Virginilia 80s

By R Frederick Finlayson

These mostly contiguous poems and prose-poems were written during the 1980s, primarily in a now-forgotten Melbourne, and subsequently compiled by the author in the 2020s into the present collection. Undated, unlocated pieces have been added unceremoniously at the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Room editions
• Release date: Apr 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224391738

R Frederick Finlayson

R Frederick Finlayson lives on a mountain near a forest.

Book preview

Foreword

These mostly contiguous pieces were written during the 1980s and subsequently compiled by the author in the 2020s into the present collection. Undated pieces have been added unceremoniously at the end.

if at all

if th blue walls crack  horizontal graphs against th perpendicular

citing th forbidden city   if the flesh breaking thru contracting

with th architects of fear

if th scream is on th edge of th lips still-born thru metal teeth

grating against the fracas of th palate th obvious taste

& th braced mouth of th familiarity   of the longed-for image

th locked jaw of impotence spitting filings   at th paternal

smile

& how often th bamboo tunes in th skull’s crate wind from th

islands   how often striking th hollow of th longing th ache

of desire

then bring me th shift of hope & th stale

bring me the plutonium guts of th easy pleasure  bring me th metal

grate for th pipes of th wasting streams

from th cross of th window  th wall of the door

from th determined step th pause before entrance

th repetitive labarum of power & powerlessness

if then & if at all  is th certain twist th fuel of th air

& th groan of th pleasure of th sparse th certain security of

Nothing

th absolute strength  th labefaction

of the iron-clad idiots

& only in th if of the owned scream & only with the sweet stink

of th guts

22 February 1984

North Fitzroy, Melbourne

in this dry city

in this dry city  beneath a desert moon  riding a

metal nag

tin men & women waiting for a glimpse of passion

interminable hope of th comfortable

content in our usual currency

clean trees wafting in mediterranean breezes

from a vast ocean of ice floes

help us to hurt for unwarranted longings seek

something that is more than desirable   so

that we can breathe th reek of th species’ gutter

and finally understand  that nothing

hurts more  is more  is more flesh  than being dirtily human

claim a tucked-away heritage

amidst the stars of neon 

th brusque stabs of horns

he wants to be french  this is easy  & he is able

in a land where  he can be anything

as long as he doesnt mind  being nothing

a group conjectured upon a loose collection

of a distant lawyer’s art   compounded of unjoined fragments

huddled in fear

upon an uncaring continent’s edge  peering into a sea

bearing a bottle of bored djinns  who build a ragged

technology of bluster or two   to hid th yearn of the earth

if passion is sent to us wrapped in another

hundred languages we swallow beneath yawns

bored above naivety

uncomprehending in a comfortable corner of continent

our own incontinent drivel

February–March 1984

North Melbourne

I saw lapis lazuli today

Van Eyck room of

light

knives cleave the panes

highly polished wood burns

with light

reflecting off crimson damask

paler face than your snow hand

glows

dull, steady, freed from

external

the plague eats quietly

outside

in car-filled streets

back and forward to renaissance

glances at traffic lights

I saw lapis lazuli today

It looked like plastic

27 June 1984

North Fitzroy, Melbourne

My austerity thickens

My austerity thickens

congealing with flavours

They are as ill-defined as the feeling of light

on a naked wood table

Months ago, I remember

I was vigorously content

with far possibilities and easy actualities —

rich-handed with fervent life

green with a quarter century

But the weather, love, sickness

has clinched me

The outcome of the fever of freedom

returning me to pictures

Childhood, jelly-thick, opaque, stilled in time

My present remodels

around sparse air and giants

I have to linger

a desert plant, prickly, protected from heat

regarding time as that asphalt strip

incoherently babbling

a divergent uncertainty that would claim

my sallow attention

Soon I will narrow to a point

27 June 1984

North Fitzroy, Melbourne

One more poem about lapis lazuli

How many times has lapis lazuli

caught my eye

in poems? in history?

Too many times to make it worth

listing.

It was always a synonym

for great worth, or particular

blue and had something to do with

kings, popes, palaces or beautiful

eyes.

I’d never seen it, nor

I suppose

have many people these days, nor

I suppose, in those days, except perhaps

from a vast distance

in the gloom of a cathedral

or upon the flicker of a passing

emperor’s finger. So

it was with awe and surprise (two

rarely appropriate words)

that I first saw lapis lazuli

in a Restorer’s

in North Fitzroy. Worth

more than gold

he said but to me

its bright blue flecked with

quartz and its scent of

aeons of power meant

more than mere metal.

Even more

than the onyx and

alabaster arranged haphazardly

on his stripped wooden floor

amongst the marble statuary

(except perhaps the miniature

replica of Canova’s Cupid

and Psyche).

I

introduced a regular cavalcade

of friends to the novelty

of historical wealth, power

and beauty all

for free by

simply walking in the door

and kneeling whilst

the proprietor went his restoring way.

I’m still in awe

of the past

and its appearance in North Fitzroy.

My friends tolerate me

I think. Maybe

they don’t smell Parliament, the Police

the Transit Authority and the National

Gallery of Victoria here but

I do,

mixed with other obsessions.

Beauty, rarity, power...

How long before we are dead?

Jaffa

For Kevin Parratt

’s a port in Palestine

where fire drops in globs

as street light illumines

ova crates of oranges

a long black car parked

’s part of a black gutter

psychologist moths co-populating

an electron-shining ball

that fragile wonder of light

I tell you this is the port in Palestine

where light hangs grizzly from wretched poles

for the use of night-murderers

I would be a night-murderer of

speckled faces in Jaffa

because of the Moon’s questioned

influence on the mushroom-blue

Mediterranean

But wind-free sweating nights on

yachts lolling dazed at the drop of

cliffs see the columns of flame

totter and drop casually amidst

carved wood hardened mud from

a decent deckchair distance

And this is Jaffa orange and

dark firing in circles the earth and

sky constant oblivion

in Jaffa the wind walks on bricks

to clatter Palestine awake for

rude organisations of bathing and the

sleeping ritual

all done under thick felt

blue sky

In Jaffa that port in Palestine I die

in globs

in Jaffa the dates stick to my shirt

as emblems of desire desire

themselves an auto-da-fe

In Jaffa all things that aren’t are

rare

preserving them kills

29 June 1984

North Fitzroy, Melbourne

room’s hunched on vertebrae

room’s hunched on vertebrae — getting smaller like my desire,

like my penis — why’d I go into the city tonight — tropically

full of murderous animals, mating like humans on a hot beach —

the air’s cold, made a Kosciusko blizzard about my lead-lined

head — nuclear family waste, throbbing explosions — this

salamander’s blistered on coffee, who is that newt, table slices

belly which regrows legs at crucial moment, minor miracles —

things — what are things — settle in comfort, build a wattle,

then weatherboard, to brick and stone, conversation — once

done, move out, all relevant now — because, does it follow —

salamander, fish, homo, chicken — strange eggfellows — so that

city warmed to sweet murder of catch ’em while they’re hatching

— a tram’s a festival, a liner without streamers or an

horizon — but still the network defuses at midnight, overhead

grid frames a single figure — space narrows to a lane of a room,

the cats are too cold, wood rescues itself from petrification

thru immolation, pedantry becomes pleasant — a peasant bows

to fire, finds the room shrinking idem, feels his back, counts

the steps to a vestigial tail — close up for the night —

armadilloed

6 July 1984

North Fitzroy, Melbourne

th hot road to ice

for Jean Kitson

on a clear blue road    on a clear blue

road that’s ice asphalt     on road that