I am the garden of picnic tradition
of grateful leg-stretch of midway haul
of still-cool sandwich, esky-calved,
beneath old-world boughs of other realms
this could be a hundred towns
but I am ark-bound
by nature and name
my Noah preferring
gardens to zoos
as in the distance
begonias press their fleshy faces against hot-house windows
peering in not out
Daitokuji
The
monks all sit in the main hall
continuing
the temple’s centuries
of
zazen practice, their voices rustling in autumn
as
they chant the ancient sutra
or
ponder the paradox of the koan.
A
maple branch taps at the window
with
the bell’s faint echo.
They
watch time’s every breath
while
walking the narrow corridors,
or
as they chop firewood in the morning,
rake
the courtyard’s white stones,
prepare
charcoal fire to make tea.
Under
the trees, by the tombs of the daimyos
who
had the temple built,
a
stone lamp sits in memory
of
Sen no Rikyū, he who had perfected
the
ceremony of tea
and
willingly slit his abdomen open—
following
the discipline of sepukku—
in
obedience to the wishes
of
the emperor.
His
severed head lies buried
in
the temple gardens
where
the kneeling bamboo rustles incessantly.
Shisendo (Joozan-ji)
temple of the poetry immortals
forest is moss
a little world
trees are stone
in the whispering shade
some few face away
some lean in
they are all wisp bearded
the immortals
each looks a little to the side
each on the occasion of a poem
funny hats
ghost locks
a scroll could be a sword
all eyes to the shade of the tree
and the tree itself
all ants on pilgrimage
a path leads through the poem
someone comes to sweep
a dragonfly’s bright turning
other wings lit
the sombre bee
voices unseen
shrub rounded like a verse to drink
eyes to seasons passed
great nature
shoji
tatami
our world is straw
from it, see
to shock the deer away
soozu – shishi odoshi
this is punctuation
heartbeat of the day
a leaf falls to be gathered away
and one into my lap
it’s like a garden in your head, the poem
patience in the shadows of leaves
though breezeless, never still
everything built is
flimsy as a word
garden is the place inside a poem
the inside’s out
the great is least
one comes with a practiced calm
to be further
to wear the day out
I make a record of
how time stood
how I stopped for it
you see – this is the way I am here
this is a kind of home
falling man
even
this far south, cyclone Alfred shoves the swell
the
sea breathes green-glass towers
further
out, obsidian
roaring
as they tumble
tide
breaches dune
spinifex
runners are wild girls’ hair
tangled
plaits, bedraggled
bridal
veils climb the cliff
its
face impassive
a
gull-flock faces the fizzed-up sea
like
spectators up north, lining the foreshores
watching
surfers skimming
transparent
tubes, arms raised, flying
wipe-out!
boards shoot skywards
Sunshine
Coast mum’s photo
a man plummets headfirst
against
an avalanche of foam
dubbed
‘falling man,’ tagged iconic
goes
viral
not
9/11’s man
more
like Icarus’ plunge to the sea
flimsy,
spreadeagled
a
flung toy silhouetted
against
the wave’s perfect cadence
Jane Skelton is a writer based in Darug country and Yuin country, nsw.
waiting for Alfred
as when the rain takes up with day
a nightsfray overbanking
the leaf catch
soak below
tank top over
pond too
this is the straight down
sky absolute
come to us courtesy
who knows who
a jungle up Thursday
underslosh dare it
nor do I believe the sun will touch
but puddle up
all green to the eye
in bracken thwack
whose wings dare rise against?
if lift then mist
so ghostly
and what’s it all about?
dry in the otherworld window vision
this garden to which one belongs
for which I am culpable
who’ll have a little dance in this?
the ants are all under plotting for light
where are the spiders now?
Cerulean Garden
As ghost gums breathe blue
delphiniums dance purple
the neighbour’s plum leaves
wave over the fence
as we unstack the old chairs
and sit beside beds
made ready for this new season
tucked inside the walls
of your cerulean dreams
as you pick me a spiky sprig
of sweet green remembrance.
Riding bicycles at midnight
down nardoo-covered hills
and you spinning almost as fast
in your steep high heels
to please your first love
even when he looked away
and crossing the same ocean
twenty-two sleepless times
yet never quite arriving.
Only here and now
in your painted garden
as the fading sun casts golden lines
to hook our last regrets
and the black flocks lilt above us
into the indigo night
lifting sadness away with the leaves
can peace come to us
not as a gift or a memory
not as an ocean or a prayer
but as a kind of readiness
to do what you will
in this life that is yours at last.
A verbing for Selma Martin Each day I go springing outside with my mulberried hair caping for gooseberries measurling the seed growth as the...
