Robert Gray

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Rating: 4.33

Robert Gray Poems

My mother all of ninety has to be tied up
in her wheelchair, but still she leans far out of it sideways;
she juts there brokenly,
able to cut
...

She and I came wandering there through an empty park,
and we laid our hands on a stone parapet’s
fading life. Before us, across the oily, aubergine dark
of the harbour, we could make out yachts –
...

Swarthy as oilcloth and as squat
as Sancho Panza
wearing a beret’s little stalk
the pear
...

These long stars
on

stalks
...

Clear water, in silvery tin dishes
dented as ping pong balls:
a lemon juice tinge of the staling light is in them;
they've a faint lid of dust.
...

In some last inventory, I’ll have lost a season
through the occlusion
of summer by another hemisphere.
Going there
...

Barely contained by the eyesight,
the beach makes one great arc -
blue ranges overlapped behind it;
each of them a tide-mark.
...

It has always seemed to me that neutral things would help us
if only we could hear
the eloquence
of their dumb ministry.
...

On a highway over the marshland.
Off to one side, the smoke of different fires in a row,
like fingers spread and dragged to smudge.
It is the always-burning dump.
...

My mother all of ninety has to be tied up
in her wheelchair, yet still she leans far out of it sideways;
she juts there brokenly,
able to cut
...

There comes trudging back across the home paddocks of the bay
pushing its way
waist-deep in the trembling seed-heads of the light
the trawler, with flat roof and nets aloft,
...

These long stars
on

stalks
that have grown up

early
and are like

water
plants and that stand

in all
the pools and the lake

even
at the brim

of
the dark cup

before
your mouth these are

the one
slit star
...

She and I came wandering there through an empty park,
and we laid our hands on a stone parapet's
fading life. Before us, across the oily, aubergine dark
of the harbour, we could make out yachts -

beneath an overcast sky, that was mauve underlit,
against a far shore of dark, crumbling bush.
Part of the city, to our left, was fruit shop bright.
After the summer day, a huge, moist hush.

The yachts were far across their empty fields of water.
One, at times, was gently rested like a quill.
They seemed to whisper, slipping amongst each other,
always hovering, as though resolve were ill.

Away off, through the strung Bridge, a sky of mulberry
and orange chiffon. Mauve-grey, each sloven sail -
like nursing sisters in a deep corridor, some melancholy;
or nuns, going to an evening confessional.
...

My mother all of ninety has to be tied up
in her wheelchair, but still she leans far out of it sideways;
she juts there brokenly,
able to cut
with the sight of her someone who is close. She is hung
like her hanging mouth
in the dignity
of her bleariness, and says that she is
perfectly all right. It is impossible to get her to complain
or to register anything
for longer than a moment. She has made Stephen Hawking look healthy.
It's as though
she is being sucked out of existence sideways through a porthole
and we've got hold of her feet.
She's very calm.
If you live long enough it isn't death you fear
but what life can still do. And she appears to know this
somewhere,
even if there's no hope she could formulate it.
Yet she is so calm you think of an immortal - a Tithonus withering
forever on the edge
of life,
though never a moment's grievance. Taken out to air
my mother seems in a motorcycle race, she
the sidecar passenger
who keeps the machine on the road, trying to lie far over
beyond the wheel.
Seriously, concentrated, she gazes ahead
towards the line,
as we go creeping around and around, through the thick syrups
of a garden, behind the nursing home.
Her mouth is full of chaos.
My mother revolves her loose dentures like marbles ground upon each other,
or idly clatters them,
broken and chipped. Since they won't stay on her gums
she spits them free
with a sudden blurting cough, which seems to have stamped out of her
an ultimate breath.
Her teeth fly into her lap or onto the grass,
breaking the hawsers of spittle.
What we see in such age is for us the premature dissolution of a body,
as it slips off the bones
and back to protoplasm
before it can be decently hidden away.
And it's as though the synapses were almost all of them broken
between her brain cells
and now they waver about feebly on the draught of my voice
and connect
at random and wrongly
and she has become a surrealist poet.
‘How is the sun
on your back?' I ask. ‘The sun
is mechanical,' she tells me, matter of fact. Wait
a moment, I think, is she
becoming profound? From nowhere she says, ‘The lake gets dusty.' There is no lake
here, or in her past. ‘You'll have to dust the lake.'
It could be
She has grown deep, but then she says, ‘The little boy in the star is food,'
or perhaps ‘The little boy is the star in food,'
and you think, ‘More likely
this appeals to my kind of superstition.' It is all a tangle, and interpretations,
and hearing amiss,
all just the slipperiness
of her descent.

We sit and listen to the bird-song, which is like wandering lines
of wet paint -
it is like an abstract expressionist at work, his flourishes and
then
the touches
barely there,
and is going on all over the stretched sky.
If I read aloud skimmingly from the newspaper, she immediately falls asleep.
I stroke her face and she wakes
and looking at me intently she says something like, ‘That was
a nice stick.' In our sitting about
she has also said, relevant of nothing, ‘The desert is a tongue.'
‘A red tongue?'
‘That's right, it's a
it's a sort of
you know - it's a - it's a long
motor car.'
When I told her I might go to Cambridge for a time, she said to me, ‘Cambridge
is a very old seat of learning. Be sure -'
but it became too much -
‘be sure
of the short Christmas flowers.' I get dizzy,
nauseous,
when I try to think about what is happening inside her head. I keep her
out there for hours, propping her
straight, as
she dozes, and drifts into waking; away from the stench and
the screams of the ward. The worst
of all this, for me, is that despite such talk, now is the most peace
I've known her to have. She reminisces,
momentarily, thinking that I am one of her long-dead
brothers. ‘Didn't we have some fun
on those horses, when we were kids?' she'll say, giving
her thigh a little slap. Alzheimer's
is nirvana, in her case. She never mentions
anything of what troubled her adult years - God, the evil passages
of the Bible, her own mother's
long, hard dying, my father. Nothing
at all of my father,
and nothing
of her obsession with the religion that he drove her to. She says the magpie's song,
which goes on and on, like an Irishman
wheedling to himself,
and which I have turned her chair towards,
reminds her of
a cup. A broken cup. I think that the chaos in her mind
is bearable to her because it is revolving
so slowly - slowly
as dust motes in an empty room.
The soul? The soul bas long been defeated, and is all but gone.
She's only productive now
of bristles on the chin, of an odour
like old newspapers on a damp concrete floor, of garbled mutterings, of
some crackling memories, and of a warmth
(it was always there,
the marsupial devotion), of a warmth that is just in the eyes now, particularly
when I hold her and rock her for a while, as I lift her
back to bed - a folded
package, such as,
I have seen from photographs, was made of the Ice Man. She says, ‘I like it
when you - when
when
you...'
I say to her, ‘My brown-eyed girl.' Although she doesn't remember
the record, or me come home
that time, I sing it
to her: ‘Da
da-dum, de-dum, da-dum ... And
it's you, it's you,'- she smiles up, into my face -‘it's you, my brown-eyed girl.'

My mother will get lost on the roads after death.
Too lonely a figure
to bear thinking of. As she did once,
one time at least, in the new department store
in our town; discovered
hesitant among the aisles; turning around and around, becoming
a still place.
Looking too kind
to reject even a wrong direction,
outrightly. And she caught my eye, watching her,
and knew I'd laugh
and grinned. Or else, since many another spirit will be arriving over there, whatever
those are - and all of them clamorous
as seabirds, along the walls of death - she will be pushed aside
easily, again. There are hierarchies in Heaven, we remember; and we know
of its bungled schemes.
Even if the last shall be first', as we have been told, she
could not be first. It would not be her.
But why become so fearful?
This is all
of your mother, in your arms. She who now, a moment after your game, has gone;
who is confused
and would like to ask
why she is hanging here. No - she will be safe. She will be safe
in the dry mouth
of this red earth, in the place
she has always been. She
who hasn't survived living, how can we dream that she will survive her death?
...

Swarthy as oilcloth and as squat
as Sancho Panza
wearing a beret's little stalk
the pear

itself suggests the application of some rigour
the finest blade
from the knife drawer
here

to freshen it is one slice and then another
the north fall south fall
facets of glacier
the snow-clean juice with a slight crunch that is sweet

I find lintels and plinths of white marble
clean angled
where there slides
the perfume globule

a freshness
like the breeze that is felt upon
the opening
of day's fan

Enku
sculptor of pine stumps
revealed the ten thousand Buddhas with his attacks
the calligraphic axe

Rationalised shape shaped with vertical strokes
I have made of your jowled
buttocks
a squareness neatly pelvic

A Sunday of rain
and like a drain
a pipe that was agog and is chock-a-block the limber thunder
rebounds
and bounds

it comes pouring down
a funnel the wrong way around
broadcasts
its buffoon militance over the houses all afternoon

Undone
the laces of rain
dangle on the windows
now slicing iron

a butcher is sharpening
the light
of his favourite knife
its shimmers carving stripes into the garden

And I have carved the pear-shaped head
with eyes
close set
as pips that Picasso saw his poor

friend who had gone
to war
a cubist
snowman the fragrant and fatal Apollinaire
...

In some last inventory, I'll have lost a season
through the occlusion
of summer by another hemisphere.
Going there
the winter tolls twice
across the year. The leaves of ice
in their manuscripts
are shelved on the air and each sifts
fine as paper-cuts along the wind. I will go
to crippled snow
moving through the crossings, in the headlights
of early nights.
How glorious summer is to them
who have caught just a glimpse of its billowing hem.
‘Fifty springs are little room,' an authority
in loss warns, but actuarially
I can expect to own
ten summers, before the heights of blue close down.
Although I've gone
northwards, I shall cross the lawn
at home - the trees and yard in bloom -
in the mirror in an empty room.
...

Robert Gray Biography

Robert William Geoffrey Gray is an Australian poet, freelance writer, and critic. Gray grew up in Coffs Harbour and was educated in a country town on the north coast of New South Wales. He trained there as a journalist, and since then has worked in Sydney as an editor, advertising copywriter, reviewer and buyer for bookshops. His first book of poems, Creekwater Journal, was published in 1973. Gray has been a writer-in-residence at Meiji University in Tokyo and at several universities throughout Australia including Geelong College in 1982. He has won the Adelaide Arts Festival and the New South Wales and Victorian Premiers' Awards for poetry. In 1990 he received the Patrick White Award. With Geoffrey Lehmann, he edited two anthologies, The Younger Australian Poets and Australian Poetry in the Twentieth Century, and he is the editor of Selected Poems by Shaw Neilson, and Drawn from Life, the journals of the painter John Olsen. After Images is his latest collection of poetry. 2008 sees the much anticipated publication of his memoir, The Land I Came Through Last.)

The Best Poem Of Robert Gray

In Departing Light

My mother all of ninety has to be tied up
in her wheelchair, but still she leans far out of it sideways;
she juts there brokenly,
able to cut
with the sight of her someone who is close. She is hung
like her hanging mouth
in the dignity
of her bleariness, and says that she is
perfectly all right. It is impossible to get her to complain
or to register anything
for longer than a moment. She has made Stephen Hawking look healthy.
It’s as though
she is being sucked out of existence sideways through a porthole
and we’ve got hold of her feet.
She’s very calm.
If you live long enough it isn’t death you fear
but what life can still do. And she appears to know this
somewhere,
even if there’s no hope she could formulate it.
Yet she is so calm you think of an immortal – a Tithonus withering
forever on the edge
of life,
though never a moment’s grievance. Taken out to air
my mother seems in a motorcycle race, she
the sidecar passenger
who keeps the machine on the road, trying to lie far over
beyond the wheel.
Seriously, concentrated, she gazes ahead
towards the line,
as we go creeping around and around, through the thick syrups
of a garden, behind the nursing home.
Her mouth is full of chaos.
My mother revolves her loose dentures like marbles ground upon each other,
or idly clatters them,
broken and chipped. Since they won’t stay on her gums
she spits them free
with a sudden blurting cough, which seems to have stamped out of her
an ultimate breath.
Her teeth fly into her lap or onto the grass,
breaking the hawsers of spittle.
What we see in such age is for us the premature dissolution of a body,
as it slips off the bones
and back to protoplasm
before it can be decently hidden away.
And it’s as though the synapses were almost all of them broken
between her brain cells
and now they waver about feebly on the draught of my voice
and connect
at random and wrongly
and she has become a surrealist poet.
‘How is the sun
on your back?’ I ask. ‘The sun
is mechanical,’ she tells me, matter of fact. Wait
a moment, I think, is she
becoming profound? From nowhere she says, ‘The lake gets dusty.’ There is no lake
here, or in her past. ‘You’ll have to dust the lake.’
It could be
She has grown deep, but then she says, ‘The little boy in the star is food,’
or perhaps ‘The little boy is the star in food,’
and you think, ‘More likely
this appeals to my kind of superstition.’ It is all a tangle, and interpretations,
and hearing amiss,
all just the slipperiness
of her descent.

We sit and listen to the bird-song, which is like wandering lines
of wet paint –
it is like an abstract expressionist at work, his flourishes and
then
the touches
barely there,
and is going on all over the stretched sky.
If I read aloud skimmingly from the newspaper, she immediately falls asleep.
I stroke her face and she wakes
and looking at me intently she says something like, ‘That was
a nice stick.’ In our sitting about
she has also said, relevant of nothing, ‘The desert is a tongue.’
‘A red tongue?’
‘That’s right, it’s a
it’s a sort of
you know – it’s a – it’s a long
motor car.’
When I told her I might go to Cambridge for a time, she said to me, ‘Cambridge
is a very old seat of learning. Be sure –’
but it became too much –
‘be sure
of the short Christmas flowers.’ I get dizzy,
nauseous,
when I try to think about what is happening inside her head. I keep her
out there for hours, propping her
straight, as
she dozes, and drifts into waking; away from the stench and
the screams of the ward. The worst
of all this, for me, is that despite such talk, now is the most peace
I’ve known her to have. She reminisces,
momentarily, thinking that I am one of her long-dead
brothers. ‘Didn’t we have some fun
on those horses, when we were kids?’ she’ll say, giving
her thigh a little slap. Alzheimer’s
is nirvana, in her case. She never mentions
anything of what troubled her adult years – God, the evil passages
of the Bible, her own mother’s
long, hard dying, my father. Nothing
at all of my father,
and nothing
of her obsession with the religion that he drove her to. She says the magpie’s song,
which goes on and on, like an Irishman
wheedling to himself,
and which I have turned her chair towards,
reminds her of
a cup. A broken cup. I think that the chaos in her mind
is bearable to her because it is revolving
so slowly – slowly
as dust motes in an empty room.
The soul? The soul bas long been defeated, and is all but gone.
She’s only productive now
of bristles on the chin, of an odour
like old newspapers on a damp concrete floor, of garbled mutterings, of
some crackling memories, and of a warmth
(it was always there,
the marsupial devotion), of a warmth that is just in the eyes now, particularly
when I hold her and rock her for a while, as I lift her
back to bed – a folded
package, such as,
I have seen from photographs, was made of the Ice Man. She says, ‘I like it
when you – when
when
you...’
I say to her, ‘My brown-eyed girl.’ Although she doesn’t remember
the record, or me come home
that time, I sing it
to her: ‘Da
da-dum, de-dum, da-dum ... And
it’s you, it’s you,’– she smiles up, into my face –‘it’s you, my brown-eyed girl.’

My mother will get lost on the roads after death.
Too lonely a figure
to bear thinking of. As she did once,
one time at least, in the new department store
in our town; discovered
hesitant among the aisles; turning around and around, becoming
a still place.
Looking too kind
to reject even a wrong direction,
outrightly. And she caught my eye, watching her,
and knew I’d laugh
and grinned. Or else, since many another spirit will be arriving over there, whatever
those are – and all of them clamorous
as seabirds, along the walls of death – she will be pushed aside
easily, again. There are hierarchies in Heaven, we remember; and we know
of its bungled schemes.
Even if the last shall be first’, as we have been told, she
could not be first. It would not be her.
But why become so fearful?
This is all
of your mother, in your arms. She who now, a moment after your game, has gone;
who is confused
and would like to ask
why she is hanging here. No – she will be safe. She will be safe
in the dry mouth
of this red earth, in the place
she has always been. She
who hasn’t survived living, how can we dream that she will survive her death?

Robert Gray Comments

Azadeh Salehian 19 May 2013

how can I communication with mr Gray? plz tell me. im waiting tnx

13 24 Reply
Jack Chalk 01 May 2019

UwU xD h-hewwo? Mister Gray? I give u sucky sucky for 50 bucky

9 3 Reply
Anonymous 15 June 2019

Where is 24 Poems?

8 0 Reply
James Austen 17 May 2019

a seriously author

4 0 Reply
wind 02 May 2021

drifring through thre wind

1 0 Reply
I hate english 25 February 2021

I hate english

2 0 Reply
Peter yorke 24 February 2022

So what? Must be difficult trying to communicate then

1 0
arnav singh 28 July 2020

oy srsly dawg where is 24 poems? ? ? ? ? ? ?

2 0 Reply
Come on PoemHunter 30 May 2020

can you please actually put all his poems on the site. Journey, the North Coast and 24 poems are important and part of this years HSC and you're kinda us over.

3 0 Reply
Abraham Lincoln 14 October 2019

Excuse me where the FARK is 24 poems

4 0 Reply

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