Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

Everybody dreams
of the lottery win
of stratospheric soar of stock
the exuberant handstand of fate
changing nose pushed against shop window
to gold credit card.

Antarctica.
Generous remuneration
gratis living expenses
closed shop.
Catch 22
only those who have gone
get to go
except with help from the inside.

Robert, thirty something – about to be 40
friendly enough
but always trying it on
with much younger women.
We called him the rampant penis – no affection or envy
old enough to be their old man
and to know better. I thought him a fool.

The interviewer looks at the application form
noting the small town address and probability I knew Robert
“he’s been with us a few years now.”
I enthuse in affirmative
“a great guy
I have a lot of time for him.”

For the story behind a story click Backstage

Ross Island
portal to the South Pole.
Scott and Amundsen arrived in 1910
departing to footnote and immortality
adventurers seeking glory for ego and country
science a hitchhiker contributing to the costs.

In 1956 science was in the driver’s seat
chauffeuring International Geophysical Year
and the United States into a permanent presence
bringing the Navy for logistics.

Food becomes rations
catering henceforth messing
transport rechristened pax movements
cargo ops – formerly freight.

IGY finished in 1958
science stayed on
so did the Navy
contracting out less glamorous functions.

Want to go to Antarctica?
Sure do.
Want to earn good money?
Sure do.
1200 people fed in 90 minutes
three times a day
pot washing for eight hours at a time.
Are you up to it?
Sure am.

For the story behind a story click Backstage

High above the river
gorse fraudulently beautiful in the robes of flower
rushes down to the water
like children escaping the classroom.

Overhead a bold sun
welcome and unshielded
as it always was before melanoma
watercolour blue sky
infinitely empty.
Vacant – the vacancy of escaped dreams.

Silence is illusion
attention can hear
birdsong
seed burst
breeze couriered bee murmurings.
A low growl….. a mating call
a freight train greets its siding date.

Distance shrinks diesel smokestacks to childhood memory
clockwork replica orbiting English villages
moulded perfection
vicarious participation
engines, signals, stations. Innocence.

Consummation complete, the trains separate
one becomes two  –  then none.
The chapter is finished, the sun moves
so must I.

Mornings are for cleaning, afternoons receiving guests
this is how I spend my exile
menial work
low pay.
Here there are no questions – this town knows refugees
false documentation is passed without scrutiny.

For the story behind a story click Backstage