Anne Kenny

Out of Darkness

Sometimes I pull you out of darkness
and try to see beyond that last night.
Clothing your bones in a new suit,
I listen once again to old stories:
the corpse who sprang to life at his wake;
a priest’s head rolling down to ditches.
You breathed life into a homeland
you left behind.

Another tug away from that old carapace
brings you blast-furnace red in dirty overalls,
a week’s wages your recompense
and one too many in the company of friends.

And then you call me to inspect the rows
of gleaming vegetables laid out upon a bench
and stand back always proud
of all you’ve made.

I hold you close before you fall back
shedding memories, leaving us behind
and walking through white walled rooms
where I appear as a stranger.

Like Bella

I barely press the pedal, yet glide smoothly
sweep around curves and flow alongside rivers.

Nothing can touch me here as mountains fold
around me and draw me into their deep crevices.

I’m careful to slow sometimes
to switch off the engine and listen

to gaze at jagged edges
crisp against a perfect sky.

I haven’t even thought of him – really
you have to leave the past behind.

My skin sticks to warm green leather
as climbing, the engine strains and sighs.

Yet I’m like Chagall’s Bella in Promenade
soaring high with arms outstretched and open

savouring buoyancy.

Biography: Anne Kenny stumbled into witing poetry whist living in Melbourne for a year. Her poems have been published in a range of journals including BlueDog: Australian Poetry and Equinox.