In the bottom of a cardboard box,
a photograph of a girl.
She’s fixed in that one-hundredth of a second
– a sketch, a pencil of lines and light
on the cusp of adolescence.
I want to reverse engineer her,
pull her apart piece by piece,
see what made her tick,
discover if imitation is possible.
Because decades on,
I can look in any mirror and see her face
dressed in the contours and constraints
of adulthood, and not find her.
Today, I’m back at my desk pulling together threads of notes I’ve made and not had the time, of late, to develop. This small piece, grafted and no doubt in need of more work, is an imitation of the form and shape of a poem by William Carlos Williams which appears below. Whatever it takes to get words on the page. Whatever it takes.
Crossing the Road
The mobility scooter stops
at the crossing.
Its rider wears sunglasses,
sleeves billow.
A wide-brimmed hat covers
thinning hair.
In the front basket, stocks of
toilet paper glint white.
She grips a cigarette between
her lips and waits
for the signal to go.
Proletarian Portrait by William Carlos Williams
A big young bareheaded woman
in an apron
Her hair slicked back standing
on the street
One stockinged foot toeing
the sidewalk.
Her shoe in her hand. Looking
intently into it
She pulls out the paper insole
to find the nail
That has been hurting her
Each morning
they appear on the balcony.
In matching white robes,
and with similar stance,
they lean on the railing and watch
as the street stirs to its daily dance.
I observe
this conversational ritual,
this picture of intimacy,
and marvel at the worth of things familiar.
Keeping Things Whole – Mark Strand
In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.
When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body’s been.
We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.
sounding the coal
Lambton, 1889
Each day in flannel shirts and moleskin pants,
they ride down in an iron cage
to hew and harvest carbon crops laid down
in the late Permian age.
Along the face, incessant dark encloses these Cimmerians.
They raise their picks and chance their fate
to sound the coal for signs of vacant space.
This is where the prayers take place,
in this Stygian chapel of the working class.
Lamps illuminate wet walls and streaks
of vitrinite light up like ink-stained glass.
Still fills the room.
The heading weeps.
Walls glisten.
Flames flicker.
Listen.
Why are your poems so dark? – Linda Pastan
Isn’t the moon dark too,
most of the time?
And doesn’t the white page
seem unfinished
without the dark stain
of alphabets?
When God demanded light,
he didn’t banish darkness.
Instead he invented
ebony and crows
and that small mole
on your left cheekbone.
Or did you mean to ask
“Why are you sad so often?”
Ask the moon.
Ask what it has witnessed.
from: Queen of a Rainy Country by Linda Pastan, W W Norton & Company. 2006.
This interview on Radio National’s Books and Arts program yesterday, in recognition of Bloomsday, has resulted in me placing another poetry book on my wishlist.
Have a listen for 11 or so minutes and hear Enda Wyley read two of her poems – Notebook Shop and Poems for Breakfast. Just lovely.
Image from Dedalus Press.
Card Game – A D Hope
Club, diamond, heart and spade,
Under these the game is played.
Warfare, wealth, love and death
Dominate our every breath.
Players are not free to choose
Suit assigned or hand refuse
Dealt them, careless of their skill
Shuffled blindly, well or ill.
Wealth I had no talent for;
Lacked all aptitude for war;
Death at most might set me free;
Hearts were always trumps to me.
From Orpheus. Angus and Robertson, 1991
We stop at the edge of the reef
just short of the ledge that drops
deep and steep off the continental shelf.
As the boat’s motor cuts out,
waves of doubt carry away
any skerrick of bravado lurking inside me.
The others are stripping down to bathers
and enthusiastically donning rented masks and snorkels.
(Is there anything less hygienic?)
Before long, they are all in the sea
bobbing like corks,
eyes down on the colonies of coral,
backs exposed to the equatorial sun.
The swell rocks the vessel, up, then down.
Repeat.
Now, being in the ocean, rather than on it,
seems like a viable option.
Beneath the surface, snapper and wrasse.
Yellows, blues, greens, anemones,
sweetlips and parrot fish, unicorn noses.
It’s a feast for the eyes
of those who pass the bravery test,
even if what it takes is a buoyancy vest.
along Galle Face Walk
umbrellas shelter couples
snuggling in the heat.
woman crosses road,
hand raised to oncoming bus,
– Colombo traffic.
men walk slowly in
a funeral procession
from the Galle Fort Mosque
preparing Koththu,
cutting up vegetables,
chopping roti strips.
Sri Lankan road rules.
vehicles take up road space
in pincer movements.
signs on the rail line
– lack of metal, weak sleepers –
reduce engine speed
