The Continuance of Poetry - Rosemary Dobson

1. A Good-bye

We have seen you off as far as the yellow-box-tree
Returning I sit for a little while reflecting
On the long white clouds low at the horizon.
The wind sharpens the distant Brindabellas,
In the courtyard the fallen plum-blossom settles.

There will be time enough and time enough later
For crossing the threshold to lamplight and conversation.

2. The Messages

When you set out on your long journey
The houses of your friends became empty,

Rooms resounded with the need of reassurance.
But here on the page are your messages.

Here are poems: stones, shells, water.
This one weighs in the hand. This one is shining.

This one is yellow. And this smooth to the fingers.
Ching chink says this one clear as a wind-bell.

Poems are set about in the empty rooms of houses.
Windows open on clouds in the blue distance.

3. White Flowers

White water pours down the hillside
On the rock two fish swim under the water.

Flannel-flowers splash in a falling torrent
Push aside boulders, spill over the ledges.

Held still in the eye like a fish carved in sandstone
They become a white cloud visiting the rock-face.

4. Exchanges

When people lend books to each other
Their meaning is giving.
They bestow excitement, joy, imagination.

You lent me Rothko, I lent you Morandi,
We exchanged whole art galleries,
Museums, sculpture, encyclopedias.

Years ago I said, ‘Here is Popa.’
You said, ‘Here is Berryman.’
Who owned up to the coffee-rings on the Manet

Which had to go back to the Kingston Library?
All, all were returned long ago.
Now they are gone I hold them.

5. The House

Small birds dipped through leaves in the garden-room.
People came to the house from far-off countries.

No longer now do they cross the ramp at the river.
The house is empty. The gate-bar is in its socket.

Perhaps white clouds gather under the rafters
As they gather, it is said, in the houses of the Immortals.

6. The Flute-player

A young girl plays the flute at the edge of the water,
The notes fly away from the flute in the light air.

They are borne across the lake to the dark mountains
And become curled white clouds on the horizon.

They rest lightly on the sharp spine of the mountains.
It is a hard journey by foot to the horizon.

Visiting you in hospital I spoke about the flute-player,
You said, ‘There should be a poem in that.’

7. Translations under the Trees

Wine to drink at a plank table,
Poems blowing about,
Some we stalk like Li Po and the moon in the stream,
Some we put under the carafe.

Pollen brushed from the table
Flies off to make forests
In faraway countries;
May change a landscape.

Poems blow away like pollen,
Find distant destinations,
Can seed new songs
In another language.

8. At the Coast

The high wind has stripped the bark from the gum-trees,
Smooth-boled they follow each other down to the water.

From rented houses the daughters of professors
Emerge smooth-limbed in this light summer season,

They step from behind the trees at the edge of the water
As smooth as ochre and as cool as lemon.

And which are girls and which are smooth-limbed saplings?
The light is trembling on them from the water.

They glow and flicker in and out of shadow
Like poetry behind the print on pages.

9. Poems of the River Wang

Two poets walking together
May pause suddenly and say,
Will this be your poem, or mine?

May offer courteously,
Please take it. No, you first.
Wang Wei and P’ei Ti

Made twenty poems each of the Wang River:
Apricot Wood House, South Hill, the Pepper Garden.
Later Wang Wei wrote to his friend,

Could you join me once more?
Out walking now I see blond grass,
Wild orchids, black cattle, and the daylight moon.

10. On Nearly Quarrelling

Li Po had friends among the scholars
Among courtiers, lords and princes,
Gentlemen and brewers;
Spoke to the poor singing-girl
On the city street of Chang-an.

How many times were you halted by importunate friends
As we walked through the University car-park.
I stood, patient, first on one foot and then on the other,
Later saying, ‘I will not accept the role of a parcel!’
—‘Ridiculous!’

You said, ‘I have only two friends, at the most three.’
—‘Absurd!’
Startled looks meet flashing.
So people come to the very brink of a quarrel
Glance over the edge, and retreat together.

11. The Good Host

You were sweeping the flagstones
When we came to lunch.
You offered us wine

Sunlight, paintings,
And a view of three cypresses
Up from the river;

Swimming, and talk,
More wine, melon,
Orange-trees, birds,

Long-necked bottles
And—still at lunch—
The mists of evening.

Rereading the poems
We are all late-stayers;
Guests in your country.

12. After Receiving the Book of Poems by Li Po

We walk along the dry bed of the river
In the sand the fallen needles of she-oaks
In the air the smell of dry resin
A few white clouds curling in the sky.

Rounded stones in the blue thread of the river
White, scoured, turning in their roundness
With the slight movement of poems
Settling deeper in the mind.

Not being able to find the hermit he wanted to visit
Li Po looked deeper into the landscape.
Like Li Po we lean against a pine-tree;
And looking into the landscape find your poems.

Text by arrangement with the Licensor, Rosemary Dobson c/- Curtis Brown (Australia) Pty Ltd