A lyrical celebration of late pregnancy and the unique closeness it embodies. I imagine there must be other ways for women to feel about the imminent prospect of giving birth, like if you’ve been carrying an extra couple of stone around for months it must be quite a relief to get rid of it, but what do I know…
O move in me, my darling,
for now the sun must rise:
the sun that will draw open
the lids upon your eyes.
O wake in me, my darling,
the knife of day is bright
to cut the thread that binds you
within the flesh of night.
Today I love and find you
whom yet my blood would keep –
would weave and sing around you
the spells and songs of sleep.
None but I shall know you
as none but I have known;
yet there’s a death and a maiden
who wait for you alone;
So move in me, my darling,
whose debt I cannot pay.
Pain and the dark must claim you
and passion and the day.
Among the innumerable poems on the theme of personal extinction that occupy the territory somewhere between the bravura rhetoric of Yeats’s men who come ‘Proud, open-eyed and laughing to the tomb’ and the flat nihilism of Larkin’s great ‘Aubade’, one of my personal favourites is this bleak but loving piece from the fine Australian poet Judith Wright.
The Company of Lovers
We meet and part now all over the world;
we, the lost company,
take hands together in the night, forget
the night in our brief happiness, silently.
We, who sought many things, throw all away
for this one thing, one only,
remembering that in the narrow grave
we shall be lonely.
Death marshals up his armies round us now.
Their footsteps crowd too near.
Lock your warm hand above the chilling heart
and for a time I live without my fear.
Grope in the night to find me and embrace,
for the dark prelude of the drums begin,
and round us, round the company of lovers,
death draws his cordons in.
Charles Harpur in his journals long ago
(written in hope and love, and never printed)
recorded the birds of his time’s forest –
birds long vanished with the fallen forest –
described in copperplate on unread pages.
The scarlet satin-bird, swung like a lamp in berries,
he watched in love, and then in hope described it.
There was bird blue, small, spangled like dew.
All now are vanished with the fallen forest.
And he, unloved, past hope, was buried.
who helped with proud stained hands to fell the forest,
and set those birds in love on unread pages;
yet thought himself immortal, being a poet.
And is he not immortal, where I found him,
in love and hope along his careful pages? –
the poet vanished, in the vanished forest,
among his brightly tincted extinct birds?
We all write in hope and love, and while the immortality or otherwise of a poet may be thought a small thing to set against the deaths of whole species, the Australian poet Judith Wright manages here to balance and commemorate both most beautifully.
Posts will be weekly now I’ve got things off the ground.