T.A.R. WALLACE's poems can be seen in recent editions of Verse, Meanjin, Heat and Slope. The following poems are from his unpublished manuscript Postmortem for an Institution of Madness. He lives in Melbourne.



TRODDEN TOOK THE SUNKEN HUNTER

Fallow the meld too late to will
and nodding the spell, its wall
abreast and musing; darkened of the
linger eaves, kin richness unloading
and thought's becoming number running.
With telling, with a leaping to
a bonny destination section, caught of
fiddling notion cast upon a
shore's dimension and its lithe ship
- there the actual wrinkles of my
rhythms took their sprinkles to the
premonitory lighting, there the twinkling
and the sighting.




THE COLLECTOR

I cannot put friendship, my life
has not been active, I wanted friendship
in the process, there is no channel
in the course. And during
time think me of having dark
attention, in the movements
where in each turn I have crowded spheres
(to shine the meaning, hang the hand)
and found of deep and hard strengths,
handed parts of only states
until the noticing exaggerates. I think
beyong our states directly.

The winter stone is a dawn
swallowing, that we will not forget you.

I was born only to work
and I remember
those who returned to walls,
a watching of the cloud, rest
in the first fresh ray
that leans a ray, rest in the day.
And they of all I
lay beside the waiting wall.

The hand is of a manner
calming, down we go my winter.

They are standing on the edge of watching.
I was felt for life; 'that may be
my secret', and still I found it, yes.
And the stones lined as pulses
into small pieces, his angel
shall be an angel, I am not
waiting for the wall to gather traces,
nor collectors; there are more spaces
for more matters of returning - they
are coming on the garden's shoulders screaming,
if I collect anything, if I have seen it.




NIGHT'S JESUS

Was something else, were withered hags,
was wise enough. For sake's twisting
and thanked wafting, to nothing.
Of being proud, of all those treasures
and stark as a humble sky (were
here to refer) and tearing up the
words way mean, of noticing the creature.
Took space's vain, looked lapse into
the darkness save that moment.
Without us walk the rob dream
but between us lay the star.
In splash's knots we pressed a dictate
common onto night; while one accord has
yawned his arm. The massive and that
comfort are heraldic and the moths meld.