Welcome to Hyde Park, home of the wombat,
the fleet footed xylophone,
the inverted umbrella and the feral cat.
Where the ingenious mind casts in stone
its love of country and the park bench.
Where jet-lag creates chaos on the streets,
and “Look Right” is meaningless in French.
Where traffic lights play endless repeats
of Jeckyl and Hyde – the amusement park
open all hours, street theatre,
spontaneously triggered by a spark;
where strange ways just get weirder!
. We all need somewhere to park ideas,
. to ponder thoughts and tackle fears.
© Tim Grace, 2 June 2011
To the reader: Sydney’s Hyde Park is surrounded by buildings and squared by traffic; within these confines it provides the city with quintessential greenery. The incidental visitor has no attachment to its physical features and so explores the park with gormless wit. Broad sweeps of lawn intersect at a war memorial swallowed by a pool of remembrance. An assortment of locals define the park’s character as miscellaneous.
To the poet: Without ridiculing Hyde Park, its history is an oddity, its placement a curiosity; and so, a nonsense poem pays it fitting tribute. The playful and suggestive references are obscure; hopefully not too self-indulgent. How far a poet can stretch a reader’s interest in nonsense is dependent on curiosity. The curiosity factor gives to nothing its substance… and there you have the value of a park.