• Geoff Page
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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.