Selected poems
Sea pinks'not growing as much when challengedby severe exposure to wind' — Irish IndependentAlso called thriftbecause expert atdoing without,they will subsist,manage with lessthan your minutestattention, noluxuriant flourish,will stick tocrevice or nicheif that's on offer —rock splits with so muchclose focus orperseverance — suchspots of shy colourin the cheek of thisgrey day and portentmay draw the blank gazeonly a moment,nameless — if electric,mere undercurrentwe won't pickor pick up on,though gracing each chinkI put my foot in,backing off the wayI came, their mute femininedemeanour maymislead you to thinkwallflower, violet, but theywill not shrink.SiegeI've grown used to this:the tap, the rattle —learned to dismissthe insistence, and saythe raven, near mating,mistaking his reflectionfor some insufferable rivalwho must be neutralisedat once, cracking his fragileself-image, exact match,prising up tiles like scalesor flakes of my skin as I feelthis house begin to fit meimpervious, I trust, hopinghe makes no headway,almost successfullyfending off incursionor even the suggestionthat I am in any wayat risk, indifferent, convincedthese rumblings mean nothing,so that I wholly miss deliveriesintended, the postie, for instancerapping insanely, trying repeatedlyand finally giving up on me.Second siege ... feel the roots of the house move, but sit on ... — Ted Hughes, 'Wind'It begins by nightwhen you think to be private,think nothing can call you outbut this brazen galelays waste to allwilled peace or rest;you toss, lost vessel,and roll, and reconsiderwhat you are doing here —had you forgottenthese soul-winters, the waythey strike and blight everygood intention — yetyours is a strong house, stoneand slate, and every creakalready accounted forthrough many a bleak yearthat still in turn saw summerand should see more,nothing that lies loose orunmastered about this placeso why the blank ache, paralysisat a merely exterior shriekas if it might herald collapseand all you can do is wait?School walk in German winterOur one star has departedWe're wholly darkThe clouds are sheddingPretension to friendlinessFlake by flakeWhich of us guides the otherAcross this glassine surfaceThat blanks every letterDeadening wordsWho is that figureGlobe-headed, dirndl-skirtedVacant hand-holderThe street-sign makes MotherHer little familiarWhen you were bornThe ground had takenMore than a dustingWe were locked inBut not foreverNow you are thirteenAge of reversible primeAnd happy numberOf fact not rumourHalf-apprehendedOr superstitionOf getting up againAnd walking onwardOf facing downThe downward forcesThe Niederschlag
Tracy Ryan is a Western Australian writer whose latest book of poems is Hoard (Whitmore Press, 2015). Her most recent novel is Claustrophobia (Transit Lounge, 2014)..