Still Point
Beth Clapton
Putuwá*
despite the fire
a gnawing chill remains
putuwá
in warming you
I feel a thaw in me
*“Putuwá” is a word of the Gadigal people of the Eora nation. It was conveyed by Patyegarang, a Gamaraigal woman, to the astronomer William Dawes in the early days of European settlement. She described the words as meaning “to warm your hands by the fire and gently squeeze the fingers of another person”.
-
She rises when I am not looking, I glimpse her
fleeing from the mirror – her eyes
uncertain, caught between sage and wood
what wood? you ask
Beech nut, skin-puncturing, womb-soft
burst open where the seed has fled
I glance away and she returns, solemn
among fallen leaves – autumn then
or slow sodden winter. She shivers, eases
her boot free of the mud. She is waiting
what for? you ask
For the dream she was chasing to alight
on a stark branch that claws at steel sky;
for this face to look at her
those same eyes sunk in a delta
of laughter and sorrow.
Does she see me, so far in her future
or only the robin, bright flashing over sleek bark
sage-green, wood-brown
I know that colour, you say
leaning closer in the fading light.
-
Last spring we found the cottage in the hills again
unchanged from years before when we adored the rough boards
laughed in chill draughts and were uncertain whether
curtains held back our light or the advancing night.
Newly single, you slept for days while I ministered your silence.
We watched the gum slow-peel on the sun-bright lawn
burnt umber and deep moss-green bark nestled
in crisp curls at the base, until stark and grey
the slender trunk glowed in the dawn
reaching to stroke the lightening sky.
Your voice poured, sudden and sure,
merging with the call of the currawong, you said
honeyeaters have lost their song
amidst a foreign flock they mimic what they hear –
are never heard for who they are.
Summer crept our way, and you grew stronger
we walked through caves, ran fingers along ancient strata
traced the slow, bright tears of stalactites
reaching for the ground.
You saw angels by torch light, claimed the stars
died aeons ago and wondered
where does night meet history?
The last afternoon, we watched black swans
drift in silent accord, their slow wake ruffled the sky
mirrored in the lake. As the ripples faded before
reaching the shore you said –
they mate for life
know each other’s shape and call
but do swans feel love?
-
Bury me in folds of paperbark
suede-soft it will be my winding sheet
lower me into eternal dark
make my bed where past and future meet.
Swaddle me in rich and fragrant loam
amidst the sightless creatures’ endless toil
I have no need of any other home
but find my rest within a house of soil.
My skin to dress next summer’s butterfly
my blood to colour bold chrysanthemums
my tears in dew drops will collect the sky
lit by fire of countless morning suns.
When everyone, but you, forgets my name
if there should be a flickering of pain
seek me in the embers and the flame
find me in the ocean and the rain.
Beth
Clapton
Beth lives in Sydney, which she acknowledges is on the unceded lands of the Gadigal people of the Eora Nation. She has an abiding love of words and a fascination with how memory and geography intersect, often encountering her earlier self on street corners and riverbanks where she enjoys taking a moment to reflect. Beth has had a number of poems published in Australian anthologies and the International Tanka Society journal from Japan. She was delighted to be runner up in the Calanthe Collective Prize for Unpublished Poetry in 2023 and winner in 2024.