Indigo Perry


CORRUGATIONS

1       Corrugated Roads



Corrugations on old bridges 
crossed in dreams.    A small child, a girl.
. 
                            Only shops.    No houses. 
                       No homes.    
   She gathers courage to   ask    busy
                                             women
                                             packing
                                             shelves
                                  if they've seen 
                           her mother and they
                     say       no,      she left. 
            And the    street        grows quiet,
               for it's     a street in        the country
        and as           the  afternoon            falls     
                                    birds and the wind  call  along
           the footpath  and                              human voices
               scatter        and blow   away.                            She 
                 walks to the middle of the
                   bridge and rests
                                          her fingertips
                                          on a sheep's
                                          fleece left
                                          behind there,
                                     hung over the 
                                     wooden railing.   
                   It's moist and warm to touch
                      but she's already getting 
                                 cold        and over
                                 the bridge 
                                 the street
                                 becomes a road
                                 of dirt and yellow
                                 rocks.    Trees
                            bend over it and       she
                        sees how their shadows
                          crawl over the road
          Soon it will be dark.    She
                    knows the heads of trees
                    turn to ghosts at night. 
                              The child’s view 
                              shifts.            She's
                                                            further away now. 
               We leave her behind on the 
               bridge    and        the women in
                   the shops have gone home. 
           She grows smaller, but still she is
           there, alone.    A child in a memory, 
                       never retrieved.   
                
                                        Waking, cold, 
                       I must have sleepwalked
                       to get here.                It's night 
                       and has the quiet and 
                       stillness of four am. 
                          Dark,                  but the 
                  moon is full                       and shows 
                  the deep green of the 
                                 edges of a road lined 
                   with sleeping houses. 
                           Shows,        too,        the 
                       pale blue-white of 
                    my skin.     Cold.   
                Almost naked,               breasts exposed,
                   a soft-waisted skirt            oddly pulled
                on, and I try to pull it up 
                to cover myself but it's 
                not long enough   and 
                whatever way I arrange it, 
              it's exposing my body.                       Now
              I'm shivering.    I don't 
                 recognise this place. 
              From my bed,   my  somnolent
                 self   has   wandered here
                 and I don't know the way
                 home.      I have               the night, 
                 the sky,              the moon, to 
                     myself   in that glorious
                  secrecy of night-wandering. 
                              But, then 
                           there's a car.   It 
                       arrives 
                       noiselessly,   almost
                           an animal slunk 
                                  from      out       of
                                  the bushes, 
                                  and I freeze,   
                                I too am an 
                                animal, trying 
                            to merge with 
                               the moonlight, 
                               making myself
                               
                                  mirage.   
                                  
                        For a beat, it seems
                        it's worked and I've
                        become the night. 
                        
                                         The car swerves,  
                                           headlights on now, 
                             and its turning is 
                             hard                      violent. 
                             It's a predator. 
                        I'm pulling at the fabric
                           but it's no cover. 
                           
                           And I run.   But 
                           limbs move as 
                           though under 
                        viscous, 
deep water. 
                           As though I am 
                           the night.   And 
                      have no limbs        but 
                        only planes of 
                          milky        light  
                             and a musky 
                             scent of night-blooming
                        jasmine   and the 
                          sorrow of loss 
                             and regrets        not 
                             yet lain to rest. 
                             
                    Another awakening.   This 
                    time in my bed. 
Heart 
                        too fast.             Body  still 
                           flailing   in slow
                        motions        of subdued, 
                           flight.  
                                Sorrow and 
                                regrets still 
                             binding. 
                 The room is dark and 
                 the walls intact and door 
                 closed.      Covers warm. 
                             Heart unquiet. 
                             
                             I miss the wet-painted
                             appearance of         the  
                                  verges   of the
                                    unfamiliar. 
                     The interest of the moon.   
            The self that felt to   walk  the  
                                     night    with 
                                         breasts  bare.       
                            
                            Still,  I can't return to sleep
                               with my body sharply
                            attuned to the 
                            presence of the
                            animal.
                  A circling inwards      to 
                     solace.    Warm holding
                        spiralled.





2     To Float Before Sinking 



Timelessly 
                  timorous   Picking a
               way  from  pale, 
               moon-washed  stone
                 to the  thinly voiced
              rhythm  marked on the
          currents.   The    
                            cure.
                   Membranes taught  
             strung-taut  memories
         run
         like      water.     
                              Upon 
                              reflection.    What    could   have   been
                              different. 
                 The dreamed.   
                    Immersion.     
                    
              Running        the cascade
                 through    streets
                              bloodlines.
                Gutters   and      stuttered    utterance   of all
                you meant to do. 
                
                Achieved. 
                Acquiesced.       Bled-
                                         dry
                         and replenished
                         with   the 
                         flamboyance of
                     tree ferns 
                   in resurrection. 
                      The reservoir
                      of     the   heart.    
            Depths        created
            to     sink    into   like
                beds     you   made  
                without        meaning to
              yet here
              you
              lie               And 
                   with            slowly fading
                   incandescence   
               perhaps     floating   
                    spread   out 
                 the patterns of petals
                   flung    out
               Softness in akimbo   until       the  deeper  seas   
               Furled-up  documentation     of the earth 
                     begin the 
                     seepage    Faint  
                     capillaries  of 
                     transparence  in 
                     the skin of your  
                     flower     growing
                     to patches  with
                      the perfection 
                      of asymmetry  the
                      shapes of bruises
                      in reverse.
               Missing pieces of you 
             stolen by  the  
             damming  of   the earth
                      Your 
                petalled   skin  falls
                   to   pieces    It's 
                a         boat  that  not only
              sinks
                  but    transforms 
              to    threads   and then
                                                           translucence.
              To      a momentary sense
              of absence at the
              surface.    Deja vu 
                    shaken off   as
                 the        wind       shifts  and 
             you   turn   away.
             
       This resilience    of breathing
       through          fire    
          and walking   lost amidst
          echoes.      To be still
                           inside this
                           can      be  
                           impossible.
               To      be
               quiet    and sense
               smallness    may amplify
                   all         that's louder 
                   and larger.
 Inevitably
                                  human.
                          Deceptively
                          transitive  
                   living               beyond
         Walking fast         with a strong
         stride
         the       tide   laps at your heels
            Hear      the tapping  of feet
               the    knocking on the
            surface.    
                 Forming curves  
              Arches attuned to 
              this fitting together with
              the forever.    Body
           curled      foetal   to the 
           heat of the circle.   The
                white water of bones
             instrumental   to     this
                                     score.
            All voices under 
            translation        Archives
                                of the
                         elemental
        The rain on      the  roof
        the music     fossilised
                  A season   a chamber
               in which your heart
                  is the percussive 
                  mnemonic      of   the
                  air             you    breathed
               into   being.        
           Resting,         touching
                what is closest
                and recognising 
            familial vibration
         The           resonance  of    hope.
         
         The arms
         of my sky           open
                        to    the new
                        hour  
                the invention  of
                cells     in    houses
             for   living in    houses
           made   from    the shell
           of poesis.          In sleep
                                within the
                             hypnosis of
                             night   I lie
                             beside you,
                          face to face,
          wake
          still
          aware        of the warmth
          of     you             You were
                                  there.
                I traced the line
                of your breastbone
                with the tips of   my
                fingernails   just 
              before     I opened   my
           eyes     the cartilage
                  portal    breaking
                  softly    between the
                  worlds
              And still,     
the heat 
               lingers.
          In the subdued light
          of morning, following
          the blazing away,       the 
          setting on fire of the 
          evidence of the night,
          we rise
          start again





3      Guildford Lane



Draining silences    sinking   deep
      between         minutes   and
                  rivers    that
                wring   
           the      psyche.              I've 
           devoured              the chatter  
              until            all   light 
                matter shows itself
             in    silhouette    
                And
          feeling        the   warm
                             night
                             call 
                             of
                             her
                             
                             
                         
                                                        
                             
                             you
                             
                             
                             
                 embrace     
                      shadow
                          

            blood   running       
                   murmur   
                lantern rises              storey
                                             by
                                   storey
                 telling   all     your
                 layers     To 
                 forget 
                      to   feel  the
                      shame
                      Alluring to hide
              from    it all   and 
                 play the 
                     innocent. 
             But       a  sweet flow
                                   beckons
                the    earth  up 
             through the cracks
             
             sounds    the  
                bright   melody  
                     even    from 
                     underground.     
              What's      stuck fast   
              
                   shifted    by the 
                   age   of    river
             Stones    pressed  to
             implode 
             mnemonics.      
       It's a   sky      that    says
       it    dies   to
                       weep.   
                            Not the complex rain of mortality
              but      the        rain     of
                                childhood.
           Deceptive.   
        
        Distorted  specula of
        mirrors   turned  about
              to   talk  over  the
              tarnish  

          Wandering,
                          then, 
                   through   your
                   dawn         broken,
                   through  insomnia.  
         Tiredness              held  under
            the wraps   of   the day 
            
         Night,     though,      some
            time   after    one   
             hours   loom 
               as   spectres   of
               themselves    through
           the   past. 

              It lingers.    Wearing
              the same old clothes
 
             Not      the   immersive
             reflection   of   sleeping. 
           What          comes   in the
              wakeful   hours   is
              a running
              after
              away
              towards  
              
                      The attempt to
                      fix the unfixed.
                In      the wakeful dream 
                it does not occur to 
            you        that     some things
               are not to      be               fixed. 
               

Requiem   to   
              acquiescence.     
                          Dark stream 
                 spoken  for
             to  be  a city pathway 
                 but  who can regret
              paths  taken    and 
          structures   built from
              dream body skeletal
              
            architecture.     You 
               dance  the foundations
            and make a language.
            Once enunciated,        it's 
            a breath   taken      
        Alive          transmuted
                 still                         itself    
 lines
 gestures                     describing
                      dance 
                 eternal. 
                                                   Moments    of 
                 spontaneous 
            flippant   choices    
                       remaining    
                           the spirit figure of
             memory in 
                 flight.              Storm cells
                              flickering
                        themselves alight
                   in         ideas                  in   this
          identity    pinning         is   this
       a   forever idea   or    already 
                                                incensed with  itself    
                                                   and leaving the room.     
                         Remembering
                         that  very first
               winter. 
           We could  see our breath. 
           We saw the wings of
 fog over   the 
           creek         And   the way 
                          fine        breakages
                          showed up
         even as    we kept a polite
            distance.      Languages
            laced      in   the  snuck-up      cry      of    the    creek 
               and   how  in  the 
           dense   layering         moss
                                                lichen 
                                                the rocks
                                                the  aloneness   
                          we  sound a   
                            rhythm  of
                      connectedness.   
                                                            The creek that feeds 
          the river
               that satiates
          the thirst 
          of      the     city     becomes    the   body  
of all 
          the bodies of water we've known.      The swimming pools,
                                                                             acid-blue.   
                                                                             Baths taken. 
                                                                             All manner        of cleansings, 
                                                                             baptisms,       love affairs
                                                                             in seas under moonlight 
                                                                            And of course  the
                                                                      drownings.      
Ships 
         passed    and    boats 
             spinning fast    without
          direction       leaking boats
                            too      I see 
                            you 
                            bailing    and 
                        smell   the 
                        depth    of        the 
                    exhaustion   and 
 the   power in 
 
the 
             vessel.        

Indigo Perry is a writer living in the Yarra Valley, outside Melbourne. Her book Midnight Water: A Memoir, was shortlisted for the National Biography Award. These poems are written during improvisational sessions as part of a collaborative performance art project called Illuminous, with trumpet player Andrew Darling. Indigo's writing is digitally projected onto a wall or screen as she writes. indigoperry.com/illuminous.
 
 
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