Poetry

by Carla Mobley

My Mother & Flowers

I miss my mother's frailty,
her hollow bones, sharp eyes.
I wonder when I grew taller.
In my mind she was always overwhelming,
dominant, somehow larger than anyone.
I think of her pain,
breathe it in, exhale slowly.
An image of a rose softens the feeling,
but the thorns still hurt.
All the dying women in this place
are all the same,
left with longing.
I breathe it in. Exhale again.
Orange lilies were her favourite.
They grew beside the apple tree
in front of the house
that was hers for fifty-two years.
I think of her death
Breathe in the grief, hold it there,
try to think of a flower,
breathe in all the grief of children
losing parents, dandelion chains of them
all tied together.

Negative Spaces

DON'T LOOK AT HIM

Look at the river
swollen by rain,
the gray sky,
the mosaic of clouds,
the diagonal
aquarium light,
like a sea cave,
the roof slipping in
and out of focus,
trees poking
through water,
the shadows
criss-crossing,
deviant walls,
lumps of dikes
shifting,
being pulled down,
the embankments wobbly.

DON'T LOOK AT HIM

Don't look at the man
with the gum-boots
his shirt still white,
his pant-legs folded up,
his body turned away
from the cameras.
He is the father
whose little girl drowned.
He is the husband
who found his wife's body
shining indistinctly
in the water,
her face swollen up
like a sponge.

DON'T LOOK AT HIM.

The Gift

There's something about
money for nothing
from a gentle,
kind-hearted woman
that makes me think of ravens
and orange ducks,
how they float
down the Lhasa River.
The red-eyed pigeon is greedy,
eating seeds that are meant for sparrows.
I wonder if I am a pigeon
accepting these golden coins
from your pale blue-veined hands,
yet it seems crass to refuse
the soft light of butterlamps
flickering,
the encouraging sound
of a thousand bells,
an intricate mandela
emerging
from delicate vials of colorful sand.
Money for nothing.
This compassionate action
is sacred, my friend,
and you are more precious
than an Alpine flower
growing secretly
in a distant land.

Fantasy (A Malaysian Pantoum)

I dream of dragons of fire,
nostrils filled with crimson flame.
I live with frogs in the mire,
green as grass that has no name.
Nostrils filled with crimson flame,
you cannot scare me with your threats.
Perhaps this life is just a game.
Beyond the grave there are no debts.
You cannot scare me with your threats
or help me swim or fly away.
Beyond the grave there are no debts,
we only have our life today.
I live with frogs in the mire.
I dream of dragons of fire.

Letter at Breakfast (Another Malaysian Pantoum)

In the morning I pull the red cloth over
the table of oak that once was my mothers.
In the night I slumber in sweet red clover,
dreaming of you, dear, my lover of lovers.
The table of oak that once was my mothers,
the frail bone china and the baskets of bread,
dreaming of you dear, my lover of lovers,
I miss my mother but now she is dead.
The frail bone china and the baskets of bread,
the red of the sunset, the blue of the dusk,
I miss my mother but now she is dead,
and I miss you darling, your sweet taste of musk.
In the morning I pull the red cloth over.
In the night I slumber in sweet red clover.

Photograph

I see your smile
immaculately known
comfort in the dark
this mosaic of fear
this flavor of emotion
inside my mouth
the chocolate's slow melting
under the lights
O to hold you
darling
this shifting fog
of time is chilling
each small opening
of skin, its pores
expanding
greedy for your touch
with the instinct
of hummingbirds
feeding at dusk, hungry
for that elusive sweetness
that second half-truth
released into a half-wind
the curtain still fluttering
with delight.

-- CM
©2000 Carla Mobley

Carla Mobley is a writer and ESL teacher who is presently living and teaching at Shantou University in southern China. She has previously taught in Shijiazhuang in northern China and also spent six months in Southern Korea working in a "hugwan." In Canada, Carla lives in Powell River, a sleepy town on the Pacific Ocean. There she teaches Creative Writing on an ongoing basis and has also worked as a feature writer for The Peak. She is the author of "Mysterious Powell Lake" and has been published in many literary journals in Canada and the United States.