<\/p>\n
Mondays Began<\/em><\/p>\n with one plait loose, a pip in your teeth<\/p>\n and late for Geography, lined and blank,<\/p>\n facts to the right, tall stories left.<\/p>\n To sail the heat in a weatherboard classroom boat<\/p>\n with banana and vegemite colouring the air<\/p>\n sargasso green. To ship ten thousand things<\/p>\n on cursive seas to the edge of the known page<\/p>\n \u2014coffee, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves.<\/p>\n To import small desires and grown-up needs<\/p>\n in little packets of time for show and tell.<\/p>\n To carve your name on the prow.<\/p>\n To wait for the bell.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n In the Parlour<\/em><\/p>\n only the French clock answered back.<\/p>\n They sat cross-legged on the Persian carpet;<\/p>\n destinations flashed by<\/p>\n the smell of Marveer, lavender, dusty velvet.<\/p>\n They opened their eyes in the olden times<\/p>\n to fossick under the coffin flaps<\/p>\n of the jarrah window seat<\/p>\n for proper advice from disheveled magazines:<\/p>\n nose straighteners, recipes, posture improvers,<\/p>\n the runt who smoked and the chap who rowed.<\/p>\n They didn\u2019t see foresight\u2019s guarded smile,<\/p>\n they didn\u2019t hear hindsight howl like a dog;<\/p>\n the riddles were wordy, the clues were dumb:<\/p>\n lopped head of a doll, silk wedding sleeve,<\/p>\n gilt volumes, silverfish,<\/p>\n and in the glass case,<\/p>\n untouchable figurines locked away<\/p>\n as grown-ups always seemed to be:<\/p>\n shepherd and shepherdess on their marks,<\/p>\n Wedgwood, Royal Doulton, Limoges?<\/p>\n The real thing?<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Almond Trees<\/em><\/p>\n cover Willunga Plains: like the misty breath<\/p>\n of winter children, the blossom hovers. Dearth,<\/p>\n says the black bark, splits to let scent through<\/p>\n with open questions where when why what who?<\/em><\/p>\n As for that earliest aroma fear,<\/p>\n she\u2019d\u00a0 smell it, taste it, anywhere,<\/p>\n one part in a million, pungent as coffee or smoke,<\/p>\n already there in her mother\u2019s milk.<\/p>\n Against its grey unbeing she caught<\/p>\n at talismans \u2013 black stones on a white plate,<\/p>\n concrete nouns clattering out of thought.<\/p>\n Marking time down the dead-end street<\/p>\n to morning. Why was it always dark<\/p>\n in the quiet hall? Through a memory crack<\/p>\n of light an edge squeezed round the door:<\/p>\n regret to inform stop missing in stop<\/em> the air<\/p>\n elliptic with tracer fire, familiar eyes<\/p>\n glancing away, prismatic as flies\u2019.<\/p>\n Voices crept and huddled, where\u2019s Daddy\u2019s girl?<\/em><\/p>\n He did come back, but who? They could not tell.<\/p>\n Collections began. The tang of foreign coins<\/p>\n lent her a lingo and currency for the unknown;<\/p>\n Brother stuck down squares of expedited<\/p>\n love with serrated edges. And they were invited<\/p>\n to a fancy-dress ball with games of us and them.<\/p>\n Father could not come for he was lame<\/p>\n and Mother had to watch and wait not play<\/p>\n so they learned dolls and trains and night and day<\/p>\n and Snakes and Ladders and Hide and Seek.<\/p>\n Knight\u2019s gambit. Castle your king. Check.<\/p>\n And when the black door opened and they knew<\/p>\n threshold was famished, Brother stepped through.<\/p>\n Now fear had her ID and her address.<\/p>\n Best send an invitation. Tell her guest<\/p>\n the lightest thing she served would ward off harm \u2013<\/p>\n a stick, a stone, a cloud of white perfume,<\/p>\n thought itself, needing a go-between<\/p>\n to say \u2018this fragrance is like newborn skin,<\/p>\n these quickening trees, like Mary\u2019s aging cousin<\/p>\n conceiving all baptism out of season\u2019.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n She Collected Dictionaries<\/em><\/p>\n as other women take up men<\/p>\n and shelve them:<\/p>\n manuals, grammars, Teach Yourself<\/p>\n German, Malay, Italian, Swahili, Welsh,<\/p>\n like a passion for clothes that would hang<\/p>\n unworn in the dark,<\/p>\n for peridots, garnets, amethysts, pearls<\/p>\n in a shut case, nouns declined.<\/p>\n Each unknown word shone with delicious fire<\/p>\n and the alien phrases silked her skin<\/p>\n with their genders and connotations.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n She might have been the end house<\/p>\n on the waterfront of Macau<\/p>\n welcoming every sailor in.<\/p>\n But the longing for many tongues<\/p>\n to part her lips \u2013 si, igen, ja,<\/p>\n ah oui, yes, yes \u2013<\/p>\n was departure\u2019s smile,<\/p>\n a leaning to the wind<\/p>\n that sweeps a glitter of light<\/p>\n across the sea and sets a silvery chill<\/p>\n at the neck. Quick, to those books<\/p>\n guarding the mantelpiece,<\/p>\n ISBNs snug as a span of days;<\/p>\n to bread and fruit and sparkling wine.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n She had been given a cyclamen with scent,<\/p>\n some new trick that married violet and rose,<\/p>\n as if a flower should yearn to sing<\/p>\n and the pink timbre tremble<\/p>\n into quietest words.<\/p>\n She touched her flesh and knew<\/p>\n that it would fade as speech did<\/p>\n and did not.<\/p>\n And yet it was not language that she sought,<\/p>\n nor the music of any meaning.<\/p>\n An old allegiance drew her on<\/p>\n beyond the first ground of thought<\/p>\n and the idea even of silence<\/p>\n to the fifth season which must at last return<\/p>\n with its weather of recognition<\/p>\n and its lost ends.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Jan Owen (Australia, 1940-), from Poems 1980-2008<\/em>, John Leonard Press, 2008<\/p>\n To buy the book: http:\/\/johnleonardpress.com\/?p=151<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"