Each month I gather and invite poems on a particular theme. End of February I was musing on the idea of furniture. On Tuesday night (March 24th) I woke at 12.30 am and was awake until dawn. At one point I was thinking about how most of us are now living in domestic bubbles and how some of us might be developing new relationships with the furniture. We might sit at the table longer and talk after dinner. We might choose a chair on the deck to read a novel until we get to the last page. We might heap all the furniture in the lounge like a miraculous Quentin Blake hut for our children to play in. But then I began thinking about the beauty, the craft and the comfort a chair might offer. The way our minds might sometimes be full of chairs and tables.
Thank you for all those who contributed.
a black shawl over a chair
& the corner
the light came from outside
& delayed/on the
& behind the oak trees
1 2 3
a grey stripe
is a tennis court
& men have
white shirts only
while the ball
keeps the moon
Joanna Margaret Paul Like Love Poems (Victoria University Press, 2006)
New white sheets
on the line.
Even the pegs
Our youngest son
Iris the dog snores
on the green sofa.
Out! we cry.
My husband glows
in the dark.
Jenny Bornholdt Selected Poems (Victoria University Press, 2016)
The Camphorwood Chest
my husband dreams of a Japanese garden
a room with nothing but a chair
a vase of white lilies
a view of water
but my home is like a camphorwood chest
that Chinese mothers give to their daughters
it is carved with the detail of living
a phoenix with wings raised for flight
a pine tree leaning forever in the wind
lotus flowers and chrysanthemums
clouds that could be leaves that could be clouds
from here I look out over water
Alison Wong from Cup (Steele Roberts, 2005)
tastes like wine (dawn sonnet)
after Catullus 48
tastes like wine, this boy sitting across from me, his
honey eyes looking like yours as he implores
me to join him on the floor
the table a low ceiling swirling
like a chandelier
in the earthquake of these kisses
table legs circling
like the blades of a combine harvester
every kiss is a near miss
my heart escaping like a mouse
into the corn
the summer’s sun all rolled into one
ripeness I can
never get enough of
It is still warm enough to sit outside. Einstein sits at the end of the table
to light the citronella candle. He is not sure how effective it will be, but
mosquitoes tend to gravitate towards him. He is full of enthusiasm about
taking the opposite direction.
Paula Green The Baker’s Thumbprint (Seraph Press, 2013)
Up in the great reading-room in the sky,
the writers twitch, deep in leather armchairs,
dreaming about all those they are read by
or what rival’s work is ignored for theirs.
Ping. Someone’s begun Catcher in the Rye.
Salinger grins: still ringing down the years.
Austen rolls her eyes; Fowles lets out a sigh.
Ping. Ping. Ping. No ping-a-ling like Shakespeare’s.
Li Bo leans over, taps Plath on the arm.
Woolf and Dante quiz Byron on sin.
Eliot smiles his Giaconda smile.
Pung. Nichols starts up. Just a false alarm.
Montaigne gives Wilde some tips on style.
The Brontës share a joint with Larkin.
the first time i told, i was drunk
the second time i told, i was
the third time too
it was like i was speaking myself
by saying the words i
weaving my Abstract Internal
Furniture into a gown of
or at least that’s how i
IMAGINE it, and
thewordsbecamefleshanddwelt amongusandisaidlettherebe …
Helen Rickerby Abstract Internal Furniture (HeadworX, 2001)