Ian C. Smith- Three Poems

County Killarney

A foul wretch, I slink like a ravaged hound

from the mildewed caravan we rented

(for campers, a step up from in-tented)

to distance her from my rank smell, the sound.

She hurries through the shadows to find a phone

speaks to a doctor, urges him to come.

They clean and comfort, he injects my bum

asks no fee, leaves us drained lovebirds alone.

From Slieve Mish, my weakness in abatement

we look down on our deserted campground

that Edenic scene of my debasement

camera clicking three-sixty around.

South, the Channel Islands and sexy France

east, the harbor at Cork, north, Galway Bay

westward the Atlantic, the U.S.A.

but my view is the grim view of lost chance.

I fear, back with the crack in the city

she’ll have nothing left for me but pity.  

Patrick paints a picture

Red lilac & gold, our son

reflects his mother’s lovely face &

so important is this

study of devotion he

caresses each detail in

complete concentration &

I criticise his grey attitude

towards all responsibilities

except his island of art

I, who can’t even attract

his mother & don’t understand

a computer’s psyche

don’t know what love is

love, abstract facts of hope & grief

blurred, with no clear outline

Refugee

The patrolman, this middle-aged migrant,

wonders what has become of his dreams.

In the hot days he wakes, worry like a bruise.

Now his torchlight shakes, earlier arrivals,

midnight rats, whisper across shined shoes.

This stretched summer, his memory of sad songs,

he considers his wife’s epic regret,

his son’s sneers, her recital of wrongs

while his new car’s curved flanks dazzle

like any parked status symbol’s should.

The son sings of kookaburras in gum trees,

collects footy heroes, baulks

bewilderment in a hybrid accent

mocking seniority, talks

of failure to grasp the rules of new games.

Then, out of shadows one fatigued night,

a neat circle head-centre in frosted glass.

Police find no shell near the warehouse

but our patrolman quits while he can,

gives his son a gun story, leaves out the fright. 



Bio:  Ian C Smith’s work has appeared in Axon:Creative Explorations,The Best Australian Poetry, London Grip, Poetry Salzburg Review, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, The Weekend Australian,& Westerly  His latest book is Here Where I Work,Ginninderra Press (Adelaide).  He lives in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria, Australia.