we thought of ourselves
now we need poetry

we observed ourselves
     by the water

did we drink?

we followed the line of ourselves
     to where the sun marked the ground
     with the beauty of the last tree

when did we write the first poem
     sent out to meet the horizon?

there came slowly a day
     when all vision troubled us

we turned ourselves into our words
     which until then
     had not lived

 

~•~

 

commerce closes the flag
the bell the coffin

the benefactors carry empty houses
to the coin
and push flowers into years

if only the lime was still spread
on the chests of the dead

and the law had to wait
     five days…

skin burns a sound mind
the island arrives
barefoot in its entirety

sleep past the morning-sir
armband the morning

 

~•~

 

love mines us
of the final prayer
of need

in darkness it searches
for its reflection
everyone can play the mirror!

there is none in seeing
but cruelty in describing
take care then

not to describe

 

~•~

 

the prayer for those who speak
is sung
in the minute before the hour
in the song on the bridge
     for what passes beneath
in the one shoe for the other
for the other that is spoken to

see the mouth make a brick
     a bird, a plug of the ocean
               in a test-tube

the striking green of the rainforest cycad
     is no trouble for the tongue
it goes even to curl on those little stones
     that have never existed
those imaginary stones
     in the no-sun

 

~•~

 

the clock of the wind
blows quickly through time

the mistakes of the north
are made in the south

I put my hand deeply
into alliteration

and death translates
the forgotten world

 

~•~

 

the weariness
     of the hunter's stare
               has aged me

I wait for the single
     caress of word
               that will make me bone again

among flesh

any ground that can support you
     is bigger than you
               even if it is smaller

I didn't realize how broken we are
      when we must leave
               as if mended

my wound is full
     of the dart
               that does not seem great enough

certain things cannot get past
     the stump
               of my tongue

I do not dream without you

I accuse Saturday of death

God has no neighbours

say if you dare
      your last word

 

~•~

 

winter's-bark
widow-bird
the seminar of Summer
the infant fragments
gentle in their crash
towards what's worthy of their dreams
resist, break worlds –

what is the single sense
               of this love?

intimage –

                    we fold like bright eggs
                         to the make

variations of seven –

owlet-moth
bat on a string
nocent life

days that mean something
have passed

 

~•~

 

love is focus
deeper than the eye
we are ever closer
to undoing its claims

to seeing

 

~•~

 

I salute you
for living so long
for taking your own life

terrifyingly
the root lifting itself
from its bed

love mines us
until the earth
is empty of us

 

Copyright © M.T.C. Cronin, 2003

M.T.C. Cronin first published her poetry ten years ago, since which time she has published nine collections, the most recent of which are My Lover's Back: 79 Love Poems (University of Queensland Press, Brisbane, 2002) and beautiful unfinished (Salt Publishing, Cambridge, 2003), and has won numerous prizes. She was born in 1963 in New South Wales, and now lives with her partner, a musician, and their three children in Queensland. beautiful unfinished is Shearsman Book of the Month for August 2003; see the review here.