Poems from Bronte
Poem in Spring
She is kinda nice
in a quiet , old
fashioned way
but
her persistent entreaty
namely ;
just pen a spring poem
mistah mitchell
leaves me
with a most unkool
chill , at the base
of my spine
nevertheless
here goes ;
the house sparrows
are busy on the lawn
this morning
pecking
a white half loaf
which moves
according to
their sallies
from south
to east
in a tremulous
arc ;
Presently
she comes
& sprawls nonchalant
on the grass
to read what
has been writ
so far . . .
The little birds
too, are curious
cavilling
one with the other
re: their place
in the sun
as for myself ?
why citoyens
to be sure
I yam
as happy
as a sandboy.
Diary
Bill comes in
& works the machine
for a glass of purified
water –
then Mabel
turns up with a newspaper
& reads
to us all
Melanie
points out my mistake
with her
christian name
& I
change it !
( see above )
Rima has left
her worknotes
at the table
Soft music
playing from a radio
forms a backdrop to
this scene
the only other noise
is the occasional
passing car –
light is good
colours are
stupendous
skyblue
& lunch is served.
I try the drink
first
a half glass of thickened
orange fluid
which is poised
in the receptacle
rapidly
hardening
& with a distinct
smell & taste
of the locker rooms at
Wellington Teachers College
absolutely
undrinkable
to say the very
least.
Poem for Niamh
She says
Good morning
her trolley
loaded with all kinds
of goodies
pills, potions &
whatnot
now
she is standing , laconic
before us all
waiting to serve
everyone
gets
a free
Irish smile.
.
Later
sitting in the BBQ pit
the fine
high clear light of yesterday
has vanished
has been replaced
by a flat black
& white
as a harbinger
of colours to come.
As I write now
the softer edges & tones proclaim
the veracity of my surmise
& within minutes
a kind of balance
is restored.
.
Melanie, whose idea
this poetry is
has been very kind
in hunting out this pen
for me to use
& supplying
this diary
she also seems
genuinely interested
as to its contents
as to what
gets written
as
she is a writer
though
I feel her talents
best lie in journalism
she will probably
be ropeable
when she reads my diary next;
one way & another
I wish her the very best
& repeat
my former praise
that she is
genuine.
Poem
Well the summer is icummen in
icummen in
as she has been
for some months
now
but
is pausing to gain
a foothold
until she’s quite ready
to continue.
The drab pageant of these days
is finally followed
by clear blue skies
& weather
you can depend upon.
This summer’s fulsome figure
is nothing , if not
a mathematical reflection of
her midwinter appearance
flashing
loose limbed
in Attica
& in some
poor bastards
poem
never
the
less.
Untitled
Installed in the lower floor
dining room
by nurse Melanie
& given a sharpened pencil
I am instructed
to write
Well
here goes
Melanie was furious
She had just catered for one writer
& as if
by a secret vote
two more turned up
one , by name
Fern
who lay in bed
& read
her poems in a breathless
monotone
Fern displayed
the relaxed attitudes
of a mature woman
inadvertently featuring
the hidden front of a somewhat
sophisticated persona
The other
Nigel.
The Stoush
March. 19. 2009. Tuesday
In the BBQ pit
the sun is shining –
& the birds in a fit
of momentary
action
caused –
in a major part by an intruder –
a seagull . . .
whose thin red legs stomp
mechanically up & down
up & down
against the grass
the daisies and the trees
In a few minutes
it is all over – the gull
has simply spread its wings
& flown away
While the others –
a couple of pigeons , a brace of mynahs, and
the usual handful of house sparrows
retire to the sunlit lawn
and once there
take up positions against
marauders
Poem
She
shaves me carefully
then showers
me
& dabs
me dry
Now
she dresses me
in the clothes she has laid out
on the bed
for this purpose
Firstly
white underwear &
a dark maroon T shirt
followed by
chocolate sox
topped off with French rope soled sneakers
& light grey tracksuit pants
and a zip up top made from
the same material
so
resplendent I arrive at the
brekkie table
washed, combed & dressed
more than equal
to the porridge
the eggs
& the highly coloured & thickened
cordial drink.
June 17th
My room is empty
the TV is switched off
outside
sirens sound their messages
in here, at least
its not raining
the bedspread
has been knitted
with love . . .
Poem for the winter
So take a hand and help me
to celebrate this cold clear high
solitary sunny golden time
it is the middle of July
the birdlife is conspicuous
by its absence
David Attenborough screens
some footage of a pride of lions
headed by an ageing male
January Fri. 15th 2010
Today is wet
outside everything is sodden
three jokers
with fancy PVA working gear
slice away
at a room on this floor
preparatory to
the paint job
the plaster job
& the new wooden tiles
pretty soon, mine
will not be
the only room on this floor
so treated
they are all to get
a makeover.
Poem for Shrijana
Shrijana
is very direct
she walks into
the room
& even
the small voices
on the TV
seem hushed
she looks around
then slaps
the narrow lined pad
that she is carrying
down hard on the table
Slam Bam Bam
1, 2, 3
then gidday, she says
to all who care to listen
ow ya goin . . .
Nigel Roberts writes :
Slowly wasting from Supra Nuclear Palsy, David Mitchell lives in a nursing home in Bronte, Sydney. He shares room 3B with an older man. The two do not converse. Poor & uncertain motor skills do not allow him to use the Olivetti that he has possessed since the late seventies, thus he writes in pencil with a shaky cursive script into a junior exercise book set on an ergonomic mobile dinner table desk beside his bed. Writes, keeps a general notebook of names addresses birthdays etc, and of what he hears, sees, & makes of ‘a life in care.’ At times the poems are responses to the ‘write something Dave’ provocations of Melanie his therapist & muse; who, when he does, types & publishes the same in the photocopied A4 paged in-house journal. There is no working up of these . . . only the one draft with the odd word crossed out and a better one substituted. Once done, that is the poem. Such works are fashioned now as they were years ago, with a sure use of the suspensions, lineation & verse breaks that indicate how a Mitchell poem is to be read. Their hallmark, now, is direct observation, no bitterness, light touches of irony & a whole lotta love for the world outside his door.
©David Mitchell |
