Tuesday Poem - 'Midday Gavotte' by Alex Skovron

MIDDAY GAVOTTE

‘a duet in which the other instrument is silent’  
                                                       — Henry Miller

                             

His fiddle burns in the sun

as the shoppers crowd around to listen,

looking for the hat. He has come

out of nowhere, his teeth are missing

and his oversize jacket

wriggles with the music, and he glistens

with sweat. His violin is lacquered

a brilliant ochre, the bow

dances, and the eyes bestow a regular rapid

smile (not the lips though),

and the little stool that he perches upon

is almost comically too low,

and a second almost identical one

stands empty a foot away.

Just then he nods at the invisible companion,

sniffs, and ceases to play –

but continues tapping out the colourful beat

with his bow; he nods again

and smiles surprisingly, his absent teeth

gaping, as if in pride

at so adept a partner, steals a fleet

inspection of the financial side

of the performance but continues conducting.

All at once he nuzzles high

into his instrument, slyly whispers something

to the second fiddle: with a poetic

toss he resumes his own song, disrupting

the loud silence of traffic,

all the unseen migrations, the mall’s frenzy;

the audience is clapping

as if in appreciation of the tacit cadenza

just concluded – then sever

slowly, diplomatically from the climaxing dancer

 

to go about their day. Weather

is turning: he stops, collects his disconsolate chum

and they walk off the stage together.

Alex Skovron

I finally caught up with Alex Skovron's 2003 book The Man and the Map (Five 

Islands Press). I googled and you can still pick up copies here and there, or if you

bump into Alex around the Melbourne traps you might be able to score one off him,

like I did. That was a great night the Melbourne Poets Union put on at The Architect's

Basement, and I came away with an excellent book. I mean, I knew Alex was a fine 

poet, just I had never got round to sitting down to a book of his. You know how it

is. And now I want more, and I want to hear Alex read his work. I just haven't heard

him read as much as I would like. I often bump into him, like he bought me a coffee

at a reading at Fed Square (I owe you a coffee, Alex, must remember for next time

we meet) but he is not up on his hind legs in front of the microphone as much as one

would wish.

Tuesday Poem - Cargoes by John Masefield

CARGOES

Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,

Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,

With a cargo of ivory,

And apes and peacocks,

Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.

Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,

Dipping through the Tropics by the palm-green shores,

With a cargo of diamonds,

Emeralds, amythysts,

Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.

Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack,

Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,

With a cargo of Tyne coal,

Road-rails, pig-lead,

Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.

Because I am reading 'Now All Roads Lead To France' by Matthew Hollis,

which is about the last years of Edward Thomas, my mind has turned back

to the poets of that time. Edward Thomas seemed to be right in the thick

of the scene, (he reviewed poetry before he began writing it himself -

encouraged on by Robert Frost, who was visiting England with his family),

and all the poets I have ever heard of from that time are in the book. 

Walter de la Mare, Eleanor Farjeon, Yeats, Pound, Abercrombie 

Lascelles etc etc, and Masefield.

'Cargoes' is a poem I came upon at a very young age, and liked very 

 much, I became almost drunk on the sound of the words and the beating

 rhythm, and that final triumphant shout of – 'cheap tin trays'! In my found 

object art making stage I did a piece called 'Cheap Tin Tray”. I've chosen 

'Cargoes' this week because I thought maybe these days the work of 

Masefield and his ilk are not so easily come across. Maybe some people 

don't know it.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Masefield

Tuesday Poem - Two Poems by Claire Gaskin

sandstone shelter

in the language of slammed doors

the loudest slam means acceptance

his palm reminds me of rain puddling

in the plastic chairs behind the flats

I hear the screeching brakes

of a swan etched on a mirror

rank betrayal with the metronome

what holds us together lasts longer than we do

I put my hands into the silences of my pockets

yes

you don't slam the door until I'm two flights down

please find a reason not to self-destruct

my knees are crumbling like sandstone churches

I'm cleaning our house of horizons

the pain doesn't forget my body

I don't fear death, yes invented the wheel

What a strange emotional trip Claire Gaskin's new book 'Paperweight'

(Hunter Publishers) is. I read the whole book in a sitting and it had

such an odd effect on me. I zoned out, as I paid the closest attention.

It was trippy. How does she do that!!??

https://www.penguin.com.au/products/9780987580214/paperweight

Tuesday Poem - Your Mother, My Daughter, And You, Her Son by Jennifer Compton

Your Mother, My Daughter, And You, Her Son

You don't look like anyone I know, and never have.

But your mother was the same, she always confused me.

She arrived in a hectic rush, as did you, and like you had

set up a beachhead, taken a foothold, in a handy uterus,

uninvited and yet adamant, so all a mother can do is submit.

Both of you loved the rock of a horse cantering underneath.

You are more like your mother than anyone else.

For one moment on the 3D pic they took of you in utero

you were the image of your father, your mother tells me

babies do that because fathers need to know, they lack

confidence. Once the dad is safely hooked the child can

express their own unique understanding of the ancestors.

Nobody ever said babies lacked the rat cunning to live.

Perhaps you are like me and I don’t recognise myself.

Who are you like? I need to pin you to the family tree.

From time to time I catch a facsimile of the sweet smile

a maternal great-uncle would deliver as he bent to press

an oddfellow into my palm. But he was stone-cold bald

and we don’t want that. Or the way you run to enlarge

the circle to include everyone puts me in mind of what

my father would have done. Sometimes, because I am

getting old, I call you the same name that I gave my son.

As if I can reclaim him, pop him back into the stroller,

and out into the beautiful morning and down to the shops.

Not that you are at all like him. I do know your name.

No one else, to my knowledge, has been called Nicholas.

The line branches back to the beginning of everything,

there is no one called Nicholas. That I know of. It’s new.

I wonder how many people in the Antipodes read New Welsh Review.

I'm guessing it's not very many. Anyway, I was asked to draw attention

to the issue my poem was in, and this seemed the best way to do it.

The poem came about because I was talking to a friend on facebook

and she said that grandparenting was such a vital part of many people's

lives, but that one seemed to rarely come upon poems about the role.

And I thought – yeah! I haven't written about it.

https://www.newwelshreview.com/article.php?id=752