Allow Only Joy
a selection
of poems
by John Ellison Davies
Acknowledgments
Poems in this selection have appeared previously in The Australian, The Age, Adelaide Review, Newcastle Herald, Southerly, Fremantle Arts Review, Overland, Northern Perspective, Mattoid, the Canberra Times, Phoenix Review, Fine Line, the Sydney Morning Herald, and Webber's Magazine.
Individual poems have been broadcast on 2RRR-FM and ABC Radio National.
Knock Knock was first performed by Mr Dick Hughes at Woollahra Library, Sydney, on Tuesday 18 February 1992. Knock Knock, Moonlight Sonata, and Flowers, Perfume, Glasnost were broadcast on ABC Radio National's programme Poetica on Saturday 21 March 1998.
CONTENTS
Dick Hughes at the Shakespeare Hotel
LUNCH
what becomes of them
the red napkin, the soup
her nervous nail polish
tapping the marble table
her insulted mouth
closing on lasagna and salad
the chilled dew of chablis
on her peach coloured lips
her sceptical shoulders
when she speaks
and her skin
shimmering resentment
when he speaks
what becomes of them
when the table is cleared
and she leaves to invent
a life without miracles
WOMAN, CHILD, MAN
another journey begins
the swollen breast blue-veined
hungrily seeks the hungry mouth
and the child is beautiful
of course, impossible to believe
that what we have made
is not beautiful
the young couple are different
people now, they can fold
the world in a basket
in the child's cry
they hear an older voice
telling them how different they are
each surprised childish
breath reminds them
tyres glide, the road
tightens home, curious
new eyes mirror
a neon-lit kiss
in ecstasy
we breed our own judges
HONEY
tell me the story
again, please
while we have time
explain
the waiting
this poison
these useless wings
and why we dream
of a dizzy
perfumed ceremony
we have never seen
MOUNTAIN POEM
we question the morning
where to begin and morning's
crazy face questions us
with a light grin
through cracked
wooden shutters, a sceptical
pattern on the wall
we tease with shadows
shall we
answer first
shall we
introduce ourselves
to the clouds
the early clouds that graze
at our door and sulk
for lost moonlit pasture?
2 a.m.
silence thickens, wine
still hums in the blood
and coffee is a scalding
blessing, muddy, intense
as a new thought forming
is all forgiven?
it seems possible
at this empty musical hour
when words mean more
and carry further
when whipped by promises
we tend to the horizontal
mouths open for passion
ears made for confession
and our whispers linger
like thin wild notes
on a violin upstairs
never quite forgotten
THE EMBRACE
“you have to love them"
I tell her "It's your only
defence"
she is puzzled
at first, then memory
blooms as it will
when a storm has passed
recognition rainbows
in her hazel eyes
there is a clue
of eagerness on the map
her indelicate history
delicately etched
sweats like glass
in the palm she offers
pressing
gently enough
to shatter worlds
MUST IT BE SO?
it must be so
as the gathering storm
impartial
holds its breath
each raindrop mirrors
earth, ocean, mountains
trembles
lovingly
and begins
its fall
this is the law
there are
no exceptions
allow only joy
REVELATION
this rain falls
on our dry spectacle
like a soft accusation
sweeping the city grey
in this rain
illusions rust through
false obligations tarnish
unrealistic hopes lie sodden
irrelevant as a newspaper
pulped in the sighing gutter
this rain teaches:
enough heaviness, truth
does not weigh so much
what matters?
two small tattoos
on my lover's breasts
and the taste
of her drowsy beauty
A QUESTION
I have heard you
swayed in the lilt
of your voice
like an anemone
filtering its life
from the tilt
of afternoon tides
tossed
from side to side
from sense to sense
of all our possibilities
do I know you?
yes or no
either answer might be
a betrayal
a drowning
UPSTAIRS
an awkward drawer
jammed, pushed
scrapes like thunder
a bump
and sudden silence
could mean murder
a woman speaks
her intention obscure
through plaster and floor
she whistles, I speculate
on the shape of her mouth
life is so interesting
when you don't know
your neighbours
CRITICAL MASS
slack morning limps in
our narrow street, a faint
hope bellows from the squat
brick church, people sit
a medley of coughs and bumps
the priest hesitates
(there is already
one loud letter
on the Bishop's quiet desk)
but refreshed by an early
baptism his tide rises
he is joined to the rock
and his wrecked children
as sea is married to sky
his bliss is a holocaust, frantic
as a hungry gull's cry
he preaches:
forgive us Lord
for we know exactly
what we are doing
at the back of the church
a pen allergic to paradox
is scratching
PAPER CUTS
tick tock
ticky tock
seconds pound
thin skin
hours weigh
blood's heavy
gravity, I cling
to a page
with a pen
and paper cuts
what time is it
in Soweto?
what time is it
in Prague?
ticky tock
gravity is harder
in some places
than others, always
and everywhere
paper cuts
ALLEGORY
he was not a bad man
only a poor painter
big-boned
like our sons
and polite
to our daughters
tough as a goat
or a saint he climbed
our hills in the hot hours
while we slept
and later
when he drank with us
he talked so well
he made our sunsets longer
we thought he understood
but why
did he paint it that way
the great painting
you can see
in the great museum
why did he paint
our fields ablaze
and the lovers' arms
legs, bent, tense
as sunlight between vines?
TREMOR
to one
half asleep
it seemed the bells
rang first
heavy tongued
as his own
stuttering prayers
but then
the statue moved
and he knew
statues do not move
not even holy ones
and he knew
there would be a death
ADVICE
if you would shepherd her
where the world holds hands
read in her touch
a finger-tip code
ask what can you be
that only you can be to her
what can you say
that only you can say to her
remember, no king
makes a wave indecisive
no watchmaker bullies an hour
no wave or hour delays
desire's grained time-table
DICK HUGHES AT THE SHAKESPEARE HOTEL
the magician enters
through engraved doors you see
and doors you cannot see, larger
than the sum of his disguises
chevalier, citizen, chief
engineer of the last train,
master of memory and curiosity,
piano man
his left hand
knows what his right
hand is doing
striking, under a blue moon,
keys to selves we see and selves
we cannot see, girls
who don't lie (not much),
mean firemen, wining boys,
beer-drinking women
improvising certainties
FLOWERS, PERFUME, GLASNOST
unsure
which way to hop
I hop
and collide
with you
again
let's step outside
history
take a laughing
step sideways, turn
and play
a more interesting
game
THESE THINGS SHE KNOWS
"even friendship is a way
of passing the time..."
she knows
her cappuccino, stirred, suggests
dimensions of self-pity
too precise for tears
she knows
how small she is
how great her needs
knowing, she rages
calm as a gambler
losing everything, spun
on the last turn
of the wheel, knowing
it is the end
calm as an angel
who made a mistake
shut out forever
from the elite of love
MOONLIGHT SONATA
wake up
last night there was something
I wanted to tell you
but you were diving
too far down in dreams
when I shook you
your body a limp marker
showing where you had been
and where you would return
telling me not to follow
incomplete, I tried to write
to discover
among the broken words
in my clumsy quarry
a likeness of your dream
a submerged language
you might answer
at five
a black moth fluttered
under the lamp, its desperate wings
stained my pages
wake up
there is something
I want to ask you
HYENA
we lost our nerve
over the fettuccine, our vegetables
are limp, the casserole dry
our jaws ache
no need to explain
in our polite kitchen
gourmet Time itself lies
raw, marinating
no need to explain
today's expressionless frenzy
or tomorrow's salmon-pink lure
DUET 1
there is no escaping
this disgrace, we are
a passenger's numb
dream in a train
on another track
we are the light at sea
and the points of doubt
within the light
the silhouettes on deck
walking, waking
into a future
we did not make
DUET 2
the last page
of the last chapter
of honesty's rule book
says smash the gate's
shy lock, dance
through fear's nettles
into the final garden
if we weep there -
most people are
at their best in tears –
we can be
a surprised face
at each other's window
forever tapping
surprising ourselves
TRISTESSE
in his imagination
the women he has loved
meet for coffee, somewhere inexpensive
they have not read
the same books, not enjoyed
the same paintings, music, films
they are tall, small,
bold, evasive, slender,
rounded, dark, fair, unalike
in style and colour of dress,
shoes, handbags, eyes
and yet together
they are as harmonious
as coral, and not once
do they talk about him
POOR JILL
"I did it again
didn't I?" she asks
her loyal pot-plants
offer trembling buds, mute fruit
from sympathetic stems
she finishes
last night's whisky
neat, as if the answer
could be round
as the taste of whisky
round
as the moon
glimpsed over
a lover's shoulder
perhaps he
perhaps she
questions
are such awkward shapes
she dances
to the applause
of symmetrical leaves
15 WISDOM STREET
the woman next door
is not talking to her husband
she rakes a garden argument
punishes leaves, brawls with flowers
frustrated by the strength of weeds
kneels on a stone and swears
inside the house
her husband smokes
and reads the paper, turns
each urgent page amazed
that he is not news
he wonders who writes
true histories of pain, of hate
newsprint stains
his fingers like guilt
THE SPHINX AT YOUR DOOR
at this pebbled frontier
steps a lame man
singing heads I win
tails I win
free of the leaping herd's
nostalgia for the precipice
lost
in the dusty interval
between the bubble sun
and bubble moon
(those liars)
all that is outside
him torrents in him
but he sings
I am a porous man
heads I win
tails I win
MOTHER
she is an oracle
the tenderness
and lust of centuries
scream through her
history's tiny feet
kick with her pulse
at this fierce moment
she is a goddess
initiated
in the pain of creation
already
resenting
the stretchmarks
RESCUE
as the chasm widens
throw over a rope
and hold tight as if
our life depends on it
(our life does) keep
the icy distance
small and bridgeable
what kind of rope?
how do we fasten it?
do we hammer the pins
into our bones?
you see
sooner or later
every metaphor
pierces flesh
KNOCK KNOCK
it is I
the well-mannered poet
in my coat
of many colours
and red shoes
prematurely grey
one-eyed lord
of blind furry words
master of mirrors
the nervous heart's
early warning
eavesdropper
(I know
when you've been
bad or good)
story teller
trickster
trust me
hey!
I'm talking to you