Michele Leggott - Swimmers, Dancers

SWIMMERS, DANCERS

Michele Leggott Some of these poems have appeared in Descant (Canada), Landfall, The Listener, Meanjin, Now See Hear! (ed. Ian Wedde and Gregory Burke, Victoria University Press for the Wellington City Art Gallery, 1990), Sport, Verse (Scotland). Two are reprinted from my first collection, Like This? (Caxton, 1988). Four were read on Radio New Zealands Concert Programme, September 1989. Merylyn Tweedies Nicola or Floral Tile or Betty (floor tiles, photocopies on fibreglass cloth on vinyl wallpaper, coated with epoxy resin, 459 #215; 428 cm, 1989) is the starting point for one piece. Lines from Janet Charmans the print kiss (Untold 9/10, 1988) also enrich that particular conversation.

The book was completed and published with the assistance of the Literature Committee of the Queen Elizabeth II Arts Council. First published 1991
This ebook edition 2013
Auckland University Press University of Auckland Private Bag 92019, Auckland 1142
www.press.auckland.ac.nz
Michele Leggott 1991 This book is copyright. Apart from fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism, or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without the prior permission of Auckland University Press. eISBN 978 1 86940 670 7 Distributed outside New Zealand by Oxford University Press

For Jock and Dulce
who were both dear heart it was a coast road long past lilac time and well out of town the sea out of sight and driving north in the far south the radio swelled nostalgia and I want you to know that I remember it all the time it was just part of your afternoon repertoire a dance-floor pick-up kept on at you all those years the romance the real life dance we were brought in to share the sun and the son you were making it true with a late-fifties step up the coast into heaven and some memorable parties fishing trips carnivals a dog a truck a baby sister a walk to the swing bridge and back and more then it was moving into town settling down and later the piano you were picking out Mancini arrangements Nat King Cole My Fair Lady and the theme from Mondo Cane you sang them into the woodwork and when it really was a table for one and a single rose that hard lost time I heard Errol Garner play I only have eyes for you in a winter house dancing with knots in my throat past midnight and your brave tra-la-la half a world away its a lonely thing to do and you couldnt get used to the cold or the hole in the bed the silence after you sang out the songs that would never mean dancing again oh my sentimental mother you died and I saw you in each others arms again an hour from dawn just as it should have been my dear I took your rings and came back to the real life dance of these years a song by songs and it seems I dont know all the words because you never did but here we are driving the coasts of our dreams and bending again in time over the precious cradle of the heart so oriently lovely your happy new years wish themselves well and grace to the fingerling moon its always this starts it a violin violins violins wheeling in space * great starts going up taking up If youve got leaving on your mind or they go breaching the dawn foam feet first hear it? can you sing it do you remember? (helpless the windows are open * pick him up in the dark he didnt always know the trick of a sleepy head on your shoulder little movie wide page * lign aloes align paradise shoots zingiber promise in a lotus pool ibis kiss this coast see the sun go round rages of day decline swim, moon *** virgins plus curtains minus dots claret and celestial blue people still go to cottages in moody seaside weather to read for a week how will we do it now? when I go for walks words stalk along too Ill be travelling mid-February and cant guarantee a lucid mind what about a big table in a room with windows looking over the wild and wavy event? or good merganser fans unfolding folding thought out there one of these days well tend to them those fair fictitious people the women its an evening warm as your unfinished conversation lovely to come back to all the shops are open but he only wants to watch the rocket ride phoenix crowns whirl overhead the fish shop has smoked kingfish wings and a hapuka head sweet smoky meat eye delicacies and fin struts to fly on home and get started again small and affordable change of season brings pineapples from the Cooks into the shops just ahead of gala apples theres a tree in the back yard might be gala loaded he eats off it every day as the wind freshens pineapple sliced behind the picture window a boat called Rhyme is beating up the harbour one on the tree one in the fridge hes got it straight already luxuriance when the power goes off bodies slip around after the soap the turtle boats and teacups gleaming by candle-lantern a song about honey and money another about a hum (a hum) the mockingbird lullaby that never worked not everything clears but his names tumble past in the dark remembering womb and water embrace theres holding on (hello) and letting go (goodbye) theres getting to the beach and back Commando Ms with the stink cut out and toes poking through eloquence then theres that conversation pulling on an old sweater now still waiting as he bangs knife against plate against bowl against cup an exaltation of toast big honey on he shrieks I want helping last night the Silver Slocan nearly beat down the door its skinny holiday glitter that air of early Macs Doukhobor cooking and aspens on fire anticipation of course Valhalla bacon Lemon Creek Lodge and the cheapie off the window in New Denver the map in the head with its unsuspected throughroads lakes he was changed on the hood of the car in front of just like, we say and didnt the time fly the last stanza almost doesnt make it leaps the rising gangplank longlegged pigheaded pleased to be on board enjoys the trip the weather the drift into the other end the new menu will keep five minutes creased already it rides in a back pocket reading itself for signs of his sleeping cheek its been a pretty ordinary day I never saw you look like that before what bit of brilliance gets its start standing in a fruit bowl? the play should peel tragedy like an orange she said, and squirt you in the eye look at me like that or explode tamarillos under your feeta little bit of rubbish its not a theory its a story I got up this morning in the dark and heard the cameras your eyes your eyes laughlines, remember? ran the movie mid-afternoon it left me aching looked at the moon high up where ice was cracking unseeable stars ran after you through snow for the kiss the one of course that blows it all apart was that the deeply satisfying meaning of the white dress? laugh and cry and dont sleep she said it went awayit never went awayit was never realhere it is now sailing the strait straight out of a sunshine breakfast persevering, wind whipping my facemy hair your face was it really that long or did you stand closer than memory allows? what about the trip back to town? sweet little things in my ears its the sports car through Paris or mandarin weather right on your sunny doorstep the half-worlds meet and make it up as they go first persons second persons third persons a few irresponsible demonstratives, movie flex perfect flip tail mad, the gown that hangs in here (tapping her head, right side) its versions of the same conversations were still stepping into tingling fingers five minutes into the wintertime dishes (real warmth) wheres my staircase? is the engine running? the light in your eyes the way your smile just beams upside the way you sing off-key down among the unmade beds the washing the cleaning up orange peel exploded tamarillo (the carpet the duvet) pulp pips playstill hear the cameras? Harry Ariadne, your footsteps pace mine you walk down the hall with me and laugh at absurdities this hush that the poet is writing again winged circuits flown by those anecdotal doves somebody lets out down near the waterfront each morning you can imagine the sight the whirring bicameral possibilities exploding everywhere she knows without looking in the mirror shes wearing the dangerous face knows without looking at the tears in the gown that its roses and unicorns will go on precluding sleep and smooth getaways she walks out the door in her pocket theres a small bright orange Next page