CHARLES D'ANASTASI
Two poems
The Narrows, Fitzroy 1918
At times these walls contract, leave me breathless.
I imagine birds, trees. Hours stretch, crawl. Unused.
Rain pours. Grey skies ache weak light, interrogate,
defy attempts to reach out. The past returns, insists.
I imagine birds, trees. Hours stretch, crawl. Unused.
Some days are finished before they even begin,
defy attempts to reach out. The past returns, insists.
Emptiness in the town’s square completes the circle.
Some days are finished before they even begin.
We both depend on how our hands follow our words.
Emptiness in the town’s square completes the circle.
From my son’s room stifled cries curl, settle in drift…
We both depend on how our hands follow our words.
Resigned, that what lies beyond is still a world denied.
From my son’s room stifled cries curl, settle in drift…
Food’s all repetition. Maddens flies. Toys lie untouched.
Resigned, that what lies beyond is still a world denied.
Rain pours. Grey skies ache weak light, interrogate.
Food’s all repetition. Maddens flies. Toys lie untouched.
At times, these walls contract, leave me breathless.
Opatija
On the shores of Opatija
we stopped before the holiday residence
much favoured by the Austrian and European
nobility of the belle époque era:
its faded yellow and white façade
knotted in a baroque grandeur,
fussed over in perfect geometry,
now reduced to a three and a half star hotel,
emptied and waiting to be rejuvenated.
We peered through one of the big windows,
and watched men furiously intent
on ripping up the wall-to-wall carpet,
exposing the hall’s cavernous interior,
the solitude of the central chandelier,
all rolled back by a determination to insinuate:
the pomp and sweep of the former ballroom,
the conical swirl and glide of gowns, the stiff suits,
chatter and salon music, boredom subdued.
The moment’s sweep was everywhere,
and no lips from the past could have tumbled
out the words that would have perfected this evocation.
And as always, the Adriatic’s blue never fails to coerce.
Still, I can see how on some evenings, this place would
have longed for an alchemy of fine mist to roll in from the sea.
Even now, as the statue of the Maiden with the seagull
contemplates the history of the ocean, what remains continues
to wait, to be scoured by Bora winds, comforted by ancient stars.
Charles D’Anastasi is a Melbourne poet. His work has appeared in various journals including Cordite and Australian Poetry Journal. His last chapbook Madame Bovary and other prose poems was published by Mark Time Books in 2014.