Nature’s grand chandelier
(A Villanelle in the time of climate change)
The yolk of the sun, by
mid-afternoon
Lay heavy on us, to the
shade we drew near,
Craving the night, the
limpid light of the moon.
A child lifted her mask,
asking, ‘Will it end soon?’
Her
mother replied, ‘It’s the usual, no need to fear
The yolk of the sun, by
mid-afternoon.’
But the scent of the ash in
the air at high noon
Wilted her will, made her
want to disappear,
Craving the night, the
limpid light of the moon.
‘Where are you, my child?’
Her cries, out of tune,
Died on her lips under
nature’s grand chandelier:
The yolk of the sun, by
mid-afternoon.
The child stumbled on
unseen, trying not to swoon,
Drawn to the shimmering
sea, ’til there became here,
Craving the night, the
limpid light of the moon.
Surrendering at dusk to a
watery cocoon
She rejoiced, for she’d
fled this smouldering sphere,
The yolk of the sun, by
mid-afternoon,
Craving
the night, the limpid light of the moon.
Still the rain kept falling
i.m. Mimi
I’ll not forget
The sombre shuffle in
From the rain, the pain of
it
Of nods and handshakes
Murmured condolences
Which cannot help but miss
the mark
But it’s all we have:
Inadequacy on a pedestal.
Oh, get on
with it! She’d chuckle
Cross her
legs and light another cigarette
And so we did,
With the inevitable mini rituals
Attendant on the outward
one:
The squeak of shoes on
stone
And clearing of throats,
misting of eyes
At the wavering brush of candlelight
And spray of lilies over her.
The moment’s happened, then, she’d
say
The one we shrink from, and push
away until we can’t
Yet there’s no end
To what we can’t admit
As later anecdote
and wishful thinking shape our memory
And, chameleon-like, it changes
in the telling.
But this much I know:
Her dark-haired grandson who
sat apart
Inclined, black-shirted, at
the piano,
His fingers dancing a song
of his own making
Tenderly, as if he’d spent
his short life
In preparation of this
moment
Under the thirteenth
Station of the Cross.
She adored her music
From Bach and Billy Joel to
Casablanca’s theme
She was a good listener.
But now it was our turn
To hang onto words, to
incantations
Expressing the
inexpressible.
I clutched my tissues, hot
and damp
And still the rain kept
falling.
In her letters, notes and diaries – a
litany of ruminations
Words had stretched her past her
troubles, far beyond
The black bug of the
waiting hearse was shiny
Doors open, mouthing
glassily in the pale air
Reflection-laden, gleaming
As holy water splashed
Like slivered tears
On wood.
Contrary,
contemplative, and one of a kind
Mistress of the mercurial: my mother
The grave-studded hillside
Stretched, like a thousand-piece
chess-set
With exhausted pawns, falling
And tilting Kings and
Queens
Watching, as she disappeared
Under scoop after scoop of earth
The richer now for holding
her.
Second prize in the
Sutherland Shire Literary Competition, April 2020 (and subsequently published
in Sutherland Shire Literary Competition magazine, 17 April 2020).
Denise O’Hagan was born in Rome and lives in Sydney. She has a background in commercial book publishing, manages her own imprint Black Quill Press, and is Poetry Editor for Australia/New Zealand for Irish literary journal The Blue Nib. Her poetry is published widely and has received numerous awards, most recently the Dalkey Poetry Prize 2020. Her debut poetry collection, The Beating Heart, is published by Ginninderra Press (2020).
Denise
O’Hagan / Black Quill Press
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