The River at Henley

 

 

 

 

 

 

Darkness drains down
the slopes of the spinney,
night’s plug was pulled;
Ground-shocked with sun
that shredded clouds to ribbons;
Frost-bound white grass
cracked and seeped
to green again.

The glittering river steams
in the still iron-cold air;
Mist shifts and stirs,
Distant sounds of oars
turning in rowlocks
and the cox call
for the stroke;
Mercury water
slides free from the blade.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

First Published in THE MOZZIE, Vol 14, Issue 6, July, 2006.
& Valley Micropress Vol 9, Issue 7 August 2006

Every Velvet Night

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Every velvet night
the shadow of death
slips through the blinds
and curtains into our bedroom
of consciousness.

Some say their prayers
press and roll the quartz beads
of their rosary
more urgently
and hope
the promises are true.

But I face the darkness
alone
and hope the world
will turn again
once more
for me.

Home

Mildew flowers are blooming
on the ceiling
sugar ants sashay across the floor
the walls are stretching
and drawing apart.

If you lean hard against the door frame
on a quiet night
after a summer shower
you’ll hear the munching, crunching jaws
of white ants feasting.

The gutterings are choked with gum
leaves sticky eucalyptus oil.

Cockroaches come in under the door
to skitter and dance
on the kitchen floor.

Corners of the rooms are draped
with dense and dusty webs that thrill
with steady pulse and scrape
of the fan.

Huntsmen and Daddy Long Legs
divvy up the territory
as they shelter from the rain.

Roots from the Lilly Pilly and the gums
the Birches and the Bay
criss-cross their underground networks
regularly disrupting pipes
that must be churned and scoured
by plumbers
on Sundays.

At sunset,
when the garden is sighing from the day
quiet and still

 

 

brown snakes come out of the ivy wall
to loll in the shade
sprayed ever-so lightly
by the spinning hose.

Lake Shore Art

 Silver birches line the lake
bone-pale before the evergreens
shoreline a rip rap
of gnarled and twisted stumps
weathered grey – the windfall waste
of trees already sawed and burned
in winters past.

Faint melon light of sunset
quivering
refracted in the rain
of dusk and the lake’s
darkening glass.

 

 

 

 

 

First published in THE MOZZIE Volume 16, Issue 2, April 2008

Two Seasons in One Day

~ in Melbourne ~

 

 

 

 

 

 

Day darkened
nails of freezing rain
shot from the gun-
metal sky.

Outlaw clouds
raced
to the hills

Sun edgy, waited
for a clear space
to fire.

Cold street puddles
filled turquoise
with sudden sky.

Backstreet Beauty

~ in Abbotsford ~

Rusty corrugated iron fences
concrete slabbed
loading bays
of old factories.

In pitted courtyards
disdainful weeds
sprouting
gaudy and tall
through cracking tarmac

purples and yellows
mirror-imaged
in oily-puddled
potholes.

© M.L.Emmett

 

Leadlight Man

on an Oil painting by John Brack

Chiselled planes of his warm brown face
an arid landscape of scarred reddened earth
parched dry.

His fragile knobble-knuckled hand
grasps skeletonic and tight
arched glass

Those ancient eyes have seen too much
they are closed to the raw distractions of time
and sight.

This is the pure pleasure of an iced cold beer
taste that passes as communion
thirst quenched

Neck stretched to drain the bitter dregs
Pale yellow wash behind the silhouette
hat perched.

A prayer is answered and all is forgiven
the liquid benediction of saint caught
in leadlight.

 

 

This is not Manet’s Paris

on The Bar by Melbourne artist John Brack

This is not Edouard Manet’s Paris
Not that white marble bar, un bar aux Folies-Bergère
with that peachy round, velvet-corseted young woman
soft unseen hands of a lacy courtesan
on display with the pale pink roses and juicy mandarins
facing the elegant 19th C chandeliered room
and her gentleman admirers.

No this is Brack’s Bar
Melbourne in the fifties
when the Collins Street mob
have knocked off
to schooner themselves
’til six o’clock and home.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Squared and angular this woman is omnipotent
A working mother with dark shadowed eyes
she offers nothing more than serving drinks
and mopping up the mess men leave behind
working stoical hands planted on the bar ready
ready for action, ready for anything, coping
giving nothing but her labour
can’t complain, who’d listen ?

But those spring poppies playful
in that over ripe womb vase
they are a future hope of things to come
alive and real they belong to her
and she will take them home.

Come Dancing

~The Old Time from John Brack’s Ballroom Dancers series (1969)~

Your popsicle pink ladies
swan-necked and arching back
orgasmic in organza

beehived and lacquered
every hair securely held
against the centrifugal force of motion

your luscious mauve women
vogue elegant, wasp-waisted
sensual sylphs out stretching
reaching out to touch and caress
the tenderness of ballroom air

Led by Bryllcreemed sleek men
firm-handed, elongated, dark men
Cuban-heeled in shining patent leather

They follow, gliding with experience
their pointed sharp stilettos barely whisper
sliding across the polished parquet floors

in their sequined satins and hand stitched silks
frothed and full
with tiered and layered tulle

that rustle and swish
with the sway and the kiss
of every swirl and moment

each twirl, each turn
each tiny chance
to catch the eyes of judges
watching in the wings.

Ashes, Atoms and Nothing More

 for Philip Larkin

Soundless dark of wakeful night

panic thrills the heart

and chokes the mind

with dread of dying

of lying dead –

white marble stone dead –

passed

beyond self

to nothingness

and nowhere.

Just energy burst free,

blowback

to the godless Universe

body to ashes

atoms,

and nothing more.