Deb,
Here is three of ten that I read on Saturday...
Very different pieces, the second recently appeared in Prism
international V38:2..
The third is due in IMAGO about now.
Prelude for Albany
from the Albany Suite - A Song in the Canvas
I
>From thin-stemmed
fences that
whistle fluted song
to silver groves
and sweet grapes in rows
that shoot yellow
hands at new Spring,
to roads as straight as rods
past stands of pine
that dance on carpets
of brown needles;
the sky folds back
like old sheets of canvas
lifting to strain wet rope
on cleats of brass,
the song of whales’
a whisper
in the tightness,
a shadow
in the world of Squirrel Fish
and Swallowtails lightens
under sweeping southern sun,
carillon voices blend as one
in Harbour stores.
II
These deep-swell notes
of temperate hearts,
glowing, beating clear air as if
to soar as
Terns above the cathedral cliffs of Torndirrup,
dive through crushing
granite arches,
through the wind’s siege to
the unrelenting struggle
of growing warm chicks
on harsh stone,
and know to listen
with sea-wise heads
for the bells of young voices
reaching out
with tangled hearts and
eyes like the lanterns
of lost seamen
searching for a
prayer; a sign of hardship’s praise
that would turn carved faces
to gladness
under lucid skies.
on the border, roses
friday 3
francy’s stamp hand
smudges and longs
to disappear
into the
curtained box
of saturday
when a man (a regular) walks in…
friday 3:04
balance/receipt post
pack-handed
rubber banded
12 volt fan dead
time meandered
suck a lifesaver
contrabanded, repri….
man dead
man walks in
man dead
friday 3:15
francy stares at death;
foetal, stiff-vinegar lips
she licks her own pale gums
desperate for a smoke
and cashes a woman’s
cheque:
yeah…dead…sorry
serve him all the time
sixty plus
over…
wait…
is that a piece
of paper
in his hand?
friday 3:20
manager shows the ambo, shrugs,
has a ten cent
discussion and
takes the piece
of paper, reads,
raises an eyebrow
and hands it
to francy says...
bin-it-burn-it
shred-it-spurn-it
slice-dice-julienne-it
no…give it
back.
friday 3:21
a folded slip
of paper
passes between
hands
over signs and
warnings
of counters
that can spring
to life at the
press of an
unseen foot-switch
and in that
shouting second
francy glimpses
syrupy red
ink
dancing on
border-white
like pouting lips;
the hand drawn
slow motion
roses of
X
and the
first two letters
of freeze
freak or
francy.
Notes from a Work Bench
the iron-bark scarred with cuts and knots
and unfortunate blood is
adze smooth; stained only by the shadow
of the man who pulled it from the tree,
my father’s eyes had rings like a young tree
swelling in the wet and when he saw that fine
timber, the black heart of those eyes
pulsed and grew a layer,
he placed me atop the ten foot planks;
like glue for the truck’s tray, I covered them,
felt the cool wood on my skin as clouds sped by,
birds frozen like commas beyond reach
and I wonder who moves? Whose
cold skin jars and rips at the blade,
splits at the shunt of a hammer, the image shifts
to clouds descending,
how darkly the grain of
the bench grows, the nicks and grooves
a Braille beneath my fingers; a temperate touch
like my father’s advice, his hand,
his laugh an echo in the
the camphor air that lingers around tools
finely honed, neat,
untouched.
Cheers...
Clayton Hansen
