acoustics

they’re playing the outside of the inside of their instruments

new found objects of pulse and percussion

vibrations listening to vibrations

symbols of cymbals

everything unsteady uncertain about to become something else

drums wandering in from another modality

letting the drummer converse with them in her language

while the bass takes itself for a walk down to the bar

where the guitar plays tunes only it can dance to

until the bass pleads like a gospel choir to be heard

and the drums turn to crickets and reeds and creaking furniture

they’re sawing all their instruments in half

in full view of the audience

and we believe they’ll put them back together

before the end of the set

she’s playing pick up sticks on the tom-tom

he’s tightened his bow until it stops on the strings like jammed brakes

he’s playing with a coat hangar wire from behind his guitar strings

tuning in the vibrations like radio waves

they’re making it all up as they go

both eyes closed
not looking at her left hand
arching her body over the drums
letting the tension toss her
tugged along by a story

he’s loosening the strings on his guitar
trying to find a melody in pure sound

he’s driving the same beat
all the way down the bow

they’re twisting it up
throwing it off
plucking

magpies in their own thick forest

wooden upright
wooden sticks
acoustic

After a performance by
Germaine Liu (percussion), Jim Sexton (upright bass),
Ken Aldcroft (guitar) in the leftover daylight series
at Somewhere There, December 2010

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fresco

all my thoughts shone in sunlight
while the wind blew all doubts away
I found colour in what was black and white
and made fresh-cut grass into a bouquet
trees whispered hope from bluest skies
while cats looked into my open eyes

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An Orchestra of Frogs

invisible in the grasses

growing long in the neighbour’s front yard

what my son called –

finding his own way into the story –

an orchestra of frogs

waits for us

around the corner

our arrival

galvanizes their song

if we forget they’re there

we can be surprised again

and so

with joy

we do

for Brodie (with thanks)

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Willows

for E.B.

you might mistake these willows

for dancers

their hips bent provocatively

into the tall grass

enjoying their own voluptuous shapes

floating on the lively surface of the stream

this grove of willows

turns in on itself

like a circle of women at their own kitchen party:

the young one bending away from the group

but still swaying to the same beat

the two lovers, quiet, parallel,

shifting positions within the group

the older, heavy-limbed one

who’s been dancing like this for decades

their light green leaves

like hands waving free

these willows are not weeping

they are reaching out in ecstasy

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clothesline

patches of linen

moving like joyful empty canvases

across the well-ordered sombre landscape

barely claimed by fences and solitary houses

the strongest force unseen

briskly lifting the edges of the familiar

for Madeline Power (1922-2007)

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a modest device

Imagine a man

standing in the frame of a doorway

looking out from his well-lit kitchen

into the dark yard beyond

where summer is still emerging from the mud

Imagine the bare branches of a large tree

stretched across the night sky

stars visible above the streetlamps

beyond the scattered light from the open door

Imagine one possible star

light shooting out in streams

like a divided searchlight

sparks flying out into the night

from that distant campfire

Imagine that particular comet

like a Victoria Day sparkler

writing its signature on the indifferent sky

for that one man

standing at the edge of his home

dreaming himself into the dark

Imagine yourself

in that silence

Imagine you are imagining an artist

Paterson Ewen in particular

balanced on two sawhorses

routing out the trail of a comet

across the expanse of two sheets of plywood

Imagine you are imagining him

imagining himself in the centre of that wonder

making it real by his activity

brushstrokes etched in the indifferent wood

going against the grain

simply by revealing it

Imagine his playful work assumes the exact shape of your longing

the artist constructing just enough skin

between himself and the world

Imagine the man gazing back into his kitchen

seeing it from the dark yard

he willingly entered

only moments before

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September Meditation

September Meditation

for James Fitzgerald

coming up from Davenport Road

seeing the surface of the pond

at surface level

cross-ripples shimmering

motion radiating everywhere

the pond’s seeming stillness

holds the reflection of trees and sky

then breaks into pixillated images

a turtle emerges

leaves flutter down

distilling the wind and water

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writing on water

don’t rewrite old poems

you’ve already shed that skin

what do you want now

history or hysterics?

no retreat no surrender

Nicholas Power

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