The bearded midwife
(manuscript collection).
It is the middle of the drought. A man anticipates the birth of a child:
Guerrilla Bay
Salt on the rock
A single drum
Stung mouth of the waters
and rain on the strata
Who wins. Who loses
Who pays the ignorant boatman?
The sea will use its fingers
to claw at the opening
dark veins
the bay’s rubbed language:
swell and knock
swell and knock
This the sea’s language:
the urgent hope of the lover
the entry into the dark arch
The fingers break
out of the sea
parting the strata
Swell and knock
The fickling stars
disappear in the night
A coin-hard wailing:
the boatman’s naked wife
calling in the tide.
It is the middle of the drought. A man anticipates the birth of a child:
Guerrilla Bay
Salt on the rock
A single drum
Stung mouth of the waters
and rain on the strata
Who wins. Who loses
Who pays the ignorant boatman?
The sea will use its fingers
to claw at the opening
dark veins
the bay’s rubbed language:
swell and knock
swell and knock
This the sea’s language:
the urgent hope of the lover
the entry into the dark arch
The fingers break
out of the sea
parting the strata
Swell and knock
The fickling stars
disappear in the night
A coin-hard wailing:
the boatman’s naked wife
calling in the tide.
The Leaving of Australia
A Jiggle
Fine limbs and a following sea
Her hair shining above water
See, he of the life-shaft gleaming
she of the welcoming in
slipping toward a first dark victory
It’s a coming up into a new country
East of the coppered arboreta
azaleas kissing the home accents
dribbling in vibrating eyes
the red against clean, clean stone
It’s a coupling; a couple conceiving
in triumph against the marble
an arched back, a cry
filling the room with mouth
and a long, long river
These things were knifed, stolen:
Australians abroad and drunk
with the thick danger of hotels
half-night stands under
sweet purse-strings and a tight entry
Under the cover of a policeman’s
I imagined her innocent
I imagined him vigorous
I imagined her innocent
We imagine doing French in the city
Kicking my heels in the lavender
Somewhere West of Asia
we penetrate the world.
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A twice remembered country
For Marion
Yes,
take them:-
the money for books
the brave and ridiculous life of Generals
the raw youths
shouting at us in the street
Take them all with us
on our slow tango
to oblivion
That slow dance
in a black night’s flesh
the pressure of water
on wings
These are the things
that travel with us:
loss still to be felt
the songs of the voiceless…
We slide into our coats
for the crossing
A new night’s indigo
in a twice-remembered country.
Yes,
take them:-
the money for books
the brave and ridiculous life of Generals
the raw youths
shouting at us in the street
Take them all with us
on our slow tango
to oblivion
That slow dance
in a black night’s flesh
the pressure of water
on wings
These are the things
that travel with us:
loss still to be felt
the songs of the voiceless…
We slide into our coats
for the crossing
A new night’s indigo
in a twice-remembered country.
Four sequins sewn on a rock.
1. Spare me the glittered speeches
made of spiders
the bodies crushed
out of earshot
the nervy hands
inviting the invaders.
The world her body teeters
on what is spoken
what’s whispered behind ears
what’s muffled up
dragged out
reverently disposed of
No-one, everyone
feels the pain
after the deluge of lightning:
all that vanishing
those cutting noises heard
above the music.
2. Roadside fire
That morning
there was one wreath of
wild poppies.
Going home
by the night road:
fields of saffron.
Sing for those
who can’t hear
dance for those
who can’t see
do for the
day’s hands grasped.
3. Song for the absent
Driven into eucalypt country:
a rock on Gillamatong’s weeping
her cut giving up its moisture.
The absent are elsewhere:
grasped in the whisperers’ throats
behind a black window.
Shakuhachi breathing
parchment limb snowfalling
onto a pillow in an eye-corner.
East of a Braidwood moon
I travel, now, an older country:
the light in the seeing
a fresh on water
long fingers playing
sunlight on ice-river…
I imagine I sing them
I imagine I keep them, these absents
alive by my singing.
4. Sunset on pure snow
I plunge
my hands
in pure snow; a red
star dies, hot
against cold.
made of spiders
the bodies crushed
out of earshot
the nervy hands
inviting the invaders.
The world her body teeters
on what is spoken
what’s whispered behind ears
what’s muffled up
dragged out
reverently disposed of
No-one, everyone
feels the pain
after the deluge of lightning:
all that vanishing
those cutting noises heard
above the music.
2. Roadside fire
That morning
there was one wreath of
wild poppies.
Going home
by the night road:
fields of saffron.
Sing for those
who can’t hear
dance for those
who can’t see
do for the
day’s hands grasped.
3. Song for the absent
Driven into eucalypt country:
a rock on Gillamatong’s weeping
her cut giving up its moisture.
The absent are elsewhere:
grasped in the whisperers’ throats
behind a black window.
Shakuhachi breathing
parchment limb snowfalling
onto a pillow in an eye-corner.
East of a Braidwood moon
I travel, now, an older country:
the light in the seeing
a fresh on water
long fingers playing
sunlight on ice-river…
I imagine I sing them
I imagine I keep them, these absents
alive by my singing.
4. Sunset on pure snow
I plunge
my hands
in pure snow; a red
star dies, hot
against cold.
