I want to write a poem about gardening,
watering the veggie patch & how it
reduces things down to a manageable
size. To write a poem about putting on
another load of washing, taking
the rubbish out, catching the bus home.
I want to cut a word here & there:
trimming flowers before arranging
them in a vase. To write a poem
about yoga: feeling vulnerable, inflexible,
briefly graceful. A poem that tells you
to be gentle, that there is time.

I would write it on a Sunday while
the bolognaise for the week ahead
simmers, while the neighbour’s
opera floods through the wall and
the children across the road have a
screaming contest. It would never be
published & wouldn’t be recognised in
either edition of The Best Australian Poetry.

Yet I want to write this poem because
although I don’t think of you every day
or even every week – there are others
who knew you better & feel your absence
more keenly – I know it’s the kind of poem
you’d like & I want to thank you. For that
time I rang you in the middle of the night
raving about my father & you told me to
light a candle, say goodbye, then blow it out.

Thank you for showing that these small
tasks can be enough & that it’s okay to write
a poem slowly, especially one about family.

Elizabeth Allen is a Sydney poet and bookseller. She also works for Vagabond Press and is undertaking a Masters of Teaching (Primary) at the University of Sydney part-time. She is the author of Forgetful Hands (Vagabond Press, 2005) and body language (forthcoming in 2011).
© Elizabeth Allen
Overland 204-spring 2011, p. 122

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