The Weight of Irises
Book Sample


I

Ashes

Ashes
All over the world
poets are going up in flames
leaving
little piles of ashes
in the shape of mountains
it seems we do not notice
their going
so much else is ablaze
but the darkness
is growing and
it is not our eyes
who will be here
to help us see?
to be the mole of the wind
reminding us of death’s bright clothes
pointing out
where the stars used to be
from under the glare of so many
busy street lamps


Another Quarrel with the Self

for Alan and Eva

...What precisely is it
About the time of day it is, the weather, that causes people to
note it painstakingly in their diaries
For them to read who shall come after?
- John Ashbery Grand Gallop

Black    low rumble
argument of a thunderstorm
becoming    as it moves towards you
the electric flash
trees distressed as you for once are not
sitting quietly
at a desk before a garden window
remembering the forecast
which called for rain
some things are predictable
though not this inner turbulence silently
contained    already the day encumbered
with strewn garbage and old dogs
buses roaring past
the lightning sparking
while you remain watching calmly enough    beginning
to wonder what the fresh white flowers
in the vase would look like
turned to ash and the green leaves
no longer green    what time the train
departs tomorrow to return you to that place
where they must now be
experiencing the same fat drops crash
and spread    seeing this same forked flame
the bang on the celestial drum but surely
could not be feeling
this    as again the purple
iris is blown over in the pond
and slowly slowly sinks
while you coolly deliberate
whether to rescue it
or not


After Many Sleepless Nights

I

In dreams    ivy grips the stones
stones become dust
death is all around us
your sister’s mind
sprouting tumours
like mushrooms
a future we cannot
begin to contemplate    even
our own    though
the days ahead
seem clear enough
with diaries filled    bills paid
a destination that keeps receding
until you climb the final
hill and the sea spreads out
below you
the town distant
shimmering in summer heat

II

the face of the moon rises
a cooling sun
benign above the big pines
the train stops
a passenger gets off

black currawong
among the fallen red
leaves between the black
bodies of the trees
the persimmon blazes
all its golden flames
catching and holding the wind
I am typing out pain
have almost forgotten it now
another
voice is speaking

III

tonight    the moon
is winnowed with cloud
it hides its face and spokes its
wheel of light
into the dark sky
we are alone
in this vast space
until the day unloosens
memories of the night before
while we slept
some green creature
(a frog?) braved the cold
desert of dry leaves
and spent grass
to leave a fragile lily of eggs
floating like bubbles
in the small pond
where the fish used to be
and now are gone    suffocated
eaten by birds
or grown wings

IV

I have no answers
only regret and ashes
dreams of scratching
thick glass
among the leaves
a window in the earth
hard as onyx
and making no mark
trying to see
down to the depths
never getting beyond
the dull glazed surface
a kookaburra laughs
a small dog barks
every walk here leads to a cliff
red raw teeth collared with green
like some great sleeping
animal half-buried
half exposed under the passing
blue
on the opposite side of the world
you struggle
with your own deaths
(only one of us will know the other’s)
places I cannot imagine
fill your eyes

V

above the pond
a kookaburra waits    staring
down for hours as if
it could will the flash
and movement
of those lost golden scales
while in the neighbour’s yard
a mountain of ash
is still smoking
from the pile of burnt cuttings
and branches lopped
on Anzac Day    flames
reflected in the window pane
for a moment I thought the house
was burning
and leapt up
all morning there had been
crackling and small explosions
I did not recognise
in the icy cold
and rain
such fires are enough
to remind you
how terrible the art
of resurrection


A Single Ascension

Valido per una sola corsa in ascensore L.300
(biglietto - Città d’Urbino)

There are windows
onto every night
some full of starlight
moonlight    some
empty
if I throw open these shutters
an ancient town below me sleeps
terracotta rooftops glow
like embers
in the last rays of the sun
the air is cold and clean
across on the green hilltop
an apple tree blossoms white
and lovers embrace
oblivious to their dying
bells ring the hours
and in my pocket
a ticket
for the single ascension
to this place    where
Raphael walked
on roads that float off
into cloud    all streets meet
beneath the ducal palace    terraces
rooms full of grace and light
of paintings
where cathedral steps
are an alabaster bed
of chambered ammonites
curled like ladies’ ears    all
women are beautiful here
with long
Botticellian hair    dark eyes
here dark cypresses
seam the sky    as if
there had never been
a rift between
heaven and earth


Death of Blue

1

Eyes open
after four days of fevered sleep
a crown of candles
burns on the dresser
twelve blue iris
incandescent
in the morning light seemed
a sign of something
a gift from the world
unasked for
unmortgaged    now
with wild
abandoned wings they fly
and settle like
bright swallows
around the room
send a message I beg
we are!
we are!
they sing

2

Where does one find
a word
for such a blue
this iris-colour that exists
in dreams
where is the word
for flesh of seraphim
luminous as a child’s eyes
would melt
between human fingers
tissue of sky of star
of this earth and not of this earth
O white despair

3

Irises begin to darken
the way eyes do
in certain moods
in certain light
their yellow centres turn
to tarnished gold
they do not lose their petals
as other flowers
but curl back
into themselves
to the place
before they were born
withdrawing
all the blue
from the world


A Moment

for Inez Baranay

Who could forget
the drift of jacaranda blossoms

dropping like blue violet rain
the bright red flower of your mouth!

yet hanging in the wind
like a ticking watch

I decided against flowers
blinded by the glittering sun

certain of the way they fade
so that even the fishermen are leaving

such things are not projections
a person walking past a mirror

turns away or sees another
whose eyes are not their own

but some stranger’s looking out at them
struggling to be acknowledged

the way a rebellious vine
rears up into the sky

as a straight-backed chair
is chaste and severe as death

as a single red leaf glows
in the tree at sunset

like a heart

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