cathedrals in their middle age
sourly contemplatethe platitudes of worship
(what longing madethe history of their long struggle
and what prayers like smokestain the minds and hands
of old men): their structure is a torsion —
pleasure and silencetwisted
at invisible altitudes —below, the dark
icon of betrayalabove, a whispered light
revealing nothing.without ceremony
no voice to reada lesson
or to preachand no believers (especially
if there are no believers)at the end of worship
silence is their business.if I was such a man
— my eyes removedfor safe-keeping
through the warsmy memory buried
in a field —how could I then say
what my body meant to say?
The Australian poet Joyce Lee is dead. She was about 93 and three-quarter years. In 2003 I published her collected poems, It is nearly dark when I come to the Indian Ocean in a short edition of about 500 copies. A further 200 copies were printed in a second edition, all of which have been sold.