Kristin Henry
"I was astonished when I saw this bus full of people on a cold rainy night, surprised that poetry could pull them away from warm lounge rooms. I think poets get used to being not all that important to other people. But later in the evening, after a set when we were all walking back to the bus, I overheard a woman saying to her friend, ‘That’s what’s so wonderful about poetry. It says the things you feel but don’t know how to say for yourself.’ And it was like a big hug."
"I was astonished when I saw this bus full of people on a cold rainy night, surprised that poetry could pull them away from warm lounge rooms. I think poets get used to being not all that important to other people. But later in the evening, after a set when we were all walking back to the bus, I overheard a woman saying to her friend, ‘That’s what’s so wonderful about poetry. It says the things you feel but don’t know how to say for yourself.’ And it was like a big hug."
Your Granddaughter Asks What You Think of Tattoos
Careful, you tell yourself. Careful.
This may be some teenage test you can’t afford to fail.
She’s seventeen, and full of surprises.
Her mother – your daughter – is four years gone.
And mostly the two of you bear this injustice
quietly, as though somehow grief is your guilt.
Careful, you tell yourself. Do not judge,
on no account sound old.
Aim for neutral, fall back on the law;
tell her she must wait at least a year.
I know, she says, and smiles. But do you want to see?
And for just a breath you hesitate
on another question you’re not sure how to answer.
Life has shown you too many wrongs
which can never be corrected.
Do you really need to see another one?
But your eyes widen on a miracle
when the girl lifts her shirt to show
the small blue message curling across
the ribs beneath her heart. You recognise the writing,
know the slope and shape of every letter
because it is your daughter’s.
Among her mother’s things the child has found a journal,
and copied precisely a line, then had it etched
into her flesh, and her memory and her future.
In her mother’s hand, her mother’s words -
this delicate, elastic, indelible truth –
I will love you always.
The Way Out
Your eyes fly open, and all the rest of you too,
because something’s different today.
You know this as sure as you know
if you’re late again old Frank’s going to give you hell
and the sack. And you’re doing up your uniform
buttons while you practise in the mirror
laughing and breathing to test
how your body will handle escape.
On the bus you clutch your secret
and a cheap plastic handbag,
staring goodbye at these dusty streets
and dusty people and up ahead hello at last
to the long black highway where the wind’s
getting ready to blow you some change.
You tie your apron for the last time ever,
and firing up the hotplate you imagine
in its sizzle the distant music of traffic jams.
You pour every coffee looking at your watch
and out the window so you’ll always remember
the exact minute your life started.
So you recognise your future
when it saunters in - a stringy stranger
wearing faded jeans and stubble,
reading your badge and saying your name
like a dare with a smile that’s as good as a passport -
asking what time you get off work.
Under the parking lot’s yellow light
his car is old and so is he.
You slide in beside him on a ripped vinyl seat,
the radio’s sticky with songs you don’t know
and sometimes he hums them while he drives
but you keep your gaze on the road out of town
and the long black highway where the wind’s
getting ready to blow you some change.
BIG
It’s that minute your stomach knows
the wheels have left the ground.
A 360 degree wild rose sky
at sunset on the beach.
It’s the Mormon Tabernacle Choir doing Bohemian Rhapsody.
It’s the neck of a giraffe,
Your first taste of boy or pecan pie or girl.
It’s the Berlin Wall coming down,
piano lessons when you’re sixty.
It’s the line of demarcation
where ocean and fear get darker.
It’s the guy about to place the last stone in the Pyramid.
It’s an I-know- this- sounds- crazy- but- it- just- might- work
pitch to the Committee.
It’s growing an ear of corn, or a child.
It’s Bourbon Street, New Orleans the morning that
Obama got elected.
It’s Summer dropping by for that funeral
and how the minor key makes a Tardis of our hearts.
It’s Walt Whitman’s song,
Aurora Australis
boogying at the end of our driveway.
It’s the new view when you finally get glasses,
the orchestra tuning up, the lights going down.
It’s walking toward the smell of gardenias.
It’s that minute your stomach knows
the wheels have left the ground.
A 360 degree wild rose sky
at sunset on the beach.
It’s the Mormon Tabernacle Choir doing Bohemian Rhapsody.
It’s the neck of a giraffe,
Your first taste of boy or pecan pie or girl.
It’s the Berlin Wall coming down,
piano lessons when you’re sixty.
It’s the line of demarcation
where ocean and fear get darker.
It’s the guy about to place the last stone in the Pyramid.
It’s an I-know- this- sounds- crazy- but- it- just- might- work
pitch to the Committee.
It’s growing an ear of corn, or a child.
It’s Bourbon Street, New Orleans the morning that
Obama got elected.
It’s Summer dropping by for that funeral
and how the minor key makes a Tardis of our hearts.
It’s Walt Whitman’s song,
Aurora Australis
boogying at the end of our driveway.
It’s the new view when you finally get glasses,
the orchestra tuning up, the lights going down.
It’s walking toward the smell of gardenias.
Black Pontiac
Usually I don’t desire or need
Anything at all resembling speed
But when I saw that beauty parked outside
I confess I lusted for a ride.
It was bright and shiny – it was black.
It was a great big old convertible Pontiac,
Not suitable for someone long of tooth
But it sure did remind me of my youth
And how something as simple as a drive
Could make a young girl glad to be alive.
My ringers are remembering the feel
Of curling themselves ‘round a steering wheel,
The thrill of smoothly shifting through the gears,
The roaring of the engine in my ears,
The smell of leather – and a cigarette.
(Admittedly that’s one I should forget.)
But somewhere in my heart I’m still a child,
And it would be so lovely to feel wild,
Like before my friends and I wore glasses,
Like when all of us had smaller asses.
How cool to once again just slip inside
A car like that and take a little ride
From Surrey Hills to right on out of town,
The music turned up loud, the top rolled down.
I wouldn’t go too fast – but I wouldn’t go slow.
I’d wear big silver sunnies. I’d let my hair grow
So it could fly behind me in the wind
And the road ahead of me would never end.
Usually I don’t desire or need
Anything at all resembling speed
But when I saw that beauty parked outside
I confess I lusted for a ride.
It was bright and shiny – it was black.
It was a great big old convertible Pontiac,
Not suitable for someone long of tooth
But it sure did remind me of my youth
And how something as simple as a drive
Could make a young girl glad to be alive.
My ringers are remembering the feel
Of curling themselves ‘round a steering wheel,
The thrill of smoothly shifting through the gears,
The roaring of the engine in my ears,
The smell of leather – and a cigarette.
(Admittedly that’s one I should forget.)
But somewhere in my heart I’m still a child,
And it would be so lovely to feel wild,
Like before my friends and I wore glasses,
Like when all of us had smaller asses.
How cool to once again just slip inside
A car like that and take a little ride
From Surrey Hills to right on out of town,
The music turned up loud, the top rolled down.
I wouldn’t go too fast – but I wouldn’t go slow.
I’d wear big silver sunnies. I’d let my hair grow
So it could fly behind me in the wind
And the road ahead of me would never end.