blake 12 ii - the painter

The Painter

I’m on a ferry from Manly
and as the sun’s last rays sink
the city shines.
The fine lines of the Bridge,
the Tower and the towers dissolve,
blue, orange, white stars flare and
gems are strewn luxurious across the bay.
My faith says
God paints glories
in the glories worked by hands.
He made us, we made
the night bejewelled.

Afternoon, I approach the city
crossing from Pyrmont over the old bridge,
a young sunset
sets all glass ablaze
as I walk below the peach golden blue sky.
Though buildings anticipate vermillion,
the water delights in each delicate
shade of sun’s evensong —
gentle colours dance, play
in a millionfold-subtle masterpiece.
My heart says
God’s own hand paints glories
in humble pastels.

- Iain Hart

blake 12 i - the curiosity of my soul

You may remember (unlikely) that I submitted some poems to a poetry prize in 2010 and posted them up here when they weren't successful. Well, this post and the next are last year's attempts! Enjoy.


The Curiosity of my Soul

I died,
and my soul lingered a while.
It looked over my body,
remembering adventures,
tears, smiles,
praise and censure;
felt tension at the parting,
but only as discarding
a too-worn favourite coat.
It turned slowly,
regarding the world it would leave.
Detached already, caring still,
but curious more;
powerless eyes immune to lies
taking in the first sight of truth.

It saw my murderer,
with smoking gun in blood-stained hand,
brandishing his strongest weapon
in the dullness of his eye:
Indifference to the blood he’d shed,
taught him by his father’s fists
and midnight trysts with Jack.
His mother’s wounds ran real and deep
and sore, then numb; and through him too,
as dumbly he stood by. A boy
without a chance to cry or try. The man,
now turning, walking from his kill,
had shot not my body in the night,
but his father’s shadow on his soul.
Turning, walking,
shadowed still, and ever on.

My curious soul,
unburdened of its physical concerns,
followed the man,
watching his gait and his nonchalance.
It conversed with my killer’s conscience,
“Why me? and why tonight?”
And as the man stepped
from the alley into the bustling street,
the reply came:
“Why not?
All will die, and all deserve to.
Didn’t they teach you that in Sunday school?
I just helped you there.
And tonight... well... someone, somewhere, had to die.
I just didn’t want it to be me.”

Pausing, turning,
my soul saw those walking past.
Bowed heads all,
hiding from each other the shame
shining like flames
in their eyes,
the innermost storm.
That man there lied, that girl will,
those children kill, the old man steals
and all of them hide the hope —
the tiny, glimmering diamond of a hope —
they will never be seen.
My soul,
now grieving for the world,
was yet powerless,
so I left.

- Iain Hart