The word 'vocation' reminds me of the tests we were given as adolescents in
school followed by a private talk with the vocational guidance counsellor
who told you that you couldn't have a career being an artist. It is a word I
have been wary of ever since. Any religious connotations belong to a
religious tradition which is not part of my background, therefore, that use
of the word provokes little resonance in me. On one hand, I write poetry
because I feel I must. It's what I do, despite or because of the vocational
guidance counsellor. On the other hand, I am wary of preciousness and wrote
this poem some years ago when I was feeling particularly irritated by
precious poets and their vocation.
The vocation muses
Itıs as though he wanted to be
a poet, or someone
who lit a candle,
reverently mocking the dark.
Pencils are still sharp
as the white bond paper
beside him, even
the whiskey is neat.
His head is bowed
over a book and he sings
its wandering plainsong metre
in his head. It swings,
carefully but a little unsure,
a stale whiff of incense
and damp stone, the past
which always makes up the words.
Perhaps he loves the unsteady
emotions of thought,
shaping those beautiful spires
and clefts,
and rounded breaths
of soundıs movements,
that span the cold slant rain,
the colours of a townıs lights,
and the inability to catch
failures of memory that knock
like the choked engine
grabbing at the kerb
beyond his front gate.
_________________________________
Jill Jones
50 Ruby Street
Marrickville NSW 2204
AUSTRALIA
[log in to unmask]
http://homepages.ihug.com.au/~jpjones
|