Tuesday 5 August 2014

POEM CLUB #8: 'Night music' by Kristen Roberts

Kristen Roberts
There's just a month left in our call for poetry pamphlet submissions, so this week's Poem Club poem is by someone we encountered wholly through our first open call for submissions, back when we were on the scrounge for mildly erotic verse. Melbourne poet Kirsten Roberts first came onto our radar with her gorgeous poem 'Cool change at midnight', and when she submitted her pamphlet proposal for The Held and the Lost we were smitten. The poem featured below is the first poem in the collection, and it's one which sets the tone and resonates throughout the whole book. As with previous editions of Poem Club, I'll post the poem below along with some of my own thoughts to start things off.

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Night music


After the party we lie beneath open windows
and listen as insects play night music. 
Each note glimmers like a tiny white light in the darkness, 
incandescent against the solid noise of the semi-trailers
that groan up the highway’s climb and whine down.

In the kitchen, a flock of wine-stained glasses 
has settled at the sink 
and bottles stand, awkward as pelicans, among them. 
The floorboards relax into our silence 
like fingers releasing the night,
like the house exhaling a long-held sigh.

There is laughter soaking the walls, 
smiles and exclamations still glowing amber on the deck, 
waiting for morning’s breath to reignite them.
We’ll gather them when we wake
and carry them home in our pocket seams like sand, 
each memory a tiny constellation
to be discovered on our ordinary days. 

— by Kristen Roberts, from The Held and the Lost

* * *

Emma's thoughts. I could dive right into this poem and stay there! Kristen captures that spaced-out, floaty feeling you get after a really good party, when peace descends, your ears are still ringing and the house is a mess. This isn't a perfect moment, but it's as perfect as it gets in the very real, defiantly mundane world Kristen often writes about. The poem is stuffed with details of gentle, unstoppable movement – the ebbing away of heat and the passing of time – so overall it feels like a celebration of the small joys of mortality.

Your thoughts. I think it's safe to say this poem was a hit! Everyone seemed to enjoy Kristen's post-party snapshot, and we had some lovely responses. MonochromeThief commented: 'I love how all aspects of the poem's world are animated: the corporeal and the mundane.' She responded with her own images: 'The radiating warmth of smiles & laughter "still glowing amber" remind me of hot stone underfoot in summer, long after the sun has sunk below the horizon.'

Claudia Harkavy was similarly charmed, commenting 'I love this too – agree completely with, and can't outsay your wanting to dive in and stay there.' For her, the poem evoked 'the absorption of good times – their sounds, their twinkling in us - into ourselves, and our habitats which can throb with these memories when such times are scarce.'

Courtney Landers, our victor from last week's Poem Club, shared some great insights, commenting: 'I love the Australian-ness of this poem. I can hear the crickets, smell the still-warm bitumen and feel the cool breeze coming in through the windows.' She added: 'It's a happy poem because the high is still there from the party, but a sad poem because the party is over, and now 'real life' must be begun again.'

And the winner of this week's 'Most Thoughtful Commenter' prize is... Courtney Landers!

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The Held and the Lost
What do you think of 'Night music'? Do you recognise the feelings described? Is this is a happy poem? What do you think of the ending? This Poem Club is now closed, but you can still let me know what you think in the comments section below. Don't be afraid of sounding stupid! All comments will be held for moderation, so don't worry if it doesn't appear immediately after you send it.

<-- POEM CLUB #7: 'Raspberries' by Andrew Wynn Owen
--> POEM CLUB #9: 'Bonfire' by Rachel Piercey

3 comments:

  1. This poem so perfectly captures the seratonin wave following a perfect party, where the planets align & the synapses still fizz with connections made, long after the stillness descends.

    I love how all aspects of the poem's world are animated: the corporeal and the mundane. Glasses and bottles become birds; the existential 'constellations' of memories made twinkle in the reader's mind, filling it with unspoken images. The radiating warmth of smiles & laughter 'still glowing amber' remind me of hot stone underfoot in summer, long after the sun has sunk below the horizon.

    Even the house itself is personified as the cradle, hub and home that holds such revelry:

    'The floorboards relax into our silence
    like fingers releasing the night,
    like the house exhaling a long-held sigh.'

    But the poem exists beyond the perfect moments encapsulated there, with its sense of immortality:

    'waiting for morning's breath to reignite them.'

    and

    'each memory a tiny constellation
    to be discovered on our ordinary days.'

    speak to me of the finite nature of the gathering but its infinite positive reverberations & echoes.

    It's a poem that positively breathes itself, in all its living glory.

    It's beautiful and I love it.

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  2. I love this too - agree completely with, and can't outsay your wanting to dive in and stay there. The absorption of good times - their sounds, their twinkling in us - into ourselves, and our habitats which can throb with these memories when such times are scarce. The animation even of the still remnants of the aftermath, so compunded in the alliteration of 'flock...floorboards....fingers' and assonance of 'flock...bottles...long', jumping from line to line like crickets from grass to grass.

    The familiarity. The relief. The breathing in and out of it all. Its settling in and around us like lifeblood itself.

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  3. I love the Australian-ness of this poem. I can hear the crickets, smell the still-warm bitumen and feel the cool breeze coming in through the windows.

    It's a happy poem because the high is still there from the party, but a sad poem because the party is over, and now 'real life' must be begun again. The wine glasses flocking at the sink perfectly encapsulate this; they hold as much of the revelry as the remnants of laughter on the deck, but in the morning they will have to be washed.

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