Poem: New room, old photos

Eyes out of focus

in the new room with its old photos

on the peeling walls

a telephone call

a familiar voice

then candlelit silence in

this house of memories.

Incense burns from the pure

altitudesĀ of the Himalayas

(I hear a yak’s neck bell

and see the white crowns

worn by the silent

incomprehensible peaks)

earrings from a street wallah

(a dusty road leads

to the Ganges, pilgrims

and buffalo and bent

white haired women

share it)

a ring from Japan

(a sea of black hair

crowds rising and receding

like a wave into trains, shops, temples

staged photographs)

tigers eye from Scotland

(he unclasped it from his neck

and put it in my hand

candles pool on my desk

sweetness of the

early morning)

the quartz my father gave me

and the shell smoothed

by time

(sunsets over the field

huge silver potĀ of pasta

feet on the

couch under the fan).

You objects conjure

into reality the memories

that compose me

(a halo of darkness

quivers around the candle’s

base and shadows

move gently)

I feel it all

I see hear touch

taste love know





Poem: Memories of Glasgow

I step through a curtain

from light to darkness

inside, everything is dimmed

sounds are muffled

light is dappled

I walk on fallen leaves,

perpetually moist.

The pathway disappears underneath

roots and dead branches.

Through young trees flash glimpses

of giant metal structures

so sorely aware of their difference

from the earth

from alive things.

The ground squelches into mud

I walk over a thin plank of wood

teetering with my arms out.

On the other side

nettle brushes my coat.

The train tracks are close now

I wonder if anyone has died

down there.

Torn shirt impaled on

barbed wire fence,

faded and aged.

The house on the corner

always seems desolate

I can see into their lounge room window

yellow flowers grow

just below it.

Further up the path lives

a pair of forgotten work boots.

They have been here

longer than I have

they stay longer than I stay.