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Thylazine: The Australian Journal of Arts, Ethics & Literature                                                                                                                                    #7/thyla7k-mr
AUSTRALIAN POETS SERIES 7
The Poetry of Martha Richardson
Selected by Coral Hull

[Above] Photo of Martha Richardson by photographer unknown, year unknown.

I On Discarding My Mother's Love Letters I A Way Through The Gate I Winter Funeral at St Margaret's I
In an Empty Room I

On Discarding My Mother's Love Letters

This is the day I tipped the dusty envelopes
into the sleek dark bowels of a plastic bag-
all the lovely perjuries addressed to her
now bound for the council middens.

The child I was draws breath inside of me.
Still further in, soft hands of old intimidations
grope as if through a land of blindman's buff.
while sly faces swirl, mewling distortions of trust
And whispering at the centre of this circle game,
uncertainty stops to cradle a concentrated terror,
which, having no voice, is smallest of all.

I have seen the graveyard of discard-
the blood dried rib cage of a slaughtered cow
crouching beside a carcass of abandoned car,
and a nesting place of weed for a rusting pram,
its last wheel bent beneath like a twisted ankle
a place of unwanted, no longer welcome, things,
similar somehow to the house we came from.
It is fitting his words should return to such.

And whether burnt or buried,
bright ash flaking a coil of smoky air,
or old paper sodden with scourges of winter rain
sinking slowly into dark soil, matters very little.

Let his words disintegrate into isolate letters,
ink, and that innate silence at the bottom of things.
Let them transmute to feed earth and weed,
the sturdy stems and hardy heads of sunflowers
pushing through the tooth-gapped gleam of glass
in a broken windscreen, to find a form that will,
at last, bear the silent scrutiny of the sun.

Published in In an Empty Room (Five Islands Press, 1999).

A Way Through The Gate

After the painting 'Gate'' by Patricia Wright, 1993.

Begin at any point on the outer edge. It is
where we all begin: like children in shallows
of white spray, waiting in sunlit fog to emigrate
on half seen ships set for an unknown shore

Then think of images of white, of ordinary things:
the inner rim of the thick white mug
holding the magic circle of childhood milk.
We drink our descent of the content
until, at last, we come to the white mandala
shining each evening in the bottom of the cup.

Or think of birch forest ghosting through
hazes of broken flakes in early winter.
We cross and recross disintegrating lines
till fall upon fall of whitened silence calls
all former footprints into sleep, and eyes dazzle
at the sunburst in the centre of the wood.

And other images emerge, each one becoming
maze or map, or game board to be travelled.
The lines divide, scratched white on white;
hatched and crosshatched, planes slip and part.
Position alone keeps prison or releases paradise
as, deep beyond deep, the frail blue bars appear.

Almost sightless we stretch toward a structure
reaching to us as its noiseless hinges swing,
and a still white voice at the aperture whispers
'Here is the way. The gate is open. Go.'

Published in In an Empty Room (Five Islands Press, 1999).

Winter Funeral at St Margaret's

Mumbling. the vicar drops his papers,
coughs, and fumbles through the eulogy.
The casual organist collides with chords,
igniting small explosions of false notes.

Bewildered in dark and almost vacant pews,
uneasy mourners huddle in threes and fours
misplaced sheep assembled here to drink
strange waters in an unfamiliar field.

Fat candles slowly diminish into future,
consuming, and consumed by, their own light.
Shadowed wick flames flick and shudder

miniscule reflections of bronze plaques,
while dull memorial windows curl and run,
minute by minute, with winter rain.

And on the wall behind the altar rail,
three narrow slits of crazy patter glass
present, like a broken puzzle, Christ
and, one supposes, attendant saints.

They smile, as if at any time
to turn away, leaving only footprints
golden and hollowed in the waves -

footprints we know will fail, will fill
with sea as warm and salt as tears,
the moment after their makers turn
their faces, and quietly move on.

Published in In an Empty Room (Five Islands Press, 1999).

In an Empty Room

Here is the empty room
and the familiar chair.
She does not lift her head
listening, perhaps,
only to the wind moving
fallen leaves of plane trees,
dry leaves scratching,
like a persistent memory,
along the pavement
of a once known street.

The gleam of pendulum
swings toward each second,
halving it with precision;
harbours and releases
moment, breath, the beat
of blood and busy brain.
Already sunlight slumbers
at her feet, unnoticed
as the patterned mat
it sleeps upon.
And she has taken leave
of papers laid out
on the desk, like rows
of dead awaiting placement
in the burial field.

She makes her preparation
for the journey in the dark,
completing her return,
or travelling on to where
a hefted scent of honeysuckle
at the end of the summer lawn
hedges the bright shadow
(the one who was always there)
whose salutation quickens,
flares, and shakes the air.

Published in In an Empty Room (Five Islands Press, 1999).

About the Poet Martha Richardson

Martha Richardson was born Los Angeles, California in the USA on 1st April, 1943. She was subsequently educated at California State University at Los Angeles where she graduated 1965. Martha taught Elementary school in California and Utah. She married Edward Richardson in St. George, Utah 28th June 1985 and emigrated to Australia August 1990. Martha recommenced writing 1994 and was published in several journals. She won an ABC prize for poetry in 1995 and was awarded a "Commendation" in the Ann Elder Poetry awards in Melbourne 2000. Martha Richardson died 13th June 2002. She left many unpublished works and unfinished works in her files.
   [Above] Photo of Martha Richardson by photographer unknown, year unknown.

I Next I Back I Exit I
Thylazine No.7 (March, 2003)

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