required the unsanctioned
avoidance of detection necessitated speed
time forbade discrete selection
prospectors snatched a carton –  and ran.

For the back story click Backstage