A DRY ARGUMENT

In the interests in broadening our horizons, this section is devoted to verse which falls outside the parameters of rhyme and metre, such as blank verse and free verse. Registered users are welcome to post their original works here.
Post Reply
User avatar
Maureen K Clifford
Posts: 8047
Joined: Tue Nov 09, 2010 10:31 am
Location: Ipswich - Paul Pisasale country and home of the Ipswich Poetry Feast
Contact:

A DRY ARGUMENT

Post by Maureen K Clifford » Fri Feb 05, 2016 1:08 pm

Here is a Haibun that I converted from a bush poem that I wrote some time back.....

-A Haibun -
DRY ARGUMENT .
by Maureen Clifford © The Scribbly Bark Poet 11/14


It was his welcome to town. A ragged putrefying bloated mound of road kill and a couple of black crows stalking arrogantly across the road towards their road kill lunch.

natures undertakers
taking care of business –
putrefaction

It was one of those towns that if you blinked you missed it. Spanning both sides of the highway – miles from anywhere but close to somewhere. A town out on the mulga plains baking to a crisp in the hot midday heat - where the heat haze shimmering off the bitumen created mirages of lakes in the distance.

Telegraph poles marched relentlessly onwards as far as the eye could see – each connected to his neighbour by wire shackles – their only means of communication. Termite mounds stood on their North South axis like decaying monoliths of a forgotten age, casting barely a shadow at this time of day.

tall shackled shadows
like images from the past -
indigenous slaves

It was like a ghost town. Empty spaces waiting for the end – which was nearly here from the look of the place. One service station – closed now – with its pump rusted and dry and its windows boarded up. Red sand thick across its forecourt and the sign dangling askew at rakish angle advertising petrol, cold beer, meat pies- last for 300 kilometres.

A red phone box stood empty, minus phone - with all its glass panes shattered. On the other side of the highway stood the pub – a run down, paint starved, lackluster building. Iron roof red with rust, dust covered trees and shrubs limp and listless around its perimeter. Weatherboards sagging, verandah posts listing as if it too had given up all hope.

disconnected –
in so many ways
for so many reasons

A dog – thin, brown, nondescript lay on the verandah in the shade – flat out like a lizard drinking and too lazy to stir his stumps. The old fellow sitting on the bench behind him said a few mumbled words that he didn't catch. “G'day Mate – is the beer good and cold?' Jim asked, bending to fondle the old dogs ear. Obviously the old codger didn’t hear the question as he offered no answer as he slowly hoisted his scrawny frame from the bench and shambled down the three steps to the beer garden. Oh well – maybe he was a solitary type.

no warm welcome -
unresponsive locals
and ice cold beer

The stranger entered the bar – the shade offering welcome relief to the 40 degrees outside. It was clean enough – shabby and run down. Brown carpet, brown walls, brown upholstery – kind of colour coordinated with the dog, Serviceable like – didn't show the dirt and god knows there was plenty of that – acres and acres in every direction.

“What can I get you Mate?” asked the bloke behind the bar. A rhetorical question – doubt they did champagne cocktails here. “Just a beer and a couple of pies will do thanks. Bloody hot today.” The beer duly arrived. Cold, wet, light golden with a froth of foam on top. Nectar of the Gods. Condensation beaded the glass and left a ring of moisture on the wooden slabbed bar top. A fly crawled up to it and started to drink – never let a chance go by.

The pies looked good. Homemade, big, meaty puff pastry encased cholesterol raisers. Gravy rich and brown oozed from their sides and they smelt divine. His first bite was big. God he was hungry. Flaky crumbs of pastry drifted onto his chin. He closed his eyes and embraced the moment, washed it down with the beer. It doesn't get any better than this he thought.

light and flaky
pastry encased richness
of departed souls

Tucker finished, thirst quenched and it was back to business – didn't really look forward to this but it had to be done. No sentiment in business so they say and no doubt the old bloke had known it was coming. Bit of a shame though but ever since the new highway had bypassed the old town things had been heading on a downward spiral. Custom had fallen off – hardly any one used this road any more – beer sales were down. You know how it goes.

He introduced himself to the Licensee Reg Jamieson, the bloke behind the bar, offered his hand and his credentials.

“Sorry Mate” he said handing him the envelope “but this here is the message from the Brewery. They won’t renew your liquor license – not enough beer being sold here now.” Reg knew it was the end – no way can you keep a pub with no beer going.

He took it rather well Jim thought, took it like a man - on the chin. He was relieved by that scenario. He hated the hopeless arguments that sometimes eventuated in these situations or even worse the threats of physical violence to his person. This one was almost a textbook case.

verbosity nil
recriminations avoided
as the axe falls

Two tallies of amber fluid slid across the bar, the glasses wet with condensation, the head thick and foamy. Nectar of the Gods. “Have another Beer Mate" Reg said "No good letting what's left go to waste"

and Here is the original poem ....

DRY ARGUMENT ... Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet 03/11



If you blink Mate you will miss it – for it’s only pretty small
Just some empty shops, a phone box and a pub.
A deserted service station with graffiti on the wall
advertising nonexistent fuel and grub.

There’s a line of shackled poles like slaves all heading down the track,
joined at the neck with fetters made of wire.
And termite tombstones north south set, decaying back to back.
It is not a place that sparks a man’s desire.

Two crows stalked arrogant and black across the bitumen
to the stinking mass of road kill on the ground.
It was meals on wheels for this pair, natures garbage men
and both looked enraptured at what they’d found.

Mirages in the distance showed a blue and tree lined lake.
It’s amazing what the old heat hazes conjure.
But travel miles and miles and you will not its shoreline make
these mirages have lured men to death. No wonder.

With temperatures of forty plus the old pub looked inviting,
its old brown dog sleeping in shadowed shade.
On a bench an old bloke sat on the verandah unexciting,
drinking down the dregs of beer for which he’d paid.

I said ‘G’day Mate – Bloody hot - I hope the beer is cold
for I’ve a thirst the Murray Darling couldn’t quench’.
He mumbled something indistinct as to his feet he rolled;
near’ fell down the stairs stumbling from his bench.

I walked into the bar, which was old. Cleanness redeemed
its shabby walls, carpets and stools of dingy brown.
Colour co- ordinated with the dog – or so it seemed
in fact in retrospect it matched with the whole town.





‘What can I get you Mate?’ asked the bloke behind the bar
which I figured was a question just rhetorical;
for I figured cocktails never had been shaken out this far,
just Tooheys and Bundy – liquids metaphorical.

‘A beer Mate if you would and could I also have two pies
for I’m hungry as a horse and twice as dry’
‘No worries Mate’ he answered as he shooed away some flies
‘they won’t be long, they’re homemade – do you want chips or fries?’


The beer duly arrived it was the nectar of the Gods,
foam topped and gold. Glass dripped with condensation.
We chatted as I drank – seems life had trampled him roughshod;
but we both enjoyed our easy conversation.


The pies were good. Homemade and big with rich brown gravy dripping
down the golden puffy pastry of their sides.
Cholesterol raisers? That they were – and there was sauce for dipping.
Ruby red, rich ripe tomato for the fries.

Stomach replete, and dry throat soothed – now came the bit I hated
but I had to do it – for there was no choice.
‘I’m sorry Mate’ I said as I sat there with breath baited
‘but the brewery have sent me. I’m their voice.

Your liquor licence soon runs out and they just won’t renew it
for I’m sure you realize your sales are down.
I know that it’s a bugger Mate – I’ve seen it oft before
each time a new road bypasses a town’.

He took it rather well I thought. He took it on the chin.
Took it like a man without a tear.
Well I guess he saw it coming and he knew he couldn’t win
No way you keep a pub that’s got no beer.
Check out The Scribbly Bark Poets blog site here -
http://scribblybarkpoetry.blogspot.com.au/


I may not always succeed in making a difference, but I will go to my grave knowing I at least tried.

Post Reply