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from the July 2004 issue

Two Poems

The Oracles of the Virgin

Music is the art which is most nigh to tears and memory.--Oscar Wilde

Buried inside us were the sounds

of the words our parents

managed to utter in the moment of intercourse

before they fell silent at the wonder of budding life.

Buried inside us were the sounds

of the songs we heard in the cradle

before our mothers had forgotten

the oracles of the Virgin.

Buried inside us were the sounds

of the grinding of bones that blossomed

as the fruit was about to ripen

and later when the afternoon flamed

we only heard the cicadas.

Singapore-Melbourne, 18 July 1990


However many times I now set out

on the road of return

the distance between us never lessens.

My only hope of seeing you again

is to also rise definitively

to the glory of utter stillness.

Athens, 11 February 1990

Read more from the July 2004 issue
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