Criminals who are no longer criminals by P.S.Cottier, winner of the Poetry Prize
They hang about, outside any town's court,
be it modern or ancient or superannuated;
the ghosts of the crimes that are no longer crimes,
hoping to be accused of affray. Will no one arrest
these witches, these obvious witches (not mere
warty old women with suspicious cats)?
Their herbal remedies are no longer arcane,
but sold by chemists in every shop — magic bottled.
Everyone, now, is used to weird street theatre,
or has seen Linda Blair's filmic neck-trick.
These women, once the law's witches,
would seem a tad old hat (if visible),
with their brooms and pots and sad, ashen smells.
Common scolds are also nothing, for scolding
is our favoured art. No bridling on Twitter
or Facebook or blogs. No ducking the issue.
Scold on scold, reborn as a tireless troll.
No-one hears your impudence, communis rixatrix;
though women, it's true, are often called bossy,
even when brazenly elected to speak for us all.
Let's break out champagne for the champerters!
Lawyers chase ambulances, so blow that trumpet,
then light the fires of litigation. Hiders of treasure trove
spread their old coins on the court room steps,
but everyone steps through them, just as eavesdroppers
can eavesdrop until ears grow donkey long.
See those once locked up for buggery?
With suicidal friends blackmailed to death?
Sweet peripeteia has rewritten that act, and
these men are glad to see no-one now charged
for being just what he happens to be.
(Note that they're not all wits, or frightfully hip.)
The light is fading now, and the ghosts pack up
their unspoken love, their gold, the feisty female ways.
They only meet outside courts in business hours;
unseen reminders that what happens inside may not
be beyond the raised eyebrows of history --
the questioning 'why?' of tomorrow,
answered by shrugs, perplexed laughs, or tears.
I am one of the crowd who meets outside courts.
But I have dozed while the others discussed
the 'good old ways' of the law as it was.
I zip my bag and roll it; a shabby woollen cigar.
I am the one who walks while others sleep;
a trespasser on the shores of propriety.
'Common nightwalkers are persons who sleep by day
and walk by night when reasonable people are in bed.'
I scamper, now, through the nights unimpeded,
accompanied by a witch's quiet grey cat.
Who would send such a traveller to jail,
just for mapping, with compass-less strides,
in well-worn shoes, the paths of perhaps?
Poet's note: The two lines in italics are from NSW Legislative Assembly Hansard, 1993, the second reading of the Crimes (Common Nightwalkers) Amendment Bill, introduced to abolish the crime of nightwalking. The speaker was Malcolm Kerr.
be it modern or ancient or superannuated;
the ghosts of the crimes that are no longer crimes,
hoping to be accused of affray. Will no one arrest
these witches, these obvious witches (not mere
warty old women with suspicious cats)?
Their herbal remedies are no longer arcane,
but sold by chemists in every shop — magic bottled.
Everyone, now, is used to weird street theatre,
or has seen Linda Blair's filmic neck-trick.
These women, once the law's witches,
would seem a tad old hat (if visible),
with their brooms and pots and sad, ashen smells.
Common scolds are also nothing, for scolding
is our favoured art. No bridling on Twitter
or Facebook or blogs. No ducking the issue.
Scold on scold, reborn as a tireless troll.
No-one hears your impudence, communis rixatrix;
though women, it's true, are often called bossy,
even when brazenly elected to speak for us all.
Let's break out champagne for the champerters!
Lawyers chase ambulances, so blow that trumpet,
then light the fires of litigation. Hiders of treasure trove
spread their old coins on the court room steps,
but everyone steps through them, just as eavesdroppers
can eavesdrop until ears grow donkey long.
See those once locked up for buggery?
With suicidal friends blackmailed to death?
Sweet peripeteia has rewritten that act, and
these men are glad to see no-one now charged
for being just what he happens to be.
(Note that they're not all wits, or frightfully hip.)
The light is fading now, and the ghosts pack up
their unspoken love, their gold, the feisty female ways.
They only meet outside courts in business hours;
unseen reminders that what happens inside may not
be beyond the raised eyebrows of history --
the questioning 'why?' of tomorrow,
answered by shrugs, perplexed laughs, or tears.
I am one of the crowd who meets outside courts.
But I have dozed while the others discussed
the 'good old ways' of the law as it was.
I zip my bag and roll it; a shabby woollen cigar.
I am the one who walks while others sleep;
a trespasser on the shores of propriety.
'Common nightwalkers are persons who sleep by day
and walk by night when reasonable people are in bed.'
I scamper, now, through the nights unimpeded,
accompanied by a witch's quiet grey cat.
Who would send such a traveller to jail,
just for mapping, with compass-less strides,
in well-worn shoes, the paths of perhaps?
Poet's note: The two lines in italics are from NSW Legislative Assembly Hansard, 1993, the second reading of the Crimes (Common Nightwalkers) Amendment Bill, introduced to abolish the crime of nightwalking. The speaker was Malcolm Kerr.
