Jeff Klooger
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Jeff Klooger’s poetry has been published in his native
Australia and internationally. Recently his work has
appeared in The Liberal (UK), The Stinging Fly (Ireland),
Harvest, dotdotdash, Cordite and Otoliths. His other
interests are music and philosophy. His book on the ideas
of the Greek-French philosopher Cornelius Castoriadis
was published in 2009.
Australia and internationally. Recently his work has
appeared in The Liberal (UK), The Stinging Fly (Ireland),
Harvest, dotdotdash, Cordite and Otoliths. His other
interests are music and philosophy. His book on the ideas
of the Greek-French philosopher Cornelius Castoriadis
was published in 2009.
Where I Need To Be
Each morning I teach my body to relax
starting at my foot, my heel,
my calf, my knee, my hip,
right leg, then left leg,
then right and left arm,
then buttocks and back, belly and chest,
my necks straightens, my throat slackens,
my lips part, my nostrils widen,
my face gives in to gravity
and the dome of my skull
loosens its drum.
The whole body...
The whole body...
Merely naming the body’s parts
casts a spell of peace.
Breathing in
fills my lungs with light
and breathing out
expels darkness.
Not moving puts me
where I need to be.
Life And Death
Life is a series of equations, the last one death.
Flesh and bone are equal to a mound of dust
and a pool of water, which seeps
back into the earth, or disappears
into the sky, gathering in billowing clouds
to fall again as precious, life-giving rain.
Nothing is lost or can be lost, except energy
which we are losing all the time, like a clock
running down, a spring uncoiling
to its depleted native state.
And love, which, along with the object of love,
the loved one and the aim of all our desires,
hopes and dreams, can vanish in an instant,
snatched away by a whim, a moment’s folly,
the irresistible force of pitiless laws
or some dread stranger’s evil act.
Then you can see it in a mother’s eyes
or balanced on a father’s lips,
in the stunned silence of a hopeless lover
and the stony face of a child stripped of illusions:
this sum does not add up.
No matter how you count and work the facts,
the two sides ― past and present ― do not match.
A hole has opened in the way things were and should be
and into the blackness tumbles
the logic that balances gain and loss.
We tumble after, spinning uncontrollably,
until at last even grief’s energy dissipates
and pain and hope together come to their final rest.
Rarum XIII: John Surman
this music fills my head with space
and movement, with ghosts, with thoughts
unsaid and unsayable
it curls and shimmers and turns back
to a moment held mid-air,
balanced on a possibility
of failure
or it shoves off, skating
the white surface of freedom
everything burdensome
and ungainly
sloughed off in that instant,
frictionless, cool
as exhalations of ice
or sings from some deep place
near the centre of things,
vibrating in sympathy
with moans that are not sorrowful, but beyond, deeper,
as though a tune played on your living bones
it should be this way always
― the air, the body, the mind ―
three elements in concert,
an indistinction of music and listener,
sound and feeling, this moment
and eternity
Each morning I teach my body to relax
starting at my foot, my heel,
my calf, my knee, my hip,
right leg, then left leg,
then right and left arm,
then buttocks and back, belly and chest,
my necks straightens, my throat slackens,
my lips part, my nostrils widen,
my face gives in to gravity
and the dome of my skull
loosens its drum.
The whole body...
The whole body...
Merely naming the body’s parts
casts a spell of peace.
Breathing in
fills my lungs with light
and breathing out
expels darkness.
Not moving puts me
where I need to be.
Life And Death
Life is a series of equations, the last one death.
Flesh and bone are equal to a mound of dust
and a pool of water, which seeps
back into the earth, or disappears
into the sky, gathering in billowing clouds
to fall again as precious, life-giving rain.
Nothing is lost or can be lost, except energy
which we are losing all the time, like a clock
running down, a spring uncoiling
to its depleted native state.
And love, which, along with the object of love,
the loved one and the aim of all our desires,
hopes and dreams, can vanish in an instant,
snatched away by a whim, a moment’s folly,
the irresistible force of pitiless laws
or some dread stranger’s evil act.
Then you can see it in a mother’s eyes
or balanced on a father’s lips,
in the stunned silence of a hopeless lover
and the stony face of a child stripped of illusions:
this sum does not add up.
No matter how you count and work the facts,
the two sides ― past and present ― do not match.
A hole has opened in the way things were and should be
and into the blackness tumbles
the logic that balances gain and loss.
We tumble after, spinning uncontrollably,
until at last even grief’s energy dissipates
and pain and hope together come to their final rest.
Rarum XIII: John Surman
this music fills my head with space
and movement, with ghosts, with thoughts
unsaid and unsayable
it curls and shimmers and turns back
to a moment held mid-air,
balanced on a possibility
of failure
or it shoves off, skating
the white surface of freedom
everything burdensome
and ungainly
sloughed off in that instant,
frictionless, cool
as exhalations of ice
or sings from some deep place
near the centre of things,
vibrating in sympathy
with moans that are not sorrowful, but beyond, deeper,
as though a tune played on your living bones
it should be this way always
― the air, the body, the mind ―
three elements in concert,
an indistinction of music and listener,
sound and feeling, this moment
and eternity