Tony Beyer


On Cold Mountain


1

while the hermit stays alone
and untroubled by this
there are many who 
live with him in their hearts
alienated by cities
troops of guards
antlike in their duty
maintaining the status quo


2

soul corrosion they call it
the daily desire spent
but not assuaged
doors and windows latched
lamps extinguished
at morning the taste
of blood in the mouth
recalls bitter dreams


3

the town swarms with soldiers
in ceremonial uniform
dashing and colourful
the ideal camouflage
for the force concealed beneath
that could be turned
on the populace
at the stroke of a pen


4

bright silks and bright gold
a state occasion
monarchies and majesties
represent the past
creating an industry
out of cleaning up after them
a moment’s attention
treasured for a lifetime


5

a city I visit in dreams
too often for comfort
where I am walking naked
or dressed embarrassingly
there are theatres and shows
farewells and prize-givings
the great men don’t remember me
or are ridiculously small


6

no experience without worth
no encounter without
learning of some kind
on either side
the beggar on the corner 
didn’t choose the life he has
his brute necessity
both alters and sustains him


7

youths ravage the cities
with their vehicles and weapons
taking what they can
while it lasts
their parents and the authorities
absent or ineffectual
no one in charge in the sky
looking down on all this


8

after the invasion
litter accumulates among the jars
and gardens decline
men useful for farming
are expended instead as soldiers
though their sons are too young to plough
war exists as an excuse
for neglecting these things that matter


9

awake at night
imagining hideous deaths
the ulcer bursting with blood
last grip of a fading heart
whether to reach for a pen to record it all
or seek means of summoning help
the outcome likely
the same in either case


10

solitude is elective
but isolation
offers no choices
it can occur in a warm
room full of friends
where even the most
talkative and popular
are utterly alone


11

at 24 or 5 the hard world
and my harder character
became obstacles
not to be confronted
head on but side-stepped
contained within a perimeter
of duty and good behaviour
and sometimes regret


12

individual self concludes
within measured time
the rest is immeasurable
between eternities
dark before and dark after
tongue and fingertips
exaggerate the size
of what they touch


13

a good season
with plenty of fat
for the lamps
the villagers who still
live close to the ground
donate generously
to religious mendicants
genuine or not


14

once a man has wealth
he starts looking
for a secure place to hide it
a cupboard is no use
a safe too obvious
nor can he carry it with him
really without suspecting
he is seeking a grave


15

metal fencing
surveillance lenses
large incorruptible dogs
all the effort expended
to protect a fortune
that if shared out
evenly among the people
would be no burden


16

do not strip
the tree of its fruit
leave one or two to ripen
and fall to the ground
to deposit seed there
or carried away in a scavenger’s belly
turn the wheel that
at its best goes nowhere


17

yes to bread and yes
to asking what else is in the basket
relish perhaps or a sweet spread
a bottle to cool where 
the creek stands deep and cold
a king’s ransom 
an emperor’s coronet
set these aside while we sprawl


18

butterfly honey
an unnecessary elaboration
as if bees weren’t beautiful enough
yet to feed without surplus
soon to die after a brief
exquisite life
is one of nature’s first
most generous gifts


19

in the blue-lit window
a performance taking place
routine but beamed 
around the world and beyond
its gags and canned laughs
more likely to be heard
throughout the galaxies
than prayers or poems


20

however far from the city
the hermit enters seclusion
men and women crowd his sleep
with agitated dreams
his mind craves solitude
and argues its benefits
his heart is the heart
of a gregarious animal


21

unwell for days 
I watch bird shadows
through my window blind
sized by species
they are all the same colour
but their utterances are as particular
as those of the adherents
of one faith or another


22

in the hospital
pyjamas someone else has died in
cups mouthed by the sick
now it’s my turn to join them
the nurse’s voice
rings like a bell
she holds her health close
so no one can take it from her


23

soon to find out
that which puzzles all mortals
the men at the end of the ward
joke like schoolboys
any noise the body makes
is one for their lexicon
showing how much they’ll miss
this faltering frame


24

grounds for dispute
in the male ward
whether the dinner mince
tastes like the sack
it was stolen in
or the rope that was used
to tie up the cow
being slaughtered


25

one out of four
in the surgical beds
receives the black spot
of an untoward prognosis
a bloke we all like
and like more for
his honest acceptance
honest disgust


26

bloodstone at the core
and cause of my malady
the body’s capacity
to turn on itself
who else to trust now
but those who’ve seen this before
not makers but repairers
completing the maker’s work


27

at the hospital
the very old and very young
those who are starting
to fall over and those
not yet able to stand
are being initiated
in separate ways
into their next lives


28

dying’s like a bow
in a shoelace pulled loose
the loops of fabric so secure 
yet in an instant dismantled
and there is comfort
in the common nature of this
as in plain words
or a friend’s welcome


29

people who don’t fit
find ways of making 
themselves invisible
principally in the mind
where there are mountains
bare stone cliffs
places of refuge
not entirely metaphorical


30

the alto chirp of a computer
the gruff chug of engines
sounds never heard here
where rain makes itself known
and the wind shouts
and on unspectacular days 
even the noise of insects
is a sort of song


31

a house or hut is just
a tree built in the right place
to shelter under
made of the same materials
easily replaced
as are the stones of the hearth
and the man inside
who sometimes reads sometime sleeps


32

let the wind sweep the floor
or alternatively decorate it
with twigs and leaves
small creatures also
seek safety here
or to share in the meagre food on hand
grains and boiled greens
nothing that would interest a predator


33

lying prone to sip
from the flowing creek
as if holding the entire planet
up to the lips
water that tastes of mountains
spring pollen and blossom
flavours of the season
all the way to the deepest cold


34

like most people
who’ve experienced time
I can tell when an hour has passed
or a half or a quarter
only minutes seem long
while the tin kettle boils
while the rain drips insistently
from the roof thatch overhead


35

avalanche or cloud
substance or insubstantiality
can alter the mountain’s shape
rolling over and ever in the creek’s
limpid flow makes stones
much more solid than water round
these things work so well
because they always have


36

the mountain may be
somewhere you carry with you
fortified by its bare slopes
runnels of gravel
stark in the sun
once known none of these
can be forgotten
by those who will return


37

bone frame
skin cladding
stuffed with meat
and vulgar tubes
this preposterous creature
scuttles about its day
avoiding scrutiny 
and deserving none


38

natural for an older man
to think about the end of life
but to contemplate the end of all life
is much harsher
he can only trust there are organisms
smaller than the eye can see
tough enough to adjust to change
and begin again


39

once here words came
not as if they’d followed
but had always been waiting
in rocks and trees
birdsong and the creek’s murmur
long dusks teasing out the sky
iron winters too
to remind the blood


40

once the rocks and trees
were eternal or at least
what we knew of eternity
blue sky green hills
the distant ocean tainted now
by what humans discard
mere trifles
fatal to the earth


41

recovering papers
partly nibbled by snails
wet prints at line endings
and between lines
who’s to say they don’t
improve text by enforcing brevity
a first audience
unimpressed by fluff


42

names represented
in the book of extinction
may soon include invisibly
that of writing itself
here poems are scratched
with charred sticks
on rocks and tree trunks
for the rain to read and remove


43

poetry and good housekeeping
don’t seem to go well together
the nest is scruffy
more like a sparrow’s
than the close-weaving of other species
but there is warmth inside
and vigorous activity
worth recommending on its own


44

silence for once
without birds announcing their business
or the wind lifting
and putting back leaves
the disciplined mind
trusts this interval
a page left bare
of inadequate lines


45

unimpressed by the fare
on offer a sparrow
enters and leaves my dwelling
nor can it stomach the poems
scattered about everywhere
poor pickings
hard on the jaw and gut
whoever stumbles on them


46

there’s wisdom also
to be gained from suffering
some of it incommunicable
but no less valid so
the rows of greens
I pluck for the pot
keep giving of themselves
for my good


47

rain with the change of wind
promising shapes of clouds
these are the daily
news items on the mountain
the thoughts of the solitary
inhabitant for now
hardly worth recalling
much less writing down


48

wind and rain and the trees’
response to them
and birdsong
are the sections 
of the mountain’s orchestra
conducted somewhere
beyond human interference
not only for our sake


49

somewhere nowhere
the mountain’s
invisibility in cloud
that clears in a moment
revealing the shrug of slopes
ravines and acclivities
where the earth 
has been wrung into shape


50

continuous relocation
to smaller premises
house to room to bed
bed to coffin and grave
then the other side
of the dark wall
where silence is
louder than rain


51

a poem is a
human artefact
not unlike a bone
or stone scraper
used for preparing hides
to make leather
handy and renewable
from natural resources


52

my impermanent address
rock cloud tree creek
with peripatetic birds
and so you’ll know
you’ve found the right place
the wisp of smoke
from a niche in the slope
fading like a guitar chord

Tony Beyer writes in Taranaki, New Zealand. His print titles include Dream Boat: selected poems (HeadworX) and Anchor Stone (Cold Hub Press).

 
 

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