THE TRAM CONDUCTRESS DREAMS THE LADY MURASAKI - poem

THE TRAM CONDUCTRESS DREAMS THE LADY MURASAKI

The snow flung and swept by the wind

gathered up against the stone wall of the courtyard –

are the drifts like the waves of the sea she has never seen

but thought of as she gazed at the raked sand

surrounding the cliff rocks in one or other

of His Highnesses’s gardens?

The cold constricted incense

calls her to the baskets the maid has arranged on the tatami.

Too soon there will be a repast.

She must dress, she must move to dress.

At this time, this day, with who is present now in the palace

should she wear the pale blue under the unusual pink cuff

to suggest expectations of spring,

the plum blossom comb for celebration of what is to come?

Let us see what that old maid has placed as suggestions.

She searches the small courtyard again ...

a leaf still outlined with a trace of yellow –

perhaps she should suggest memories of autumn

through the amber cuffed gown – but what beneath?

The cinnabar shawled kimono?

It may not well please amongst all this snow.

Night is so much easier than these difficult casual days

with visitors daring the icy conditions to show their respects

and samurai their considered selflessness.

The maid will come soon to comb out her hair. She should choose.

The sun sparkles on the icicles sill hanging from the verandah eaves,

catches across some crystalline surface –

look the prints of robins over there where it is still powdery -

she must throw them some rice and pork fat.

Where do they hide?

Are they watching her as she does the cat watching them?

Even in these courtyards watching.

The old maid is almost silent disapproving this delay.

She watches as Lady Murasaki Shikibu considers the kimonos in their woven cases.

Winter confines can lead more so to disarray.

Now here she is painted white and red, dyed black,

robed in layers of utmost subtlety or safety or

that treacherous almost indifference.

The old maid can only just stifle a sigh and stoops to straighten the hems.

Suddenly the Lady Murasaki turns,

rushes to fling open the screen, steps across the verandah

and down onto the flagstones

trailing everything

she swings around her hair following.

The robins hidden brown in the branches of the maple

dash scarlet across the air

vanish over the wall.

The old maid carefully places her arms around her shoulders,

leads her back in

and could not stop her proceeding into the hall.

The courtiers, frozen, note the dampness at the hem.

The Emperor alerted, says,

‘Ah the thaw.

Lady Murasaki shows we have had snow enough.’

The old waitress in this cheap café

places the plate of assorted sandwiches and the pot of tea.

‘Here dear. The corned beef’s good,

she does her own pickle.’

Ian MacNeill