Five Poems by Kathylynne Somerville

 

The Broken Clock, Aubade for Dad

After Dylan Thomas

  

A spanner hurtled from southern celestial hemispheres, jammed

the gears of the wind up clock, broke it buggered

half past three and entombed Tuesday in ashes,

hours before dawn. The mechanism plundered, morning blight

bludgeoned my skull.  If I could unwind the hands, etched into time’s

moon faced machine, I would have read more poems to you,

a menthol cigarette burning between us wafting alpine,

a citronella candle smoking out mosquitos on the verandah,

River red trees governing the flat lands before us, shedding.

I’d have asked how you learned about Dylan Thomas, and why

you chose to tell me about his poem, “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Goodnight.”

I would have bribed you with cinnamon doughnuts, each day,

to sugar you into passing on what was plaguing

you after we’d listen to him recite it on YouTube.

I would’ve hid the Bulova clock, nicked the Carriage clock,

pawned your Grafton wall clock and never bloody

got it out of hock. Moved your pliers, fractured your magnifying

lenses, smashed every single LED light in Brisbane. Poured synthetic oil down

the passing drain pipes, pleading with you not to go, imploring

you never to go, begging you stay on, and stay flaming put.

But a second ticks from the clock your gentle spirit fixed

aa dawn drags the drapes across another Dad-less day. 

 

 

Empty Arms

 

for Aunt Pat,

After “These Arms Are Mine” by Otis Redding

 

The cherry-red Victrola is an open suitcase, turning a record on the table,

the stylus skates, carbon crackles, our souls amplified

with the resounding voice of the King of Soul.

 

Moving Aunt Pat and me to sashay,

dressed in tomato-red raincoats, our Baccarat crystal slippers clinking

parquet, our arms holding each other­­—away from each other,

in limbed elongation, taut strings pegged along

 

the neck of double bass. Otis Redding’s arms holding us,

tears wept from a medallion molded with cherubs

keying an organ’s chords. Dry in waterproofing,

 

we dined in classy restaurants attired in casual garments, shared

glasses of sanguine wine and platters of wistful meats.

Otis Redding’s tenor shielding us from bleak skies crying

under the range of a bubble

 

umbrella. When Aunt Pat was diagnosed, an electric guitar picked

against my denial, dressing its guise in gowns and wigs

we’d wear to balls escorted by bachelors who adored

 

us. In hospital, I rubbed coconut oil on her milky countenance

her delicate hands. Held her hand, my sweater sodden,

excoriating my incompetent, infirm, indigent arms for

not being nimble enough to hold her while the instruments

 

bled. It’s no use mopping up the puddles, I said,

when the warden slunk in with a mop.

And no matter how many times I changed

 

my sopping socks and saturated boots in the interminable

interludes afterwards, my feet wouldn’t dry,

my arms would pine for Aunt Pat, and I’d die

to hold her soul, as she held mine with her song. 

 

 

The Suitcase on a Train

For Troy

 

The tunnel echoed with his offer to help with the suitcase I’d hauled

from Los Angeles to Australia and lugged up the languorous

slope, slogging the tons I’d been dragging, kilometers

to Central station.

 

With chartreuse signage glitzing overhead, he snagged my suitcase

with deft alacrity, as if it was filled with paper shreds when instead

it was filled with books, and instead of reading, I listened

to the tracks which wheeled him here.

 

While the train railed along, and the announcer informed

passengers to disembark, I learned about the lines

stationing him at unmapped destinations. 

 

Just forty-five minutes had journeyed, when he moved

my suitcase from the aisle to between us, his course

hands gripping the handle like he wanted to protect

it from damage, insure it against loss.

 

Outside, green terrain planed, kangaroos grazed, the yellow

barbs on Banksia trees pointed skyward, he pointed

out Mount Tibrogargan, how it was gorilla-like.

 

As my eyes roved over his blond buzz cut, the ridges

in his brow, stubble prickling his opal jaw, and the Lithium

grease imbedded beneath his fingernails, I felt his gentleness ease

the charge of my excess cargo, and

the lot ladening me,

lifted. 

 

 

A Friend on The Steps                                   

~ after Narrow Fellow In the Grass by Emily Dickinson

 

A blue-bellied lizard crawls underneath the patios splintered steps.

Descended from wire fences out west, he constructs

 

genial living on a bed of crystalized amphibole minerals with

a deer and a clump of rag weed.

 

I have met this lizard on many an afternoon, as he flicks his tongue

at the incandescent sun. Though we have not exchanged

 

formal introductions, congeniality has already shook between hand

and webbed foot. His gray scales are ridged, his leaden head

 

stoops, his tan whorls spiral a slinky as he slithers off for a spell

of respite below purple petal pews and a congregation of leaves.

 

I find it rugged to befriend this reptile in the dolor of this climate.

Envy how he webs away to shrivel, dry and carcass.

 

 

Unbridled

 

I ride hyperbole on the back of a Thoroughbred in the stirrups of indecision,

attired in midnight-blue jeans, or, a lace corseted dress, shod in vegan

cowhide boots. Construct sentences with language traded in the streets,

bartered from back alleys, on loan from an artist’s œuvre. Written        

with. One. Word. Sentences. Beginning with and.

And running on, leaking splices, my fingers blotted in blue ink.

Trot by Gertrude Stein, whose purposeful mien

implies: “Sentence is a sentence is a sentence is a sentence.”

Eddies of alliteration trail behind me in accordance

to assonance with consideration to consonance:

characters colloquy, narratives braid. Blond locks bobbing,

I steer near Aristotle plucking a lyre, tetrachords, tings on a wire,

who tosses me grapes from his vine of logic. My horse snorts,

his muzzle trembles, his back steams my thighs. We gallop

through a meadow budded by self-doubt, riding unbridled,

by-passing darlings, I’ll no doubt, murder later,

and wadded infants thrown in water. Elizabeth Bishop flags

us down, waving a black and white flag, hands over

red-handled scissors, smiles a sun-lit smile, her well-versed eyes dimmed

by the blade of shade below the brim of her straw hat.

My horse smells of must and peat. He drinks coffee from the trough. 

I smooth his chestnut coat, the beige island along the bridge

of his nose. German Shepherds slumbering under the parasol

of an elm tree, stir. Larks preen their striated plumage sitting on the fence.

I collect the babies bathing in the bathwater. Dry them, milk them.

Reeds clump paddocks, rushes bristle, dandelions orb. Enough horse shit.

Ass in saddle, I fire up my computer and rein in the work.

Kathylynne Somerville began writing with plays and screenplays and was fortunate enough to have  a few plays produced, and few scripts optioned. Since then, her pen has been drawn to poetry and fiction, and at present she is busting her guts penning her first novel.  She has not forgotten what she has gleaned from screenwriting and utilizes visuals, subtext, and subtlety wherever she can implement them.