A family of women
Up the Eyeful Tower
All had the same tic
American
Heavy faced and brassy
They stood in the queue
On the second platform
Nearing the elevator
And realizing in turn
They didn’t have tickets
They all pulled the same face
Their lips pouted
Sphincter-tight
Then twisted impossibly
To one side
First the mother did it
Then the elder daughter
Then the younger
Was it any surprize
They didn’t make it
To the summit?
© Ian Lilburne 2010
He is my friend
But I’ve never known if
He likes or respects me
His hospitality says so
But I’ve never been sure
I like and respect him
Despite his English refusal
To show any emotion
There’s an odd bond between us
A marriage of mirror opposites
Reflections reversed
Both observers
Outside the conventions
And similarly dismissive
Of their expectations
But from opposite angles
Me the high romantic
Ever hopeful of saying something
Worth waiting for
He the arch realist
Diligently critical
Dismissive of his own talent
Me wanting to live the creative life
He preferring to live vicariously
In the reflected glory of a creativity
He fully appreciates
But will not emulate
Me optimistic of emulation
Though often thwarted by
A debilitating diffidence
He unable to suspend
A critical disbelief
Neither of us able to cross over
© Ian Lilburne 2010
I wandered into
The Pitti Palace
Gallery of Modern Art
Thinking I might find
Hidden there
The odd Picasso or Braque
But this modernity
Ended at Napoleon
And his restoration
There was a bust of him
Larger than life
Obliquely angled
To catch the light
His Corsican gaze
Roman
Classical
Just as he’d like it
‘The Emperor’
But I was more amused by
The emasculated torsos
Scattered through
Those softly-lit corridors
Were they well-hung
Like Casanova?
Or shrunken
Like David?
Were they castrated
In modesty
Or envy?
© Ian Lilburne 2010
For days afterwards
On seeing a beautiful woman
I’d picture her anus
Stretched wineglass wide
The garish hangover
Of a pointless drug
© Ian Lilburne 2010
The screen flickered once
Then jumped into action
In the midst of a scene
Of obscene interaction
Contorted bodies
Connected impossibly
With overdubbed cries
Of gross animality
So this is porn
Captivating at first
But quickly unreal
Shapes slotted together
Like Ikea furniture
I felt for the woman
No mystery or charm
Could survive such an onslaught
No sensuality
Or tenderness
It really was
As they always stress
Demeaning
I cursed my curiosity
This lust abomination
Then quickly switched
To a rival station
© Ian Lilburne 2010
Awkwardly
I caught myself staring (again)
At the face across the room
Instinctively
Surveying the crease
Of a quiet brow
The serene strength
Of pensive eyes
Aimed always askance from mine
Mortified
I looked away
And forced myself
To ignore
The compelling draw
Of that visage
© Ian Lilburne 2010
The gentle rhythm of
Your strong fingers
Spiralling softly
Over my shoulders
And down my spine
Easing the pain
Making me reel again with an
Unexpected expectancy
The top of my neck
Where the tension lies
To the tip of my fingers
Where it seems to fly out
Your firm hands firmly ease
These coils of stress
These knots of uncertainty
It feels so good
So… necessary
But the voices in my head
That your fingers unleash
Are not so easily eased
A thousand imbedded thoughts
Reel in revolt and confusion
Is it not too early for this
Too easy capitulation?
My deeper desires are too untried
To be surrendered here
Won’t this make it even harder
Than it’s already been?
Stop!
I shout
Firmly but gently
Shutting you out
© Ian Lilburne 1978
Funny the Australian attitude toward hats
It’s cool for cockies
And polis in the country
Vying for votes
Or city metrosexuals on the weekend
At the beach, the shops, a concert
Musicians always get away with it
But then they would
But wear one to work in the city
And you cop all kinds of flak
“That bloke’s up himself
What a poser
Probably a poofter”
(That still flagrant fear
Of fiercely heterosexual men
Even in this post LGBTIQ world)
Women on the other hand
Usually like a man in a hat
They find it stylish
Even charming
If their compliments can be believed
I’ve seen hats from both sides now
From with and without
Years ago I had a colleague who wore
A flat-brimmed Akubra with
An even conical crest
He stood out
You could always feel it
When he crossed campus
It didn’t really suit him
Or so I told myself
He was too straight for the look
Not flamboyant or casual enough
To pull it off
By the time I took them up
He’d stopped
When asked he said
The impulse lasts five years
Then you snap back
By that reckoning
I’m overdue to stop now
But I still love my Akubra-Fedora
As I‘ve come to call it
It’s brow is beaten
Into a rakish shape
But it still hides my balding head
Gives my otherwise bland face
Some character
A bit of flair
Or so I tell myself
The key to wearing a hat
Is to do it casually
As though it’s not there
A mere extension of your face
A self conscious man in a hat
Gives off a weird energy
Just think of Jack Kennedy
In the few shots of him wearing one
Kennedy has a lot to answer for
When it comes to hats
The fact he felt silly wearing one
And so rarely did
Reputedly sent them out of fashion
Men finally felt they could
Stop wearing those silly hats
One less thing to leave behind
On the train or in a bar
Which is possibly why
Australian men now have such
Antipathy toward them
Funny that
© Ian Lilburne 2018
It was a cool clear djeran day
We climbed into Sylvia’s car
And headed into the country
There was a hidden forest
She wanted to show me
A private place
Special to her
An hour’s drive from town
It sat just at that point where
The city passes into the country
One of those lines
You cross without knowing
A subtle change of key
We pulled off the road
Scrambled from the car
And headed into the wood
At once a deep calm
Settled upon us
A glowing peace that was
Both in us and in the world
Even Sylvia’s excitable dog felt it
She ran ahead but didn’t bark
The further we went into the forest
The stronger the feeling became
We didn’t talk
Merely basked in
The deep serenity
Rich and mystical
Numinous, if you will
Soft sunlight
Filtered through the trees
Cast long shadows
Marking a kind of pathway
A grid of inter-cutting arcades
While the pine-needles
Cushioning the earth
Dampened our footfall
The stllness
Gathered round us
Was somehow spiritual
Like a cathedral
A cathedral en plein air
In the silence of Sylvia’s pines
In the silence of Sylvia’s pines
© Ian Lilburne 2019
Remember that day we went sailing
In Bel’s boat, out on the bay?
We dropped anchor at Mew Stone
Then lingered there all day
And when we returned
Wind at our stern
In the dying light of the sun
I surely felt
That our flesh would melt
And we would be as one
© Ian Lilburne 2012