walking the ridge

walking the ridge

Boards
The colours you hardly touched, and like those lives, hard to talk about…so you just brushed them in a picture

walking the ridge
cloud to your right
glimpsed far between
the white splat
of weatherboard
those houses where
lives are lived but
you don’t see them
not allowed
never should
do you want to?
the sea out there
off the peninsula
worked in all those
colours of the
watercolour tray
those colours you
hardly ever used
that dried out
hard, the off-blues,
the off-greys, except,
of course, the cobalt
that was never spared
dumped back and
forth here too
out there
under that wind,
other colours
like other lives
hard to even
talk about and
all you ever
do is just
add water
hoping in the
the end it
washes into
something you
could call a
remark

walking the ridge
and the beauty
of the day locks
your mouth
as perhaps
it ought.

november 2012

Copyright © 2012 Peter Le Baige. All Rights Reserved

The music for the reading is from an interpretation by Camerata Brasil of the Prelude to J.S. Bach’s Lute Partita in C Minor, BWV 997.  According to the Bach Cantata Website “The octet that form Camerata Brasil feature the guitars (both six- and seven-stringed), cavaquinho (like a Hawaiian ukelele) and viola caipira (the viola braguesa, in Portugal) that are common to all the former Portuguese colonies throughout the world. In Brazil the strong presence of Italian immigration added the two mandolins. And the percussion that is such a common feature of Brazilian music capitalizes on elements from Brazil’s African and Arabic peoples. All this is anchored with a contrabass.” Let’s always remember the fantastic resource that RNZ Concert is, and where I first heard this.

2 thoughts on “walking the ridge”

  1. worked in all those
    colours of the
    watercolour tray
    those colours you
    hardly ever used
    that dried out
    hard, the off-blues,
    the off-greys, except,
    of course, the cobalt
    that was never spared
    dumped back and
    forth here too
    out there
    under that wind,

    This is where I thought you were talking to God

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Hi, yes, I can see how that impression might arise, and poems are open structures, like shelves, in which we can place all kinds of meaning. At the time I was addressing my very young self. I’m writing about the scenery I grew up with, and those lives hidden from view (you can’t /shouldn’t/ and maybe don’t want to see them too up close), and remembering those colours of the watercolour tray that I hardly ever used, the ‘off-greys, and off-blues’. I always lavished the cobalt though, exhausting it first. Then, in the writing of this, I remembered how I would sometimes use those ‘off’ colours, by continually adding water, so they made a very fine wash. Thinking further, I considered that those colours that you can’t easily define, are like the lives of others you can’t make out; they’re there, but hard to say something about. You might ‘add water’ to make something of them (you start talking about them), with the hope that it sounds like you’re saying something, but really it’s just a ‘wash’, nothing definite. Such were the thoughts (some, at least) that rambled about in my mind in the writing. Ευχαριστώ για την ανάγνωσή σου!

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