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A Poetess. I saw Her Again Today.

29 Aug

The tiny bird has white marks like a
smile.  He’s thinking of insects at
sunset.  I’m thinking about the
tide that’s started slipping
down; down to the
Brisbane.

White feathers
flash.  Another insect dies.

I shipped the paddle
several minutes ago.
He leaps from the branch,
flutters and twists and lands
back on the branch.
He flies a Mobius loop.

Hush.  Round the bend
big birds watch quietly.  So do I.

There she is again.  She walks slowly into
the water in her strong walkers.
Not a sound does she make.
She does not trust her
body.  Her desperate body will
try to save her.  She wears a
big, thirsty coat of
pockets full of stone.

Another insect dies above the bank.

I will come up the creek at low tide
and set the canoe on the shingle.  I
will have a bag tightly tied to me.  And
as the tide lifts the canoe I
will fill the bag with gravel
too small to jettison.

And I will wish it were the River
Ouse.

Down the creek I will go at sunset
as the little bird flashes white,
as the big birds watch her again.
Why do they watch?

Down to the Brisbane, and into it.
Later the canoe will catch on the bank.

My clothes will become heavy and
I will try to trust the gravel and
wonder where the
river
will take me.
I will trust my lungs to suck in hard
wet watery breath.

A little smiling bird will swoop
over my last bubble.

Then, perhaps, my poems will be finished.

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3 Comments

Posted by on 29 August, 2011 in POEMS

 

3 responses to “A Poetess. I saw Her Again Today.

  1. j dub

    23 October, 2011 at 8:45 pm

    I am very proud to say that this poem has been featured by Australian Poet of the Year, Sandra Thibodeaux on her blog. A link appears in the column on the right.

     
  2. Thomas Davis

    3 December, 2011 at 2:30 pm

    You are simply a poet worth reading. I discovered you on John Stevens’ magnificent site, and I am glad I did. This poem has, at its heart, the longing and adventure and searching after a white bird that all poets everywhere fear and long after and find–if they are any good, after sinking beneath the waters, leaving bubbles behind. Sustaining a poem this long is difficult, and you do that with rhythm, meaning, and images made and repeated that keep the reader interested from first line to last.

     
    • j dub

      3 December, 2011 at 6:14 pm

      Thomas, thank you very much for your generous comments.

       

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