15 poems
(Robert
Gray, 1945 - )
The
curtains blowing
open,
a sock stretched apart,
wide
meadows.
Following
a van up
a
winding forest road. Swallows
flit
between us.
Darkness,
lake-hush;
a
rowboat, allowed to drift, bumps
the
starlight.
As
if the sun
out
of boredom has doodled weeds ……
a
backyard.
This
moon, the last
tilted
sauterne, in a glass
that’s
firelit.
A
definition
of
art deco: in black and cream
the
butterfly.
Boiling
water
poured
from a saucepan
into
a water-bottle’s neck.
On
the edge of your mind
the
waves fall.
Wintry
sunlight;
the
dry, plastery legs of a woman
in
tennis skirt.
Dark
bedroom. Listening
to
a rain-wet tree - its lovely
negligence.
Homesick
for Australia,
a
dream of rusty Holdens
in
sunlit forests by the highway.
A
cathedral interior –
these
long tapers of rain lighting
candles
on the twilit river.
Staved-in,
the old rowboat
we
had as kids
has
foundered this last time
in
a field of grass.
Wire
coat-hangers,
misshapen,
in a hotel wardrobe.
Steamy
afternoon sun.
Cold
swimming pool,
plastic
blue. A bare tree’s reflection,
Its
roots x-rayed.
Two
magpies stepping
on
the verandah. A ploughed hillside,
smoke
and cumulus.
My link to Robert Gray’s, 15 Poems is a number of short bursts I’ve scribbled over time on the back of shopping dockets, beer coasters, tissues and scraps of paper in the car – but don’t take my effort as a study in the Haiku form – I guess its verbose Haiku with sometimes a touch of analysis. I wrote From Belmont & Back – 10 Poems as an exercise in instinctive observation – on your normal day, getting to work and back home again, take a snapshot, quick observation. Haiku – it’s a fun exercise and it sharpens your powers of observation. Now I’m ready for holiday!
2014. I get up, I go to work, I come home, nothing happens in my life; every day I see my world.
Belmont & Back – 10 Poems.
I
Still
of the dawn,
high
on a hill, way out to sea,
lightning
bursts without noise,
will
there ever be,
any
more of those,
grand
naval battles?
II
A
pile of musky shoes,
cracked
and weary leather,
randomly
arranged,
on
the floor of my wardrobe,
viewed
through a glass panel, they
might
serve as equal reminder,
“Arbeit
Macht Frei”.
III
Parrots
arrive out of control
with
schoolyard chatter,
before
the bell is rung.
One
lands on the balcony rail,
turns,
lifts a feathered tail
and
quickly drops calcium lime,
like
a schoolboy re-dressing
from
having run to the toilet.
IV
Commuter
morning,
an
old street woman,
shouldn’t
need to do that,
pulls
a wheelie bin over,
reaches
for whatever’s inside.
A
suburban hunter,
emptying
and resetting her traps.
V
Grass
grown halfway up the back,
of
a floral club settee,
too
soon for clean-up day.
Near
here, another Fantastic furniture deal
and
a flat-screen TV,
will
have taken over a house.
VI
Barrel
bodied man in Mayfield
gone
to early retirement,
comes
out on his verandah.
One
plastic ribbon from the fly curtain,
catches
and trails over his shoulder,
like
the lash of a whip tickling flesh
in
a moment before it is cracked,
Madame.
VII
Jack
Russell from the cement,
outside
the Sunnyside Inn,
keeps
a one-eyed watch,
on
his master’s mobility scooter,
moves
up to the lambs-wool seat,
now
the days are changing to winter.
VIII
Distracted,
a DIY builder
progressing
a villa-board shed
once
started
along
the house boundary, instead
pauses
to examine and squeeze
at
an old scab
on
the end of his elbow.
IX
Popped
bonnet,
of
an early model Ford,
or
Commodore,
commands
public concern,
but
its only for males
to
stand and ponder stare,
as
might a heart surgical team,
down
at the engine bay.
X
Never
before a sky that colour blue,
nor
sandy clouds
spread
across an inverted beach,
that
the traffic descending to Belmont,
instead
of the usual bullying,
slows
to a reverent crawl.
J. O. White
