Blind Journeys

Blind Journeys

For my Dad ~ ANZAC Day ~ 25 April, 2010

10486 Pte John Walker Matheson

The old man sat
In that room of his
In that chair of his
And he must have thought
‘What the fuck was that all about?’

Maybe not in those words
As he didn’t use those words
Not in front of my mother
Sitting
Knitting
Or doing a crossword across from him
In her chair

Never a cross word, eh?

Not in front of my mother
Who birthed
This new generation of killer
Not in front of my mother
Who rather liked
The thought
Of
Her men
Soldiering

Soldiering on

I didn’t think of him
That day

Or them

I seldom thought of them

I did think
What the fuck is this all about?’
But this was probably
Janet
Or Desiree
Gillian …
Or some such throbbing of the heart
That momentary sanguine burst that says
I am still alive
And there is
Fat in the old boy yet

But
I did think of you today
You
With your cattle-prod defences
Guarding
Your raw heart
That immune heart
That even
Your cold public stare
Cannot
Protect

I see
Those eyes that smile
When time makes mockery of sweat and grunt
And we touch
Hand holding hand holding hand
That
Fleeting
Time
I live for

Once
On leave
I looked
(And I still remember this)
Through my William Calley eyes
Saw my kit in the corner
Leaning at that cranky angle
(Must straighten that, must always be straight)
Of some bedroom
In some squalid squat
In
Vogeltown
And my shirt
(fuck, it’s creased)
Creased in my speed to get one away
To get this one away
Like it was the last slice of the loaf
The last chip off the old block
That last cab off the rank
The last post

I saw

I saw
Black patches
Ominous black
Above the wings on the sleeves
And that one hook

Black patches
I grew up with
Sitting on the edge of this bed
Now
My father’s bed
Then
Can this really be called
Grown up
When I put on where he took off
These shoulder flashes
That
Shout
On Active Service
‘New Zealand’

There is a bugle
Playing at Lone Pine
Today
As there was that day
And the day
The Stuka
Flying low
Straffed the wadi
And got my old man

Now
(Remembering)
I look
At that dark mass of fortified detritus
All that kit
Leaning
Rakish
In the shadow of my
L1A1 Self Loading Rifle
My SLR
(Special issue)
The
Weapon
I swore I would never carry

That one time
I swore that oath
I would be killed
But
I would not kill
And lay down
In front of the President’s car

That was then

I said that then

I said that then
But not today

Today
I will ship out with my mates
2nd Battalion, Taranaki Regiment
NZAF
(Proud, bro)
Today I will go and fight
Chase chickenhawks
Taste burnt flesh
Wipe up shit
Drink hot blood
In
This Man’s War
In
‘Nam

In
Vietnam

History is screaming
Cheeks aching in sleep
From crying
In rage

For God, for Queen and for country
Aue!

What country?
What God?
What fucking Queen?

And the old man sitting in his chair
Torn
Between
Pride in his son
(who he knew wasn’t quite right in the head)
Are you a homo, son?
It’s OK if you are.
You’ll still be my son
All the same

Tears
Ripping the gut
(like today’s tears)
Seppuku
Ritual
White
Hot
Tears

But you can’t come out for me, Dad
I have 30 years to wait for that
My already life
Over again
And
Homo?
Yes
But not as we know it
Dad

Not as we know it

Torn between this
And
That

You survived broken

And me?

I could not think of that

Then or now

I could not think of the small entry wound
The gone back of the skull
That hole
You could put your fist in

I worked with the living
Preserved life
Saved the chickenhawkers
From a fate
Worse than

Worse than

Life?

I could not conceive
Of death’s mashed tabernacle
My own
Sepulcre
Shrouded
In
A
Molecular
Mist
Of
My own
Blood

At Khe Sanh
At Con Thien
At Kim Son Valley
Or
On
Some lost
LZ
Near Home

I stand up
Dress
Look at her
Emotionless
Like a dead sheep in the bed
Tousled and shorn
Blood caked on her back
In strips like nails would make

I feel nothing

For her

For my father

Or for me

(Strangely nothing for the old Queen, neither)

Yet
Time has stripped this old wall of its flaked paint
(Flaked ~ now there’s a word)
And I think of you

You

In your old chair
In that pristine bed in Christchurch Hospital
At St Mary’s in Hamner
Where you went mad and they jolted your sweet head
With electricity

I see you

In that wadi leaking blood like scarlet air
I hear the whine and the crump
From the plane that will nail you
I smell the burnt flesh
(I have at least smelt that myself)
And the vomit

I see you
Dillingeresque in the desert
Handsome as Valentino

I see myself
Uniformed
Braced
Spit polished

On parade
Shit scared

Always
Shit
Scared

I see myself

Like you
Behind bars at Lake Alice

Now
I feel the cameraderie we never had
That I would not allow

But it’s a bit fucking late for you

You see, old man
You see
All along
I was on this journey
This blind journey

And
Here I am
Whakawahine
Dad, I proved myself the man
I was not meant to be

And I don’t need these patches
These black flashes
To make you proud, Dad

I know that now and know I never did

I am your child
Your girl child
I am the world’s child
I am a daughter of the sun and rain
The daughter of the mist
On Mount Fuji
I am of your lineage
And I am so proud

I stand with you in our place
Our turangawaewae
And I am so proud

I hold your hand
As I did when I was your child
We cross the road
You keep me safe
My eyes awash with tears
You kiss my face
Kiss them away
Now
As you did then
And it rains
It rains
Forever
On this, crazy, love-drained morning

The memorials fade
There is silence
As I remember you

Silence

And I remember you

(1st draft)

Auckland, New Zealand

Monday, 26 April, 2010