Robert Gray - Sketch of the Harbour.

I find myself reaching for a copy of Robert Gray whenever I want to immerse myself in the beauty of a remembered scene or location.  Robert Gray can do that for me – his perfect descriptive lines take me to places I have been and seen and trigger physical memories with an emotional overlay.  Surprisingly, the overlay is the way I know I felt it to be at the time but couldn’t quite grasp it back then.  But Gray comes along and provides expression that makes me breathe, “oh yes!”  I’m including two of Robert Gray’s poems in this post – ‘Sketch of the Harbour’ and ‘Harbour Dusk’.  Both are observations of Sydney Harbour (one of the most beautiful harbours in the world).  I know Sydney Harbour well, having spent weeks and days on warships tied up alongside, and idle hours reflecting on its traffic – just how Robert Gray describes it.  In Sketch of the Harbour, the writer is taking a ride on a public ferry, probably from Circular Quay to Manly (out where yachts have got the space and wind to manoeuvre – “bow (wave) fuming, of a champagne bottle’s lip”).  The period in which the poem was written is revealed by the description of the ferry in the first stanza, “long, wet trajectory of the ferry’s railing, widely outswinging ….”.  They don’t build ferries like that anymore – with passenger deck railings following the graceful curvature of the hull and capped with solid timber.  That has to be in the 1970’s, early 1980’s, last of the double ended, double screw steamship ferries.  For a nostalgic moment and to get the, “ferry’s railing, safely caught in my hand”, go down to Darling Harbour in Sydney and visit the old SS South Steyne – she is an early example of this type of ferry (now converted into a floating restaurant).  For a further appreciation of Sketch of the Harbour, buy a ferry ticket on a sunny Sunday afternoon and take the trip from Circular Quay to Manly.

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.

 

How apt is the title, Sketch of the Harbour?  It is a sketch – a series of brushstroke words that travel the eye from the railing of the ferry in the first stanza to the nearby racing yachts painted in the next two stanzas, to a description of the light in stanza four, how the water appears in stanza five, and then drawing the eye up to the sky where seagulls hover, “with balloons of air, underneath their arms”.  I note and like the repeated ‘…eeey’ and ‘…ing’ sounds in the poem.

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.

 

I like the construction of Harbour Dusk with it’s rhyme and part rhyme pattern.  And there are a couple of lines that keep me thinking what does it mean – one line in the first stanza, “hands on a stone parapet’s fading life”.  What is ‘fading life’ when referred to a stone wall (parapet)?  Is it that darkness is setting in and the parapet is fading from vision?  Or is the actual existence of the parapet ‘fading’ away?  Possible – because a soft sandstone was used extensively in early construction around Sydney Harbour.  This ‘parapet’ (sea-wall) may be one of those made of sandstone that over years has weathered and got worn down by the elements.  I think the second line in the next stanza is a clue, “against a far shore of dark, crumbling bush”.  It’s the word, ‘crumbling’.  The writer is standing at a ‘crumbling’ sea-wall looking across the harbour to natural bushland standing on the harbour’s edge that he sees as also being blown and knocked around to the forces of wind and weather – nature’s ‘crumbling bush’, the man-made ‘crumbling’ wall.  Why not?
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.

 

  

  

Judith Wright - Eve to Her Daughters (Easter)

As we prepare to celebrate Easter once more, my thoughts lead me in search of poetry that might express spiritual mystery, meaning of life.  But I like a poem that’s not too ‘heavy’, easy to read, and maybe entertaining with a bit of humour.  That’s why I’ve chosen a poem for this post from our Australian poet, Judith Wright; it’s called, Eve to Her Daughters.  I like it – it’s written in a conversational voice where I can imagine Eve (from Adam and Eve and the fall of man), is sitting down and trying to explain to her daughters how and why she and Adam see things differently – female sensual intuition vs male mechanical logic.  The little I know of Judith Wright’s life makes me think she’s suggesting in this poem that mankind and earth is being led to eventual destruction at the hands of the male of the species through a humanistic belief that scientific discovery is salvation and that it is achieved purely by man without a God providing revelation.  So the religion of science with its dependence on proof (‘demonstration’) allows no place for faith and hope in the spiritual unknown.  That’s men for you – but we obedient, ‘submissive’ women; we, with lesser ‘jealousy’, lessor ‘ego’, have not broadened the separation with God to such a point that we no longer believe.  Happy Easter ………

Eve to Her Daughters

(Judith Wright, 1915 – 2000)

It was not I who began it.

Turned out into draughty caves,

hungry so often, having to work for our bread,

hearing the children whining,

I was nevertheless not unhappy.

Where Adam went I was fairly contented to go.

I adapted myself to the punishment: it was my life.

 

But Adam, you know ….. !

He kept on brooding over the insult,

over the trick They had played on us, over the scolding.

He had discovered a flaw in himself

and he had to make up for it.

 

Outside Eden the earth was imperfect,

the seasons changed, the game was fleet-footed,

he had to work for our living, and he didn’t like it.

He even complained of my cooking

(it was hard to compete with Heaven).

 

So he set to work.

The earth must be made a new Eden

with central heating, domesticated animals,

mechanical harvesters, combustion engines,

escalators, refrigerators,

and modern means of communication

and multiplied opportunities for safe investment

and higher education for Abel and Cain

and the rest of the family.

You can see how his pride had been hurt.

 

In the process he had to unravel everything,

because he believed that mechanism

was the whole secret – he was always mechanical-minded.

He got to the very inside of the whole machine

exclaiming as he went, So that is how it works!

And now that I know how it works, why, I must have invented it.

As for God and the Other, they cannot be demonstrated,

And what cannot be demonstrated

doesn’t exist.

You see, he had always been jealous.

 

Yes, he got to the centre

where nothing at all can be demonstrated.

And clearly he doesn’t exist; but he refuses

to accept the conclusion.

You see, he was always an egotist.

 

It was warmer than this in the cave;

There was none of this fall-out.

I would suggest, for the sake of the children,

that it’s time you took over.

 

But you are my daughters, you inherit my own faults of character;

you are submissive, following Adam

even beyond existence.

Faults of character have their own logic

and it always works out.

I observed this with Abel and Cain.

 

Perhaps the whole elaborate fable

right from the beginning

is meant to demonstrate this; perhaps it’s the whole secret.

Perhaps nothing exists but our faults?

At least they can be demonstrated.

 

But it’s useless to make

such a suggestion to Adam.

He has turned himself into God,

who is faultless, and doesn’t exist.

 

In her life, Judith Wright was very active in conservation, the antiwar movement in the 1960’s and the plight of the Aboriginal peoples.  Her frustration with what is happening in the world (economic rationalism; environmental disregard) comes through in Eve to Her Daughters.  Yet note that even woman-kind with her more attuned sensual sense still cannot speak with certitude, so Eve (after blaming Adam for acting pig-headed), continues to question the meaning of life, ‘perhaps the whole elaborate fable    perhaps nothing exist but our faults?’

In my own attempt at poetry, I toy with that style where it’s some time in history ages ago and the poet imagines how the characters might have acted and felt at the time – sort of like how it is with Eve to Her Daughters.  I imagine this with characters who actually met Jesus – before anybody was ever to discover that he was famous ……..

Yes, I Remember Jesus

 

John’s Gospel, Chapter 1, verses 35 - 39.  Andrew and Phillip on meeting Jesus.

Yeah, me and Phillip

just happened to be helping out

with old John,

when this guy walks by,

and we’re looking at him

when John pipes up and says,

there goes the lamb of God.

The lamb of God?!

You don’t say!

We knew enough

about the lamb of God,

being John’s disciples for so long,

always going on about it, anyway

we decide to follow this, ‘lamb of God!’.

We’re sort of trailing him,

staying back a little,

when he suddenly turns around,

like he knew we were trailing him.

He says, what are you two trying to find?

Surprised us, it did

and we were a bit lost for words,

so we blurted something stupid, like

teacher,

um, just wondering

where you’re staying.

I thought he would tell us

to rack off

but he didn’t.

In fact,

he invited us back to his place

and we talked

and hung out

most of the day.

John’s Gospel, Chapter 2, verses 1 - 5.  Mary on events at the wedding. 

I remember it well,

We were having such a good time at the wedding,

when word went around

that they’d run out of wine.

Like, how does that happen?

Poor organizing, I reckon.

Anyway, I mentioned it to my son

because he looked as if he was heading for a refill,

when he goes and snaps at me, Woman!

Woman! he says,

How rude!

To me his mother!

And he says, what does your concern have to do with me?

Your concern!

Well, excuse me!

My concern!?

Honestly, I could have slapped his face,

right there and then, but

he mumbles, my hour has not yet come.

Oh, pissed, I thought

I can see why there’s no wine!

And to the servants who were hanging around

I just turned and snapped

whatever he says to you, do it!

John’s Gospel, Chapter 4, verses 4 - 26.  A Samaritan woman on fetching water at Jacob’s well.

Oh, that fellow,

I remember,

bit of a charmer, he was.

It was about midday,

when I went down to the well

to get some water,

and when I gets to the well,

there’s this fella

sitting on the edge,

not bad looking, mind you,

tall, dark,

but still, a Jew,

so definitely out of my league.

Anyway, I don’t say anything,

draws the water,

and he goes and asks me for a drink.

I says, how can you, a Jew

be asking me, a Samaritan, for a drink?

I was a bit cheeky,

but he takes it in his stride,

and says to me, that if I knew

I happened to be talking to God,

then I would have asked, him

for a drink,

and he, would have given me,

living water.

Now he’s being cheeky,

so I play along,

but sir, you don’t even have a bucket,

and the cistern is deep, so

how can you possibly

get this living water?

And he keeps it going, with

how you will always be thirsty again

after drinking water from the well,

but you will never thirst

if you drink living water.

I laughed, and asked him,

kind sir, to give me this water then,

so I wouldn’t have to go

to the well anymore.

He was nice.

Then he asked me

if I was married,

and I thought, here we go,

I told him I didn’t have a husband

and he comes straight back

and says I was right about that!

that I’d had five husbands,

not counting my current partner!

Amazing!

I’ve been to clairvoyants

who were never that clever.

I was sure he had to be a prophet,

even the Messiah

……. and he didn’t say he wasn’t.

                                                           J. O. White.