Mary MacRae
Desire
‘What is description, after all,
but encoded desire?’
Mark Doty, ‘Description’
Such a presence, glimpsed unexpectedly
from the window, and so luminous
my heart jumps: it could be the bird,
the very same woodpecker,
stepped out of the poem I’d imagined
it into, the one who came to my friend
the afternoon her husband died,
carrying her into its realm
of varied light and, like this bird
looming brilliant over the lawn
neither avatar nor apparition
but warm-blooded as I am.
Walking later through woods
in little bursts of rain, the light
soft and peaty, trees dripping
on sweet-smelling white dead-nettles,
(the yellow archangel coming much later,
more acrid and pungent in the wet),
I listen to the evening chorus while
at the back of it all, another bird
drums out Morse code, double quick,
and there’s so much to attend to –
all those voices – that I think
if we could decipher even a part,
our flesh and bones might become
transparent and our skin
glow gold, like a Buddha’s.
Such desire! – and it’s not that we long
for flowers and birds more than people,
but they’re so close, so small
and tender, unfearful of death
or heartache, that they can’t help
but awaken love easily.
For hours I’ve sat here in the garden,
reading, and now there’s a soft click, click,
from the walnut tree on the wild patch
and a black chequered woodpecker
tapping its beak on the thick bark,
a flash of red on its vent.
but encoded desire?’
Mark Doty, ‘Description’
Such a presence, glimpsed unexpectedly
from the window, and so luminous
my heart jumps: it could be the bird,
the very same woodpecker,
stepped out of the poem I’d imagined
it into, the one who came to my friend
the afternoon her husband died,
carrying her into its realm
of varied light and, like this bird
looming brilliant over the lawn
neither avatar nor apparition
but warm-blooded as I am.
Walking later through woods
in little bursts of rain, the light
soft and peaty, trees dripping
on sweet-smelling white dead-nettles,
(the yellow archangel coming much later,
more acrid and pungent in the wet),
I listen to the evening chorus while
at the back of it all, another bird
drums out Morse code, double quick,
and there’s so much to attend to –
all those voices – that I think
if we could decipher even a part,
our flesh and bones might become
transparent and our skin
glow gold, like a Buddha’s.
Such desire! – and it’s not that we long
for flowers and birds more than people,
but they’re so close, so small
and tender, unfearful of death
or heartache, that they can’t help
but awaken love easily.
For hours I’ve sat here in the garden,
reading, and now there’s a soft click, click,
from the walnut tree on the wild patch
and a black chequered woodpecker
tapping its beak on the thick bark,
a flash of red on its vent.
Mary MacRae had recently had poems in Entering the Tapestry, the Poetry School anthology published by Enitharmon, and Four Caves of the Heart, an anthology of women’s poetry from Second Light Publications.
Page(s) 56
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