Mark Tredinnick

 

In Weather Like This All The Years Run Together

 

Mark Tredinnick

 

 

It’s not true, what they say, old Marquez writes

to tell me: the old never do stop falling

In love; it’s only when a man stops falling that his number’s up.

I sit alone like a revenant today. Don’t dig up the past,

You say, as if one ever took a spade to it.

In truth, on such a day as this,

The weather reckless with redemptive intent, coming at you broken-hearted from the west—

It is the past that digs one up and turns one out for another quiet look.

 

 

But I am a sociable anchorite, I think; a recidivist

virgin; a rococo minimalist. Like the weather,

I am every one of my ten thousand known

Contradictions,; quite often I am all of them at once.

And trace elements of everyone

I am and was and used to think I couldn’t live without, live on without me in every other

Moment of myself. Today, for instance, memory

Has fallen back in love with something in the way of the afternoon moves:

 

 

December 5 is out there tearing the entire present

tense apart, the rose from the brick wall,

the limbs from the weary alder.

My mind is out there somewhere, too—trying the outside on, scaring itself to death.

My body, though, is a hand-me-down suit, and it’s slumped here at the desk,

And it’s falling like autumn from my soul.

Tomorrow, you can bank on it, the weather will be a turquoise;

The goddess will be a butterfly, and the only breeze anywhere

Will be he slow soft velvet lapping of her long black pious wings.

 

 

 

But today, in savage sunlight, Kali Durga’s

outside turning summer inside out,

Slashing the season’s lining and calling it a shroud.

Exhuming ancient Carthaginian winters. Waking the undying

Dead. Doing to the weather what love never stops doing

To one’s heart—no matter how long ago,

no matter where, no matter who, no matter when. The years

Run together, all of them your lover, none of them ever quite over you yet.

 

 

 

 

 

Sulphur-Crested Cockatoo at Dusk

 

 

Mark Tredinnick

 

 

We sense and we experience that we are eternal

—Spinoza, Ethics, Part V

 

 

The white bird high in the crown of the elm is a better idea

Than any you’ve had all day; a smarter prospect than her name

 

Implies. She’s a flag of erotic surrender, an outbreak of love

In the middle of June. Behind her, the whole sky is a ghost, hunched

 

Inside his famous grey raincoat, and a rainbow hangs from his pocket

Like an old joke. Dusk swells and strands the tree in halogen floods.

 

You, at your window, are the bird’s entire audience, and she knows it,

And she drops from the treetops and flies at you as if she doesn’t mean

 

To miss—until just metres from the glass she departs hysterically,

From the script, and does. The world works best when it misses

 

Its mark. Good ideas rush you, but never quite arrive, leaving room

For doubt and time for questions. A life lived there is a life in love: desire,

 

Growing wise in the attempt, flies from how things look to what they are

Or might be yet, and your body, losing its footing, becomes your soul again.

 

 

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