"Nascent" is a poem to a friend's baby and how, in many respects, the
newborn has more in common with the sight and sounds of its surrounds than its
parents.
"Great View" is set back in New England and is a paean to living someplace where a glance out the window is worth the price of admission.
Ironically, this poem is sheer fantasy because I live in the suburbs and my surroundings are houses, a church, a college and a golf course.
"Rome" is self-explanatory. A poem of responses to the sights and sounds of that wonderful city. And as a poet, an observer, nothing better than a cup of the local coffee at an outside café table from which to sponge up the
atmosphere.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the
Tau, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River
Review, Examined Life Journal and Midwest Quarterly.
When Amy wakes at
six in the morning, she stumbles to her tiny feet, grips the sides of
her crib, gives the birds fair warning with her garbled high pitched
attempts at
speech. The outdoor song is preempted by tonsils not much older than the
fledglings on the tree
branches,
struggling in early light to find their voice. For the time it takes to
rouse the rest of us, she is the sound of an orchestra warming
up but
also a conductor waving her two pudgy pink batons to engage the sparrow
violins, finch flutes, chickadee oboe, the brass of jay and crow.
Eventually,
her mother whisks her away from this late spring symphony, shaking off
sleep
as she prepares the bottle. Inspired though, the melodies continue
through the morning, as light and warmth take their
places
in the audience, will these feathered musicians on to even lovelier
strains.
This is a time when
she's still coming into existence, has more in common with the other
creatures
of the earth than family. She is a nascent being, lining up her senses
with a constant stream of sensations. I would describe a song in just
such away.
How better can it
get? From our back yard, we see over a white wooden fence into the
valley. The
pond is clear and rippling. We can not only spot the ducks, we can name
them. We know the trees and the roofs of scattered houses. I have a book
on New England foliage.
Page three is what I
see from the porch.
Friends come to
visit. At first, they admire the view, but eventually I feel their
jealousy.
What scenery
have we, they're thinking, but a neighbor's aluminum siding, his garage,
a bird feeder he never cleans. And it's all the same be it morning,
evening or midday. And you have dawn, that God of the horizon. And
lengthening shadows in the afternoon.
We try to placate
them with wine from the cellar. And an appeal to visit any time. But we
have a view so accommodating, it will wait for us
while
we sleep, make love, watch television, cook over a hot stove. It's like
a bank
account that earns more in interest than we withdraw. We can afford to
sit in
garden chairs and close our eyes. We would even die and you know what,
we're
still watching.
Friends leave
eventually, take what they can get of the landscape, carry it home in
their hearts. They don't bother to invite us to their suburbs. What need
of conversation when a glance in the wrong direction could say it all.
We
don't
feel put out. Honestly, we see their point and we hate to leave here.
It's a
beautiful world and an unfair one. Of the two, I know where I should
live.
I cannot grow
accustomed. The world too old. The sounds too
strange. Especially the bells that grab the air by the shoulders and
shake.
Today,
I woke from a dream
and landed in another. An opera plot. A plethora of
intertwining trains. And a smell of sauce and mildew, blood and mud.
Today,
the wind was birds, plump and forever landing. The currency assailed me
with its foreignness. The rains were quick and the food slow. But the
looks were intense and the laughter pulled at the corners of my mouth.
Here,
people talk so loud, and sing so free and move without thinking and
think only
of moving - I sip coffee and watch. No American would blame me.
