A fallen nickel glints in the skyscraper’s shadow;
a gaptooth girl knee-high to a model of Wadlow.
The strangest things we harbour are much like
smudges around the mouth, oafish smooches,
paintbox mishaps, cream smears, all told,
the day’s a mystery package, so preheat the oven,
heave out the mixing bowl. Most days you count
the times you have fallen hard. It’s not enough.
*
The Tao of Amy Key
That there is a world I need to escape to.
I reached 48 and achieved my first box file.
I settle all my handouts in it, serenely.
That there are things which make me glad:
the box file, the Village, bottle green, seeing
Sarah appear in the distance, waving ahoy.
Sarah is Chinese, halfway through. Amy
is yet to achieve the will to be Chinese.
But her aspects seem such, as she has a path.
She has one child, which is her cherished self.
She moves in partial peace over grassland.
Her revolutions are mostly in the past.
Satin is perhaps Chinese and satin is Amy.
The natural and mercurial outcomes of action
mean she is essentially nameless though we think
on both warm and wet days of her as Amy.
I throw sticks and then I crack the I Ching
and the page that opens talks clearly of us,
walking on the Rye, discussing foo yung,
how soft it should be, the beating procedures
which bring super effect. Gunpowder appears
on occasion. That there is paper, coloured,
vintage thises and thats. That our thriving
should not indulge curveball dalliances
with givers of crumbs. Now think of why
a box file could contain most of things,
even a dinosaur, or a dubious lexicon:
the cryptic needs its sorting, its box file.
Cultivation of the way needs melon ballers
and dinky glasses for elderflower cocktails.
The essential energy of action and existence
asks politely for a Dutch door, brisk kittens
and a toothsome starter that takes an hour
to burst into most absolute belief. That
the way to integrity is to move, somewhat,
like a harpsichordist, in contrast to the linear,
invoking a cycle. I look behind me to witness
Kongzi on my balcony – he is leafing Luxe
and on his headphones, ‘Don’t Bring Lulu’
swerves into ‘Hobart Paving’. We have all
been there. By which I mean that world to
try to escape. That trinkets might bend a mind.
That there is escape to and also escape from.
That there is doubleness of notioned harmony
and all other harmony. I would further explain
but Kongzi is knocking at the glass. His brow
wrinkles. He has found a line which troubles
and pleases in equilibrium. Can I help him?
*
Lines on a Young Lady’s Facebook Album
Unsauced, unseated and on the wrong timeship
to be other than an axed part in your maybe show,
yet my numbed and thudded fingers find the grip
on the eye of a needle I thumbed in some years ago.
The darkest eyes. I watch them scroll through screens,
your fingertips enlarging some young man
you’re doting on. Misfortune hogs such scenes.
Old men have suffered so since men began.
Contents List
11 Farewell to Bread
13 Hope Versus Doubt
13 Hope
15 Stockholm Syndrome
16 Self, Rising
18 Kir Royale
19 Firebirds
20 Women in Paintings
21 Calumet
22 Epithalamion
23 To James Brookes at 25
24 Photograph of Emily Hasler Napping
25 For Charlotte
26 On First Meeting Margot
28 Shanties of Tinie Hope
30 Myokymia / Carrie Fisher
32 The Tao of Amy Key
34 Paul Risi
35 At Whitby Abbey
36 Fear of Ice Cream
40 A Small Photograph of the World Changing
41 Bella
49 Farewell to Couscous
51 Reductions
65 Farewell to Conchiglie
67 Doubt Versus Hope
67 Doubt
69 Halfway Through the Year of the Rabbit
71 Bad Players
73 All You Philosophers
74 Towns You Only Pass Through
76 Tact
77 Jambhala’s Mongoose
78 Fear of Lions
79 Fantigue
80 Solutomaattimittaamotulos
81 A Mixed Grill
82 Halfway Through the Year of the Dragon
83 Poem in Which I Stand Next to an Emperor
84 Goodbye John
86 Unknown Pleasures
87 Miss Martindale in the Outback
88 Tranquil Vale
89 Lines on a Young Lady’s Facebook Album
90 The Last Hour of Her Teens
91 Brutal
92 Halfway Through the Year of the Snake
93 Farewell to Dumplings
95 The Bells of Hope
117 Glossary
121 Notes
125 Biographical note
Related Reviews
‘Although the verse is hopping with linguistic antics, the foci of the language are music and rhetoric and, whip-smart as these poems are, they tend to resist chin-stroking analysis…the rhymes, the larks, the brutal punch-lines tug Lumsden’s poems off the page and into the living context they describe.' – Matthew Smith, Verse