South · Coast · Confessions

These small things;
bus tickets,
old christmas cards
receipts so old the print has faded away,
an envelope with the score
from a game of scrabble,
these small things
wage against me
a vendetta.

They are the minute
but so strong
lines that tie me,
hitch me to my past.
Even as I sift through them
the binds about my arms,
my heart, my mind
tighten, restricting the movement
I wish to make.

A small pink paper heart,
a photograph of someone's car,
a rolled-up, dog-eared program,
the stub of a plane trip.

These things, inconsequential,
tangible, detritus of life
among these buildings,
in this air,
under this sky,
with these people.

It gets harder to leave
with each small reminder.

Kathryn Yeo

Empty bottles on your left.

A steaming pot of apricot jam
simmers in front of you
like a cauldron.

I do not understand
the magic
but I do know
that your magic
is good
for me.

    Imogen McClelland

I've been toying with this idea for a while but it seems to be going nowhere.  The idea is to write a poem about the people who clearly do not fit into their corporate skin on the bus or the train.  I keep asking them (in my head) where they go when they shed that skin, when they become a body on the street rather than a number in a machine.  But I'm having problems getting the poem off the ground and I'd like you to help me.

What questions do you idly ask in you head when you watch people on public transport, when you see the faraway look in their eyes that suggests they are already at home making dinner for their kids, washing up from last night's great dinner and even better sex, wondering how much longer they can survive at that place and work with that dickhead, watching neighbours and getting really into the love life's of imagainary people...

Let me know what you ask and I will form all of our wonderings into one poem.

There are so many ways of saying goodbye.

I could wait 'til morning and wave to you from the kitchen window
Apron tied in a pretty bow in the small of my back,
Spatula in hand, bun in the oven.

I could wait 'til morning and say "hurry home, dear" and kiss you at the car door,
Twin set and pearls waiting to be worn,
Laid out on the bed.

I could roll over to your side of the bed and wrap you in my arms
Press my breasts and legs into your neatly buttoned pyjamas,
give you something to boast about at work.

I could sit with you at the table, watch you drink your coffee
laced with my contempt.

       Imogen McClelland

The sun, falsely warm through the windscreen, made the city seductive.  We both watch it, seeing it through very different eyes.  You won't see it again for months, years perhaps.  I will see it every day with the emptiness you've created.

"It's only an hour from door to door.  It's an easy road to drive," you keep telling me.

You've told me so many things.

In the middle of the table, the Christmas fruit sits as innocently as if this were last year.  You haven't told me yet, but there will never be another Christmas.  Like a shadow, you slip out into the morning, leaving Mum to break the news to me.

We sit together, trying hard not to cry.  I hold on to a mango.

When you return, you look like a beaten dog, and I can't stand the sight of you.

Once upon a time
there was a lonely wolf
lonelier than the angels.

He happened to come to a village.
He fell in love with the first house he saw.

Already he loved its walls
the caresses of its bricklayers.
But the windows stopped him.

In the room sat people.
Apart from God nobody ever
found them so beautiful
as this child-like beast.

So at night he went into the house.
He stopped in the middle of the room
and never moved from there any more.

He stood all through the night, with wide eyes
and on into the morning when he was beaten to death.

       Janos Pilinszky

(One of my favourite, favourite poems.  I hope you find something to love about it too xx)

How do you keep them from falling through the cracks?

How do you keep them from falling through?

Where do they go if you have your hands full and can’t stop them?

What happens to them when they slip through the cracks?

What are the cracks and why mustn’t they fall through?

There are days when I want to disappear somewhere

A crack might be just the place to fall away in to.

Are you keeping them away from something secret and better?

Are you making me perpetuate that secret and keep them out?

Out of the cracks and away from the deeply good things?

Did you ever ask them if the non-cracks is where they want to be?

Being out of the cracks might be only one way of being.

There was a party brewing.

Their shoes all came out of the wardrobes for an airing and trying on.  Little walks around the lounge room reacquainted them with the pinches and discomfort unique to each pair.  It seemed that the general rule was that the more uncomfortable the shoe, the more desirable it was.  

 

Linen tablecloths were scrutinized for stains, suitability, colour.  And it was decided that there was nothing more attractive that bright, clean white.

 

A menu was composed.  Flavours and colours were considered long and hard.  The intention was to build a pyramid of flavour.  They would start out with soft, light tastes from food that had high fat content, balanced by things that were crisp and fresh.  This would build up to food with texture, matched by strong flavour leading to the main course and the point of the pyramid.  The flavours would be sharp and awakening, they would cause conversation to take a particular turn. 

 

Just before the conversation would get out of control, desert would be served.  Old fashioned and homely, the spices used here would warm and calm.  Finally there would be a return to the high fat content food, which would cause feelings of guilt and pleasure and lead people off into the night.

 

Wine.  This would need to be thoughtfully bought to complement each dish.  An idea was proposed and, given the building excitement in the house, executed gleefully.  Six sparkling wines of different makes and vintages and prices were popped simultaneously and tasted by three judges.  The first one to be tried was unanimously liked because it signaled the start of the party.  The second one was deemed to be less chemical than the first.  The third surprised all with its fruit and joy, the fourth did not live up to expectations, the fifth needed to be tasted twice before being rejected out of hand and the sixth caused ripples of laughter and delight. 

 

Much later that night, when there was no champagne left, and they could no longer dance, or even sit up straight, someone realized and commented that in the preparation for the party, a party had been had.

 

And what a party it had been.

I do not know how I will ever impart the understanding that those I am supposed to help have provided me with so much more that I could ever give them. 

I feel a sense of pride when I consider these three people and how they have expanded themselves, tried new things out, been brave, felt their minds growing to the point of pain. 

How can I thank them for the honour of being allowed to witness that, to be part of that?

Fat

Fat hangs off me
heavy icing on a sticky, wet, carrot cake.
I can pick it up, roll it between my fingers,

Each time I pick up a roll
Of fat, I want to eat.
(Yes, I've seen the lumps of lard
the chemist has to scare the fat out of you,
I've even picked one up, but it was not
as soft, as flexible
as the great rolls that swathe my middle).

Fat.
Feel how it drips slowly out your mouth,
Feel it roll like caramel around your tongue,
Feel it fill the cavities between each tooth
And stick to the edges of your lips.

Imogen McClelland

What they don't know is that their feet are visible.

His left foot has come out of his shoe
and his black sock has tiny pieces of white lint
stuck to the toes.

With great care and concentration
he keeps his face still and his eyes
on his talking wife.  His woollen sock
finds the fish-net covered ankle
of the woman sitting opposite him.

Her legs are crossed,
her foot swings gently.
Encased in a delicate stiletto heel,
her foot finds his upper leg.

He is mid-sentence,
adding to the story his wife told,
and shifts his weight,
moves ever so slightly
closer to the table.

The man sitting next to him guffaws
and slaps him on the back.

His face registers surprise.

The heel of her stiletto has become entangled
in a loose thread attached to the chair.
The pointed toe embedded
in his soft inner thigh.

The steering wheel moves against my palms
gently, reminding me that we are travelling,
even though I am rooted to the spot
in our conversation where you found
your twin and said that she
made the world make sense.

I wish I got carsick.
I could've blamed the bile that bloomed
amid the wet green of the South Coast
on the road.

(And you went on
and on about it).

I held the wheel tightly
to steady my head and find my feet
while my world hurled past.

The steering wheel was still
in my hands.
I wanted my head
in my hands. I wanted
your head in my hands
so I could carefully lay it down
under the wheel.