Robyn Lance: Two Poems

This life … and more

with thanks to Lisel Mueller

 

I am born under southern skies.

In this year, before my mind keeps

memories, the Sixth George dies.

 

A young Queen waves her hand

from side to side, watched

by my husband from his stroller.

 

Two plus two live in a painted box

near train tracks and a park

with a scoot-foot roundabout.

 

Grandparents in hide ’n’ seek houses

give Willing Shillings, hugs

and milky tea in Melamine cups.

 

We move to a bigger house and

hold our breath all summer

in the backyard pool.

 

In pinstripe suit and hat, my father

holds a small gloved hand

on our way to the station and school.

 

Gentlemen walk on the outside

to protect their women

from random traffic acts.

 

Our mother reigns over us

with TLC, talk and a lick

of Marmite

 

on the end of a spoon

to take the taste away.

She always knows.

 

Boys have Beatle hair, Holt surfs

his last and men use the moon

as a trampoline.

 

The Commonwealth educates me

about rural economy, conscription

and the Vietnam War.

 

My boyfriend’s next-but-one number

comes up in the Birthday Ballot

on The Box.

 

Backseat bantam chaperones cluck

in the car on our first date.

We vow to love forever

 

and drive south

to work in Whitlam’s Service

before the Libs block his air supply.

 

We raise babies

in a shambolic mud brick house,

play farmers after hours,

 

later moving stock, machines

and photo albums to Stillwater

on the Great Divide.

 

Three children chase chooks,

drink milk by the bucket, eat

mutton roasts and shepherd’s pie.

 

Still waters are deep for a season

but boot-sucking mud dries in drought.

We teach in town to make ends

 

meet, in and out, in and out

to netball, cricket and P&C, until

the baby drives away to the city.

 

This part of forever

is as it was in the beginning

for the farmer and me.

 

Death latches onto my father.

Does not let go. Fifty years and

burnt-out body bits birth poetry.

 

One day on a train a young woman gets up to give me her seat. I look behind her   at the reflection of me, still standing, arm raised and hanging on for (more) dear life.                 Robyn Lance

Torching the ivories

Where roadside poplars block afternoon sun

light and shade print piano keys on asphalt.

Cars perform highway glissandos.

           Robyn Lance