Читать книгу Mezzaluna - Michele Leggott - Страница 8

like this?

on white you fall

into line

her voice fills

the ground

potato cuts

the sun

dries paints

the deck prints

shapes shadows

of oranges

green

‘cyan and

magenta’

sail

your picnic

sea

into the eye

land crimson

lemons

hand me

the moon

risen rode

rose ride

white

out to see

Watermelon World

she sings fish are jumping

in your room birds ride

around the walls pink is

picking up white cotton

is high diamonds rose and

why one of these days

the picture may be painted

melons sent flying hearts

and stars harm nothing you

care about more than today

27

signature pink, leap

bodily the helix enough

doubled erotic or singing to

say I am energy make

certain my best feints dab

your ever, this is me

An Island

An island for Easter an Easter island

in the pacific Pacific

of the Inside Passage

grounding the dream and dreaming the ground

with the Sunshine Crew

that’s daffodils

and a shack on the water whatever the dream hands out

whatever we can bring

what

ever

these spring nights no-one can sleep days set to roll over

showing long flanks and a bright mammalian eye

Other imaginations fired easily and here we are

headed straight into history

other stories breathing spaces

between the quotidian hauls and the junk we saved

a walk out to the plane at infinity

or a face turned south smiling meridian coordinates

at the sun oh merry days

great circles roll over our heads and we’re breathing even so

the fish can’t tell if it’s

air like water

or water like air

nosing in among the sailing islands

whose hills roll in the gentle swell of the Gulf of

Georgia you sent us a west wind and Florence saying

welcome to Roseland here comes the water

back up the bay through the fruit trees

coming into leaf

walnuts apples veranda pear around the corner

mad with blossom and

the high diver who danced courtship on dynamo wings

all weekend

long

in the orchard

which blew its own scents and those

of the rock breaker

elusive unlikely unreal

to us

in the green cinnamon evening

Canoe sun showers arbutus dropping those honey flowers

into the sea

bird of the other laugh circling above them

and out on the point

cabins breathe in the trees

with the help of that redesigning wind

the pictures we wanted to paint badly

will be tacked up

robin’s egg tender with the yellow blown out

hearts and stars and squalls

rattling through a silver-pen narrative

the strait can do to a count of minutes (fast passages

or ricepaper wash

white sheets and open doors

on closed eyelids (the dream) (the curve

of a dyed egg

a hemisphere

or a line of longitude

my ache for yours

trading in the dim cabins of possibility

for the wingspread facts

of the dream

and so

the whales came in like the naturals they were

throwing off rowboats of improbability

they travelled west with the sailing islands

the world turned some more

and both archipelagos

came up for air

gulf and pool

and eye of the wind palagi blue

grey

green

gulps

of Pacific lilac and the wild red currant

around the headlands

flowers on the water

or

signs of the pace we set

The dark pointer has an Easter face and northwest light

is flooding that outflung arm

of the sea sun gone over the edge

or beyond the hills of the bay

she called him the Sentinel

and he stands between us and the wet light of the Pacific

islands like the moon passing through a phase

he guards this passage

perhaps us

nights in the cabin with the kids asleep underfoot

or listening in the dark

days running for the tops of hills

the ends of points

any place a line might sail in

(that curve

breathing tenderness saying we are so close

need so much

so many times over

we keep moving tangling the lines

and the great distances grow dangerous

unless the wind on your face

is also my breath

in the hollow of your throat

and we go on like that

forever

for good

times feet on the porch rail in the late sun

roasting paschal lamb stuck with rosemary

waiting for the others

the canoe the car

the crab-catchers line-casters lake-finders

the shore-walkers bird-watchers book-readers

letter-writers lily-sniffers

snake-chasers shell-hunters egg-painters

the eaters of spice buns and bacon

(the Sunshine Breakfast warm at the oven door

phenomenal scrambled eggs

the whole crew

coming in now

dice-rollers gin-drinkers hangovers

crowded round the table again

light on their faces reflected Pacific

morning’s say-so

or the sweet chiaroscuro of candles

orange skins thrown on the fire

wood brought in for the night

under the skewed eyes of the woodgrain beast

whose portrait hangs over the hearth

bear dog coyote

or ocean chart for those who flunked the tacky gestalt

who saw only stars

who took islands as they came

here

here

here

and here

and had to be shown eyes nose mouth (Pacific spaces

or head

fins

tail

Te ika a Māui

or the navel of the world away off to the south there

Te pito o te henua

attached by the cords of memory and desire

to the improbable the very delicate the invincible

beginning

‘my’ Easter island

Show me the star charts and I will show you

plans for a future hung between Georgia and Hauraki

Auckland and Valparaiso

Easter and Pender

place where the whales came in

and

space where they used to sing

a future the shape of a bellied sail

twenty eight names for the winds of Rapa Nui

and what matters is the distance they’re blowing into the sail

that it be navigable

to the mind wanting voices (the mid-ocean gam

gathering word

from wherever whatever

walking out on mnemonic extremities

eyes nose mouth navel

to the plane at infinity

takeoff!

The bird-men of Easter Island were egg thieves

and so are we

out in the orchard where the kids hunt what’s left

of the chocolate cache

among the dripping trees

in cold spring

I lie awake before sunrise

even breathing and eyelid curves all around

the crew is dreaming of crabmeat salads and exorbitant lamb

and somehow

a fantasm of island raspberries and double cream gets into the picture

with a flourish of past summerings

and the whiff of a biddable future (is it greed

or appetite

has us out wading the terraces again for the big red crabs

basking on beds of gently waving sea-lettuce

which turns a wistful eye on the great shells

left by the ebb on the bottom of Ella Bay?

a bed of grandaddy clams out there

feasts and delicacies

we come back for

singling out

making sense (and love

of the things

we find

getting hungrier by the moment

or maybe just sure of the victualling stops

I’m happy I’m afraid

Emily’s Sentinel looks out on the sea

and that (improbable) arm has kept the blackbirders out

the depopulators of small paradises

the grid-men with their hands-on madness

who have also covered the Pacific spaces (hold it right there

and might one day come in close (don’t

move a mussel

to make us an offer we can’t refuse

then say

goodbye to the beloved junk the holidays out of cardboard boxes

off weekend crockery

in good company

goodbye to the voyages the small paradises the bellying sail

goodbye and would you let it happen

just catch an early boat and never look back?

Within the month we passed close to the island again

put a glass on the bay and saw

a flag snapping on the whitewood pole of the point

hola!

and the panorama moved right along so that next it was

Roseland’s cabins vanishing

into the leafed-over orchard

so green so sunlit

minimal kinetic glitter in the dancing glass

and the same wind rolling the clouds back off heaven that night

would have shown us the first of ten moons

sliding up over the islands phasing in

the time of our lives

could have told us that love’s growing season

was making another start

a second heart begins to beat

close to the first

Withywind

there will be a story

darkening in the throat

deeper at the edges (now)

wind winds a wound

things we used to do

in this place

not this time

though

winds wind

the traveller returning, welcome

and breath

of hemispheric summers

drudgery the clematis

overlooks

and star wistaria

staring

when you were young,

honeysuckle

there was always

milk

and that

witloose trelliswork

I was busy with

wind

words come so slowly

it has been lonely

a phoenix palm

and behind it

crystalline glitter

another story, waving

plantain paradisiaca a bird

musey with waves

Helicon a harbour cone

here

bright

Greek

over Narrowneck:

head each I am

sweet snow

now

kahili ginger

on a jungle coast

the space junk sails at will

oh hello

think this

into abalone

nacre no body

embraces

acheless or

necklace

wrack free

breaks

reckless

that kissed

detritus whist

forsake and

dance

unsounded

fortune on

wild waves

forsake and

leviathan

never

look back

at the smash

nacreous

deeps

unless

eyes crescent

swimming

ascent

Road Music

Just when you think you’ve made it

out of the bosom

you go back alone

your child asleep in the back

and the road is jammed with ghost Peugeots

grinding over the Mahoenuis

cornering with you in the gorge

the stories burgeon

flying along the coast the parallel track

a two-tone blast at the top of Mount Messenger

brief dark of the tunnel

where the clock turns over

Coming and going the ghosts travel with you

they overlay your rest

it’s her voice calls your child in the pissy Ladies’

at Te Kūiti (Teka Witi)

his red sweater your jersey

your kiss her Kodachrome lipstick

(she hated the song)

the milkshakes are daylight robbery the car plants groves

of plumstone trees the seats go down

at night and the shorter child sleeps on the driver’s side

the cabbages fell of the truck they said

at this corner the very elegant coast of the northern bight

is Monterey your father is the best driver

in the world

coming or going

how we would have driven that coast

your watercolour eyes make it into the scrub in time

a bird wekas off the road with inches to spare

a miss is as good as a mile

This time the white Peugeot

gets there with the rain and tails Datsuns

freighting kids home from winter term

or music lessons

the barley broth is in its third day

boiled clean of its bones thick

with orthodoxy the spoons dredge up and convey

to mouths that have learned a rich language

of gristle and fat

you go out for tea and miss

this last detail of what is utterly familiar

will your boy thank you

for any of this?

did you thank them?

or Beryl and Pat and Joyce

who feed you both and put up with his eighteen months?

You come back loaded with grapefruit, jam, corned beef

a case of green wine

and all the letters you wrote from years ago

it’s an evening warm as your unfinished conversation

lovely to come back to

all the shops are open but he only wants to watch the rocket ride

phoenix crowns whirl overhead

the fish shop has smoked kingfish wings and a hāpuku head

sweet smoky meat

eye delicacies and fin struts to fly on home

and get started again

small and affordable change of season

brings pineapples from the Cooks into the shops

just ahead of Gala apples

there’s a tree in the back yard might be Gala

loaded

he eats off it every day as the wind freshens

pineapple sliced behind the picture window

a boat called Rhyme is beating up the harbour

one on the tree one in the fridge

he’s got it straight already

luxuriance when the power goes off

bodies slip around after the soap the turtle boats and teacups

gleaming by candle-lantern

a song about honey and money another about a hum (a hum)

the mockingbird lullaby that never worked

not everything clears but his names tumble past in the dark

remembering womb and water embrace

there’s holding on (hello) and letting go (goodbye)

there’s getting to the beach and back

Commando M’s with the stink cut out and toes poking through

eloquence

then there’s that conversation pulling on an old sweater now

still waiting as he bangs knife against plate against bowl against cup

an exaltation of toast

big honey on he shrieks I want helping

last night the Silver Slocan nearly beat down the door

its skinny holiday glitter

that air of early Macs Doukhobor cooking and aspens on fire

anticipation of course

Valhalla bacon Lemon Creek Lodge and the cheapie off the window

in New Denver

the map in the head with its unsuspected throughroads

lakes he was changed on the hood of the car in front of

just like, we say and didn’t the time fly

the last stanza almost doesn’t make it

leaps the rising gangplank longlegged pigheaded pleased

to be on board

enjoys the trip the weather the drift into the other end

the new menu will keep

five minutes creased already it rides in a back pocket

reading itself for signs of

his sleeping cheek

Garbo in a Gown

it’s been a pretty ordinary day

I never saw you look like that before

what bit of brilliance gets its start standing in a fruit bowl?

the play should peel tragedy like an orange

she said, and squirt you in the eye

look at me like that

or explode tamarillos under your feet—a little bit of rubbish

it’s not a theory it’s a story

I got up this morning in the dark and heard the cameras

your eyes your eyes—

laughlines, remember?

ran the movie mid-afternoon it left me aching

looked at the moon high up where ice was cracking unseeable stars

ran after you through snow for the kiss

the one of course that blows it all apart—

was that the deeply satisfying meaning of the white dress?

laugh and cry and don’t sleep she said

it went away—it never went away—it was never real—here it is now

sailing the strait straight out of a sunshine breakfast

persevering, wind whipping my face—my hair your face

was it really that long or did you stand closer

than memory allows? what about the trip back to town?

sweet little things in my ears

it’s the sports car through Paris

or mandarin weather right on your sunny doorstep

the half-worlds meet and make it up as they go

first persons second persons third persons

a few irresponsible demonstratives, movie flex perfect

flip tail mad, the gown that hangs in here

(tapping her head, right side) its versions

of the same conversations we’re still stepping into

tingling fingers five minutes into the wintertime dishes

(real warmth) where’s my staircase? is the engine running?

the light in your eyes the way your smile just beams

upside the way you sing off-key

down among the unmade beds the washing the cleaning up

orange peel exploded tamarillo (the carpet the duvet)

pulp, pips, play—still hear the cameras?

Harry Ariadne, your footsteps pace mine

you walk down the hall with me and laugh at absurdities

this hush that the poet is writing again

winged circuits flown by those anecdotal doves

somebody lets out down near the waterfront each morning

you can imagine the sight the whirring

bicameral possibilities exploding everywhere

she knows without looking in the mirror she’s wearing

the dangerous face knows without looking at the tears in the gown

that its roses and unicorns will go on precluding sleep

and smooth getaways she walks out the door

in her pocket there’s a small bright orange