Winter 2007

Table of Contents - Vol. III, No. 4

 

Poetry    Essays    Fiction    Book Reviews

Thane Zander

 

Marzipan

I made
marzipan
from
a recipe
my
mother
left
behind.

The kitchen’s a mess, days of leftover food and recipe scraps littering bench tops and drawers. Visitors marveled at how it all didn’t smell, fooled by scent blocks everywhere. Red Mars at night a point of reference for a wayward chef.

A sailor
at
sea
washes salt
from
aching limbs
the triptych
shines
blue
under
clear skies
the life
of children
made easier
by astute
parental
attendance

Rocks from a volcanic eruption smouldering and spilling down snow covered slopes, a man caught between a hut and a boulder, emergency services removed both, leg amputated to ease the pain, dress the wound, a volcano still smokes, danger ahead.

The Arrival
of Jesus II
king of all men
tell that
to the Muslim
faithful
who await the coming
of Mohammed
two prophets
to bring peace
to stop the wars
yet
in time
war will still
rage.

My mother died of cancer, she was only 54 and went way too early, her sister died just before her of cancer too, and not long after her brother died on the operating table undergoing a triple bypass. I live my life never knowing how or when I’m due, God said 62 once and I’d be happy with that.

Mince
pies
the
Christmas
ones
with
sweetmeat
and cake
pastry
mirror
presents
opened
for
children,
Dad’s
clear away
debris
to the rubbish
bin,
filled
to
overflowing.

The days were long in the outback town of Coonawarra, the Aborigines long used to the heat and flies. The Australian males mostly dig for opals to make their fortune, the Aborigines mostly get drunk on the White Fellas firewater.

 

The Last Train to Babylon

You made a million dollars last week, yet you cry the world owes you a favour. The washing in your room ranks five deep, and rank is what it is. Spend some money on a maid or housekeeper.

The Last Train to Babylon
left the rails south of Baghdad
the carnage for all to see
Sunni, Shia, Kurd, and foreigners
the taste of blood drying on a mouth smashed
I open
the emergency
box
try
to lift
the last
medical supplies
to help
patch
the wounded.

The cup on the nightstand beamed piping hot coffee, the cigarette in the ashtray drawing down. The polite discussion on the TV makes for background noise. I see the love for the written word flash across the screen as you tempted another morsel from the acclamation journal.

The Iraqi’s flashed a warning to all
the tracks being blown to smithereens
no, the oil pipeline is safe, secure
the days of Hussein the Hated passed
you crawl
through
damaged
carriages
looking for children
broken bones
dead hearts
the loss
great
compared
to the war
that rages
diminishing now
a scream
another
lost mother

The ride downtown to choose your next business partner a major hassle with cars locked in grid-lock, the cell phone constantly beating out the next meeting. Cairo called to say something big is going down in the Middle East, something about a train of peacekeeping citizens being sabotaged for the sake of religion.

The crucifix, the star of David,
a mullah with a memory of the Koran
practice death rights amongst the carnage
the disinterred bodies of the dead and dying
passing on their way, no matter the medical supplies.

I walk amongst
the evil
stand pithy
to their
ministrations
toss love bonds
deep
into
the
bowel
of the Eagle
silently
the Last Post
plays
another soldier
another three
citizens
the delay
between now
and then
the outcome
ongoing.

She draws the curtain in the office, now dimly lit by fluorescent tubes, the computer screen blinking email. You watch her go about her job, wondering if she would wear a burkha? Of course not, this is the free world. The urgency of another phone call reminds you to check your investments, to dial the doctor for another check up. Oh, she says the doctor is in Baghdad to help.

 

© Thane Zander

 

Poetry    Essays    Fiction    Book Reviews