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Luxury
Paperback
Published January 1, 1985
About the author
Kate Llewellyn
28 books23 followersKate Llewellyn is the author of nineteen books, including the bestselling The Waterlily: A Blue Mountains Journal and Playing With Water: A Story of a Garden. A distinguished Australian poet, she has published six books of poetry and is the co-editor of The Penguin Book of Australian Women Poets. Her travel books include Lilies, Feathers & Frangipani on the Cook Islands and New Zealand; Angels and Dark Madonnas on India and Italy; and Gorillas, Tea & Coffee: An African Sketchbook. Her books The Floral Mother & Other Essays, The Waterlily and Playing With Water have been made into talking books
She is one of Australia’s bestselling authors...
She is one of Australia’s bestselling authors...
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Displaying 1 of 1 review
September 10, 2018
Breasts -
As I lean over to write
one breast warm as a breast from the sun
hangs over as if to read what I'm writing
these breasts always want to know everything
sometimes exploring the inside curve of my elbow
sometimes measuring a man's hand
lying still as a pond
until he cannot feel he is holding anything
but water
then he dreams he is floating
in the morning my breast is refreshed
and wants to know something new
although it is soft it is also ambitious
we never speak
but I know my breast knows me more than I do
prying hanging over fences
observant as a neighbour
or eager as a woman wanting to gossip
they tell me nothing
but they say quite a lot about me
there is a dark blue river vein here
straggling down taking its time
to the little pale strawberry
picked too soon and left too long
in the punnet in a warm shop
when I lie
these breasts spread like spilt milk
and standing naked in the sea
float like figs
as you will realise
these are my body's curious fruit
wanting to know everything
always getting there first
strange as white beetroot
exotic as unicorns
useless as an out of order dishwasher
more of a nuisance than anything else
some men seem to think highly of them
peering and staring
what they don't know is the breast stares straight back
interested as a reporter
some love them
and invest them with glamour
but like life they are not glamourous
merely dangerous
Mermaid -
Washed up on a thousand mile beach
I lay panting and drying in the sun
what miracle brought him to me
a small boy with his rod
striding down to the sea
he could hardly believe what he saw
my hair full of weed
scales bleeding from shells
still I was alive
he could see
and real too
how innocent
his naked buttocks flexed
as he walked round me
then bending grasped my tail
and tugging pulled me back to the tide
with one thrust under a wave
I was gone
and he left with a story
no-one would believe
no I'm not grateful
it's not in my nature
I'd do to him what I do to the others
I sit among friends combing our tresses
with shells
singing and waiting and hoping
we are after all
man's deadliest invention of female
pure sexless malevolent and deadly
The Path -
We have made a path to each other
now we must cover it with sticks and stones
to keep it from the animals
sniffing in the dark
with a longing snout
deeper than silence
we must hide this path
if light touches it
it will wither
it is a path for night
it is secret
it is a bed of feathers and has no map
we must hide this path in our brains
we must not tell our hearts
it's too dangerous for the heart
the poor fool
pounding on and on
always the wrong track
tripping over boulders and tree roots
bleeding and sobbing
longing to be told
no it is our secret
I would not trust it to a heart
The Rock Pool -
Under the overhanging rock
the light shows movies of itself
to the water
the water reflects over and over
as we watch
nothing here has changed much
Aristotle was speaking
while this movie went on
in the pool you show me
tiny things skittering faster
than your finger directing them
like a conductor
to go here under this sand
it will sound deeper and wiser
but they defiant as I
skither on the skin of the water's terror
rushing from the white finger
of a terrible god
that knows all but what they know
and the beat of their tiny hearts
The Fish -
In the morning
the fish remember the night
how they swam
in the warm dark sea
over and over
sliding together
then resting floating
their tender gills blowing
the seaweed went past
but they didn't see it
waving at their sleeping gills
safe from all Japanese divers
and small biscuits served with a gin
when even the seaweed
feels safe as this
the fish begin to dream
they dream they are silver
and their scales have become skin
their fins grow into arms
they put their beautiful arms
around each other
and lie in the dark
face to face stroking
smiling and murmuring
words only fish know
Hope -
A thousand delicious decisions
to write a poem
above all apart from all other things
one needs hope
daily I wonder at it
in the depths of slums and dogs and sewers
people have hope
in the morning they look at the sky
and hope for good weather
or a shirt or enough food today
or the health of a child
or that the new one may not be born maimed
we are in love with this woman
she is a ghost
we have invented
we love her more than any living love
they are merely a vehicle for this other love
this is the love of our life
all of us face an allotment of time
and then a fullstop
yet we wear watches and look at them hopefully
waiting for time to pass
for the next train
or the arrival of the visitor
or the child home from school
or dinner
no we don't look and shudder
hope comes in time's clothes
we adore her draperies
worship her little sandals
like antique numerals
how we love it
when the wind blows her skirts
and the tiny feet visibly move on and on
as if she was in an olive grove
under dark hills with two others
linked to her arms
she the only one we have eyes for
more beautiful to us now than the others
hope hope
what will we do when you're gone?
As I lean over to write
one breast warm as a breast from the sun
hangs over as if to read what I'm writing
these breasts always want to know everything
sometimes exploring the inside curve of my elbow
sometimes measuring a man's hand
lying still as a pond
until he cannot feel he is holding anything
but water
then he dreams he is floating
in the morning my breast is refreshed
and wants to know something new
although it is soft it is also ambitious
we never speak
but I know my breast knows me more than I do
prying hanging over fences
observant as a neighbour
or eager as a woman wanting to gossip
they tell me nothing
but they say quite a lot about me
there is a dark blue river vein here
straggling down taking its time
to the little pale strawberry
picked too soon and left too long
in the punnet in a warm shop
when I lie
these breasts spread like spilt milk
and standing naked in the sea
float like figs
as you will realise
these are my body's curious fruit
wanting to know everything
always getting there first
strange as white beetroot
exotic as unicorns
useless as an out of order dishwasher
more of a nuisance than anything else
some men seem to think highly of them
peering and staring
what they don't know is the breast stares straight back
interested as a reporter
some love them
and invest them with glamour
but like life they are not glamourous
merely dangerous
Mermaid -
Washed up on a thousand mile beach
I lay panting and drying in the sun
what miracle brought him to me
a small boy with his rod
striding down to the sea
he could hardly believe what he saw
my hair full of weed
scales bleeding from shells
still I was alive
he could see
and real too
how innocent
his naked buttocks flexed
as he walked round me
then bending grasped my tail
and tugging pulled me back to the tide
with one thrust under a wave
I was gone
and he left with a story
no-one would believe
no I'm not grateful
it's not in my nature
I'd do to him what I do to the others
I sit among friends combing our tresses
with shells
singing and waiting and hoping
we are after all
man's deadliest invention of female
pure sexless malevolent and deadly
The Path -
We have made a path to each other
now we must cover it with sticks and stones
to keep it from the animals
sniffing in the dark
with a longing snout
deeper than silence
we must hide this path
if light touches it
it will wither
it is a path for night
it is secret
it is a bed of feathers and has no map
we must hide this path in our brains
we must not tell our hearts
it's too dangerous for the heart
the poor fool
pounding on and on
always the wrong track
tripping over boulders and tree roots
bleeding and sobbing
longing to be told
no it is our secret
I would not trust it to a heart
The Rock Pool -
Under the overhanging rock
the light shows movies of itself
to the water
the water reflects over and over
as we watch
nothing here has changed much
Aristotle was speaking
while this movie went on
in the pool you show me
tiny things skittering faster
than your finger directing them
like a conductor
to go here under this sand
it will sound deeper and wiser
but they defiant as I
skither on the skin of the water's terror
rushing from the white finger
of a terrible god
that knows all but what they know
and the beat of their tiny hearts
The Fish -
In the morning
the fish remember the night
how they swam
in the warm dark sea
over and over
sliding together
then resting floating
their tender gills blowing
the seaweed went past
but they didn't see it
waving at their sleeping gills
safe from all Japanese divers
and small biscuits served with a gin
when even the seaweed
feels safe as this
the fish begin to dream
they dream they are silver
and their scales have become skin
their fins grow into arms
they put their beautiful arms
around each other
and lie in the dark
face to face stroking
smiling and murmuring
words only fish know
Hope -
A thousand delicious decisions
to write a poem
above all apart from all other things
one needs hope
daily I wonder at it
in the depths of slums and dogs and sewers
people have hope
in the morning they look at the sky
and hope for good weather
or a shirt or enough food today
or the health of a child
or that the new one may not be born maimed
we are in love with this woman
she is a ghost
we have invented
we love her more than any living love
they are merely a vehicle for this other love
this is the love of our life
all of us face an allotment of time
and then a fullstop
yet we wear watches and look at them hopefully
waiting for time to pass
for the next train
or the arrival of the visitor
or the child home from school
or dinner
no we don't look and shudder
hope comes in time's clothes
we adore her draperies
worship her little sandals
like antique numerals
how we love it
when the wind blows her skirts
and the tiny feet visibly move on and on
as if she was in an olive grove
under dark hills with two others
linked to her arms
she the only one we have eyes for
more beautiful to us now than the others
hope hope
what will we do when you're gone?
Displaying 1 of 1 review