Samuel Wagan Watson

Sprinkled in the happy dark of my mind
Is early childhood and black humour
White stucco dreaming
...

"the journey IS the destination"
a quote from a great traveller
Brisbane is a small city, but that's OK . . . 'cause I don't need much room to move . .
...

My brothers once showed me the bounty that could be had in bait nets / we were able to catch garfish / bills like half-baked marlin / the rounded quill with a fluorescent orange head; pencil fish, that's what the old diggers called them,
...

Midnight's boxer He has become
That the ghosts from the ‘tents' of long-ago pay homage
Memories that fill a boarding-house room,
Busted knuckles soothed endlessly with goanna oil
...

For Rhan . . . wherever you are, Brother, I pray your path is a good one and without crossroads . . .
It was a dark and stormy night of clichés! The rain coming down, drowning the shadows, and my motley crew, well, that hotel room just couldn't hold us.
...

He had L O V E tattooed across his clenched right fist, followed by P O E M, etched in a vagabond's quill, across the other LOVE POEM. And with these fists coming at you in unison, you copped a taste of his, LOVE POEM. He stalked the crooked lines of this world,
...

It's the Lucky Country's closet; a dark interior with frontier skeletons. Whirly-winds run rampant, spawning red-sand mandalas of chaos. These frenetic twisters find easy prey on ochre-kissed Dorothys, carrying them off to Parallel Oz. In Parallel Oz,
...

I can't sleep here, on this Wiradjuri land; upon this hill of learning. Awake until the sun comes up and the morose voices subside; the dawn light blades whispers back into the creases of scarred country. I can't sleep here, in the writers centre;
...

Fire-engine flash of fox pelt
And a plume of tail
Fluffy . . . like some oil-well ablaze on a Gulf War postcard
And from the body
...

"The call of the strange bird is heard
on the pipe of the breathing floor;
so high will become the bushels of wheat
that man will cannibalise his fellow man . . ."
...

I can't speak my grandmother's tongue and I've never been on my grandfather's land,
I've travelled here and I've travelled there,
my culture replicated in government-funded laboratories;
...

Today, I am the caretaker for one of Brisbane's oldest evils; the retired gaol of Boggo Road. There are still a few walls, towers and buildings,
...

Stand back . . . Keep your body and hands away from the bars . . . The bars, the frets; of the instruments that played with the dark . . . Stand back . . .
...

Our Elders are well-acquainted with the Unlucky,
And they acknowledge Death by his sign,
Don't cross a knife and fork on the kitchen table
'Cause you're just inviting the Devil to dine,
...

"You talk about terror . . . I been terrorized all my days!"
from ‘Terrorized' by Mr Willie King, Alabama Blues Legend (1943-2009)
All the signs read, SMILE . . .
...

it comes to that morning
when finally you realise: it's all going to collapse

there is a conclusion that's yet to be seen
while loose ends are stacking high to a volatile degree

eyes peering through sun-kissed slits
at a landscape bathing in a varnish of itinerant blue
as if the sky has reminded the earth of loneliness
and the old days of communion

a dawn when gamblers get slapped into remission
and the ball starts rolling again with rogue impetus

time to move and abandon what is built
and may later bleed
after days and nights of bargaining into the mirror's subversion

as the only muse that serenades you
is a computer generated image

wishing to advise
you have limited credit to make this call…
...

the late shift erupts;
Greek boys in turbo-fitted 4s
open the back streets
of bitumen lines built for mice

a gear-crunching
nightscape howl

simultaneously
embraced and ejected
into the dire congestion of the city's spectral pitch

like the fading trumpet oratorio
of an emphysema-riddled jazz musician
...

die spätschicht bricht aus;
griechische jungs in 4-zylinder turbos
öffnen die hintergassen
der asphaltlinien für mäuse gebaut
ein gang-knirschendes
aufheulen der nachtlandschaft
gleichzeitig
geborgen und herausgeschleudert
in die äußerste stockung des stadtlichtspektrums

wie das verebbende trompetenoratorium
eines emphysemgeblähten jazzmusikers

Übersetzt von Raphael Urweider
...

lying on the floor
with its concrete and ammonia tongue
reading Charles Bukowski, ‘Living On Luck'
my split-level mind and its contradictory ghosts
at once condemning his ribald desires of flesh
and praising the simplified schematics of his Richard Nixon landscapes,

I've placed a block of cheese on my doorstep
and the ants are drawn to it,
I have no couch to lie on and read
thus, the ants attack my flesh
and I reciprocate, squashing them between my fingers
to produce a gasoline inspired perfume,
the smell of victory

some guy is at it, upstairs, screaming at an accomplice
but between breaths he allows the other tenants movement
and loads a fresh tirade into the breach
under the smoggy glow of tube lighting
frozen images of dogs playing poker
accommodating the warm reception
of a surprise attack
from within the whites of their eyes
tambourines tied to their feet
...

liege auf dem boden
mit seinem beton und der ammoniakzunge
lese Charles Bukowskis ‚Living On Luck'
mein halbgeschossiger geist und dessen widersprüchliche geister,
die seine derbe fleischeslust verdammen
und zugleich die vereinfachte schematik der richard-nixon-landschaften verehren,

ich habe einen käseblock auf der türschwelle platziert
und die ameisen werden durch ihn angezogen
ich habe kein sofa um draufzuliegen und zu lesen
also greifen die ameisen mein fleisch an
und ich gebe zurück, zerdrücke sie zwischen den fingern
ein benzinartiger duft kommt auf
der geruch des sieges

irgendeiner ist dabei, oben, einen komplizen anzuschreien
doch zwischen atemzügen erlaubt er dan anderen mietern, sich zu bewegen
und lädt eine neue tirade ins patronenlager
unter dem rauchigen glimmen der neonbeleuchtung
eingefrorene bilder von hunden die pokern
und die den herzlichen empfang
eines überraschungsangriffs begrüßen
aus dem weiß ihrer augen heraus
tambourine an ihre füße gebunden

Übersetzt von Raphael Urweider
...