normal

“here i am, seventy–six
a life’s worth of karma just about gone.
alive, i don’t lust for Heaven;
dead, i won’t worry about Hell.
i’ll loose my grip and lie down beyond the world
given in to fate, freely, without constraint”

— Tao K’ai —

by normal

“when you look back there is always the past
even when it has vanished” — w.s. merwin

that day something happened
that day it ended
that day it began
the skies turned red, then white
the earth trembled.
from that day forward, a boy
as an old man, would remember
floating ashes.
from that day forward, a girl
as an old woman, would remember
scorched fruit hung on dead trees.
on that day forward, a single man,
not yet born, secretly smiled,
knowing he had the power to make
the whole world weep.

by James Sutherland-Smith

When mother told me who my father was
I went to the longer island where he rested
bullshitting in his bar and billiards club.

He got his boys to bounce me down the steps.
“But don’t harm him! From the same place that I went in!”
The way he spoke wasn’t decent to a son,

just something uglied out by sunglasses
trying to be cool on You Tube. Old fart.
I could work for him. and all he does is laugh.

I can play the island games, but I’m God’s
twelfth man forever, a quip of the Monckton girl,
“You also serve me who stand in line and wait.”

Ten days later I told mother I had a stone.
“The island waters are full of lime,” she said,
“And so’s the fanny of the Monckton girl.”

I walk from one end of the shorter island
to the other, so narrow I can hear
on both sides the ocean cackling to itself.

There’s an old pink man in a shiny bowler hat
to protect his wispy mottled head.
He wails his tenor songs on the north side beach.

Once I found him with his penis out
pissing in a strong bright arc. He turned to me,
“I love my long lost home. Even my water does.”

He came right over, so close he dribbled
on my feet before he buttoned up his fly.
“Friday,” he said, “Never ever be marooned.”

by James Sutherland-Smith

Grey is the colour of the decor
with signs in blue
instructing what to do,
where to hold your hands for soap,
where to rinse under a dribble of water.
There’s a notice telling you
not to drop hand towels down the loo,
a card behind clear plastic pinned on the door
signed by whoever squirted disinfectant,
polished the taps and mopped the floor,
not to forget your face mask, don’t forget
before you leave this sanitary space.

You complete your task, stand and peer,
then press with your thumb
down upon a green, wine–gum
coloured glowing button
for a click, a pause, a loud gasp,
a flicker of track hurtling beneath the train
as light filters through the frosted glass,
the sun rising, not a painful glitter
to add to the iron wheels’ clatter,
but a tranquil shimmer on a smiley face
beside a second notice which lets you know
that bottles, cans, magazines and dirty knickers
arc not to be disposed of here.