Pick Up the Pearl Read online

  and relishes her first kill.

  the pa kua teacher

  ‘It’s that killer instinct and it’s one thing we have got to get better at.’ Michael Voss, coach, Brisbane Lions

  He hovers and swivels in all eight directions,

  one or two strikes, a body is shattered,

  a fight with him lasts a matter of seconds.

  He’s fixed in his circle, pursue over there

  what ever you wish, but cross this line,

  invade his space, and he’s ready to pulverise you.

  Already ninety and his health is good,

  though his eyes are weak due to those months

  when he stared at the sun, not blinking once.

  Life on this fine edge is how he has thrived,

  his record, so far, is fifty-five fights,

  and fifty-five dead men he’s left behind.

  It started with a contract his teacher and he signed.

  Stay for twelve years, no leaving early or

  teacher claimed the right to kill off the art,

  an art that goes back to the book of I Ching,

  the missing pages he knows by heart,

  he’s both a cool scholar and a mad monkey.

  His students train six hours per day,

  crosses on the fence, lines made of sweat

  as arms chop, like blades, this way and that.

  Some leathered thug visited his house: ‘Old man,

  I hear there’s a great teacher nearby.’ ‘I‘ve no idea…

  …you fat slug,’ he murmurs, slamming his door.

  elizabeth

   

  I posted a parcel to Elizabeth, packed

  inside was a city of words,

  it dangled from the stars,

  it tip-toed the earth,

  like a UFO, draped with unknowns,

  but with roads leading anywhere

  you wanted to go.

   

  After she opened it, she went all ape,

  coffee cup, cutlery, table and chairs 

  flew across the room, as she

  crazily complained about some pot-hole

  patched with a tai chi symbol,

  for her a conspiratorial masonic mash-up.

   

  Sadly she missed

  the eye of my creative delight, so

  I’m not sending her

  any more cities or worlds,

  she can live inside

  her pot-holed side street

  with her stinky tai chi symbol

  for as long as she likes.

  The city can sit and wait.

  the judoist

  Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin,

  about to open his pale, pencil-lipped mouth,

  not dreaming of his fairy tale path to the Kremlin

  or of desires to deliver the bedevilled people,

  he’s thinking of his next class of judo,

  gentle sport of life, with his beloved teacher.

  A little naive, though not far from the perfect teacher,

  for sure, he had more talented students than Putin,

  he found himself jousting with new levels of judo,

  a subtle art transmitted by word-of-mouth,

  one-on-one, though not the chop for most people,

  when he drew the ire of hawks in the Kremlin.

  A Byzantine, sestina-like outfit, the Kremlin,

  heard whispers in Petersburg of this teacher,

  after the decision of the people

  to turn a little known man into President Putin,

  the minders were shocked, wide open-mouthed,

  as he pinned Putin’s virtues solely on judo.

  ‘Let’s use this obscure Olympic sport, judo,

  to reach behind the walls of the Kremlin,

  we’ll tell the story from the horse’s mouth,

  an extended interview with the President’s teacher:’

  said the media in pursuit of fresh angles on Putin,

  a desire to shift power back to the people.

  Lacking that X-factor in the eyes of the people,

  plus his odd pronouncements on life beyond judo,

  the whole matter loomed as a crippler for Putin,

  thought the savvy spinmasters back in the Kremlin.

  He was, no doubt, a skilled martial arts teacher,

  but best saved for instruction via hand to mouth.

  ‘Vovka, we’ve gotta shut his fuckin’ mouth:’

  said these slick judges of the Russian people.

  ‘He’ll bring us to our knees, your teacher.

  Can’t you see the judo hall is the best place for judo?

  It’s your image we care for here in the Kremlin.’

  With gall, they eyeballed President Putin.

  He mouthed the word ‘silence’ like a deft move in judo:

  we have enemies wanting to bust us back in the Kremlin

  The teacher went silent, after those few words from Putin.

  the tycoon

  With

  White Crane

  Opens the Wings,

  we explore movement

 

  up and down.

  As the body sinks,

  knees bent,

  arms gathered,

  lift one foot

  to kick,

  open

  arms

  wide,

  rise like the crane,

  wings outstretched,

  movement

  back

  down,

  on the

  other foot,

  now do it again,

  up to down

  and down to up,

  making a circle.

  Al’s got his own tai chi,

  it’s called currency trading.

  After tai chi class one evening in ‘87,

  over a Lebanese coffee in Rozelle,

  his news that he lost eight million dollars that week,

  puts us into a freeze frame.

  ‘Ah, it’s nothing,’ he says.

  ‘It’ll come back again.’

  I visited Al in England

  five years later.

  Bloomberg blasting over breakfast,

  we were talking about train times to London

  when Al mentioned

  he made six hundred thousand dollars the night before.

  ‘Anyhow, let’s get the bikes,

  and we’ll pedal up to the village.’

  Was that

  a white crane

  flying past

  my window.

  kakek

  Young Arto studied a martial art,

  the greatest thing any man could learn,

  his teacher, Joko, claimed to impart.

  Joko’s eyes scared all in his class,

  they’d heard stories of him punching cows,

  with an explosive strength none could surpass.

  One day Joko pushed Arto into a routine.

  Arto tried hard, but made one faux pas,

  Joko slapped him for an ugly scene.

  Arto told his grandpa, Kakek, a man of tai chi,

  who got so upset. After stroking his beard,

  he decided to confront this bully.

  Next afternoon, Joko, in a booming shout:

  ‘What do you want, silly old one?’

  ‘If you apologise, we’ll have no fallout.’

  Joko’s response reeked of venom.

  but Kakek was in no mood to argue,

  he had another stratagem.

  ‘Master Joko, that pen in your pocket.’

  Kakek leaned forward, his goal not the pen,

  but to press one finger on Joko’s heart.

  Once Joko got home, a paralysis grew,

  the corners of his mouth started to foam

  and his skin went darker shades
of blue.

  The condition progressed, he lay on his bed,

  they’d heard of Kakek, but never believed,

  his friends and neighbours saw problems ahead.

  ‘You must see Kakek!’ All of them pleaded.

  ‘Get out of here!’ was Joko’s reply.

  Early next morning, they covered his head.

  yang wu dui

  I saw it happen at Prince Duan’s Court,

  the day Yang Wu Dui came to the capital,

  as all in our school clambered to challenge,

  Duan singled out his strongest man,

  a boxer, a fighter of national fame.

  Settled in chairs, the two agreed

  to pit their right fists against each other.

  I’ve studied the art, I know what goes on,

  one less experienced sucks in the chi

  and pumps out to the fist, with the aim

  of dissolving his opponent’s resolve,

  but Yang was skilled to such a degree,

  still as a lake on a windless day, waiting

  for the boxer to defeat himself: first, beads

  of sweat showed, then his chair creaked.

  When a piece of wood popped,

  Yang calmly spoke up:

  ‘Indeed this man is a master, though sadly

  his chair is not as well made as mine,

  how about we all go and eat?’

  tai chi hermit

  All of them,

  the whole hundred schools,

  clutch at yin-yang like a pair of second hand crutches,

  spin and get spun by the five transformations,

  could never cover the oceanic gaps

  that reach out in the eight different directions.

  And twelve houses won’t ever be enough.

  I laugh at their numbers and names

  of schools, postures, masters

  and random pet things.

  Hackers, all of them!

  No match

  for this one

  supreme ultimate fist.

  online master (junbao)

  Tim, Thanks for the interest. My tai chi

  is First Generation teaching from China.

  While it does lead to serenity in

  the mind, it can only do so after

  quite a bit of practice. What I’m saying

  is, there is quite a bit of sweat involved in

  learning (real) Tai Chi. We build a foundation

  of stretching and strengthening the muscles

  and extremities to improve balance

  and circulation. This is turn leads to

  confidence, health, and long life. Western thought

  has turned Tai Chi into a more mystical

  practice, seen by westerners to be a way

  to connect with the energy and peace

  of the universe. This is not so in China.

  To practice Zen, go to a monastery.

  The name “Taijiquan” in Chinese translates

  to “Grand Ultimate Fist”. Tai Chi is

  and always has been a martial art.

  That is the way I was taught it, that is the way

  I teach it. While we practice the form slowly

  in “tai chi time”, the applications

  in real time are swift and exact. To quote

  the Tai Chi Classics, “Do not worry

  about speed or power. When the moment

  needs it, there will be no fear of slip

  or falter.” That being said, the practice

  of Tai Chi is addicting. The body

  begins to ache and bog down from lack of

  practice. After a while, it is not a chore

  to practice mid-week, it becomes a necessity.

  As the body’s extremities begin

  to “glob up” with stale Chi and stagnant

  nutrients, it remembers Tai Chi from

  Saturday morning and begs to be renewed.

  The renewal circulates Chi, blood and

  oxygen to the far reaches of our

  extremities, filling them with spritely

  quickness and life. Who hasn’t noticed

  the curious feeling an hour or so

  after class when you notice your body

  feels alive, fresh and renewed?

  This is what Tai Chi does.

  gu ruzhang (1893-1952)

  Homesick and tired of mushy burgoo

  scraps night after night, money spent on whores

  and coarse wine in Canton’s foreign quarter,

  on their fifth or sixth loathsome lap

  of south China, the exiled Russian circus

  troupe cooked up a new enterprise.

  The moustachioed ringmaster offered a prize

  of one thousand pounds (his face red with ague,

  and each second word a Tatar cuss)

  to one who could bear three kicks from his horse.

  Urgers waved passersby through the tent flap,

  stragglers from every Canton backwater.

  A slim, bare-chested man, in three quarter

  length trousers, set off the gossipries

  after stepping forward to a hearty clap.

  He hailed from Song Mountain, this Mr Gu,

  Iron Palm Kung Fu his one hobby-horse.

  ‘First, some conditions I wish to discuss...

  ...if after three kicks, I don’t concuss,

  may I slap your horse on the hindquarter

  in lieu of the loot?’ The Russians went hoarse

  with laughter at how these Chinese comprise

  such tragic folk. Without any argue,

  they nodded ‘yes, yes, yes,’ plus a backslap.

  These two on stage with nil overlap:

  proud Arab blood horse and this hocus pocus

  man, short, wiry, and so out of vogue.

  The first kick landed. He gave no quarter,

  as a few Russians whimpered with surprise.

  But this was course one, the hors

  d’oeuvre. As if but another of his daily chores,

  Gu absorbed the next thunderclap

  without much ado. The squeamish prised

  open their eyes to see a hibiscus

  bruise on Gu’s chest, the hoof’s hard quarter.

  The third kick likewise failed to move Gu.

  The horse owner stood cockily amid the ruckus,

  Gu took a breath. One slap on the hindquarter,

  the horse fell, eyes closed, her heart turned to goo.

  luke

  He studied Chinese medicine in Alexandria,

  once hallowed home of learning and knowledge,

  and there became handy with the art of wu shu.

  His writing was still an oracular dream.

  After the Jesus years, he visited Rome,

  sight of his signum ring, Caesar’s rare gift,

  gave this man entrance through many doors.

  A clutch of wrestlers, on hearing his laugh,

 

  beckoned him to challenge. Without raising breath,

  he put them to dust. Defensive or dumb,

  none showed interest in his peerless skill.

  It was later he drifted back to his book,

  a book translated so many times,

  you won’t read a word between the lines.

  (wu shu is a generic term for Chinese martial arts)

  the cabbie

  The son of Mediterranean migrants,

  black, curly hair and soft, dark eyes,

  he pushed a squeaky newspaper barrow

  along Redfern streets, after school.

  He soon got tired of being rolled

  and robbed, for a handful of coins,

  dropped on his arse too many times,

  one weekend he enrolled in karate class,

  to stand up for himself and be strong.

  As the inner city school years hurtled
by,

  his fearless front-footed style

  took him to the national championships

  and gained him a student following.

  This martial passion stayed a hobby,

  as he drove taxis in town through the day,

  unfazed by the fools, in singlet or suit,

  who, when they misread those soft, dark eyes,

  thought they sat with some dumb wog cabbie.

  brandon

  Brandon followed his father,

  a man who once described his own fighting style

  as if he was water

  filling an empty cup,

  but too soon his body filled

  a hole in the grounds

  of Lakeview cemetery.

  Brandon, still following,

  talked about life as dealing with

  one blockage after another.

  It was on the film set,

  when the gun jammed

  before the murder scene,

  (so let’s go over this again)

  thinking they’d emptied the bullets,

  one still stuck in the barrel,

  when the director said ‘Shoot!’

  Brandon took the hit

  and made the move

  to Lakeview too.

  incognito

  A drive of five hours, from airport to town,

  I’m honoured as driver

  to our guest gong fu teacher,

  Frank is his name,

  a man of high rank,

  multiple national champion,

  breaker of bricks with brawny bare hands,

  a warrior who travels incognito.

  We choose a truck stop café,

  my car buried behind a line of B-doubles.

  Square-body truckies clomp in and out,

  open shirts, grizzled faces, missing teeth.

  A bucket of ice water

  wouldn’t break the cabin stupor of some.

  Others shout across to old mates,

  as we order our food and drink.

  Frank tells me a little

  about his family: his father, his brother.

  We sit at a bench in high chairs,

  eat, drink and catch up.

  Meanwhile the café fills, is crowded.

  A towering truckie with a sandstone face

  grabs Frank by the shoulder.

  ‘Out of my way. I want to sit down.’

  Frank, composed, flows with the throw,

  stands next to me, continuing his story

  about his sister’s success on piano.