ALL through the party she stood, saying nothing. Talk fluttered around her; quick gay words Like spring-enchanted birds Darted, their wings flashing with the sheen of laughter. She, a tall young ash-tree, stood there among them As though she were alive with a different kind of life, Slower, wiser, the sap rising surely

http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/struther/glass/glass.html

13653212_288507811508943_2616845183505828596_o

RETREAT/RETURN

The very first poem in Robert Gray’s very first book (Creekwater Journal, 1983) describes his going home. It goes like this:

Journey: the North Coast
Next thing, I wake up in a swaying bunk.
as though on board a clipper
lying in the sea,
and it’s the train, that booms and cracks,
it tears the wind apart.
Now the man’s gone
who had the bunk below me. I swing out,
cover his bed and rattle up the sash—
there’s sunlight rotating
off the drab carpet. And the water sways
solidly in its silver basin, so cold
it joins together through my hand.
I see from where I’m bent
One of those bright crockery days
that belong to so much I remember.
The train’s shadow, like a bird’s,
flees on the blue and silver paddocks,
over fences that look split from stone,
and banks of fern,
a red clay bank, full of roots,
over a dark creek, with logs and leaves suspended,
and blackened tree trunks.
Down these slopes move, as a nude descends a staircase,
slender white gum trees,
and now the country bursts open on the sea—
across a calico beach, unfurling;
strewn with flakes of light
that make the whole compartment whirl.
Shuttering shadows. I rise into the mirror
rested. I’ll leave my hair
ruffled a bit that way—fold the pyjamas,
stow the book and wash bag. Everything done,
press down the latches into the case,
that for twelve months I’ve watched standing out
of a morning, above the wardrobe
in a furnished room.
(Gray 1998, 2)

foto – yacht on clarence river 2009

Advertisements

5 thoughts on “ALL through the party she stood, saying nothing. Talk fluttered around her; quick gay words Like spring-enchanted birds Darted, their wings flashing with the sheen of laughter. She, a tall young ash-tree, stood there among them As though she were alive with a different kind of life, Slower, wiser, the sap rising surely”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s