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When
all the light (and
I mean all) comes
to this sea
the
wind from the north a
gentle message in
a clear sky
we
see the shimmering the
silver in
riches
A
change of
light a
conflagration.
A
celestial breath in
the firmament,
it
is possible to hear the
sound of stars in
winter.
On
the 4th of September 1995 I
returned to an empty house, a
wall of anger ran through me and around me.
It
took a week for the wall to crumble, standing
at the cash register at work the
sobs rose up from a well way down low.
For
4 hours I sobbed and howled in
the office out back of the store, Evelyn
the manager came and went and
when she could - just sat and listened.
3
days later my mother and father arrived for
2 weeks they stayed their
child, the grown man needed care
mother
cleaned all the shelves and cupboards cleaned
all the clothes and ironed shirts father
tried to find me answers but
in the end - just sat and listened.
After
they went home, the house slowly lost their comfort, shelves
and cupboards returned to slight disorder one
by one ironed shirts were worn, never again to feel the same.
Hanging
in its place I left one shirt untouched, now
and again I would open the wardrobe to
feel my mother in the sleeve.
—————————————————-
10
years later we are speaking on
the phone about the children, all
of them young men now and mostly independent
you
talk about wanting to see them more often but
itÕs hard to arrange, you tell me about your new man and
how things are working out.
In
a moment of candor you speak of the past confessing
it should never have happened.
Who
would have thought that in the end it
would be me, who just sat and listened.
A
change of mind a
change of heart a
step this way or
that a
moment held or
given a
step away from light naive
or dark.
Is
choice an
invitation and
if so by
whom or
what - to
dine on evidence of
others whoÕve - made
their bed to lie.
Those
millions - thoughts
that lead to actions now
or down
the track - and
then this what
if that to
pick up to
put down to
left to right to
leave to stay and
on until a
path or paths are found or
trod or
followed.
If
everything is choice what
is not -
to step from instinct to intuition -
to love my wife -
to love my children -
to love the god of life -
to say this.
The
barometer of heart the
judge and jury of the
mind the
guides the
angels assisting and
the thoughts that
tend to lead to
actions that
tend to lead to
feelings that
tend to lead to thoughts
which sometimes are
discoveries that
tend to lead to
choices down
the track.
The
map of my life can
only be seen by
turning my
head to the south and
with the benefit of
hindsight I
see I am and have been passenger
and pilot messenger
and message drawing
and the drawn but
with this I
must ask is
it that I am also a
choice and
if so by
whom.
We
were sitting in the study in the wee hours you
on the couch me
leaning back in the office chair our
speech soft and humble.
I
could see through the hall to the kitchen, into
view stepped the King of Rats he
halted when our eyes met holding
for some moments.
Snake-like,
his tail wrapped several times around the room. His
gaze regal, considered me with no trace of fear while
mine was possibly one of surprise and
slight supplication.
Unhurried
he stepped off left
the room and went on up the hall -
I did not follow. You
asked me who IÕd seen yet
in yours eyes I saw you knew the answer.
Later,
servant like - I mopped the floor as
if, on his return - chambers would be ready.
With
each sweep of the mop I could hear them building; a
rifle-crack of hardened wire a
snap of small bones breaking an
aftermath of silence
the
sounds of uprising.
His fixed black eyes, like a womans turned to their sorrows - eight metres down in a hole dug for concrete.
His workmates calling from the rim see and hear only his nothingness - Ōbut he was just here a second ago".
His neck a broken spirit, fingernails torn away where he flayed against the earth falling infinitely for one and half seconds.
The young concreter, his glide work carefuly finishing the edge of the slab - stepped back to admire the reflected perfection of the sky.
His mother will receive the news before the slab is no longer a mirror, she will see him falling and think of the last time he called, - Ōbut I only spoke to him yesterday".
I
woke at 2.30am and left you sighing gently as you slept, checked
the trap but found only droppings on the floor I
set it again and hoped the rats would leave -
I would prefer not to kill anything.
The
dog mawed and moaned at fleas, rubbing its back against the rail on
the verandah, it
settled when I whished it back inside to sit (my mouth made that wist
noise, the
one you know the dog will hear but wonÕt wake the sleeping).
I
lay on the red couch in the study and read Ray Carver. A
return to Carver simplifying me. If
not by sleep I was comforted by his weave of innocence and knowledge.
Ray
started writing poetry in the year I was born (1957), I
donÕt know why I mention this, perhaps I feel him like a kindred spirit
and am impressed by even the slightest connection.
Between
the living and the dead are the sleeping. But being at rest is
no excuse for ignorance. Ray is at rest - some 18 years. But
his poems like me are alive and breathing.
The
magpies begin their morning carol as I return to bed just before dawn. Your
breath and skin have waited for me. When
I wake again I
am grateful our poem continues.
where
cedar creek falls love
of river rock stands
my
gaze follows one
wayward drop sent
further by
the breeze
the
story of
this place is
kept by the rill and
told by cicadas who
chorus in screams
she
sits slightly
away I
see her back and her
hair
and
the delicate way her
feet touch
the water
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martin challis @ 2005