EDITORIAL
Welcome to the seventh issue of Five Poetry Journal. David Adès (Australia/USA) discusses family, intimacy and the weight of ‘poignant knowledge’. Siobhan Harvey (UK/New Zealand) explores linguistics, nephology and bird life, as well as the sumptuous Maori language and its significance to every day life in that beautiful part of the world. Christopher Oie Keller (USA) extends the bird theme as we enter Wallace Stevens territory in his homage to Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird. And from there our minds take to wandering inside myth and fable as both Christopher and Michelle Hartman (USA) journey to sensual and forbidden places. James Waller (Australia) concludes this issue with a poem for fellow poet, Ian McBryde, and an affectionate piece about twilight in Melbourne, Australia.
Enjoy!
Libby Hart
DAVID ADÈS
Beyond the reach of lights…
David Adès is a poet and editor from Adelaide (Australia). He moved to Pittsburgh (USA) in April 2011. He has been a member of Friendly Street Poets since 1979. His poems have appeared widely, including over twenty Friendly Street Poetry Readers, as well as literary magazines such as Island, Blue Dog, Wet Ink and Studio to name but a few. Recent poems have appeared or will soon appear in Red River Review and San Pedro River Review. His collection, Mapping the World (2008), was commended for the Anne Elder Award.
SHORTCOMINGS
At one, my daughter already knows
the innate loneliness of beds.
When she wakes in the night
it is to punctuate silence,
it is to assert being in the darkness.
Sometimes she grunts, rhythmically,
struggling to free her arms
from the bedtime wrap,
the restraints closing her in.
Listening, I can make out
the muted sounds of her hands clapping,
her occasional quiet sing song of the dark.
More often, she wakes crying,
crying the forlorn cry of the abandoned,
the wail of the lost.
She doesn’t know yet
the cosy doziness of sheets and blankets,
the comfort of tangled limbs,
of spooned bodies.
She doesn’t know the bed’s emptiness,
its days lying in wait, the dreams
that can be no more than dreams.
She knows only the primal absence
that always returns.
In her cries I hear
the remnant echoes of my own cries
following me through the years
and the poignant knowledge
that from this, too,
I will be unable to protect her.
NIGHT TRAWLING
On moonless nights
—the sea a calm and seamless dark—
I let go the day, the shore,
all frantic cogitation,
and drop anchor, moor,
beyond the reach of lights.
I bend my back
and cast my net—great yawning mouth—
to trawl my currents, my sleep,
those fragments of forgotten
daytime deep,
adrift like plankton, glassy black.
I am lured here
by reefs of memory and desire
—a rich, a jagged hiding place—
by the warm susurration
of dreams’ embrace,
the hint that love is near.
When the moon flares
the dark, volition scatters,
slippery and glinting, like the
silver flash of fish in mid-turn.
Memory shimmers
and gleams its pointillist wares.
I wake gasping, spent,
caught in my own net.
REMEMBERING
for Elizabeth
In memory’s camera obscura
fishbowl perspective
inverted shifting
clouded by clouds
by time’s dusty fingerprints
I look for you
not just imprint or image
not just still life
I look for you
three dimensional in motion
your voice your laughter
smell of borscht on your breath.
I look for the friend you were
in your youth
your cloak of kindness
all of you (as I knew you then)
without wounds
with fissures concealed
before the pain
of your birth.
MORNING
It is the light seeping in:
its light fingered touch
upon my face,
the baby finally asleep between us;
and behind the light,
bird-calls, a car driving by,
rustle of sheets, your alarm’s buzz,
fatigue’s reluctant ebb.
You rising then,
and both of us
hoisting ourselves on the day’s shoulders—
to be carried again
into the day, like babies,
looking around,
trying to take it all in.
SIOBHAN HARVEY
It starts as a star, blazing and nuclear…
Siobhan Harvey is a New Zealand poet. She is the author of the poetry collection, Lost Relatives (2011), and the editor of Words Chosen Carefully: New Zealand Writers in Discussion (2010) and Our Own Kind: 100 New Zealand Poems about Animals (2009). In 2011, she was runner-up in the Landfall Essay Prize and Kathleen Grattan Award for a Sequence of Poems. She was also a guest writer at the Ubud Writers and Readers Festival in Indonesia and spent the year working part-time as an editor for The Poetry Archive (UK). Siobhan’s author page will be launched on The Poetry Archive in 2012.
THE GIFTED NEPHOLOGIST GOES TO SCHOOL
It’s all a matter of perspective: how altocumulus cloudlets above Awhitu promise a nest
of fernbirds; stratus gliding across the surface of Foveaux Strait suggest muttonbirds
migrating; and stratocumulus flurrying snow over Okarito might be kotuku in flight.
These are the things I think I see when my son reads to me, a dictionary open like the
face of a planet. Pareidolia he reads, p-a-r-e-i-d-o-l-i-a. It means…
It means a teacher’s search for definition. He won’t listen she says. He answers back she says.
He stares out of the window, watches clouds. It means seeing synchronicities that may
or may not exist in the things that shape his curiosity: a tornado birthed in Botany Downs; Jesus’
face appearing upon a tortilla; the Man in the Moon; the Monkey Tree phenomenon.
Do improbability, angle and atmosphere coalesce in my son as if they are rising thermals
fomenting cumuli? Does his mind imagine cloud in the same way it invents language?
Iage amage feedage peckage he says scattering seed at chooks, then points to nimbostratus.
Like birds wearing police hats he says. Like Christmas trees walking;or wisps of cirrus, like a
ladybird eating cheese he says. Like a cloud-mother holding her son’s hand.
I wonder what cloud-mother thinks when cloud-son says no one wants to play with me. Does
her cloudy heart dissolve too? Does she spill drizzle as she considers genetics and
remembers how, as a lonely girl, she watched while other children played?
I wonder what cloud-mother thinks when cloud-son draws a map of the world and
cloud-teacher glimpses the fluffy terrains of Aotearoa, Australia, China, Russia and the
Arctic, then says I see mummy helped you with this. Does cloud-son cry torrentially too? Does
he grow, like cumulonimbus, into a storm threatening to break?
Here are other synchronicities: each cloud is an outcast child befriended by a label—
‘gifted’, ‘difficult’, ‘troubled’, ‘trouble’; each cloud exists at the edge of its emotions and
obedience; each cloud knows all there is to know about Paleontology, Egyptology,
Astronomy and Nephology.
It’s all a matter of perspective: how school isn’t like Awhitu, Foveaux Strait, Okarito or
places where clouds are spoken of like propellers, like woodpeckers, like whales, like great barrier
island, like little barrier island; how school isn’t land upon which people like my son can
gather to stare at heavens illustrated by clouds
and see more than air and water
elevated.
THE GIFTED LINGUIST INVENTS LANGUAGE
Not code composed in ink, ether-screed or decibel, the word is
skin, blood and teeth. It starts as a star, blazing and nuclear.
In time, it will evolve into something like Wingding, all symbols
and screeches. Regardless, expressing affection is fixed like the sun.
Even now, change is upon us. We wake to familiarity—
stock-markets burning up huge mass like supernovas;
riots, fierce as red dwarfs, in Paris, Athens and London;
the gifted linguist translating hieroglyphs and Arabic
over the morning babble about uprisings in Egypt and Libya.
Then, from some future galaxy, travelling by speed
of light or across a wormhole, a new language,
Xeplos arrives brightly lit in his mind.
Eno is no; ess is yes; ans is can; Mesas is Mummy…
Adjectives, nouns, tenses and verbs tumble
like stardust from his tongue.
Squeezing out light, new language replaces the clock.
Consuming us, new language steals particles of our lives.
In its perfection, we draw closer to our uncertain future.
As we do so, we hold onto space, uncluttered
by words, tight as hope—moments of
deep thought; pauses between infinite questions;
the cavities opening when books are read.
These silences transport us elsewhere.
These silences keep us as we are.
TO A COCKROACH, AOTEAROA 2011
I imagine you brighter than butterfly, winged
dancer of Indian summer, or lodestar, death-
headed dazzler of rainforest. But here,
you’re more dull fabric, threading together,
interstitially, brown Porchester Street staties
and sienna walled Princes Wharf apartments.
Great leveller wherever, you carry your whakapapa
like an exoskeleton: head, thorax, abdomen, memories
of ancestors who fought for Gaba Tepe, landed at
Poverty Bay, navigated Kupe’s constellations and,
with tuatara—and weta-like fortitude, felt earth made
electric by Carnosaurs voracious dash. Now, at twilight,
you’ve turned to us, ravening, antediluvian, bone fractured us,
who tend to you with aerosols or rolled-up newspapers
even when you’re sharing with us your wardrobe, food, home.
But there are moments when light falls upon you,
perhaps during December’s late afternoons,
the breath of the land reaching out to us across
the ledges of open windows, when we pause, remember,
feel the heavy weight of our spines, the lethargy in
our skeletons, our psyches’ loneliness and doubts,
and so we stop, release our grip upon the fine-print
or liberate index fingers from the aerosol nozzle
and allow you and your mokopuna to carry on.
TUI
Their dense percussion rolls
in as thick morning fog
spirits the land away. Primordial,
sonic note-clusters and whistling bells
amongst smoke disorient me:
the lament of moa seems
to float above raupo and kuta;
the swish of waka through water seems
to tremor the harbour.
Then, in sudden harmony,
vapour rises, sound evaporates,
land appears. The day progresses
to limpid sky, high sun
and tui’s turquoise quivers
echoing across the surface of all.
KUAKA
Now you’ve returned
to the land of migrants, I see
your arrival as a celebration,
bright as early pohutukawa flowers.
I plant you against the evening sky,
turning fiery, your plumage like that
of sunset, fireflies, a constellation of birds.
I notice the Phoenix nesting
near the Southern Cross,
and sense you, wanderer,
waiting to rise again.
CHRISTOPHER OIE KELLER
He uses the thirteenth to begin a nest…
Christopher Oie Keller is a US poet who earned his MAT from Western Oregon University and now substitute teaches in Portland, Oregon. His work has appeared or will soon appear in numerous publications such as Poetry Quarterly, Leveler, Fogged Clarity and The James Dickey Review. He also co-runs the poetry forums of DryTear.net.
BLACKBIRD WAYS OF LOOKING AT THIRTEEN
B
Snowflakes fall so slowly the blackbird can count
each unique one. The unique ones
number ten and two.
L
The seeds under the snow number
thirteen, if the blackbird could count.
A
After the birthday party, there are two dozen kids
with balloons, a predictable number of balloon strings
are snagged on the blackbird’s tree. He
uses the thirteenth to begin a nest.
C
Thirteen days after the blackbird’s poem is
rejected, he wonders if nest making
is worth it at all.
K
A typical day brings thirteen other birds
in direct contact with the blackbird. By direct,
the blackbird of course is speaking within
thirteen metres, as the blackbird flies.
B
Wallace Stevens is disappointed in the blackbird.
He was supposed to be better than this.
I
The blackbird is always an unlucky guest.
In poetry, he is often mistaken for the raven.
In airports, he is strip-searched.
He finds this a grievous error.
R
College: a place a blackbird can be con-
sidered full time for taking thirteen
credits, if he gives proper credit to sources.
D
Four letters away from perfect, the blackbird
could never quite count.
CENTURIONS, ALWAYS CENTURIONS
The centurion’s hair is turning to spices,
his beard a stony outcropping—the kind
the brave veer towards on a hike—his eyes
have the hard kindness of mercy, a regular flaw.
The old armour is not rusty; still it reeks
of caked blood and his own tired sweat,
the death of the leather now a faint
memory, the original animal an imagined one.
He has gone and told to go, he has commanded
hundreds, tens of husbands, he has comforted widows—
wives have comforted him—women are no
stranger to him though he is rugged,
but loose women rub rugged faces like chaste
women rub their shoulders. Apprehension always
a victor. But his eyes have shifted; the centurion’s
hair is sage, pepper; it is time for the hike.
MICHELLE HARTMAN
Passion must have meaning…
Michelle Hartman is a US poet. She has been published in Raleigh Review, San Pedro River Review, Main Street Rag Journal, descant, The SHOp and Illya’s Honey to name but a few. Her work has also been included in the anthologies, In Walt McDonald Country; The Weight of Addition; Big Land, Big Sky, Big Hair; Above Us Only Sky and Venom Kiss. She was a juried poet in the 2009 Houston Poetry Festival. She is the editor for the online journal, Red River Review.
BY THE WAY
I have lain
with the wolf
in verdure forest
the one you warn
fervently against
any contact
Forgive me
he was strong
warm
his tongue a rasp
ENTER THE FROG
a promise of transformation for him and for me
an offer of salvation if I believe hard enough
slime devil tool and familiar of witches
symbolic of inquisitiveness, inspiration, renewed birth, vanity and pestilence
purveyor of false promises, misleading the beautiful and damning the ugly
good to eat when fried just right
SNOW PROJECT
crisp noon light bounces off snow
cascades in frosty windows
deer nuzzle corn put out yesterday
today perfect to sort your library
books stacked in ionic columns
wordy wonderlands
we step around
our words careful
gingerly avoid disaster
I read to you passages of
Jane Eyre
Forsyte Saga
Wuthering Heights
you read scenes
from Old Man and The Sea
Last of the Mohicans
your passion must have meaning
purpose
by evening we clear the rug
near the fireplace
pour glasses of mead
winds rattle the window
I am lost in thoughts of Mr Rochester
when I feel your lips
on mine
a new story
JAMES WALLER
Words burn softly…
James Waller is an Australian painter, sculptor and poet. His visual work has appeared in the Sydney Opera House, St Patrick’s Cathedral and the Kasmir World Music Festival. His poetry has appeared in Page Seventeen, Eureka Street, Stylus and Melbourne Reflections, as well as on radio and television. http://jameswaller.org.
YOUR VOICE
for Ian McBryde
Softly burns
The stillness of your voice,
Softly as a rain
Of shadows
Falling upon a fire,
Softly as a grave
Of floating words
Dreamt for the departed
And softly as a slow emergence
Of fresh blue lightning
Travelling between frost and flame.
Your voice is a monument
Of fallen ruins
Cast into the sea,
Absorbed into its emerald gown,
Into its quiet, fuming mass
And disappearing into its ageless body
Of mysterious, golden loss.
Your words are embers
Flaring in the darkness,
Your words are coals
Blackening the light,
Your words burn softly
As newborn fires
Breathing
And dying
In your palm.
MELBOURNE DRIFTS
Melbourne drifts
Into twilight
Soft light prays within the clouds—
A rosary of finch gold farewell.
The road is grey
The clouds deepen in banks of dusk—
Towers of Prussian blue
Sailing in the ether.
The calico is dark—
A ribbon of Veronese thunder.
The blanket of the walls
Ensigns the hermetic fate of night—
A pillow of darkness shining
For the songs resting
Upon the quiet drift of Melbourne.
