Tales from the Tower, Volume 2

by Isobelle Carmody

  As I sank into the dark I saw odd things –

  the steam-train cake my mother made

  for my first birthday, my father polishing

  his boots, the girl with red hair

  who sat behind me in school.

  I’d loved her that first year and the second.

  I had forgotten how red her hair was,

  how it was a fire around her face

  I longed to touch.

  I saw my dog waiting at the gate,

  his old tail flicking up dust

  as I got nearer. Then

  a great rush of water or wings

  lifted me up.

  A speedboat’s no way to get to heaven

  but I couldn’t say that for the water

  poured back into my mouth and out

  and the words flicked away like minnows.

  Woke on the cold beach, most of the ocean

  vomited up beside me and there she was –

  that blaze of hair, that fire,

  all I’d loved. And me, shaking and puking

  like a puppy, but she didn’t care.

  Wrapped me up in a towel that smelled of

  coconuts and jasmine and shooed off the

  crows who were gathered like widows at a wake.

  {The Second Chorus}

  Sister, the beach is littered with broken shells,

  bones and washed-up hearts.

  Don’t lean too closely over him.

  Don’t press your mouth against his

  and breathe your breath for him.

  He’ll take your voice, clip its wings

  so it sits on his finger

  croaking platitudes.

  He’ll want a cup of tea,

  the news at a certain time

  and legs against his, warm in the bed

  and all the better

  to wrap around him

  against the cold night and old age.

  If he sees you at all, little sister,

  he’ll want you in his image,

  softer of course and a little mysterious,

  but not unknowable, unchanging

  or wild.

  Sister, your heart’s washed up with the wreckage

  and we can do nothing but sound our warnings

  surfing them into the shore, mournfully,

  wave after wave.

  {Without Him}

  The colour’s leached

  from every living thing,

  even the morning’s bleached bone-white.

  I can’t carry a note, my voice

  is a toad croak, a gull’s hoarse caw

  and all songs sound like a scavenger’s dirge,

  my sea garden withers,

  shells crumble, the anemones droop,

  there’s no salt in the sushi,

  no sparkle in my tail swish,

  no light, no joy, no life

  without him.

  {The Third Chorus}

  There’s a murder of crows

  on the beach little sister,

  brooding black

  against the white sand.

  They’re looking at you,

  little sister, with their abacus eyes.

  Slide back in to the sea.

  Sing with us – no missed notes,

  no broken chords.

  Don’t look at the crows

  looking at you,

  don’t look at the prince.

  Sing little sister

  so the crows don’t know

  how you’d let them

  slit and slice, twist, wrench

  tug and dice until they had your heart

  laid out on a stone.

  And all for love.

  There’s a murder of crows

  on the beach little sister,

  a feathered dark, waiting

  on the white sand.

  {His ’n’ Hers}

  She thinks love is a piece of wedding cake,

  matching His ’n’ Hers bath towels

  always fluffy on a heated rail.

  Let me tell you about the word lover

  – rhymes with smother –

  take away the l

  and it’s all over, red rover.

  She’s a pretty little thing –

  with her cost-a-fortune smile.

  The tail’s an obstacle

  we agree, but one we can sort

  with a large enough fee.

  I read her the health warnings:

  searing pain with every step

  bunions, corns, blisters

  and little bloodied footprints,

  but she hasn’t dodged

  the seasnakes, the

  guard toads and deadly coral

  to go away fainthearted, tail intact.

  Falters only when I demand her voice – my payment.

  Everyone’s entitled to a

  lullaby or two, even the toads.

  How will I talk to him?

  Look, miss, there are other ways,

  you know what I’m saying? You don’t have

  to talk all the time. Most men would rather

  you didn’t. You want legs. I’ll sell them for a song.

  She doesn’t get the joke.

  But will I be beautiful?

  As you are now but with ten toes to twinkle,

  and twinkle you’d better – it’s marry or burn.

  If he chooses another, you’re dead in the water.

  Forgive my frankness. It’s just the way I’m wired.

  You say Valentines. I think massacre.

  I hand over the potion. She gives up her voice.

  Now, who got the best deal, my wise children?

  I’d almost feel sorry for her

  if she wasn’t so painfully stupid.

  {The Fourth Chorus}

  Oh sister, little lost note,

  what have you done?

  Why let the witch clip your tongue

  from your throat?

  We’ve sung three ships down

  with our keening, but you’re deaf

  to all love save his.

  Remember your troth

  little lost love –

  it’s marry or salt tears to ocean

  delicate bone to sea lace and foam.

  Oh sister, pinned to the ground

  by your infant legs,

  dancing in blood for your life –

  he calls you dumb foundling.

  Take warning, lost note,

  that’s no name for a wife.

  {The Prince’s Little Foundling}

  She arrived with a change in the weather,

  my pretty dumb foundling,

  problems with her feet

  and no voice to even state her name.

  The ideal listener,

  in love with me, of course,

  but what can I do?

  Friends with benefits, sure,

  but I want a partner

  with some snap and sizzle,

  standing equal and firm.

  Adoration has a strictly limited season.

  One more kiss, little mute,

  my sweet dumb foundling,

  one more turn round that dance floor.

  Then I’ll let you down gently.

  It’s not you, it’s me,

  too young, too soon, too much,

  but best friends on Facebook, oh yes,

  your number on speed dial,

  your photo on my phone –

  until the contract’s expired.

  Adoration has a strictly limited season.

  {The Supplicants}

  Here come the fishtailed five,

  lamenting the loony lovelorn one,

  the singing sisters,

  all doleful minor chords today.

  And what can I do for you, my little aquatic sprites?

  It looks as though you’re not quite the full complement?

  A sextet reduced to a quin – stop thrashing your tails,

  I know what you want.
There’ll be a cost,

  and no guarantees.

  Minutes later I’m left with five kilos of hair

  and they’ve got the spell to set her free –

  if she consents.

  Oh my wise children,

  you know she’ll not do it.

  Martyr herself. Tick.

  Die for love. Tick.

  Sacrifice herself on the glossy double-spread

  of honeymoon tips for newlyweds? Tick.

  Kill for life?

  Not on your red-heart helium balloon.

  Not even for the keening quintet,

  now quite bald.

  {The Wedding Night}

  I’m good as dead and he doesn’t even know.

  They’re at it again. I’d scream at them –

  Break it up, have a rest, get some sleep –

  but I gave away my voice.

  I gave it all away for what? My ear pressed

  to the wall, hearing her show-off moans,

  his sly love-whispers, the lip-suck and swell of them,

  poisoning my air. I’ve been so stupid.

  I flee the loving noise,

  each step a knife-thrust. I may as well die, I think

  when I see my sisters. I’d laugh at their egg-heads

  shining in the moonlight, but my heart is shattered

  and my life ebbing out with the night.

  I can’t even say goodbye but they’re all talking at once.

  They’ve been to the witch, they sold their hair –

  for me? For a knife. Sharpened with spite,

  honed on hate. I’m to plunge it deep,

  right through his heart, then let his blood

  flow on my feet. I take the blade.

  With each step it grows heavier.

  They’re sleeping now, spent.

  It should be my head on his shoulder,

  my hair shawling his chest,

  my legs wrapped around his.

  Instead I’m here with death in my hands

  and dogging my steps.

  What is love? My sisters’ hair? My voice?

  The way he holds her?

  I can’t strike. Look,

  dreams move under his eyelids.

  I tiptoe out, knife in hand,

  to wait for the sun to rise on my last morning.

  {The Fifth Chorus}

  Bald for no reason

  we sulk in the shallows,

  scalps prickled with cold.

  There’s always one sister –

  the baby, the spoilt one –

  who refuses to play

  except by her rules.

  Her choice, after all.

  Why then do we bicker?

  Why do we pick at our tails,

  flicking azure blue scales

  into the air?

  Are legs so in fashion?

  We don’t want them,

  but our voices waver.

  We’re disconsolate, quarrelsome

  and sadly out of tune.

  Her stumbling world –

  impossibly – seems

  grand and postcard-bright.

  {The Prince on Love}

  I’m not the main player –

  although indispensable –

  what I don’t do

  moves the story inexorably on.

  But if I could have your attention

  I’d like to talk about love.

  How it’s not always convenient –

  you don’t make an appointment,

  you don’t say, not this week, thanks,

  I’m busy. Love knocks you off your feet,

  leaves you winded, lost – or found.

  Steals up and kidnaps you.

  It can happen at the wrong time

  to the wrong people.

  It doesn’t come with a lifetime guarantee.

  I fell for a secondary character –

  it was written in my stars.

  Am I a villain?

  More the callow ingénue

  saying the lines

  love told me to.

  {The Mermaid’s Last Word}

  Every little girl

  wants to be a mermaid.

  See how they flip and flop

  in the swimming pools,

  feet together until they forget,

  dolphin-kicking down at the shallow end.

  I longed to be a girl.

  What was between those legs,

  I wondered, what power?

  Don’t think the story ends with me

  waiting for death like a fish on a hook.

  I’d bargained once – I could do it again.

  It’s not all about men. I knew what I’d miss;

  wiggling my toes in the sand

  knee-hi striped socks

  how tall I looked in heels

  and the way boots make me swagger.

  I knew what I wanted – my legs

  wrapped around another’s,

  my hair on his chest, my name on his breath.

  I worked out my time with the seasnakes,

  grew fond of the toads and the witch.

  Now I’m at Sea World – the seal girl –

  feeding them fish from my mouth.

  I’m dating the trainer – the one

  with the mermaid tattoo – not my idea.

  We’re learning the tango.

  He doesn’t talk much but has eloquent eyes.

  When we kiss, I stand on tiptoe,

  tasting the ocean

  and the flight-filled sky.

  {The Witch’s Postscript}

  I know you think I’m getting soft

  but I always liked her. She knew what she wanted

  and exactly how far she’d go.

  Wasn’t going to settle for siren songs

  on a cold damp rock, all that endless

  brushing of hair. I did the others a favour –

  knots every hint of a breeze

  and split ends from the salt.

  I always loathed the ending that boy

  put on the story – silly Hans,

  a sentimentalist, of course.

  The daughters of the air

  three hundred years of good deeds

  the tears of sorrow and extra days

  for a wicked child – please!

  Better she stands on a diving board,

  fish between her teeth,

  loved by the crowd, the seals

  and their trainer. He paints her toenails,

  rubs her feet. What better ending than this?

  Look at them, practising the tango,

  how he dips her and lifts,

  how her legs slide

  between his.

  Then the kiss.

  AFTERWORD

  I discovered feminist poetry in my teens. In Brisbane in the late seventies, this was no small achievement. There was no feminist or gay and lesbian bookshop in Brisbane. There was no www.amazon.com or any other internet resource. Bjelke Peterson was the premier and nearly everyone I knew risked jail at various public protests.

  The poets who congregated in our second-hand bookshop were, for the most part, male. I grew up in a household that read and recited poetry – W. B. Yeats, John Donne, Ernest Dowson and Robert Browning. My mother and I loved Judith Wright and Gwen Harwood. Later I read the Mersey River poets, Adrian Henri and Roger McGough, loving their pop culture references thrown so irreverently into what I had regarded as a rarefied art form.

  The anthology No More Masks: An Anthology of Twentieth-Century American Women Poets, edited by Florence Howe, was electrifying. I can still feel the thick, yellowed paper under my fingers and how I held my breath at each turned page. Here were voices I had never before heard. The poems were immediate, urgent and revolutionary. They were playful and sexy. They simmered with angry energy. They were fearless. They were mine.

  This is a long way from ‘The Little Mermaid’, sacrificing her identity for love, and then sacrificing it all over again
to conform to a patriarchal religious ideology and gain an immortal soul! Or is it?

  Second-wave feminism challenged women to re-vision fairytales. Even poets such as Anne Sexton, who never identified as a feminist but was nonetheless a bold fore- mother of the next generation, put her own inimitable spin on the tales in Transformations, her cackling, streetwise witch-voice rocketing the stories into the twentieth century. She used the fairy stories to further her own personal mythology – a mythology with a foundation in mental illness, therapy and a dark family history undercut by Sexton’s sly, black humour.

  I knew from the outset that I wanted to write a poetry sequence for this project. I wanted to be able to give more than the central character a voice and I wanted the poems book-ended by the witch-storyteller. ‘The Little Mermaid’ appealed to me because, while the mermaid appears on first reading passive, she’s actually very brave. After all, she alone of her five siblings falls in love with the world above the sea. She’s an intrepid explorer. Sure, there’s the prince – but isn’t he just part of that great tug of the unknown? In our contemporary world she’d be the one falling in love with a Masai warrior, Indian swami or an eco-activist living a life of subsistence. We shake our heads at their folly, but marvel at the optimism and sense of destiny that leads to such adventures. It will end in tears, we say wisely, and it does of course. But after the tears have been mopped up, a richer, less predicted life remains.

  Could I find this life for my little mermaid? I was hampered by Hans Christian Andersen. Fortunately, I wasn’t also influenced by Disney, having escaped ever seeing the Disney version, by luck rather than intent. However, Hans Christian Andersen was a problem. His Little Mermaid was courageous, certainly. She defies her grandmother and her siblings to visit the witch. She braves the sea serpents and the line of toads that guard the witch’s watery residence. She gives away her tail and her voice with scarcely a backward glance, subjecting herself to constant agony and stripping herself of one of her best assets – mermaids sing siren songs. She rescues the prince only to watch him fall in love with the girl he believes rescued him from the shipwreck. She mutely worships him, sleeping like a cat at his feet. She suffers him saying that if it wasn’t for this other girl, he’d marry her. Her sisters bargain for her life but she refuses to murder him and save herself. She’d rather die.

  Hans Christian Andersen’s version ends with an odd coda, bringing in the mysterious daughters of the air who can prevent the little mermaid becoming nothing but sea foam. They can give her a chance to earn an immortal soul.