Poems by Thomas Shapcott
There is that stretch up north of Gladstone
where you do not stop. Too many
have vanished here. Low trees
may be witnesses but broken bitumen
is as impassive and houses are gaps
in a broken mouth.
Accelerator country,
this. Nothing to see. No one
to take notice. The tropics
are not always lush, rocks are rough
as the underside of your tongue
or the trunks of trees around here.
Is that a car ahead? Is it
coming our way? Do not stop.
Check the petrol gauge
and if necessary keep one wheel
on the bitumen, the other
over the edge. Did you see that face?
Wait. Is that a puncture? You did
bring all the emergency gear
No ragged rocks, only those huge tors
a sculptor might have taken his time to grind.
The sandpaper has not been manufactured
that might effect such well-formed modifications
but the wind has, water has, time
is the unhurried maker. Does not explain
tumble and contour, though. Doesn't even
leave the giants their imagination
or our jest. This is not country
it is all a jangle of signifiers
and we fumble over our own speculation
as if geology were responsible
or volcanic activity explained,
what our kids don't say when they come here
or why they are glad to get out again
or why they can't help whispering to us
when will we come back? when is the next time?
will it still be the same?
On the beaches of my childhood, surf
had been rolled smooth by the entire Pacific
until it had a slow, low pull
and a tug in the undertow could pull you down
without thinking.
On the Western beaches - Cottesloe perhaps -
surf has an altogether different drift
though scoop seems more the word. I stared
and thought not of shelves but of the quick drop
of the gallows.
Here in South Australia
the beach is an afterthought
never sure if the water has begun
or if the soft erosion is still fingering itself
until the Antarctic weather forces matters
to breaking point. Only the cliffs
are slow enough to crumble politely.
The water attempts its froth of surf
but it is all intended to destroy
not to build up.
Where I come from
sand was not desert, it was playground.
Let us massage the truth a little, children.
There are excellent examples to follow.
Think of our leaders. Think of TV commercials.
Now, if I say 'Johnny stole Tim's marbles'
how might you put it more convincingly?
"Johnny broadened his investment portfolios."
Good try, Samantha. What about his one:
'Johnny lied to the whole class about the situation in Iraq.'
What's that, Isabel? "He was only doing what the big boys
told him to." Well, that may be partly right but think of it this way:
Johnny saw that by teaming up with the big boys
he had a chance to become Teacher's Pet.
That's right, Johnny looked at the goal ahead
and he didn't answer questions
and he didn't apologise.
He thrust out his brave little chest and smiled and smiled
- meaning all the mums and dads believed hiim
and - this is the pont - what is truth anyway?
What matters is the point of view.
It's what you notice. Walls like jigsaw puzzles
almost slate-grey but always hinting at other
colours, walls reaching up two stories and each stone
holding its individuality as well as push
and pull of the whole house, the church, the hotel.
Timber was scarce, but stonemasons came
from the old country. They built for permanence.
I suppose these are as sand-stock brick in Adelaide
but what brick wall could pride itself against them?
A later Adelaide, like us all, settled for fibro
or other substitutes. It's now all poured concrete
slab after slab. You don't remember concrete -
it is a material that defines our compromises.
Adelaide stone was here, on the spot,
it is only now we are surprised
and grateful. You didn't notice it much?
Ah, but you were brought up here. Best things
should perhaps be taken for granted
At a Boy Scout camp in 1948
I heard of Nostradamus and his prophesies.
I was convinced our world would end by 1950.
For two years, at Grammar School, I swam
in races and I dropped Latin and Chemistry.
The fatal year came and went
and I decided the calculations were wrong.
It must be 1960.
A decade later and I was married
with a family on the way. Nostradamus
was an old fake. Life was busy enough
and the Korean war was old history,
the Cold War was a chess-game.
By Century's end I would be 65.
Time to retire. An unbelievable concept.
At 50 I wrote my ageing poem
and settled that. In 2000
Y2K was a computer hoax
and people in the business were making a mint.
Suddenly, here I am at 70 and the assorted bits and pieces
may be wearing out or getting thinner
while other parts accumulate more girth
but all in all my three score years and ten
seem an ordinary event, an interim report
rather than a double red line signing off
on the deed.
The petty tyrants on both sides
bluster as they always did, and someone will pay
but I have led most of my life in an interregnum.
I am more fearful of my own body's mechanics
than I am, any more, of saints or heretics.