STILL LIFES and INTERIORS

Dutch Kitchen

The sun falls in
warm with tea
and these biscuits,
even the slate flags are warm
under the hooked rag rugs
replicating maps of the old Empire.

The light catches on
the Delft jugs,
radiates the blues and the white
of vases and cannisters,
jugs and saucers.

Warmthe flows
through
some Dutch kitchens.

contemporary miracle

The miracle of taps

which turn on the soul,

let flow inspiration

in gushes and streams,

maybe rusty at first

but always

running clear.

For those who doubt they are poets

Star Struck

Fixed for your moment in the sky’s turbulence,

its rose gold steadfastness

amongst the violet, mauve clouds, its highlights

lost and skipping battering –

our star,

the writers’ star – ‘Evening,’ to Coleridge,

apostrophes to Keats –

certain you could set your course

but for the wheeling of the Heavens,

the dealing of the winds,

the fickleness of clouds,

the waxing and the waning,

the thinning and plumping

of the lemon wedge moon,

the strawberry moon,

the bitter cold sliver of moon

ready for a teacup,

a g & t,

to decorate a fillet of fish

but for the wavering.

Take note of its presence,

fear not its failure,

trust to its shine

even up against the silvered brilliance

of the full moon,

the blue moon, 


the headless moon.

Trust to its rising,

its course,

its setting,

trust to its hovering,

its hiding,

its always taking its place

in the zodiac,

in the galaxies,

the constellations

there in universal space.

Do not ever be deluded

into thinking

things mean less,

that the penumbra

is an after effect

of the source.

CREDO

Immaculate Scone

Cut into three

writhing and relaxing

alone on their plate:

       water,

       air,

the transubstantiation of seed,

the blood of the berry,

the ascension of milk

to dough as well as cream.

Who needs a creed?

Saying Farewell

Memories I Have Never Had of the Maramasike Passage

After this bay, lagoon, gulf …

we approach the confining arc

of trees reaching, clasping.

The passage seems to be

at times

sunstruck then

cool, dark.

We enter

gliding through clear waters,

aware of special peace

undisturbed even

by tidal currents –

they must sweep both ways?

The banks –

closing now –

might offer glimpses

of anything …

perhaps parrots cavorting amongst dark leaves,

a cradled possum, a crocodile

or an abandoned canoe.

We have heard

of people

snatched by tides.

Through it sunstruck through

the cool and dark, through

the more or less dappled

ordinary we sail

the legendary passage.

Shadow lizards dash

water music brushes our ears

for a moment

from the dark

a splash of dancing light

falling from leaf along bough

to glimmer in water.

We are drawn along

between the banks,

the helmsman hardly has to steer.

Our interest forward wavers

in any case

there is no future.

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

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THE WAY WE WERE