Ian C Smith’s work has appeared in Axon:Creative Explorations,The Best Australian Poetry, Island, Poetry Salzburg Review, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, Southerly & Westerly. His latest book is Here Where I Work (Ginninderra Press, Adelaide). He lives in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, Australia.
When travelling is done
When she goes nothing dramatic happens
like lightning over a field of rapeseed,
just our bodies anchored by heaviness,
this labyrinth of loss with no exit.
An image of hibiscus in her hair,
toothy churn of kisses bruising soft mouths,
not the train late, grey station weeping rain,
should tender solace in my barren house.
Goodwill fractured, a rancid air of guilt
stains the silent ghost of happier days.
After the hostel’s segregated sleep
Ely Cathedral enthralled us at dawn.
In that rarefied air should we have sensed
beneath our skin, this place where we’d be borne?
Time Machine
He fears leaving the loved comfort of home
but this time offers to be sociable,
pats on Christmas gift shaving lotion,
selects a clean shirt, pockets pills,
bangs dirt from his shoes imagining
marines psyching up for a landing.
To keep his word is his quiddity.
He knows his cobweb-covered van’s
battery must be low, stood so long,
rust, that networking crony of time,
ever gnawing at what was a paint job,
but the van’s beauty is it always starts.
He does a fading-memory check, switches, locks,
takes comfort in the calmness of reliability.
Almost nothing when he turns the key.
The van faces a wall at the end of a driveway,
behind it, a cattle grid, then gates.
There is no other vehicle, no neighbours.
He hates asking for help, anyway.
Punctual, so with little leeway of time,
he knows from experience cursing is no use.
Ignition on, out of gear, full choke.
He lives on an awkward slope, knows
foolhardiness as a past companion.
Braced by the wall, he grips the bullbar,
rocks to roll it, trusting in a straight course.
Wasted muscles awakening, he tangos the grid,
and damnation to cobwebs and rust.
Through the gates now, he scoots around,
hauls himself in, pulls on the wheel,
the van gathering speed like happiness.
He is on time, eases his foot back, farts,
Stretching his gas, making it last and last.
My Fugitive Belt
Has absconded, leaving my jeans naked,
drooping bereft and abandoned.
It doesn’t hang from other old strides
in dark silence, forgotten,
nor does it lie rolled next to socks,
its usual rest stop between outings,
fewer these days, now under review.
Tracking events becomes a discovery tour.
What I find mostly are flashbacks
lighting the plains of my past,
innocence long gone out of me,
songs cut short, reminders
stark as lone trees on hills,
my drawers a museum, pants heading south.
I pester loved ones, their tones of voice
clues they have become fed up ones,
knowing things could have been different.
I return to shelved life-maps, mothballs,
laces tangled like alleys of ancient cities,
trying to recall recent wheres and whens.
What I thought a year ago was really three.
Cuffs polishing floors, I’m addicted,
emptying and sorting the same detritus,
statuesque in mid-thought, dogged,
ever mindful of memory’s artful deceit.
My lost leather even snakes its way
into email and telephone messages.
Then I spot it, here, now, near where I left it.
Forfeiture
She was not musically minded
but her thick hair swung sensuously
as if to a melody only I heard.
A working holiday minus the work
living on our wits and her savings.
I loved life far from the humdrum.
Discovering the vast city in poor light
I teased her when we heard Procol Harum,
the same song everywhere, like an anthem.
I also loved the musical sway of her hips.
I would challenge her to name their hit,
tempting her with a promise if she succeeded,
something she (and I) thought outrageous
like stripping naked in Piccadilly.
Her memory always baulked at the silly title.
I knew my luck was in jeopardy.
If she got smart she could expose me.
Whenever crunch time threatens I fold.
I knew this, plus a trove of trivia
yet offered clues about English complexions.
We heard his pulsing guitar and vocals
before we reached the busker,
the long tiled Tube walkway’s echo
glorifying the sad tune, its nonsense lyrics.
Well, she said, ready. Aren’t you going to ask?
Seasons later she is safe in her austere life.
I think of her beautiful hair
and our skin turning a whiter shade of pale,
remember with clarity leaving for the coast
alone with torn thoughts, the train’s threnody.
The Galway Review 