Nicolette Stasko

The time for flowers has passed
and we are left with each other
the hard and the soft of it
I am your mother
nothing else is clear
between you and me.

I take you out in the sun
pale grub
dug out of dark earth
birth sadness seeps in.

Your soft breath flickers and
I am like an eye
closing against pain
a progression of faces,
all of them,
none of them, yours

We are like reeds by the sea
a lattice only
at the whim of storms, the seasons,
a basket holding sky,
at times empty.
...

I dreamt
last night
of dying

my daughter
moved around
my house

handling this
picking up
that I

lay in bed
or in air
watching

trying to tell her
which meant
something

what was kept
through habit
or poverty

I wished
nothing
frayed or old

for her
to remember me
and desired

all my fripperies
and foolishness
gone

and then
she found the desk
its drawers

full of papers
old letters
poems
...

My address...
sure its Tarcutta
just turn left
the first dirt lane
past the north side
of town
you'll see the bees
the hives I mean
rows of them
got forty four now
The car... well no
its a truck
'68 Dodge painted green and
not a scratch
as good as the day I bought her
well not so green now
sun's hot out Tarcutta way
and well...
there is a ding not too big
about the size
of my fist here
well... maybe my arm or leg
but its just the one
got it that day
after the pub celebrating
buying a new hive
turns out the bees were still in it
must have liked the box of plums
I bought from Thompson's
(the wife's jam making you see)
on the front seat
whole swarm of them
flew in the window
well what can a man do
when he's stung
straight into that big gum
you know the one
corner of the turn-off
to Jugiong
you want to see it...
here on my neck they were
and on my back
oh...you mean the truck
'68 Dodge's just about the best
don't have it with me though
got a ride with Cory
then walked the rest
its a long way
well... I don't have a license
do I
you'll believe me?
sure 'No Damage' I'll sign
what's all this other stuff...
I'm a pretty slow reader but
if I sit down and
think it through
I can do it soon enough
take your time I say
helps to use a ruler
Yeah... $2000 I reckon
its worth
the DUI will be up in October
no Wrigley was sick it was a state
cop last month
got me
coming back from Kingy's
full but not that full
bad luck
but I'll be wanting to take the bees down
Bateman's Bay
the tea-trees will be
middle of
flowering then
...

They must still be around somewhere, those old things.
C. P. Cavafy ‘The Afternoon Sun'
Another birthday
card from my sister
nine days late
I rescue it from
the rain-soaked box
on the envelope
a customs slip
I misread ‘pen'
for ‘pin' then feel the
lump with my fingers and all
my years
this moment's utter loneliness
inside
a cheap brooch red and gilt
ballet slippers
slightly chipped
and I whirl
back eons to
my dancing days
when I was eight or seven
and dancing
was everything
the shock is like
a blow to the head
or the wind knocked
out
I breathe deeply
and read
in my sister's curlicue hand
"Remember this?"
It's not
the first time
she's done it
given me back what was mine
I can't figure out
where they come from
how she conjures
them up out of boxes or air
or dust
is it possible
my mother has succumbed
at last mistaken
her daughters completely
and given the wrong one
the other's past?

and now my sister
feeds it drop by drop
transoceans
back to me
...

Apparently
every room has dead air
something to do with the sound
and each unique
I am trapped inside
like the air
swimming in gelatine clear
extract of hoof and bone
it is the fourth day
I follow the ritual
precisely
trailing the sun
as it moves around the house
testing the panes of glass
with my face
for the exact moment
of opening or closing
drawing the blinds pulling
the curtains shut
I can tell the time
on this heat clock
like a midwife I long
for some kind of birth
watching steam
from the kettle rise
to the skylight
like a sacrifice
...

People who do this are always working. They are not
ashamed to appear idle.
Zukofsky ‘Poetry'
Day 1

The grace of day wasted
through infirmity
and lack of will
with nothing left
to do but walk
I have no map
the steep path leads down
to an unknown place
a thick marsh bridged over with planks
two boys' shining heads
just visible between the reeds
intently bent on catching
frogs or fish
debris of cockatoos the broken seeds
and scoured leaves
under all the big pines and gums
one's black trunk
furred with a fine bright ruff
of green then
the scalded cliffs and thick-treed
valleys cradling cloud
I carry the shock of neon-purple berries
like miniature eggplants glowing
in the gloom of the rainforest
a currawong wing
shorn clean off
lying on the ground
as if pointing a direction
through the vast expanse
of deserted golf course
the clipped and cut order an oasis
and yet here I am lost
if this were a dream
I might think there was some
meaning
but I am wide awake
at least the day redeemed



Day 3

The wind continues to tear at the trees
batter the house
then subsides as it has this moment
everything waits a besieged town
for the next assault
we are tensed holding our breaths
last night our sleep disturbed
by a knocking at all the windows and doors
trying to get in
bringing us dreams of poems
that will never be written
and hover over our poor heads
like soft wings
mothers' voices singing
to their lost youth
the light above our beds
was golden and black
and we could not wake nor grasp it
the spirit shivered
and turned one way
then the other
until all the places were used up
and what was left
was the awful roaring
still trying to get in


Day 4

Last night low clouds drifted
back and forth
the house sailing
among them as if at sea
we sat before a fire
and talked of infinity—
of death where all that makes us
what we are goes
yesterday morning
a black cockatoo
sat on a branch outside my window
I could see its red crest
the day grey marked by rain
mist like ghosts moving between
the huge trees
voices the sound of bird cries
today I woke to find
the sun shining
and I am more alone than I have ever been
death is not the problem
nor nothingness
it is the shadow
existing side by side always
with the light
that the rose is not enough
that the soul is lost to itself a feeble creek
flowing into brackish weeds
...

Meditations on Cézanne
I
The blue vase leans
a little
to the left its ruffled lip revealed
as if a lady's petticoat
it is a blue we love proving
there is innocence
three tentative apples
trying to keep from sliding
across the slanted tabletop
shyly huddle
closer
to what may be heaven—
a blue-rimmed plate and ink
bottle clearly secretive
then we realise this is a tilting world
the weight of irises
pulling everything away
from the centre
in spite of the red heart
pinning it like an arrow


II
Here is water

how strangely the bather places
his hands
upon awkward hips
elbows right angles quietly
quartering the canvas
and steps hesitantly from the
solid rocks into
a liquid world of pearl blue and opaline grey as if
he fears some dissolution
this is not a swimmer
but half a land creature
with its thin arms and narrower shoulders
above the powerful legs
of a bicycliste used
to controlling his element


III
Seated in a chair which rises like a flower
out of the deeply patterned rug
at once the sea
and a field of waving poppies
a pink and gilt chair no less amazing
than the half turned figure in black its cushioned arms embrace
alive with fondness
the eye takes in hands entwined fingers become
many-limbed animals coupling
and down the angled legs
crossed casually to the slippers one not quite but almost dangling
from the relaxed and jaunty foot
those soft old slippers which say everything
we may have missed
the face
but never the red pear shapes
distracting the wallpaper behind it
or the elaborately framed pictures
or the little chest of drawers'
warm brown marquetry


IV
It is the eyes
and the dark mouth enclosed within
a pod of blue a shadow
always behind
the left shoulder
wherever we walk
we can feel it there
terrible and light
as the mist above a lake in morning
grey of such tenderness
if we could only turn!
the crosses hanging around our necks
would not be so heavy
and so strange
hands which lie
like weapons in our laps


V
The peace of apples

an ivory-handled knife waits patiently
a level horizon everything
is as it should be
stillness
of clear water in a glass

grapes like an army of children
tumble in a bowl
afraid of nothing
we can hear their shouts and the gentle reprimands
of their teachers
standing quietly by

rounded shapes achingly imperfect
how they all belong to each other!
red as the glow through closed lids
or between fingers held up to the sun
pale spring and yellow green a soft evening sky
full of the winging of doves


VI
The yellow straw hat sits uneasily
ridiculously
on the head
full lips and sliding eyes
in a fleshy face we recognise
as one of our own
even though the black coat takes up too much space
and we are ashamed
such grossness feeding on the innocent
eating up too many entirely
certain of its place in the universe
the background recedes ears burn and eyebrows arch
we must never forget this is
a painting not a portrait however
it seems to be one
a hat assumed only for the sake
of contrast against the grey
but it is a business to make
meaning where there is none


VII
How much like sticks the leafless trees of winter are
it takes
all of the little faith we have
to keep believing they will blossom again
at the coming of the sun
here trees are frozen black and unforgiving
yet lithe as a group of dancers
waiting for the notes to begin
a spangle of ice coating their limbs

from a distance an impassive mountain watches
shadowless green of the grove


VIII
It is a time
the clock with no hands massive and black its white face
has become pure as God
floating above the white shroud
draped like a curtain
in stiff folds
deep shadowed creases
hiding what's underneath
on the table a sea-shell's
red gash
in creamy flesh
gaping mouth
a glassy flower rising with fluted wings
the essence of grey
from which all dreams come
blue-grey waves of the Atlantic in winter
dropping to the floor of light
at the centre small elliptical hole in the canvas
a shout of yellow shining through from
somewhere
a nowhere which is here
how do we feel before it gazing
awe-struck and in love?


IX
Beyond the barking of a dog
the face is pure oval
above the massive slab of dress with
its dark satin bands
winnowing upwards
a slight inclination of the head
will give you wistfulness
and the modest
covered buttons


X
Is it possible to represent
our feelings so exactly?
the twisted trunks of trees mimic
furiously writhing couples volupté
whose embrace offers nothing
but violence
not even in the pale violet blue of the sky
the vulnerable green of the leaves and grass is
there peace or tenderness
only desire
a leaping dog with bared teeth
the screams of a woman being raped
or giving birth
are the same
we would rather believe these figures might be dancing
and that the one who bends to wake
the sleeper
does so gently


XI
In L'Estaque those small
houses with their red roofs
a slide of snow threatening to overwhelm them
and the grey-white cloud
running away
the wind blowing
a road going nowhere and in those houses there seems
no warmth
no smoke issuing from the chimneys
shunning the dark swords of trees which rush down the
slope with the melting snow
it is as if the whole world
has been left to the trees


XII
Is it true that our eyes see what
our hearts have conditioned?
this bald dome
rounded and climbable
as a hillside above shoulders of hunched earth and rock
the tentative mouth sunk in a patch of dark beard
the eyes two windows
unaligned and different as those of an old farmhouse
one clear as a baby
one skulking behind a barbed wire gate
crowned with a pattern
of diamonds and crosses
cruel points in drab grey


XIII
At first you don't notice it
only the vertical line of a tree cutting
the picture in half then white vertebrae
ivory comb of aqueduct
the horizontal vector making the eye move outwards into nothing or
inwards to the centre and the mountain
which as if just awakened and still violet with sleep
possesses the valley
we would like to go there
descend the steep hill
from where we stand looking
into the soft green and golden places
to be dissolved in a delicate geometry
all things becoming equal


XIV
The alchemist's dream
to make square
what is round a wave of white cloth
rises up ready
to engulf the little ship
rudderless
with a cargo of ageing apples
while squat and sturdy jars
casting no shadows are
in turn overpowered by a wooden sky
dark with keyholes glowering
a chaste kitchen table with one shy drawer
humbly balances it all


XV
Red-tiled roofs of houses seem
now like old
friends even the plume of smoke rising from a single
narrow chimney
is fixed
in space and time despite its apparent fragility
as are the mountains across the bay
lightly cloaked
with a pure substanceless sky
the other side
of the world uninhabited calmly dreaming
like an animal deep in sleep
the mind builds a bridge over dark blue water
but cannot walk on it
distance remains
we stay forever on the peopled shore
content with the view
through a window


XVI
How little we know about one another
each locked in our own delicate case
surrounded by dark scenery
we contemplate
the apples laid out before us
making deep shadows
on a sail of white cloth
like holes in a field of freshly fallen snow
round reddish gold
we do not understand them
only one woman
with a neck curved and vulnerable as a swan's
holds warm fruit in her hands
leaning toward the centre
giving or taking away
and what difference between such gestures
in the end?
brooding parallel of trees a storm threatens

that last strange gleaming light the sides of our faces
illuminates
a couple walks away into the coming darkness
uninterested
clouds cloth hem edge repeat their shape
...

The wasps are out
red-legged toying with
the clothes line again
what are they searching for
what do they hope to find
not water surely to glue
their nest together but still
it does sparkle strangely
in the afternoon sun
...

( )

there was a lot to talk about
magpies for example
and how numbers go from one
to a hundred so easily
or the girl singing on the street
like an angel between licks
of gin or how yesterday a man
wearing a fake beard and

trench coat poured
cement all over our front steps
he said he was ‘taking care of business'
and winked
before walking away
with a sparkle in his step


( )

we began to be afraid of our shoes
they seemed to become more
aggressive taking us places
we didn't want to go
someone said to leave
them for a while
that always fixed things
but they only became

more demanding
we had heard of a case like this
somewhere in Chechnya
finally they had no choice
but to line them up and shoot
blindfolds were unnecessary



( )

the burghers of the town
wrapped in squirrel and fox
were served my heart on a plate
while seated at table
on a canal of ice
their silver forks glistened
it had been well cooked
and they enjoyed it

smacking their lips
grooming their beards
with tortoise-shell combs
talking of the old days
for hours on end having forgotten
to sharpen their skates


( )

he came to visit with his fiancée
we looked for the apple
in his eye but found none
only a moustache
that drooped to his knees
he told us about his time
at the Jardin des Plantes
where he worked with leopards

he had a thick hairy chest
and all the apes fell in love with him
in spite of his protestations
we offered him
fresh-brewed cider
to try to make up for it


( )

I went into a café
at the Literaturhaus in Munich
where they wanted my coat
I saw my name
on a plate then realised
the table napkins had an ode
that I had written and the placemat a
sonnet to my beloved

I could not eat
the veal schnitzel they put
in front of me
my mouth would not close and
I feared my teeth
might fall out


( )

our mother is hardly
a braid of smoke black
or otherwise but comes as ashes
real and covering us
while we lie in bed
or walk to the supermarket
she seems to be saying
Don't forget me…

we brush our shoulders
as if we had dandruff
one of us shouts to the sky
‘leave us alone
can't you see how hard it is?'
the ashes keep falling more heavily
...

In the harsh white light
of the hospice
it suddenly seemed
as if we were three clowns
in a green and yellow
Noddy car
we all wear striped pants
the tallest one gets out first
he is long and lean and his hair
sticks up as if electrified
the second gets out slowly
unfolding her fragile limbs
like a wet insect
or a deer being born
she touches her face
momentarily and then
disappears
each looks around as if
for the last time
in slow-motion pantomime
the third short
with a big red rubber nose
is waiting
to appear when
the clapping dies down
the shadowy last
sits still in the car
who said
timing is everything?
...

It is that time of year again
summer passing idly by
in the tree behind
the house crows like black shadows
of themselves against
an enameled lapis sky
peck and stab
at wild grapes vines
escaped over dead limbs
black wings winding madly like propellers
to keep their balance
cawing that deep rough
melancholy sigh at once so comic
and so human

Branches are ripe
with every kind
of neighbourhood bird
finches flashing yellow
honey eaters currawongs
the resident pair of mynas
unaccountably grounded and restrained
nothing more exotic than a bul bul
could find a niche between
these temples of concrete and brick
we have built
in a vain attempt to make ourselves
feel secure on this earth
time goes inexorably on
life takes what it needs
it is only we who have
over-burdened the supply
...