Emma Lew

EMMA 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 CREAM

It'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 ORNAMENT

The 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,
he may wish to unravel the bindings himself.
She was stumbling in front of the pavilion, where we first met her.
We stroked her hands, to see if they were rough or smooth.

Such goods, in such numbers; such goods, in such numbers.
In fact these are useless things.
She looks around anxiously, as though unable to find something she is seeking.
Later she takes a cloth three feet long.

Somewhere beyond the inner doors, a plain chamber.
Rain has fallen, she has respectfully swept.
The red shoe lies slantingly in the palm.
We take leave of the god, then clean up and go back.
 
 
 
 

KIND OF A GOLDEN GIRL

Kind of a golden girl, living that wonderful life
Some 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
Ces petits miseres qui gachent notre vie
With their promises of heaven and their hands

I did everything I could to be that shadow
The brotherhoods do tear apart
With their promises of heaven and their hands
I take the harsh things, poor twilight work

The brotherhoods do tear apart
What you touch is my false history
I take the harsh things, poor twilight work
As if I could get back into my own mirrors

What you touch is my false history
Completely alive, not saving myself
As if I could get back into my own mirrors
Kind of a golden girl, living that wonderful life