The Little Thredbo River
The Little Thredbo River
is all I need of nature
its conversation over rocks
the silence of its pools
its manageable scale perhaps
14 Ks in all
its clarity unspoiled
water as it wants to be
vegetation incidental
alpine grasses alpine moss
gums I’ve yet to learn the names of.
The Little Thredbo river is
not unlike a poem when it’s
finally ‘abandoned’
a subtle movement over stones
that stillness at the finish.
Disputing with Lee
A good solo doesn’t care who plays it.
—Lee Konitz (1927–2020)
Like the universe in turn
the solo doesn’t care.
It lingers briefly in a shape
that’s born for evanescence
even when there is a tape.
The solo doesn’t care
but knows in every detail
the person who has made it,
her exaltation and despairs,
his dogged hours in one small room,
the sound that is a signature
or billboard with a name.
It understands the shape of hunger,
the waywardness of rent.
It keeps the teachings of instructors,
the maxims that persist
from back before the instrument
became a voice in flight.
The solo knows its own uniqueness
and how, despite the press of chords,
it cannot be the same.
It knows its true epiphanies,
those very few across a life
defining their creator yet.
So, yes, the solo doesn’t care,
no more than does a reach of stars,
but nor does it forget.