Archives For Tom Harris

Bus Ride to Newtown

On city bus riding on provisional tar roads layered with rain,
Watching silently in my head while water roars on the windows and people in coats grumble crowdedly,
And me in my thin blue jumper! Silly for such a cold day but what is there to do?
I suppose I could get off at Newtown and get me a cheap raincoat or windbreaker from Vinnies,
And then if Josh doesn’t show up catch the next rainy bus to Lewisham,
But that’s in the future and this moment is passing better soak it in ah look over the panorama of the city bus, where people stand with solemn and somnolent faces looking down always, and the woman next to me,
She talks.
Trucks and cars and a myriad of vehicles all howl on past outside my mobile window vvrrrooooom-sshhhwwwww
And gone into the haze of the day,
While somewhere out there Josh awaits in o his adorning clothes I can see him now –
Sitting in a cafe leaning elbows on wooden table, sitting on wooden chair sipping at a coffee ha ha watching the scene and loving the grey clouds that spatter the footpaths and enshroud the sun, to give a fantastic lighting to the whole scene –
Happy and contented as I in his Buddha-mind and stationary cafe
And me here dreaming of windbreakers and coffee cups, in observational silence
No sublime revelations or agitated plans,
Nor anxiety of the day to come or mourning the loss of the sun,
But simple silent no-thought save for light wanderings thru my little head as the bus hums smooth on the long road flooding with river-water that flowed down narrow streams and picked up moss from the hiding rocks, and was urinated in while nearby twenty-seven years ago the salesman then age 7 plucked a daffodil and forgot about it:
All of this flowing by lightly and eternally ephemeral unspoiled and unrecognised by the city road under my feet.

Lewisham Visitation

A football oval somewhere –––– long verdurous grass growing thick from good soil.
By the footpath concrete, sitting, watching the ancestor of an illegal dutch immigrant,
Who last week just lost it and sat on his desk upside down in a rage,
And the kindergarten teacher with her dog,
A small little animal with short curled fur and a grinning mouth,
And slow-like, the thin strips of velvet silver smoke ascend into the blue air
Twirling infinite-fold in curlicue pirouettes rising rising into broader strokes across the air
That encompasses even the entire oval and the smoke dematerializes
A few inches above my fingers,
Widen yr aperture let me see the sunset in yr eye all red and beautiful as the world goes to sleep in yr

Wither goes the dutchman? Thither goes the sex-monkey
Driven wild by the sight of a schoolboy,
And slow now, there passes a
Brown-haired girl,
With prosodic grace
And bhikkhuni simplicity. . .
While somnolent and watchful the bell tower pokes its head curiously above the clouds,
And ululates its paean of creation and worldly grandeur
To vibrate across a purple sky
Purple sky all round the world at that moment while
Over in France,
They hum the melody–
Ma, visitation of the sun not forgotten,
Forever in my browning skin,
Ni, sundry planets suspend themselves,
and look up from their darkness
Everybody looking up in the universe
No one looking down
At the lights that glitter so good
From this cushioned