Meanwhile, Outside
It is late, a few stars light the night. 1980s. I’ve just kissed a boy inside a car. Outside, magpies sing It’s early. 1970s. I’ve snuck up with the sun to watch my mother hang toast to the morning and warm our plates. Outside, magpies sing of their young. Afternoon, new millennium. We’ve just buried Grandpa. Inside, the church hall is cold. Iced tea. Outside, magpies sing.
It’s the nineties. I have an empty belly and strange tendency for babies. I throw a clutter from the study room and dream of cradles with muslin. The smell of old paper always gets to me, like dust settling on a forgotten shelf—anyway, outside, magpies sing. It’s noon, a thick shade and warm soup huddled under an arbour of friends. We pull scarves closer, wonder why we chose this stale cafeteria. Outside, magpies sing of suppers.
It’s noon, early 2000s. I’ve plucked lemons from branches, delivered them inside, set an iPod to the stillness, cooed my thoughts to wait my children’s arrival, written lists for tomorrow. In case I forget. Outside, magpies sing It’s today, once tomorrow. Now and then, it is yesterday. In case I remember. Outside, magpies sing.
That’s the thing about memory, isn’t it? It just keeps looping back, whether you want it to or not. Or maybe that’s just how life feels when you’re looking back.
Linda Kohler, living in Adelaide, grew up on a fruit block outside the River Murray town of Renmark. She’s had quite the career—television scriptwriter, proofreader, teacher—and was a highly commended applicant for the Australian Society of Authors Poetry Mentorship Program. Misryoum notes that her work has appeared in various journals and anthologies, including those with Wakefield Press.
She is a long-standing contributor to Poet’s Corner, and the poem featured here comes from her manuscript collection, Home Towns, which is currently in final proofing for submission. It’s the kind of work that sticks with you, a bit like that smell of cold, damp church halls mentioned earlier—actually, maybe it’s the lemons.
Readers wishing to share their own original, unpublished poetry—keep it under 40 lines, please—can send submissions to the address provided by Misryoum. Just make sure it’s in the body of the email; no attachments. If you’re accepted, there’s a poetry book coming your way as a bit of a reward for the effort.