Emma LewEMMA LEW lives in Melbourne, Australia. Her books include The Wild Reply (Black Pepper Press), which was joint-winner of The Age Poetry Book of the Year Award. Her work has appeared in journals including Heat, Meanjin, Island, Overland, Southerly, PN Review, and Hanging Loose. A chapbook of new poems by Potes & Poets Press is due later this year.BELOVED JUG OF CREAMIt's cold: we must revise our dreams,but abidingly and still perceptibly. Oh I fell in love, and your father's mouth made me sad, being utterly, sensing and gripping, in prayer, but far, far above. Suddenly, everything is different: what was yellow is yellow, your eyes of Silesia, pernickety, and speaking to me in a way we've never spoken yet. I'm quite certain, and I say this to you, now, as an echo of that morning when we walked among our senile teachers. Which reminds me: do you like dogs, or can't you? I infinitely prefer the smallest hour, and the evenings, when I always change into nice clothes. But the good and the awkward slide together, each night brings the universe, such resemblances; I am too young and you too imperilled, which causes tears - hot, heavy tears. Soon it will be August, the month we longed for so much, and I can't help thinking through the medium of other people's words, as if they had been written in freedom, sleeves rolled up, collar open. You wore a lily in your buttonhole - wasn't there a custom like that in olden times? How I envied your sisters their place on the sofa, the young beech forest lit up by the sun. The finger I struck on a needle yesterday is hurting. Or is the answer really here inside us, so long as we don't keep asking for more? The blue vases are broken, thank you. Only my soul disperses. STORY OF THE ORNAMENTThe one to blame is not the concubine,the lady kicking a ball under the shadow of the flowers. He prepares the document and sends a messenger with a list. The fine wine is pure and the sons of the elder brothers are facing east. If a man delights in the tiny feet of his wives,
Such goods, in such numbers; such goods, in such numbers.
Somewhere beyond the inner doors, a plain chamber.
KIND OF A GOLDEN GIRLKind of a golden girl, living that wonderful lifeSome idea of midnight falling prey Completely alive, not saving myself Ces petits miséres qui gâchent notre vie Some idea of midnight falling prey
I did everything I could to be that shadow
The brotherhoods do tear apart
What you touch is my false history
|