Geoff Page: Four Poems

Two Notes

 

A late spring brings the male koel,

his two-note courting call

shy there in the shrubbery

but advertising all

 

the splendour of his sturdy genes,

the blue sheen in his feathers,

to any female flitting by

should they get together.

 

Eudynamys orientalis

is still his Latin name.

Rainbird, stormbird, madness bird,

his message is the same.

 

Two notes only may convey

the anguish in his heart.

All through the afternoon I hear them.

Are they a fifth apart?

 

Eventually, there’s silence and

I don’t know what to think.

Has he had some luck at last?

Is she on the brink

 

of her sweet seasonal decision?

Or must I, all tomorrow,

endure once more those same two notes

embodying his sorrow?

 

I choose to think it’s all worked out

and now foretell the rest,

that pair of wattlebirds who’ll find

a new egg in their nest

 

and then the hatchling whom they’ll feed

as if it were their own

with patience and a doggedness

for which their breed is known.

 

By March the well-fed young koel

will fly north with the sun

to Papua New Guinea where

the winters are more fun.

 

In spring I know that he’ll be back,

still sad and keen to breed.

Already I am filled with them,

those two notes of his need.

            Geoff Page

 

A Tin of Peaches

 

Has there ever been a night

when waking up at three

he hasn’t had to reassemble

 

all his bones, the whole two hundred

and six by memory

before those few steps to the bathroom,

 

the blessing of a slow release?

And how long since there’s been a night

which, seen from waking up at seven,

 

has been completely effortless,

cylindrical from end to end

and shining like a tin of peaches?

 

Song for Ptolemy

 

There is a certain joy in what

will not exactly fit.

The Ptolemaic Universe

could never quite admit

 

its pattern for the stars was not

a neat, coherent plan. 

It always added footnotes to

explain whatever ran

 

counter to the Greek’s predictions.

The skies became a mess

of what would not precisely work,

a failure, more or less,

 

and yet when it had gone its traces

helped us to recall

with rueful smiles how all we know

remains provisional.

                                                                                              

Schultz

for the Ridleys

The times were vaguer then, I think,

or so it seemed when our Aunt Sybil

entered an Old Ladies Home

and took, to give her toes a nibble,

 

a dachshund we had known as Schultz

(we called them “dashhounds” way back then).

New guests could keep their cat or dog

but only till that moment when

 

it made its last trip to the vet.

After that there’d be no more.

Loneliness would then step in

and kindliness be shown the door.

 

Aunt Sybil wore our hardy genes

and Schultz would prove a healthy pet,

standard dashhound, black-and-tan,

who rarely left a nurse upset.

 

Sybil’s niece, the tireless Dot,

would drive her Austin out each week,

knowing Schultz kept Sybil young

but, too soon, heard his backbone creak,

 

a classic problem of the breed.

No one else had sensed it yet,

not even Schultz above the chatter.

Our Dorothy disdained the vet

 

since, very strangely, just next Sunday,

Schultz, with just a little stealth—

and some nursely inattention—

was perfectly restored to health.

 

Aunt Sybil’s brain remained A1;

her “twilight” seemed to last for years.

She loved to jostle Schultz’s jowls

and give a rummage to his ears.

 

When Schultz once more began to falter

a second miracle occurred.

Schultz’s spirits rose again

and Sybil uttered … not a word.

 

Her darling Schultz and she lived on

as nurses met their every need.

Some even took old Schultz for walks

and wondered at his turn of speed.

 

In God’s good time, Aunt Sybil died

and Schultz, attentive to the end,

was set to guard the polished coffin

containing his eternal friend.

 

Dot, the week before, had thanked

the staff for their unflagging care.

Schultz sat calmly in the Austin,

clearly still with years to spare.

Geoff Page