Liz McQuilkin: Two Poems

David

They buried him

in a spanking new graveyard

between two concrete paths:

a man who loved the bush

nurtured native plants

sowed eucalypts where he could.

Six men lowered the coffin

in a hammock of ropes. Until

it stuck: they had overlooked

that shoulders always need

the broader end of the trench.

It seemed to some of us

as if he was rejecting

his final resting place

as if he knew somewhere better

near home at Evandale.

Until the order came

to raise him. They turned him round

in a penitent gavotte

and down he went again

this time a cosy fit

while all the mourners waited

to scatter sprigs of wildflowers

and the wind held its breath

before blowing hard and cold

upon that sterile place.

Liz McQuilkin

Withershins

If you plan to visit Le Musée d’Orsay,

arrive at least one hour before

the opening time of ten.

Once inside, ignore the sign

that says “Impressionists”.

Begin instead with “Post Impressionists”

and work your way backwards.

Alone in each room, without the crowds,

witness the wonder of Gauguin and Van Gogh.

Take in Seurat and the Symbolists,

then detour to adjacent rooms

filled with furniture—exquisite Art Nouveau.

By the time you enter “Impressionists”

the ten o’clock hordes will have moved on

and, with luck, you’ll beat the later wave

as you enter the almost empty rooms

to gaze uninterrupted on paintings

by Degas, Monet, Manet, Renoir …

After a lifetime of poring over art books,

it’s like meeting old friends

yet seeing each work with a new clarity:

observing the play of light

no camera ever quite captures,

following intimate brushstrokes

on body or gown,

watching the colours mingle

on trees and fields,

losing yourself in canvas

and loving it.

Liz McQuilkin