Bach on the beach: Ruby Bay
Of course there is firewalking:
rockets above, cinders below.
The Dionysian winemaker shakes
his wild white locks and rakes
coals over the sand, coals glowing
like knowledge in the darkness.
Lord, have mercy on our souls,
the loudspeakers implore, and
choruses crash as the surf smashes
with rushing phosphorescence
and cooling balm. The trick
(the winemaker cries) is not to stop
as he prances, bottle in hand,
across the carpet of embers.
And who would not follow such a leader
into the valley of flare, of flash, of light?
They who hesitate are lost –
a lesson not lost on those who follow
scampering, drunk with audacity,
under the rocket show, the wheeling
stars and gloria, gloria in excelsis deo,
the cries of delight, the roar of the sea,
ever welcoming in its rushing, its promise
of forever, back and forth of beginnings, endings
for the brave, surprised survivors nursing
their unblemished soles in the cold wet sand.
rockets above, cinders below.
The Dionysian winemaker shakes
his wild white locks and rakes
coals over the sand, coals glowing
like knowledge in the darkness.
Lord, have mercy on our souls,
the loudspeakers implore, and
choruses crash as the surf smashes
with rushing phosphorescence
and cooling balm. The trick
(the winemaker cries) is not to stop
as he prances, bottle in hand,
across the carpet of embers.
And who would not follow such a leader
into the valley of flare, of flash, of light?
They who hesitate are lost –
a lesson not lost on those who follow
scampering, drunk with audacity,
under the rocket show, the wheeling
stars and gloria, gloria in excelsis deo,
the cries of delight, the roar of the sea,
ever welcoming in its rushing, its promise
of forever, back and forth of beginnings, endings
for the brave, surprised survivors nursing
their unblemished soles in the cold wet sand.
Coming down on the last shower
is not always to be scoffed at, mocked.
Raindrops are, after all, cleansing,
refreshing in certain circumstances.
And what is wrong with asking silly,
naïve questions of the world? Puzzling
about this stick insect, for instance?
Why does it imitate a desiccated twig with
splayed, withered branches? Is disguise
the best answer to life’s tricky problems?
Why a stick, when it could have faked
a bougainvillea, brilliant bracts lifted
to the rain? It could have faked a yellow-
green willow catkin dusted with delight?
And what is wrong with wondering whether
a stick insect has fingers along with branchlets?
If a digital stick insect had fingers it could have
gripped onto this windowsill and not fall to the ground
below to get soaked by the recent rain.
I’m trying to say that coming down in the last
shower is seeing the world anew: rainbowed,
reborn and shining. And what is wrong with that?
Raindrops are, after all, cleansing,
refreshing in certain circumstances.
And what is wrong with asking silly,
naïve questions of the world? Puzzling
about this stick insect, for instance?
Why does it imitate a desiccated twig with
splayed, withered branches? Is disguise
the best answer to life’s tricky problems?
Why a stick, when it could have faked
a bougainvillea, brilliant bracts lifted
to the rain? It could have faked a yellow-
green willow catkin dusted with delight?
And what is wrong with wondering whether
a stick insect has fingers along with branchlets?
If a digital stick insect had fingers it could have
gripped onto this windowsill and not fall to the ground
below to get soaked by the recent rain.
I’m trying to say that coming down in the last
shower is seeing the world anew: rainbowed,
reborn and shining. And what is wrong with that?
|
NZ poet James Norcliffe has published twelve collections of poetry including Shadow Play (2013), Dark Days at the Oxygen Café (VUP, 2016), Deadpan (Otago University Press, 2019) and Letter to Oumuamua (Otago University Press, 2023). His Selected Poems: A Day Like No Other was published earlier this year by Otago University Press. In 2022, he was awarded the NZ Prime Minister’s Award for Literary Achievement in poetry.
|
