Sketch of the Harbour
The
long, wet trajectory of
the ferry’s railing
widely outswinging
is
safely caught in my
hand.
And
I watch a yacht that is coasting
by,
at
its bow the fuming
of
a champagne bottle’s lip.
All
about on the harbor the yachts are slowly waltzing,
or
in close-up
their
ecstatic geometry.
Light
fragments crackling
above the suburbs and water,
whitely, as from a welder’s torch,
on
a soap-white day.
In
the shadow of the ferry,
the oily, dense water
is
flexile, striated
as
launching muscles.
But
further out, there is only
sunlight over a surface –
a
constant flickering,
like a lit-up
airport
control.
And
the gulls, white as flying
foam, lie beside us here
with
the clear balloons of air
underneath
their arms.
Harbour Dusk is another poem that paints Sydney Harbour in a particular light – this time the sun is set and evening is approaching, “away off, through the strung Bridge (Sydney Harbour Bridge), a sky of mulberry, and orange chiffon.” In this poem the writer is taking a late afternoon walk with his girl and they pause at one of the many sandstone ocean walls (“stone parapet’s”) you find in public parks dotted around the harbour foreshore – if on the North Shore, then I imagine Milson’s Point, Kirribilli or Cremorne Point. If on the city side, I’m thinking maybe Elizabeth Bay, Rose Bay or Nielson Park (more likely because the writer is looking, “across … the harbour” to a “far shore of dark, crumbling bush (woodland)” – Bradley’s Head or the National Park). . However, for further appreciation of Harbour Dusk, catch a train at sunset across the ‘Bridge’ to Milson’s Point. Walk through the streets of Kirribilli to the harbour’s edge and the “empty” park. Find a sandstone wall to lay your hands on, and watch the changing colours of the sky to the west through the arch of the Sydney Harbour (“strung”) Bridge, “of mulberry and orange chiffon, mauve-grey …”.
Harbour Dusk
She
and I came wandering there through an empty park,
and
we laid our hands on a stone parapet’s
fading
life. Before us, across the oily,
aubergine dark
of
the harbour, we could make out yachts -
beneath
an overcast sky, that was mauve underlit,
against
a far shore of dark, crumbling bush.
Part
of the city, to our left, was fruit shop bright.
After
the summer day, a huge, moist hush.
The
yachts were far across the empty fields of water.
One,
at times, was gently rested like a quill.
They
seemed to whisper, slipping amongst each other,
always
hovering, as though resolve were ill.
Away
off, through the strung Bridge, a sky of mulberry
and
orange chiffon. Mauve-grey, each cloven
sail –
like
nursing sisters, in a deep corridor: some melancholy;
or
nuns, going to an evening confessional.
In the last stanza there’s the line, “…. each cloven sail – like nursing sisters, in a deep corridor: some menancholy;”. The word ‘cloven’ used as an adjective must refer to the curved and cleft outline shape of a yacht’s sails; or is the writer inspired by the architectural ‘sails’ of the Sydney Opera House? Whatever, the phrase, “like nursing sisters”, further dates the writing of this poem back in the days when nursing sisters carried rank, wore stiff, starched, white veils and breezed through the wards like ships under sail. When did they stop behaving like that – was it the 1970’s? OK, so they are viewed as if in a ‘deep corridor’ (in a hospital or a convent somewhere), but what does it mean that some are, ‘melancholy’? Not all of the sisters (or nuns), only ‘some’ are melancholy, the others are not. I believe the sails of the Sydney Opera House are the inspiration for these lines. Viewed as a nurse or nun’s veil, each sail frozen in position expresses an emotion – there are some sails that are tilted open toward the sky, giving an expression of joy. There are others that bow in to themselves, appearing to be ‘melancholy’. Don’t take my word for it, come to Sydney and walk the harbour foreshore with Robert Gray.
My link to Robert Gray’s descriptive poems of vessels and harbours comes from a descriptive poem I wrote some time ago but recently dug out and re-visited. I try to be disciplined in keeping a diary/journal – have done for years. I find capturing observations and thoughts at the moment, even in the crudest form, helps to preserve emotional memory, so when you want to come back and reflect you find that your recorded entries do provide a wonderful source of creativity and insight. Here is my ‘revised’ poem, At Sea. Following the poem are the original diary notes from which I settled on the final version.
1988. On board HMAS Canberra. We’re heading down to Hobart for the tall ships race and celebrations. This particular day is overcast and bleak; a cool day, threatening to rain. The wind is cold. I hunch into my overalls, hands in pockets. We sail quite close to the coast somewhere south of Eden.
At
Sea
The sea entirely
silver in our wake,
The sky complete
with clouds,
Mark the chart
somewhere south of Eden,
And for the moment
you might like to make
It 1770, opening up
some of Cookie’s old tracks,
Just as leisurely
laid with scarce way on,
Standing off green
mountain peaks he held to port,
And this our world
dreamtime gentle all over,
The roll of the
ship, the stillness of land,
White birds we name
sea ducks for escort,
And brown forest
birds tip their wings to water,
Giving natural
pleasure in the master’s hand,
Laying up only the
sun to be caught,
Warm between the
blades of our shoulders.
At Sea (diary notes)
The
sea is silver in our wake.
Only
clouds in the sky,
Over
the rising peaks of land off to starboard.
Birds
fly low over the gently chopped water.
A
white hulled fishing boat,
Makes
pitching progress across our line of advance.
Off
to port is a grey merchantman,
Caught
up between us, Hobart and Torrens.
We
alter course and head directly for the land.
The
sun can be felt just warm on my back,
Through
the material of my overalls.
Exposed
skin of face and hands pleasantly cool to a light breeze.
A
big, white sea bird floats in the water as we sail by.
Everything
is gentle,
The
roll of the ship,
The
stillness of the land,
The
vastness of the sky,
Puffed
white clouds,
Gliding
birds,
Froth
of surging waves.
We
got closer to the shore,
And
the folds in the land can be seen.
A
flock of brown birds are disturbed in our path.
Hundreds
of them wheel above the water,
And
settle again further ahead,
Only
to be disturbed,
Once
more as we move up to them,
Across
the sea.
J. O. White.
