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Thylazine: The Australian Journal of Arts, Ethics & Literature                                                                                                                                #11/thyla11k-kh
AUSTRALIAN POETS SERIES 11
The Poetry of Kathryn Hamann
Selected by Coral Hull

[Above] Drawing of Kathryn Hamann by Conrad Hamann, 2002.


I The Tour I The Dawn of Light I Raymond I A Whitened Sorry I Almost Meeting I Salvage I


The Tour

A group cohering into a bulging line
seems in danger of popping out members

of the pod    Lucky to be granted a place
they shuffle on in forced acquaintance

Their attempts at the local language
mark them as non-native but guides

provided with the package are familiar
with locals and their ways    Lots of

sites to visit    Bank - a must do
and an eater of time    Off to the shops

The battle with currency meets - impatience    splashes
of clumsy kindness    and a surround of eyes

turned to a shield    Pets Paradise -
and shared delight in kitten play dissolves difference

Ed's whistled serenade is wondered at
but his puppy in the window is

entranced    They kiss through glass
The change in his pocket rattled loud

is not enough    And coaxed he steps in
a stuttering rhythm to the next ...

A stuffed dog rubbing against his face
elicits a tear for its soft quietude    Shopped

till some droop    they are rounded together
Internal shifts confusing head count    One with

authority moves out calling: "Bob    Bob"
His wandering body speaks reluctance

but allows itself to be herded
back to the group huddling tight

Amenities an essential    Not easy
like at the house home located at a convenient distance and

managed for accountability      On to the ordinary
highlight of the excursion    They queue -

a block set in the mannered line of those
born to earn their dues    Aided to order

what accords with custom - coffee
in uneasy cups    cake too

wide    The ending cannot
be negotiable    A straggling

bustle    on to the bus …
Back next week    perpetual

tourists in their own country
Passport stamped    Disability

The Dawn of Light

I

My mother - conscripted to the long
march of dementia (wasting time
and mind) had fallen by a stroke

to be this flesh frozen into dry
mouthed pain. Breath stops
Death silent      crying wolf.

A nurse coming for obs, comforts:
Could be any time now. Many days
of this mantra has wrought no peace.

II

So another Sunday      in church my body
sits      stands      but I am anchored to
her bed - words streaming past

Communion wine clings,
sour on my tongue.
At last, it is finished.

A host of sharp voices circles towards me.
To keep their questions at a distance, I kneel
The clang, the chatter of leaving thins into quiet,

the ease of emptied space      Wordless
like her I descend through the many ghostly
hands of my mind      until I reach

silence      Vision is given
Night is threadbare      yet
dawn seems reluctant
With her cradled in my arms, we speed
on unseen wings over a sullen sea
where waves like grey ribs roll towards
an horizon our eyes cannot pierce
We hover close close - stalled by a head-wind
birthed from hesitation      First long stretch of light

In knowing - fear dissolves      and together,
they expand - one into the other      Released
joy sweeps me away

in shadow - I kneel - crossed
Life, with my tears, baptizing self in
to loss - the singular ache of flesh.

Raymond

In air not whited out by words
Raymond walks    and walks
the path from L'Arche to
village never out-stepping
himself.

He has high sounds which score
bouts with himself but bed-clothes
never win. They drape over his body
like unpinned ribbons when at last
the floor's sealed touch has reconciled
him to sleep.

For those who journey alongside he
sets little puzzles    and as they search for
hiding socks    shoes
he laughs    and laughs
delighted at their progress - however
small. He meets all the day's hellos
with turned head but will eat bread where
it is offered as long as his place is given
a little to one side of the table
surrounded by a moat of
humanity.

Evening's soft light calls the community
to the celebration of that day.
Raymond sits back to the door in
sanctuary from the abrasion of touch.
He is the island of calm
as others jostle to divide space.
Freed from the wheelchair's rigid frame
Jordan's body is at last able to
flow across the floor in
to someone's arms.
Candle lit - the others use words ...
Raymond moves into the pictures of
flight magazines - their secrets seen and kept.
The guitar plucks a note that is an old friend ...
Raymond stretches out a hand,
flips the light switch    and is still
to the sung Ama Naim
the melody of "Raymond, goodnight
Raymond, goodnight" brings him
to his feet and in harmony
he walks from name
to name ...

The round finished -
silence beckons ...
He quiets the candle
and with a wave
leaves them
blessed.

A Whitened Sorry

You have pain
    we have gain
I white fella
See I got the lingo
got the rhythm
See I do good
want the world to know how bad it was
How good it is to strut those tears
So I declare of myself - I am
young black child from a generation lifted
by light fingers and now returned
home in extrusive elegies - each
streaked with lines of pale horror
and images of white beds
White this   White that and if
I put white thoughts into black minds
white images into black eyes
white feelings into black hearts
Isn't that?   what it's all about
Isn't that?   what it's always been about
My words stake a claim on your pain
Skilled - I and others like me
mine this rich ore
add a little righteousness
a dash of policy
And at the end of reaction
- a snow-white alloy soft enough
to mould into sorry
A shape   to be worn in pride
A work   earning its due fee
You have raw pain
    we make it pay

Published in Stinging Fly (Dublin).

Almost Meeting

"I wish to talk to you." Then
reminds me, "You say when I should stop."
"You're an NT."
I cannot deny this truth
yet he finds me worth the address
"It is like    I run programs -
for three years I was a woman.
I have decided that is enough.
I will not run it again.
They say I have deficits.
Social programs are absent -
and people with autism
people like me
when they have had enough
of trying to correct
and trying to correct
and there is still error
press delete.
You understand.
I went to this church.
They said, 'You should feel love.'
but I lack the chip for emotion.
Do you watch Star Trek?
Know Mr Data?
Still I want to go
to church
like my mother does.
Do you have the password
for entry?"

An astute answer crafted with care …
fails
I try another phrase
another word
My language flurries spin
themselves to nothing.
Through the window comes
the street's many tongues.
In the room the lights hum
louder and louder yet
silence holds between.

Turning his head to one side,
he withdraws eyes from pain.
A flip-flap rhythm - trapping his hands -
creates a wind in
which silence can lullaby
said words
and their chameleon underbellies.

I long for a saviour -
someone who knows.
The one beside
cannot come
rescue
a distressed matron
locked in her mind's tower
and shorn of any plaits
to let down

though in this room -
open to the cold
our breaths
touch.

Brought to the bar
of the sheer silence
                  my companion insisted
                  he does not feel
I see clearly
my lacking
limitation
my own disabling.

Forced to move inward
I pray
pleading
for a gift of tongues
bringing words of
such exact weight
they cannot depress
the key that'll shut
his whole system
down.

Salvage

Yesterday, lightning cut through the coloured banners of dusk.
This evening, I walk alone - the sea and air silvered by the last
of light and in the distance - above the scalloped lines traced

by the waters' seeking of the land… a mound shaped - seaweed? As I narrow
the space between… detail resolves into dark feathers ... and wings rise / fall
heavy on sand    grains hold - without heart. The next wave lazily extends

an arm. The beak catches - becoming a pivot upon which the whole bird
turns. Death recedes ... and the wave that follows merely hints. I, towel snatch
the ocean's prey given (perhaps) by the storm we saw as splendid light

show fading without a drop of rain to give ease to our eyes. Ankles snared
I feel the strength of the sea's pull towards the depths. I am sinking but
still unmoved. No longer set against the span of ocean - the bird makes

my hands small; my flesh defenceless against a hooked
beak. It opens    makes a small sound    then closure
so complete the line seems drawn. There will be

neither parting nor malice. The nearness of my body is
accepted - an illusion of home? Grey-brown feathers
fluff as the evening's breath parts around us.

The many chords of the sea recede; blur into
a dull thunder. The bird borne away, seems
to snuggle in as if it were my rescued child.

Drops of salt water are gathering around grains of memory.
This is old - past locked - images must now be worn - but
time has failed - no alteration found. Not one detail is lost;

no softening of the lines. No. I will not go down such backward
paths. I must find the way to one able to tender aid. At the vet's hours
cease at 5. The caretaker of my unit stumbles on recognition - but then

hands me a box saying, 'If you must - try the Sanctuary.' A damp cold
seeps from the towel. I release the bird into a cardboard nest.
A wing lifts - awkward flag of distress. My finger glides down

the finely patterned breast    and it hunches into quiet. Darkness
waits at the windows ... I ring and I ring. The phone stays engaged.
A frog croaks - a steady rhythm breaking the cover of

silence. At last - a clear line ... I am told, 'Yes, a mutton bird. We have
so many. Shocked probably never see the morning ... Okay, bring it in
then but - we have so many.' Death gives and is not diminished.

Like being thrown from a jet rockets - from one side of my mind
to the other. Birds - 200 lost… and there in soundless shadow ...
My brown aviator - does the flight encoded in your cells

still call as you lie boxed cut adrift from the journey? Can you
live solitary far from the calls and quarrels of your kind?
I pray for sleep that carries only a dream of home

4am - the air is full of silence. Stilled I feel
the bird rise - freed it skims upon the wind - shearing a -
cross my spirit. I, too, must rise in an embrace of morning.

Published in An Embrace of Morning (PCP, 2005).

About the Poet Kathryn Hamann

Kathryn Hamann was born in Melbourne. She completed a BSc. with Honours at Monash University and a Diploma of Education at Rusden. From 1978 -1980 she lived in the United States. On returning to Australia she worked in the Biochemistry Deparment at Monash University. She began writing poetry in 1991 as a refuge from doing her Greek translation. She has produced a body of political poetry most of which is satirical. The work most important to her are her poems of spiritual journey. Her spiritual tradition is Christian and within that the stream she feels closest to is the mystics. Kathryn is currently working on finishing her next book Generations of Women. This book is composed of snaphots of women's lives forming a 'photo album' covering three generations.
   [Above] Drawing of Kathryn Hamann by Conrad Hamann, 2002.

I Next I Back I Exit I
Thylazine No.11 (June, 2006)

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