Gailan's Grief

Gailan is a great poet, in his own tongue,
He has imagery from the classis of his land,
Imagery that has vanished from our poetry,
His countrymen love him, and their eyes
Release shoals of fish, and flights of birds,
When Gailan speaks; like Ariel, in his winged flight.

Tonight Gailan's grief is very deep,
He tries to sing and can't. He sinks his song
With the secret whiskey flask, and dips again,
He wears a pyjama top too big, and it hangs
From his arms like the wings of oiled sea birds,
Paddling in the black ooze.

It's the boy's birthday, he tries to sing,
He roars, hoarsely, like a musk-ox in rut,
It is not just this one child for whom he grieves,
But for a plateau of children, a mountain of children,
An exhibition of children, a nation of children.

This one child whose limbs are thin and stiff,
Whose eyes are cold beads, whose voice is a dying lamb,
Gailan suffocates in his own song, his heart
Attacked by jewelled fingers, his song's wings wet,
His eyes black-shimmering like melting glass.

The children grab handfuls of rose petals,
And throw some of them on the banquet-table,
And some on the floor, and some everywhere else,
Gailan roars like a musk-ox in rut,
His eyes, like skinned grapes, with grief.

Denis Kevans (c) 2001

In response to a story called 'Forest plantations - necessary or a tax write-off?' in the 7th May 2006 edition of The National Interest (a brilliant, Radio National program), a listener left a message in the program's online Guest Book which included part of Denis's 'Open Letter to Banjo Paterson' which was read on air the following week.