I
i write this while
New York is burning
while families are grieving
while the rubble is smouldering
all my words seem inadequate
useless
arrogant
i write this because
it's all i can do

my friends call to cry
to affirm their love
D. goes to his child's bedroom
sits and stares in the dark
i log into the chatroom
to comfort my american friends
we take hope from each other
we affirm our humanity

this smoking landscape is not our country
we do not live in a land of enemies
we live in words, in gentleness
we live through music and poetry

T. convinces the poets they must go on
they must open the cafes, they must
do the readings

for while New York is burning
through our grief-stricken yearning
we defy these warmongers by writing

II
while New York is burning, an echidna
comes ambling to the top of the steps
snuffles and sniffs in the cracks full of ants

while New York is burning, kookaburra
sings and rainstorm comes, and the dance
of the red-capped wrens

while New York is burning, while the bodies
are stinking, the rescuers weeping
on our T.V. screens

the wattles are blooming, heralding
spring, the olives are ripening
amongst silvered leaves

while New York is burning
and everyone's talking
toing and froing
blaming and hating
fearing and weeping

life affirms itself, its own complex meaning
and there is only now, only the sight
of this glittering sun after rain
of the daybreak in spite of the pain

but New York is burning
and no-one will ever
be blase complaining again ...

III
on the occasion of my homecoming
i start the day with news reports
week-old memories, thoughts

on the occasion of my homecoming
there are four whole weeks of catchup
and i'm the dancing dolly, the stimulated
cosmic godhead pumped full of wine
and grand illusion

on the occasion of my homecoming
possum babies flee the pouch
to be seen, and currawong father
feeds to a schedule, kookaburra sings
his warning vigil

on the occasion of my homecoming
i keep my hand off the T.V. dial
i want 'real life' that's simple and rich
and the pain of New York City
will be a long, slow scratch to itch

on the occasion of my homecoming
a thirsty garden sings to me
its siren song of mortality
and as i water, and touch, and savour
i eat a whole dozen strawberries ...

Published in Freedom: An Anthology from the Heart (Michael Guinn, 2001).