Before I begin, what remains of the teacher in me wants to remind you that you really should read these poems aloud, unrushed and more than once, paying attention to punctuation and sound, rather than line breaks. Doing so will help you to see more deeply into the poems, as you might see into a rockpool by peering carefully and with slow intent.
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I had positive comments about the Cate Kennedy poem, so I'll share another. She has published a few poetry books (and many books of short stories), but these two poems are from The Taste of River Water, and I urge you to buy it if you enjoy her style.
Kennedy is also the person who advises, "Die with empty shelves." This is advice I seriously feel I should live by. Too weak, though; far too weak. Perhaps that's why the second poem I'll post this evening, The Book by Rosemary Dobson, affects me so. Yes, I do know people in the situation of the woman described, but I can also see myself in her situation.
First the Kennedy, transcribed from my transcribed copy.
I am certain that my grandmother once told me of a time, in the 1920s and 1930s, when pilots would land their tiny biplanes in sports fields and paddocks, in suburbs and towns, and offer flights to locals for a fee. Remember the shining novelty of flying in those days, and the thrilling danger! And the poverty.
I'm not as certain that she told me that my father was given one of these joy rides, but it is possible - both the telling and the flight. So, when I first heard Kennedy read this poem on the ABC (and she reads her work wonderfully) I knew that this could very well have happened to Dad.
Joy Flight by Cate Kennedy
My father's stories must be provoked from him
by some landslide of sorrow;
a lost city's foundations revealed by shifting earth.
Only after the death of two brothers
does he relate some childhood moment
of a Sunday after Mass, when a Tiger Moth
touched down on a patch of ground
offering joy flights.
I see them, those three blond boys taut with longing,
that silver machine, the sky.
My father remembers the sum of money required
for the three boys to go up
and his own father's face, closed and abashed,
after he asked the pilot.
He turned away,
and my father steeled himself for the walk home to lunch.
Yet somehow his father was carrying the money,
and somehow he decided.
They flew.
Disaster could have struck,
and sent my grandmother mad with grief.
My grandfather would have been condemned
to watch that, from the ground, forever.
But nothing went wrong.
They flew, and returned safely to the earth, transformed,
an awestruck moment in a poor childhood,
desire made real, a stern father hiding his smile on the run home.
Everyone who witnessed that event is dead now.
My father handed me the story, a small recovered legacy,
glinting and bright with disuse.
Now I carry those three buffeted, grinning children
in their Sunday clothes,
hardly able to believe their luck,
astonished by joy and flight.
I hold this,
in the face of these deaths and these losses,
in the face of all that is forgotten
and revealed by the stark shift of pain and surprise.
I want to carry this talisman carved like a rune
for my father, for my uncles, for my grandfather,
and for that pilot;
for that pure, torn-open moment
where they each slipped free of the earth.
That moment, a ribbon pulled from a trembling mouth,
which tells its truth with such defiance
that everything forgotten will blaze, every joy burnished,
every recollection of unexpected flight shared
and passed from hand to cupped hand,
carried warm next to the skin,
recited for courage.
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Now, the Dobson.
"Die with empty shelves." Admirable. But leave me one book, that I might - when those various plaques over-insulate my tired synapses so that they spark infrequently, indifferently - hold it in my hand, as does this woman-beyond-sadness.
A simple poem, brief, poignant. Perhaps it will sing to you, perhaps not. In my context, I find it impossible to read without coming close to tears.
The Book by Rosemary Dobson
She plucks the bedsheets with uneasy hands
Looking towards the door where people come.
Time runs its snatches of old film for her:
Those unshod country children whom she taught,
The house at midnight, fear - all dreams awry.
Her tears rise, sprinkle, and like rain are gone.
The women talk and tie their belted gowns.
Something that's square is left upon her bed.
She takes it in her hands
Turns it about with pleasure and a cry
As though to say "I know this is a thing
I know, but cannot name."
She lets the page fall open where it may
And smooths her fist over the black on white
Knowing that while she holds it in her hands
She might yet be a person, in a place.
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