The Poem of the Month for May 2023, selected by 2023 Anthology Editors, Maria Vouis and Rob Ferris, is This Empty Space by Jacqui Merckenschlager. The commended poems for May are Lost for Words by Virgil Concalves, Old Lady on the Cliff by Pat Lee and Sister (excerpt) by Rory Harris.
This Empty Space
Jacqui Merckenschlager
Afterwards, after the weeping, the remembering,
love and laughter trickled into the void.
This empty space was flooded
by family and friends
and a sunshower sparkled on the wattles.
Afterwards they all went back to distant places,
silence and emptiness slipped through cracks
and hid amongst his clothes
and lurked between his books and tools,
while rosellas sipped nectar from the bluegums.
Afterwards, he was still there, tinkering,
toying with your feelings, reminding you
of the things he had achieved,
the trees he planted last May,
the letters he wrote when you were only nineteen.
Afterwards the ocean was royal blue, bottle green,
hiding shipwreck tragedies, drowned dreamers.
Fishing boats and ferries plied the waves
and tiny penguins nested in the bay.
He walked beside you everywhere, afterwards.
Lost for Words
Virgil Concalves
In the lead-up to the trip, I
recollect remnants of my childhood,
recall whispers of my parents’ mother-tongue,
remember words, phrases, sentences.
Those sounds signalled
cries of frustration,
words voiced
to argue,
to spit insults.
They’d tread a fresh path,
sought a new life,
become inarticulate
on foreign shores.
I visit Portugal, the country of their births.
Once more, I
recollect childhood remnants,
recall mother-tongue whispers,
remember words to create sentences.
I use their language,
but diction doesn’t flow fluidly.
I stumble over strange verbs,
trip over curious nouns,
stagger over odd prepositions.
Though a chunk of me is Portuguese,
I feel what it’s like
to be
tongue-tied
on strange shores.
Old Lady on the Cliff
Pat Lee
Eastbourne England
For all her years her home,
a small cottage on the cliff top.
She knows the songs of summer’s waves,
watches autumn’s mists settle and slide.
Above the wail and whistle of winter wind,
she reads the seagulls’ cries
and when the world is brightly snowed and cold
welcomes the soft, still, silence.
In the valley her small village grows into a town.
Age takes those she holds dear.
In town she struggles on to the bus,
multiple cardigans pulled over her satin night gown,
old lace hanging from its hem.
Her face hidden, for she is bent forward
and can only see the ground.
Hunched on a seat her fluttering fingers
try to tame a troubling wisp of hair.
Alone, she manages to get off at the cliff top.
Here, the wind welcomes her.
Now, bent over almost like the curve of a ball,
her rounded back to the wind,
standing resigned and tired,
as if waiting to be blown like a thistle seed
or gently carried along the cliff path to home.
Heaving a sigh, she wearies into the dimming light.
The wind picks up…
Sister (excerpt)
Rory Harris
The street knocks itself out
always the rumble
a parade of breakfast foods
always the drip of water
Bagong Silang
damp broom scrape over cement
as if to shine a path
if we sit here it will take a year to be served
at Aunty Flores I buy Marlboros
her sari sari store enterprise
I check my change, there isn’t any
the rest of the day is family, photographs & food
rice with a hint of fish in tin bowls for the cats & the dogs
Russel & I walk through the Barangay
the internet cafe has not opened
we take coffee & wait
it doesn’t open
Russel knows another one
but it has closed down, renovations
for another act of commerce
the third one, as in the cliché
is so dark he reads me the keys as I send emails
In the mall the shopping list is simple
a basketball, volleyball & a wallet
finding them is the hard part
& a gift for his mum
Russel doesn’t read the label
& sniffs the top shelf
later, I check the docket
Seduction men’s fragrance
I’m too tired for irony
At five JK can still conquer my lap
curls all limbs wrapped tight as a ball
patting him down towards dreams
The vase doesn’t recover
when I take a dive off the stairs
tread each step as if it was your last
I judge the Lantern Parade
the decorated tricycles stop the traffic
Sto Nino is the winner
There is a big mass on at City Hall I wear long pants
Breakfast is sweet sponge cake dipped in shredded coconut
In Dunkin Donuts I teach an English lesson
Returning from the kids’ Christmas party
I spend an hour trying to wave down a taxi
mid-afternoon Saturday
Deep into the city
without map or language
my logic is lost like a passport
The altar servers pull on the ropes for the bells
as fishermen would draw in their nets
with Christmas light smiles
At the end of the penitential possession
we bow in front of the empty manger
our hands are full of straw
After Sunday mass
I go carolling with the Eucharist Minsters
& sing Feliz Navidad too many times
At the basketball court I correct the kids’ grammar
I learn the body’s parts in Tagalog
A language of a shared past
This story