I have a miniature Degas:
a twenty dollar souvenir
from a world that’s far
from this desk, these walls.
There: you could believe
red was revolution,
cadmium yellow truly divine,
and where pale azure
mingling with gold
was a gasp of rapture!
—ah, my miniature Degas,
where are we now?
She said she hatched from a chrysalis
aaaaShe said she lost her wings
She said she was once a queen
aaaaShe said she wore a tiger’s hide
She said she could hold her breath for a very long time
aaaaShe said she had never committed a crime
She said she had been close to a comet
aaaaShe said she knew Verlaine
She said she was on the barricades
aaaaShe said she escaped on a horse
She said she never watches TV
aaaaShe said she loves her job
She said she doesn’t look back
aaaaShe said she could live forever
She said she had a contented heart
aaaaAnd we believed her.
Missionaries congregate
by a wooden seat
orientated to the east,
the radiant sun,
crowned willingly
by everyone, who fall
on this autumn morning
easily into worship.
Mindful perhaps
of a life-giving force,
though more likely
a humble bliss.
No priority given
to metaphysical claims,
only competing interests
on a wooden seat.
I hold no hand
in mine.
A hand is not
a stone.
There was no hand
before
it was held
by yours.
Now, the hand
is empty
and no more.
The hand
has been turned
to stone.
I no longer reach for belief
like a Romeo or a Juliet.
I just look back now
to the ruins of each
crumbling temple, each pigeon
perch, each fallen tower,
and from those snapshots
I get my eternal relief.
I would love an apple orchard,
with goats kept at bay by a fence,
with pigs, snout-ringed, allowed
to sample the windfall fruit
only, not my perfect darlings,
hanging ripe from heavy, drooping
branches, waiting for a hand
to appreciate them, like I surely
would, if an orchard were mine―
but I’m old, and it’s too late now
to plant stake-bound saplings in land
I do not even have a lease to own.
There’ll be no evening dalliance
with the sweet fruit of Eves,
just apples enough from one tree
planted, wisely, many years ago.
You’ve written
that because it’s my birthday
you’ll do all my work for me
for a day a week
if you’re referring in your promissory note
to the dishes I wash
you’re not tall enough to reach the sink
and I’m not sure just yet
that I’ll trust you with a hot element
and while you’re strong
I know you’ll struggle to push a lawnmower
so how about
I accept your promise
knowing it doesn’t need to be kept
because you’ve already done your best work:
the work that matters,
the work we do for each other
when there are no debts
or promises.
Now’s the moment,
my love, the Himalayas
are visible once more
from the plains of Punjab.
Fear creates a beauty
to behold. So let us then,
while hearts are pumping,
remove everything
that’s been between us
so many years, and press
our peaks to valleys,
and as continents collide
raise-up our Everest!
murderers are coming
can it be true?
when are they due?
should we drop everything?
wipe the floor?
stand back in awe?
should we put on a show?
the kids are in bed,
the carpet is red
what have we done?
they say they’ll protect us
—who’s going to object?
should we change the sheets?
make it nice?
put the champagne on ice?
who’s going to speak?
should we make a toast?
enlist the Holy Ghost?
what do they want?
should we sign a deal?
ask them how it feels?
they’re coming through the gate
—what shall we call them?
our very good friends?
We planted trees
for food, forced now
to accept
the essential facts
of life—
we did this
together, to live
not die
but we couldn’t say
it was better,
though it was
necessary
from which we hoped
the good
would come
we didn’t wish
to practice
resignation
we’re ready
for the meanness
and what’s often
sublime.
Vaughan Gunson : Writing 