The right life
I am my beloveds and my beloved is mine
Angles of repose
This morning
Migration
In a sea fog
Penguins
For comrades in solitary confinement
Greater flamingoes
snipe
Oystercatcher
One sooty falcon
Lesser kestrel
Two ravens
The nest in tatters
That pair of pigeons
Over a cup of tea
And gathering of swallows twitter
The speech of birds
Early morning May
Bird brigade

Crabbe, Chris Wallace

Cronin, Jeremy

Gray, Stephen

Murray, Sean

Shevchuk-Murray, Nina

Smith, Lou

Swain, Rabindra

Tredinnick, Mark

English

Research Online

Kunapipi Volume 29 Issue 2 Article 4 2007 Poems Mark Tredinnick Lou Smith Jeremy Cronin Stephen Gray Rabindra Swain See next page for additional authors Follow this and additional works at: https://ro.uow.edu.au/kunapipi  Part of the Arts and Humanities Commons Recommended Citation Tredinnick, Mark; Smith, Lou; Cronin, Jeremy; Gray, Stephen; Swain, Rabindra; Crabbe, Chris Wallace; Murray, Sean; and Shevchuk-Murray, Nina, Poems, Kunapipi, 29(2), 2007. Available at:https://ro.uow.edu.au/kunapipi/vol29/iss2/4 Research Online is the open access institutional repository for the University of Wollongong. For further information contact the UOW Library: research-pubs@uow.edu.au Poems Abstract The right life I am my beloveds and my beloved is mine Angles of repose This morning Migration In a sea fog Penguins For comrades in solitary confinement Greater flamingoes snipe Oystercatcher One sooty falcon Lesser kestrel Two ravens The nest in tatters That pair of pigeons Over a cup of tea And gathering of swallows twitter The speech of birds Early morning May Bird brigades Authors Mark Tredinnick, Lou Smith, Jeremy Cronin, Stephen Gray, Rabindra Swain, Chris Wallace Crabbe, Sean Murray, and Nina Shevchuk-Murray This journal article is available in Kunapipi: https://ro.uow.edu.au/kunapipi/vol29/iss2/4 8Mark TreddinickTHE rIGHT LIFEToday the wind is shameless and unfettered; she stripsleaves from the poplarsand lifts letters from the wordsof the phrases in one’s mouth. Do the right thing; live the right life pied flycatcher shrillsin the winter grass.But one is, oneself, damnedby self-awareness to essay —all the better days of one’s life — a thing the bird doesjust waking and surrendering to herself. She dances herself true in the shapelypursuit of breakfast.Mark Treddinick 9I AM MY bELoVED’S, AND MY bELoVED IS MINEFor Rohan, my brother, and Mariza,on their wedding, December 2007. And with a bow of respect toThe Song of Solomon IEach afternoon two black ducks land in the grass and lodge by the watertrough through the dusk. IIThe silence between them is deep and it’s most of what theyshare and they would be nowhereelse and with nobody else,and there is something beyondhope, and this is how it looks,fallen on the lowly grass,she, the rose of Sharon, hethe apple among the treesof the wood. And from my shelfthe clock repeats its old lie,and he drinks and flares the greenin his wings and says rise upmy love, and come away. Orsomething like that. For lo, shereplies, the winter is past,the rain is over and gone;the time of the singing ofbirds is come. And they rise andeat from the seed of the hensand return and lie down ineach other’s delight untilnight finds them out and he sayscome, my beloved, let usgo forth into the field, orsomething like that, and they do.10 Mark TreddinickIIIThere are seven virtues, atleast, and some of them are smallas blue wrens and some as greatas silver poplars, but nonematters beside, and none counts without, what visits us be-yond reason and outstays itsseason and makes the world agarden again. And two birds.IVLove is strong as death, I think,watching them articulateeternity in their flight.18Lou SmithMIGrATIoNCurrawongs, perhaps the most advanced member of the family, are adept scavengers and tree-living gleaners which spend much of their time roaming when they are not breeding.I struggleto keep uprightas branchestwist and crackin blusteringwinter winds.Should your hairsmell of cut limeyour skin of tamarind?The wattle is beginning to bloom.When you crossed the Atlanticand crossed the Pacificdid your bones splinter in chill?The pied-currawongcalls in flight,arboreal, strong.Your historywas posted in airmail lettersto friends and family we never knew,Christmas correspondence our mothernow fulfills.… contact calls can be quite soft and yet keep a family or a flock together as its members forage …like your fingers swiftlytatting thread after threadof coloured cotton I’m weaving knowledgeof your migration.Lou Smith 19The most obvious altitudinal migrants … are the pied-currawong, the gang-gang cockatoo, the king parrot, the crimson rosella, the golden whistler, the crescent honeyeater and the red wattlebird.On summer nightssticky like rum,the smell of bananasand castor sugar frying,of freshly mowed lawnand suburban quietthe call of curra-wong curra-wong. WorK cITEDFrith, H.J. (ed.) 1976, Reader’s Digest Complete Book of Australian Birds, reader’s Digest Services, Sydney 1976.20 Lou SmithIN SEA FoGIn koropunwhere rocks fallfrom human voicefog horns soundyou left Jamaicawhere you were bornthen from Englandyou came herewhere coquon flows through the valleyto the seaand swamps spread out toTirrikiba-place of firewhere steelworks of tirrikiblast the skies with steamand as you passed the singing cliffs, Yirannalai,this far-off placecoal seamedand metal-grey water leechedthe river flowed on strongto the sacred songs of tel-moonbut as the fog yaralkulliko,the wind the scent of honeysucklethe Doctor bird’sblack tail whippedthe Doctor Birdcalled your nameDoris Butcherthe Doctor Birdsang you backto Jamaicawhere this poemsummons you to returnLou Smith 21NoTES The Doctor bird, or Swallow-Tail Hummingbird, is the National bird of Jamaica. The Arawaks, the Indigenous people of Jamaica, believed the bird had magical powers. They called the bird ‘God bird’ believing it was the reincarnation of dead souls. See, Jamaica Information Service, ‘National bird — The Doctor-bird (Trochilus polytmus) or Swallow-Tail Hummingbird’, This is Jamaica, october 2005, online http://www.jis.gov.jm/special_sections/This%20Is%20Jamaica/symbols.html. GLoSSArY oF TErMS FroM THE AWAbAKAL LANGUAGE(Sourced from Maynard, John. Ed. Awabakal Word Finder and Dreaming Stories Companion. Keeaira press, Southport, 2004.)koropun: haze, fog, mistCoquon: Hunter river. coquon was the name as recorded by Dr J.D. Lang. The Awabakal word for water was Ko-ko-in. The origin/translation of coquon and Ko-ko-in are likely connected.Tirrikiba: place of fire (later the site of the Newcastle Steelworks)tirriki: flame, red in colour, red hot.tel-moon: the sacred bird of women — the Australian Woodpecker. Still to be seen in the mountains around Newcastle. Women would strongly protect this bird.yaralkulliko: move away, like the clouds.Yirannalai: cliffs between Newcastle and Bar Beach. 62Jeremy CroninpENGUINSYou’ve heard the alarm clock a second before it actually went off?i.Waddle, bray awayShuffle down your duneGrunt, grunt againHead looming over tummyShort-sightedly to checkOn your own clown-footed stepFlopIf you mustInto water, flop, letting your bandaged wings unwind theirSheerFlippery Pirouette, porpoise-like, flying the inside of a green-hearted waveTorpedoing the loop-the-loop, wizarding a thrust, bringing the ocean’s immense, in shortOrchestrasSpeechless…..To hushii.I imagine hearing the alarm-clock a shadeOf a second before it actually goes offIs the weak vestige of that in-built capacityIn penguinsTo swim homeAcross hundreds of miles open seaGuided by the thinnest electro-magnetic map-workLike that which radiates above my head fromTwo-and-a-half volt Two EvereadyAlarm-clock batteries Or is thisRetrospective to soothe the desperation of beingWrenched awake from dreams?Jeremy Cronin 63iii.Imagine these words dropped off in remote baysSwimming with uncanny instinctTowards the end of a poemLike this fascination for penguins(Easily dismissed)(People are starving, why give a damn about birds?)A fascination that, nonetheless, presses on, seeking some hint of compassion in chaosIn this too often cynical place with its oil spillsAnd nature’s alarm clocks going offThese words want To splash, home, waddling ashoreWith that bewildered, blinking, hesitant Out-of-element Air, is it wrong, they seem to wonderTo feel wonderFor penguins?NoTEA recent oil spill threatened the colony of breeding African penguins on Robben Island off cape Town. The birds were removed by truck overland several hundred kilometres up the eastern coastline and then released back into the sea. They swam back over the following month or so, but the weeks of grace as they returned provided an opportunity to mop up the oil spill.64 Jeremy CroninFor coMrADES IN SoLITArY coNFINEMENTEvery time they cage a birdthe sky shrinks. A little.Where without appetite — you communewith the stale bread of yourself, pacing to and fro, to shun,one driven step on aheadof the conversationistwho lurks in your head.You are an eyeballyou are many eyeshauled to high windowsto glimpse, dopplered by meshhow-how-how long?the visible, invisible, visibleacross the skythe question mark — one sole ibis flies.76Stephen GrayGrEATEr FLAMINGoESI said: stretch your metre and a half,the tip is black for down, stay in the pink — do not be ashamed of it, caked blush,or you’re a dead immature. Fly after father.We used to steer by battlefields and the odd DRsteeple, siloes in the sunflowers, furry mealielands.Now it’s all Telkom and the bismillah Store.Veer left at Thusane Funerals and the Salon Zelda …There as ripple-free among the reeds, our shiningpan. I said: unbend your knobby kneesas you alight. Breathe in, sieve for shrimp, lift, breathe out. Stiltwalk. Ignore the plasticbags, the old diesel sump and Castle cans.I said: eat your carotenoids. I said:mucky head beneath your wing. That way you cease to exist, wake up clean. Or elseit’s back to the nursery like gawky ducks. I said: move over.Stephen Gray 77SNIpEDecorator of swamps and quagmires,said John Clare, along rancid streams.If undisturbed delves and drills the gelidmass apart for food, hell on molluscs,probes the moor’s spongy lap.With the annual liquid into ice may leavethy mystic nest in crackling reeds, depart.Whither o shut-legged long-billed zigzag?Needs pudges, moss, the stagnant flood.For Africa’s esturaries, gorged with mud.Fly straight for Mthatha’s mangroves,your mate in rendezvous, paddling, probing.Wading for crabs. With global warmingless and less mud in Africa, drill mud, split mud, dried out, cracked. Homeagain for British damp, little left.My bill longer than my head.Romantic poets of the sinky foss,all let earth breathe. Hit concrete. 78 Stephen GrayoYSTErcATcHErGone from this shoreline since wild Joyceat the Ocean View with her crowbar prisedthe last oyster from its bed, pinkin her rolled-up-T-shirt, slimy on her sandy,salty tits. Evading the Catch Monitor.Those all-black shorebirds, red-eyed, blade-likebills. Nesting in tidal debris and washed-up kelp. Mussels they’ve reseeded here,take tropical fish from cosy reefs, nettedthe dunes with scrub. But those brokenshells are oyster fossils now, thrown up, no spraysof sperm, no culch. While the sea still runs its idle water to the shore, the oystercatchersof the Indian Ocean have moved on along.Trying the Atlantic side.Stephen Gray 79oNE SooTY FALcoNAlong the cliffside a batch of euphorbiacovered in honeysuckle, bringing butterflies,when in the binocular’s clear o,there: a hook-billed eagle / buzzard / kite —basically grey as the squall at seabehind him, yellow cere over black culmen,eye shining, crest down, a yellow clawstrikes up to scratch his gape.Flick, turn. clasp his perch, so his prey.Raptors are hard to identify, one from another.Confuses with a juvenile brownish tail.Must cruise bush. Swivels, avoids drizzle.And like a thunderbolt at dusk he wobbles. 80 Stephen GrayLESSEr KESTrELAt least with dusk she had the wheel and screechof their flypast, a stop-dead spectacle:spotted brown like khaki rags hovering …‘cast’ is the collective word, a cast of thousandsrotating in the vast failing sky, before they sink and roost in the same village gumor pepper-tree each summer. Cleaning outthe insects of the Great Karoo. Her slenderrufous falcons of Hanover, tumbled all the way from Jedda and Turkmenistan, their palaearcticbreeding grounds, migrating half the world awayto feed above politics. One night a hailstorm struckand stunned the advance guard of all the lesser kestrels,flapping and gaping — worse than bloody Kitchener.She gathered them in her apron, nursed them right — olive Schreiner I mean, under house arrest,confined to domestic duties and quite unable to escape herself. Stephen Gray 81TWo rAVENSSheeny. All black, except for the whitenape we flash you below only when wheeling.In pairs we prospect. Larger even than your pied or plain black crows. Omnivores,but for choice a lamb disabled, peckout its eyes … a blind baby Jesus:in the snow they stagger, fall intocrevasses, strip off soft parts beforethey freeze. We’re falsetto — easyto tune into from other kraaks, staypaired for life. Scavenge, yes, eyeyour dirt and dumps and disembowel.Mostly we glide glossily and alightonly on our dark shadows.98rabindra SwainTHE NEST IN TATTErSThese lines camewith the birds already perched on them.Before I was aware of it.they have hung themselves upside down —thin, tiny substances, self-effacing,were it not for the brightyellow spot on the neckand that of white on the male’s belly.I did not have to play host,nor give in to them to weaveout of my lines a nest.They camebefore these lines came.They did not have to picktwigs and straws of my thought;they had their glue, of course.The way they flutteredabove my head, it seemedI did not exist for them.Or maybe, they accepted meas a part of the landscapethey had come to inhabit.Laying eggsthe mother-bird prayed.I joined her:Let the chicks see the light of day.Only one of them survived.I watched them feed itfrom their tubular beaks,watched the fledgling growday by day but failed to seewhen it learnedthe art of flying.rabindra Swain 99I never sawit touch the ground on its tiny feet.Once they were a threesomethey were hardly to be seentill they disappearedin a windy night.They are gone.The nest, now in tatters,taunts me to retrieve from itthe lines they wove.100 rabindra SwainTHAT pAIr oF pIGEoNSThis humid afternoona pigeon fell at my feet, bleeding,cut by the blades of a revolving fan.While I cleaned my roomI found another pigeonon the skylight.I do not knowwhich one of the pigeon pair,male or female, died.But the other pigeon on the skylightstill glowers at meseeking an explanation I cannot provide.rabindra Swain 101oVEr A cUp oF TEAOur house is without a fence.All that is there are only sparse hedges,a few trees of jasmine and a kaniar(of late I discovered this funnelof a yellow flower is dear to our lordJagannath). Here sleep comes lateand leaves early. Still drowsyyou come out to the balconywith the morning teaand with an accumulation ofdays of doing nothing. You imaginethe balance the days, emptied,would makewere they to be placedone atop another, and on topof them all you sittingwith a cup of tea and lettingyourself flutter horizontally — a 5’4” temple banner.Breaking the spella small gray bird comes hoppingtowards you and picks wormsand seeds — the dawn isso quiet you could hear them crackinginside its beak. Then it goes awaywithout bothering to look at you,making you realise the flimsiness,the transparency of your being,your being inconsequentially therein one sunny morning with acup of tea, and your inabilityto say something likeI let a morning with a bird go byfor sheer fear that the other birdwill soon be here somewhereon electric wires or eucalyptus topswith its too familiar note,tu tuu, tu tuu,which, in your mother tongue,sounds like ‘the end of you’.166Chris Wallace CrabbeAND GATHErING SWALLoWS TWITTEr(for Paul Carter)You might think the world is being taken overby those properly-named rainbow lorikeetswhizzing over like fighter planes that squealbut a couple of magpies have moved south into our square,reasserting the musical verities: a square in whichseagulls assemble late every morningto be fed with crumbled bread by the old Greek womannext door. Sometimes we see a raven or twohoeing into dry sandwiches; and feral pigeons,oddly so-called, given they live in cities,and not at all in a secretive way like foxes do.Mudlarks, peculiarly at home with trafficare generally called peewits in New South Wales,although their yelp is far more piercing than that.Red-rumped or grass parrots will start up under your feetas you cross the far larger park, where softly spoken dovesand unwelcome starlings are also grazing: Ted Hugheslikened the latter to blowflies. They have a nasty sheen.Sparrows abound where concrete and crumbs abound,with a particular fondness for the stylish outdoor café, while Indian mynahs can well look after themselves.Wattlebirds are aggressive and lithe: according to Cayleythey produce a sound much like pulling the corkout from a bottle of wine. At other timesit’s the loud repeated effect of a donkey braying.Once I saw a bloke in nocturnal pyjamasbeating a streetside tree with a furious broom,attempting to quell the din. Attractive greenieswith their sliver of white carol from treetopsin the most pleasing way, keeping it brief.All of them belong to a geographical culturethat both underlies and overlays our own,and will no doubt be glad to be rid of usin God’s good time or that of the ozone layeror some other card in the genetic casino.Chris Wallace Crabbe 167THE SpEEcH oF bIrDSThat there should nowbe red berries down thereto the left of third-big-treewill concern me laterfor now I knowplentiful grass-seeds are eating-readynear fence and far enoughfrom catand even before thatI’ll pick upthose excellent lengths of strawjust the shotfor home repairsa bit closer thoughto big cat prowling groundFour legs more dangeroustwo more or less benignbut upstairs in our treethose bloody wattlebirdsand squealing gangs of lorikeetscould drive one crazySome days I can’t even heara melodious lovesongfrom down the waynor the clamant warningthat sparrowhawk is hovering nowsomewhere above leaflessriding the breath of death176Sean MurrayEARLY MORNING, MAYThe birds have come again. They are insufferable, so thick in the trees,so near the windows with their hollow bones,their loud songs gaudy and erudite.The trees are not so much complicit as helpless.The beans, planted in the old strawberry pot last monthlook the other way, tend to their roots and new blooms.I know. The racket has woken you too early. 177Nina Shevchuk-MurraybIrD brIGADESLines of blackbirds march acrossthe lawn every evening after grass is cut.Today, they came walking uphill,but I had seen them do the opposite.The birds cannot be random, though.They are meticulous,methodically coordinated in their bending and picking,their straight-legged advance from leftto right.They come in brigades, platoonslike India. They know somethingI never will learn aboutwalking on grass.194Mark TreddinickANGLES oF rEpoSEKoel cries in the morning’s ward,and I wake and leave my family gatheredwhere the slow episodes of night have washed them unconformably together, and I enter a dawn poised just north of freezing. Fog traces the dreamof the river south, where spring has made the country good again. Two roos cross the plain of Lake George like creation’s afterthought. Mark Treddinick 195THIS MorNINGbirds sing like the memory of paradise lost on Sunday, when summer came to town too early and too hard,like all our futures come at once.on Saturday, when it was the present yet, but already warm, I walked out to find a home and found, instead, two wrens returned for springAnd making that old mistake again in the branch of a bottlebrush down the lane,already outside the garden fenceand hell to pay forever more.But today the sky has caught his blueand the morning’s caught her voice,and my neighbour’s sinking footings in stone as thougheternity hadn’t been blown apartAnd had a place for us yet. And the wind’sin the south and the road’s a messof fallen limbs, and the wrens are gone, but what they brought sings on at the end of the road.—Glebe, 25 September 2006

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