Rosemary Dobson - The Sailor

Back in the Navy, you knew when disenchantment was beginning to set in on a fellow shipmate – usually the bloke with a few years under his belt.  He would withdraw to his bunk of a night to do a bit of reading.  Nothing unusual about that, except up until now you could bet he’d be laying back with a dog-eared copy of Playboy or Hustler propped open on his chest, constantly adjusting the position of his bunk-light to get the original studio colours.  Then one night, you look across and you see him engrossed in some plain cover magazine on alternate lifestyle called, ‘Grass Roots’.  ‘Grass Roots!’  When a sailor gets disenchanted his mind starts imagining himself as far away from the briny as he can get.  He imagines a plot of land, digging in dirt, growing turnips, breeding alpacas, working donkeys, mud bricks and maintaining a healthy water tank.  There was always this standard response that blokes would give if you asked them what they were going to do when they paid off.  And the response was, “Mate, when I pay off I’m going to put an oar on my shoulder and keep walking inland with me back to the sea until somebody says, ‘what’s that’?”  It was always one of those standard responses you expected, like, “What’s the best cure for sea sickness?”  Reply, “Find a tree and sit under it!”  I always thought the oar thing was a matelot’s made up dit from way back.  But then I come across a poem written in 1960 by our Australian poet, Rosemary Dobson, called, The Sailor.  Rosemary has put the yarn of the disenchanted sailor into a humorous poetic form.  So I’m wondering, was it Rosemary who first created this notion of a disenchanted sailor searching for a sea-change, or did she hear it as a ditty from a matelot?  I reckon it was some sailor who told her the yarn.  I reckon Rosemary would have heard this story and it would have appealed to her.  Read some of Rosemary Dobson’s poetry and you feel she’s got a nice little sense of humour; a careful, controlled, academic, witty sense of humour; framed to politely amuse but not shock the establishment.  On second thought, I don’t reckon it was a matelot who told Rosemary the yarn of the sailor, I reckon it must have been an ‘officer’.  I do love the poem for how it gives to me a rhythmic form of a crusty old dit I’ve heard so many, many times before.

The Sailor

(Rosemary Dobson, 1920 – )

 

The sailor settled the oar at his back

Over the hills he took the track

And the blue sea dipped behind him.

Whenever he saw beneath his palm

The shimmering roofs of a country town

He rubbed his hands and hoisted his oar –

But those who came to gape at the door

Cried out, ‘Well, look at the sailor!’

 

Over the crests of the Great Divide,

Down the slopes of the other side

Across the plains out westward –

And still as he walked through one-horse towns

Or droving-camps or mining claims

The folk came out to watch him pass

And chewing on a stalk of summer grass

Said, ‘What do you know – a sailor!’

 

Way out west where the red sand spins

And the plains lie down under gibber stones

He followed the stock routes inland.

The stockmen shouted, ‘Sailor, hey!’

But he came at last to the end of his way

For he heard a voice from a humpy croak

‘What’s that, mate, tied up on your back?’

And, ‘Here I stay’ cried the sailor.

 

I’ve half a mind to hoist a gun

And follow the way that sailor’s gone …

So the sailor kept walking until he came across people who had never seen an oar, therefore not tainted with any of the crap from life at sea, so he knows he can live there and forget his past.

 

Note how the last two lines create an analogy between oar and gun and what each represents – an oar, a piece of sea-faring equipment, the toil, loneliness, drudgery and peril of life at sea, a sailor’s life.  A gun, a piece of soldiering equipment, the horror of war, battle, massacre, fear, bloodshed, a military life.  In these lines does the poet put herself in a profession that she desires to get away from (soldiering, of which the ‘gun’ is representative), or is she revealing her personal opinion of guns in our society (more topical today than in 1960).  I tend to believe the analogy is between professions that the poet describes becoming tired of, so the desire to drop everything, walk away and find a place where people don’t engage in that sort of thing (don’t recognise the equipment).

Revision - 6^th March 2015.  Since posting this post with Rosemary Dobson’s poem, The Sailor, I was a little astounded to read in a book published by Camden House, A Companion to Australian Literature Since 1900; (Nicholas Birns & Rebecca McNeer; 2007), that it was the ‘U-2 incident’ that prompted Rosemary to write The Sailor.  The ‘U-2 incident’ occurred in 1960 when the Russians shot down an American spy plane in their air space and the pilot, Gary Powers, was captured and jailed for a couple of years – embarrassing for the USA.  OK, 1960 is the year Dobson published the poem, but did Rosemary state that the poem was inspired by the U-2 incident?  Even if she did, I can’t see the connection.  Here’s the extract from Companion to Australian Literature, quote;

“In ‘The Sailor’, May 1960, a poem prompted by the U-2 crisis between the United States and the USSR, Dobson writes her own version of the male explorer poem, which registers both a fascination and a repulsion towards the figure of ‘Man Alone’, and still manages, in four compact stanzas to encompass all of the Australian continent.”

Is Birns suggesting the ‘sailor’ with the oar on his back is an early explorer exploring into the heart of Australia – ‘version of the male explorer poem …’?  Oh come on!  Where does ‘fascination’ and ‘repulsion’ of seeing this sailor, this ‘Man Alone’ come from?  By Birns not knowing the old navy dit, I believe he is interpreting the description of reactions of people as they come out to see the sailor as being either ‘fascinated’ or ‘repulsed’.  Not so.  The description of people’s reactions in the poem simply carry along the notion that as the sailor walks further inland he is still being recognised, identified as a ‘sailor’ (until he gets to a place where people don’t know what an oar is, and that’s where he figures he’ll stay!).  If Rosemary really was prompted by the U-2 incident to write The Sailor, then I believe the connection is only in the last two lines (the three main stanzas being from an old navy dit).  Perhaps with the U-2 incident and the media attention at the time, Rosemary felt for the captured pilot, Gary Powers.  In the Cold War with tensions running high here’s a dude right in the spotlight – got himself shot down; his country’s trying to lie about and deny his mission; he’s facing trial, imprisonment or execution – in 1960 everybody in the world knew who ‘Gary Powers’ was.  So I reckon Rosemary couldn’t help think what she reckons Powers would be thinking -

"I’ve half a mind to hoist a gun

And follow the way that sailor’s gone …"
 

 There’s another Rosemary Dobson poem that I like and it has a military theme.  It’s called, ‘The Major-General’. 

The Major-General

(Rosemary Dobson, 1920 – )

 

Grounded in Greek he kept his stoic phrase

Ready like a revolver in his drawer,

Ex-army, major-general, could outstare

Weakness, opinion and, at last, old age.

He beat the mischief from his younger son;

His wife grew tremulous, pity and grief

Aroused her protests, but she did not speak.

 

Sustained by shoe-trees, trouser-press and cane –

A rough-cut blackthorn with a silver knob –

He kept his bearing, earned a wide respect

And envy for his wife.  Each morning strolled

About the well-kept garden, cut two flowers,

One for his tweed lapel, and one for her

Laid on the breakfast-table like a threat.

This is not Rosemary playing with humour.  You know that the poem is an observation made by a civilian, from the term in the third line, ‘Ex-army’.  Civilians usually use the term to describe people they know who were in the military.  Rosemary paints a rather disturbing picture of a man who has carried his military behaviour over into his family and retired life – ‘kept his stoic phrase, Ready like a revolver ….’  One can only imagine a modern equivalent, Greek for, ‘suck it up princess!’  Trouble is, these people exist; the military can breed people like this.  When I read this poem I think of a favourite film of mine, The Great Santini (Robert Duvall).  How the competent hard-arse military man is equipped and can destroy his family from within.  Read The Major-General, and it is completely devoid of love.  It is a description of life with not a speck of love; killed by the ex-army fellow who believes (no, demands) approval, command, obedience and unquestionable loyalty.  We, military people need to be awake to this more than a lot of others.  I dwell on the last line, ‘Laid on the breakfast-table like a threat’.  How is it a threat?  It would surely not be the major’s purpose to place the flower as a threat.  In his mind, surely he would be placing the flower as a gesture of, weak consideration (affection or love not something being familiar to the major).  But even something as clinical as consideration can’t be construed as a threat.  So the gesture in placing the flower is not even from weak consideration!  It is a completely hollow gesture that the major has learnt powerful people do, and it means, ‘play the game, or else!’

 

My link to Rosemary Dobson is via her poem, The Major-General.  I grew up in an era and atmosphere of stoic, tough men; male aggression and dominance.  I take comfort in knowing it is being challenged and corrected (in our society at least).  I know I carry traits of my up-bringing, but who knows, if I hadn’t joined the company of men in the Navy I could be a lot worse!

2006.   Queensland cattle and farming country - where I grew up.  Returning to some of the towns and regional airports I see examples of tough men, aged now, but would have been considered good providers and protectors in their day.  Men who called a ‘spade’ a ‘spade’ without worrying about political correctness.  Men who got where they got by being physically superior.

On Observing a Man’s Man.

 

Like an old bull elephant

but not dignified

or false dignity

false bravado

old posturing

ignorant posturing

ego

old ego posturing

old posturing

from a life time of bullying

over standing

big

threatening

bull frog puffed up

physical posturing

barrel chest

fat gut

but all above the gut

thick arms

ensured ignorance

struck respect

deterred challenge

bull head

bull expression

get fucked exaggerated stance

on old legs

spindle legs

with the condition gone

exaggerated stiffness

John Wayne awkwardness

drawl

bandy legs

step, step, step

around, turn,

on display

used to standing out

played footy

bravado

still wanting to take a stand

ready to have a go

in absurd Kenso cargo pants.

                                                                                                               J. O. White

Bukowski - betting on the muse

Do you believe in fate; do you believe you structure your own destiny by what you put out from your mind?  I’ve got to tell you, these last couple of months, my life has gone wham, bang, big change buddy!  There I was withering away safe in a secure, dead end job; paying down a mortgage; stealing time from other people to give it to my writing; wishing I had the legitimate freedom and luxury of a remote lake or mountain cabin retreat where I would go to read and write and dream and contemplate and meditate and pray (a hobby writer’s desire).  Do you think I’m going to tell you that this has a self-actualisation ending to it?  Afraid not, the journey has started, the current situation is uncertain, nervous, and the ending is far off in the distance.  But I’m drawn back to the very first words I wrote in my diary on New Year’s day last year (2014), I wrote, “I said this would be a ‘water-shed’ year; Linda asked what it meant – she had not heard the term before and doubted its existence, so I googled it, ‘a point where a river diverges; a defining time or moment in the course of events – you either go this way, or that way’.”  That is what I wrote, not knowing the events that were to occur.  But the water-shed did happen, in October, one week after I came back from a holiday in the UK – I broke my leg; slipped on wet grass while walking the dog (it was those boat shoes!); argued with my daughter (no communication; fucking stress); sat around the house with my busted leg, staying up late drinking cheap wine; carried the habit over to my return to work; got picked for a drug and alcohol test; blew a reading of .01 and lost my job (zero alcohol tolerance)!

So I’m in a bad place and I got a woman with an even lower opinion of me now than she had before and stressing me to get back into getting money any way I can.  Times like these the only solace is Bukowski and the Bible.  Charles Bukowski’s writing hits the mark when you’re down and you feel like you’re just another little prick struggling to make a go of it.  I’m thinking somehow my blog might be staying on Bukowski for some time into the near future – here’s one I like that encourages me to look towards my writing, find solace, never kill the desire in my heart, in my gut.  It’s called, betting on the muse, which is also the title of one of Bukowski’s poetry collections, Black Sparrow Press.  I’ve got a weathered second hand copy with an inscription in the front cover, “Ashlee Laing, Thurs, 11^th June,1998, Sydney”.  I wonder what was momentous in Ashlee Laing’s life on 11^th June 1998.  Was it a ‘water-shed’ moment?  But hey, thanks for giving up the book Ashlee.

betting on the muse

Charles Bukowski (1921 – 1994)

 

 

Jimmy Foxx died an alcoholic

in a skidrow hotel

room.

Beau Jack ended up shining

shoes,

just where he

began.

there are dozens, hundreds

more, maybe

thousands more

being an athlete grown old

is one of the cruellest of

fates,

to be replaced by others,

to no longer hear the

cheers and the

plaudits,

to no longer be

recognized,

just to be an old man

like other old

men.

 

to almost not believe it

yourself,

to check the scrapbook

with the yellowing

pages.

there you are,

smiling;

there you are,

victorious;

there you are,

young.

 

the crowd has other

heroes.

the crowd never

dies,

never grows

old

but the crowd often

forgets.

 

now the telephone

doesn’t ring,

the young girls are

gone,

the party is

over.

 

this is why I chose

to be a

writer.

if you’re worth just

half-a-damn

you can keep your

hustle going

until the last minute

of the last

day.

you can keep

getting better instead

of worse,

you can still keep

hitting them over the

wall.

through darkness, war,

good and bad

luck

you keep it going,

hitting them out,

the flashing lightening

of the

word,

beating life at life,

and death too late to

truly win

against

you.

 

For all of his crude, life in the raw poetry, one thing I do admire about Bukowski is how he remains true to his passion to write, to the desire within himself to be a writer.  How many of us have the courage to forsake everything and pursue our dreams.  That’s what I get from betting on the muse – you might be lured by brief, external physical fame, but it’s the inner spirit (expression of spirit in writing) that you can keep burning through to always.

 

 

My poem for this post makes me go back and think how we do spend life engaged in the work that does not truly hold our passion.  So I’ve lost my day job!  But in all honesty, I could never really put my soul into it, and I was never to be a success.  My wife said, “what are you going to do now”?  I said, “I’ve got plenty of things to do; I will never get them all done in my lifetime, don’t worry about me ever saying I’m bored”!  She says, “yeah, but none of that stuff is productive”!  So I stand at the ‘watershed’ moment and I wonder, will I be a selfish bastard, or will I be a sacrificial lamb? – baah!

I wrote Art and the Factory Locker after I took a secure job from working as a contractor at that time in 2008 when the world economic crisis hit us.  I felt grateful but disappointed.

 

2010.  Sometimes I wonder how I ended up here, living out my last work days in what was once a rough-neck manufacturing plant. There are reminders of the past all around me, both alive and ghostly. One of the old boys, grown into a short-assed barrel, stops me and says, “hey Joe, what am I doing?” as he acts out a charade, thrusting his pelvis in and out; “fucking nothing!” and he continues on, laughing to himself, down to the winding bench.

 

Art and the Factory Locker.

Enter the concrete gloom

of the staff change room,

metal locker rows

with tight fitting doors

on angry latches

 

screech open,

the one they gave me

and I wonder who it was

had possession before.

 

A girlie pin-up poster

swings

taped on the inside,

torn and faded.

 

I leave it there,

it must date back

easily,

to the 50’s.

 

The woman poses

side on,

in a bathroom scene

surprised,

holding a towel, modestly

to her front,

leaving her legs

and backside exposed,

wearing bathroom slippers,

high heeled,

heavy lower torso,

hair permed,

in a bee-hive style

popular for the period.

 

I don’t find the pose attractive,

but I leave it,

out of respect

for my predecessor’s taste,

 

then, still I wonder

if the actual woman

posing for the poster

ever imagined

she would survive so long

on the back of a locker door

in a men’s change room,

 

probably not.

                                 J. O. White

 



Alan Kaufman - Across the Mississippi

I will never forget the first time I saw the Mississippi River.  It was at night.  Me and Bobby Lynch were at Great Lakes Naval Centre, Chicago, doing equipment training for the FFG7.  We had a couple of days in between courses, so without telling our Divisional Officer we borrowed the foreign student communal car, a big old rusted out Pontiac, and headed south to see America.  We did Springfield the first day, Abe Lincoln’s home and stopped the night somewhere around Jacksonville.  We’re in this neighbourhood bar, and the bartenders a lumber-jack sort of bloke with a heavy set beard.  He serves us beers and doesn’t say nothing.  Me and Bobby sit on our beers and we don’t talk much either, having been together in the car all day.  I’m staring across the bar at the liquor bottles when I notice a cork-board with photographs pinned to it – family snapshots of people, faces, crazy poses.  There’s a hand written note pinned to the top of the board.  I can just make it out, and it looks like it reads, “Pictures of bear, $2”.  I look at the happy snaps, I look at the sign, I look at the bartender.  He sees we’re ready and he sets up another two Millers.  I pay the money and as the barkeep takes the notes I say, “so they must call you Bear”.  The bartender goes defensive and comes back, “no! why?”  I could see in his manner that he felt insult had been traded.  I quickly back peddled with apology, “I’m sorry, but I was looking at the photographs there and the note that says, ‘pictures of bear’, I assumed the photos must be of you.  The bartender opens up with laughter.  He turns and gets the attention of everyone along the bar, “hey, fella here thinks I’m selling pictures of ma-self!”  He brings the cork-board onto the bar and does an explanation, “see, this here says, ‘pitchers of beer, $2’; fella thought it read, ‘pictures of Bear, $2’.”  Bobby and I were laughing as loud as everybody else; somebody’s yelling, “who the hell would buy a picture of you anyway!”  Suddenly we’re in one of those moments where everybody’s warm and they genuinely wants to know where you from, what you doing, where you going.
That’s how I got to see the Mississippi River.  Rounds and rounds of beers and civic pride and cultural comparisons and wanting to try prairie oysters but the jars bloody-well empty, when somebody suggests, insists, and you’re laughing in the back seat of a car, and when you stop it becomes all serious and quiet, and you’re led in the dark to the top of a dirt mound levee; and it’s pitch black but you sense something vast, lurking and fucking awesome out there and down at your feet.  We all sobered and nobody said anything for fear of breaking the spell.  We knew the river was there, the river knew we had come to see her.  Then when we felt we had gained a sense of up, down and across, a bright, white light popped the black like a distant search probe and it kept sweeping from bank to bank in furtive, jerking arcs.  “Barges”, was all our hosts explained, all they needed to explain.
My Illinois experience leads me to post a poem by a renowned American poet Alan Kaufman, titled, Across the Mississippi.  I love this poem - not only for the content that I feel I can relate to, but also for the conversational and confessional style in which the poem is written.  Alan Kaufman follows on the heels of the beat generation of poets – grown up impoverished tough, seeking the altruistic heart of America, somehow lost in the ugliness of city and struggle, racial abuse, greed, indifference, pimps and drugs.  I love it!

Across the Mississippi

(Alan Kaufman:  1950? - )

 

We crossed the Mississippi’s muddy brown expanse in a blinding

thunderstorm,

creeping over a big suspension bridge whose name nobody knew,

in a bus with sheets of rain battering windows feeble as eyelids

trembling in fear,

and we could hardly see but for glimpses of suspension cable over

the sullen river, on the banks houses like garbage cans with pedal lids,

and over it all a sky the colour and consistency of clay,

with an occasional lightening bolt seaming it like a cheek

wrinkled in angry laughter.

And we didn’t even know that we were crossing

the Mississippi until that bottle of Fleishman’s whiskey

fell from the overhead luggage rack

and the lanky driver with hair in his eyes, and rolled sleeves,

and a pack of filterless Pall Malls

cast a glaring boozy eye our way in the rear view mirror,

pulled over the bus right there on the bridge

and announced for the twentieth time since leaving New York City

that Federal regulations prohibit booze consumption aboard,

which hadn’t made a goddamned difference to anyone

for over a thousand miles so far,

and didn’t make a gaddamned difference now.

The drunkards still snuck drinks and the sober people didn’t.

And he put the bus into high gear and gunned it.

And this was as we crossed the Mississippi,

though we didn’t even know it.

 

Assumed it was just some trash river,

as some birds are trash birds – say, the robin.

A trash river, some of us thinking, a love canal,

an above-ground industrial sewer of radioactive Republican by-products

by which to contaminate and kill the poor on the merry road to profit.

So we didn’t even know that we were crossing that famous river,

had no way to know.

Most of us had never seen it.

I had come from a transient hotel room east of the Hudson to find

my gain in California.  I didn’t have much money.

When the bus pulled into a rest stop, I stayed on board – didn’t

stumble off like the others blear-eyed drunk on lack of sleep

to gorge myself on fast food.

I was making it across the continent on three loaves of wonder bread

and two jars of peanut butter and one of jam, and so far so good.

And that bottle of Fleishman’s that dropped out missed

a passenger’s big pink ear by a hair’s breadth, bounced

without shattering, and rolled to a stop against the bolted leg of a chair,

and the passenger, his name as I recall was Chopper,

reached down, retrieved the bottle, held it up with a big grin

and while everybody in the back of the bus roared with approval,

he waved it at the driver, who stopped the bus and made the speech.

And then, after a moment’s sullen pause,

suddenly the driver’s voice came on again, but kinder,

and he said with a gentle pride that surprised most of us I think:

“You are crossing the Mississippi River, on the Sasquahana

Bridge, and are about to enter the town of Shilo Springs.”

And the effect on us of this announcement was like what maybe the

Hebrews felt when Moses told them after all their wanderings

And afflictions:  You are crossing the Jordan River.  You are entering the

Promised Land.

Because everyone became very serene suddenly,

and reposed quiet in their seats,

some with heads cocked, and just slow-watching the passage

occur.

 

The ex-con wearing the shower cap, the hungry computer jock,

the professional piercer with earrings in his eyes and ears and exposed

nipples in a fishnet shirt,

the old woman with a garbage bag containing all her

possessions riding on her lap,

the Nam vet with a baseball cap grey beard blue eyes

the colour of anti-freeze,

that girl who looked like every girl I’d ever seen writhe nude

in the glaring footlights of a topless bar,

the silent man who refused our repeated offers

of whiskey with a tight, unresentful smile,

and even the loud, hard-muscled mustached guy

with a face like a skinned and butchered leg of steer

(but whom many of us figured for a killer of some kind,

in flight from his latest barroom manslaughter),

everybody, and that includes that stiff and uncommunicative

respectably-dressed middle-aged lady

with silver hair who shuddered when asked by the ex-con

for a match, everybody without exception

seemed to give up their tension and their fear

like the dying surrender of a soul on its way to final rest

and we sat back and just let the transition occur.

And on the other side of the Mississippi River it was like an older,

more innocent time in America.

There was a kind of canal branching from the main body of water,

and less turbulence to the rain

and we could see clearly through the windows

as an old time boat paddled its way to the interior

past banks lined with weeping willows,

and the houses were bigger than they’d seemed from the bridge,

they were stately grey with age

and big columns announced their facades

and dark mandala-shaped stained glass attic windows,

the kind you see in pictures in magazines,

suggested, at least to my mind, the sanctuary and safety

of a family cemetery vault, of time and place and the dignity

of knowing where you come from and where you’ll probably end up too.

And this calmed me, calmed everyone I think,

and then the bus met, to our delight, a roadblock

and we had to detour through little old time streets

and it was peaceful for a few brief minutes,

and then the bus drew up to the edge of a puddle

as wide and deep as a stream

and the brakes hissed and the driver’s voice announced:

“We are going to ford this puddle,” and we cheered.

And just then a man dressed in a green flannel shirt and denim

coveralls stepped from the door of one of the houses

and stood there stock still on the porch to watch.

The rain had lessened and as the bus descended,

Almost kissing the rim of the tires,

we watched the man’s face watching us

with a kind of compassionate interest, as if encouraging our

success, and when the bus climbed out on the other side

dripping like a baptized bather

the driver braked again.

“We’ll sit here a minute,” he said “to let the brakes dry.”

And that man on the porch,

I guess he saw our faces dim in the tinted rain swept-windows,

and lifted his hand in a wave.

A few of us waved back,

and he beamed a smile.  Then he turned and entered the house.

We heard the porch door slam,

crisp and clean in the pattering rainfall.

 

The mighty Mississippi River does have an effect.  I feel Kaufman believes something about the Mississippi defines the pure spirit of America – all the passengers on the bus – simple dudes, a cross section of American society, folk who flaunt rules, act irreverent and don’t understand where they belong, that is, up until they get to the river.  The driver who acts tough authoritarian, but changes when he gets to the river.  All were changed by crossing the Mississippi; it pulled them together, straightened them up, reminded them of pride, pride for their beautiful land, national pride.  And across the other side, a caretaker of the land, “dressed in green flannel shirt”, with, “the dignity of knowing where you come from and where you’ll probably end up too – the sanctuary and safety of a family cemetery vault, of time and place…..” lifts his hand in a neighbourly wave, God speed and good luck.

 

In a way, my poem and link for Kaufman’s, ‘Across the Mississippi’, is also about a ‘crossing’ and my own endeavour to find and describe a heartland – but it’s a railway crossing, not a river crossing, and my heartland is a steel city, blue collar worker’s industrial waste heartland, Newcastle, not the spirit of a nation.  And my focus is clearly on an actual ‘crossing’, not, as in Kaufman’s case, an event of ‘crossing over’.  But still, I lay it down in conversational tone, and things do sit on your mind and change you.

2010.  The mundane life of the commuter, industrial city - 6am alarm, out of bed, 7am; reverse the car out of the carport, 1512AM on the radio, Tony Eastly, Fran Kelly, breakfast talk-back; nothing going through my mind until the traffic stops somewhere along the same old route and then I’m staring into my field of vision and not thinking.

The Crossing.

 

I come over the rail crossing at the back of Tighes Hill TAFE,

it’s the way I go now, used to go up through Charlestown

and down Brunker Road,

through all the stop lights and cross streets,

now I take the by-pass, I think it’s quicker,

though I’m still late most mornings to work.

The crossing’s a gamble, coal trains, freight trains

travelling the line, spurred off north and south.

The trains come reptile long and patiently slow,

so it’s tempting if you can’t see the loco engine

or the last car, to turn out of the stalled traffic

and drive back to Beaumont Street,

always a relief when the end carriage clears the crossing,

and the boom goes up.

So we all sit there idle in our vehicles,

separated from each other by steel, stock and bonnets.

 

Just a way down from the crossing

there’s a small cottage with an enclosed sleep-out

glazed in plain glass, painted white and flat on the ground,

they call them ‘miner’s’ cottages, this one’s got no curtains

so you can see in clear through the glass,

a clothesline hangs temporary in two loops

strung from one end of the sleep-out to the other,

a convenient drying area on wet days,

except it’s right there on the busy road

and people get to study things in detail

when held up in traffic waiting for a train to pass.

 

The clothesline always holds a solitary pair of underpants

always pegged in the same spot.

I’ve seen underpants like this before, but never wore them.

I think they are favored more by the thicker,

heavy bodied person, they are classic underpants,

by which I mean, back in fashion history the design

must have started as ‘long-johns’, heavy wool blend

that sags and bags but now, the legs have shortened

until they are stumpy lengths so they stretch

firm around the upper thigh, stop anything getting out,

also a wide elastic waist band to truss in a bulging gut,

it’s a workingman’s garment, the pattern says industrial clothing

cut from bolts of cloth in a Commonwealth factory, King Gee, Hard Yakka,

no erotic intrigue with this type of thing so they hang

without embarrassment on the street, at the railway crossing,

and the trains click by and people sit in their cars and pay no attention.

 

The underpants,

they are always hanging in the same spot

and there’s never ever any additional washing,

just those one pair of dirty-grey shit catchers

colored from repeated cycles of wear.

And I can’t help think underpants don’t exist alone

there’s got to be an owner someplace,

though that reminds me of times back in my Navy days,

we’d be cleaning up the mess-deck for inspection

and somebody would retrieve a cruddy pair of Y-fronts

from way back under a seat and hold them up

in a disgusted, revolting pincer grip and ask,

“does anybody own theeese!”

Them underpants never had any owner lay claim.

 

Another thing with owners, they usually come back

and un-peg their washing when dry,

these pants are dry, never seen them wet,

dry, crisp, cardboard stiff, as dry as a parching drought,

where’s the person doodling around thinking,

“I wonder if that washing’s dry yet?”

Maybe the person’s up and gone, shared a rental once

and moved on without taking all of his stuff,

what’s the use forwarding them, don’t like to interfere really,

always hanging out his laundry in full view, he did;

not that he had a lot mind you ……….

or dead, that’s all that’s left of him, shame really,

I expect his family will want to collect them,

that’s if he had any family, mean while just leave em there,

ain’t nobody goes out to the sleep-out much anyway ……..

 

I watch the boxcars pass left to right in an endless line.

The crossing signal lights blink a hypnotic red rhythm.

I close and open each of my eyes in a mimic of the lights,

but it starts to make me feel sick, that, and looking,

and wondering about the underpants.

                                                                                            J. O. White