the new carpet
smells like warm ewe
you take my hand
lead me over its spine
to our bed moored
in the small
of the back
now we are riding a raft
the sky is golden cream
the sheep gently arches
outside the buses
arrive, unload, reload, depart
there’s light rain
inside we make our own weather
Monday, December 27, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
Tuesday Poem: Xmas by Susan Landry
Susan and I are swapping poems as part of the Tuesday Poets "Secret Santa". Susan hails from Portland, Maine - so I'm very excited to be gifting poems across the other side of the world! Her poem is deceptively simple, and paints an innocent picture on the surface. But I love the way the dark and narrow "base" reveals itself to us as we read, jerking us back and then forward in time. You can read more about Susan (she does many more things than just poetry!) on her blog here. Which is also where you can find my poem, posted on her page!
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Tuesday Poem: Two Minutes
Two minutes
tick tock tick tock
so short a time
to remember 29 lives.
Two seconds
tick tick
five days of hope
stretching longer and longer
thinner and thinner
until
snap
And now we stand here
in the street
beside our cars
listening to birdsong
Two minutes of our lives to consider
years that others have lost
words stopped mid sentence/mid larynx/mid thought
by the sudden sharp cough of methane
No more than the earth's reflex
as we, like Maui
climb steadily along the innards
of Hine-Nui-Te-Po
seeking the black richness of her intestines
grinding out her insides
rolling in the dark muck
while some outside
chuckle over their billions
and poor people in China
wait for coal.
But to ask why
and for what
and to where
is for another day.
Today I give you two minutes of my words
to remember all those you have lost.
It was declared that today the nation would observe two minutes of silence to commemorate those lost in the Pike River explosion. I was painting the house when the radio fell silent. It seemed too short for two minutes, and soon after RadioNZ Concert announced "a return to normal programming" which included a moving clarinet concerto and a news item about how the traffic in Napier (Napier?) stopped and you could hear the birdsong. Somehow all this mixed in my head and this is the result. I performed it tonight, on K Rd, under a smooth grey sky and to the rhythm of an electric guitar and some drums.
As a matter of interest, I'm not the only one writing poems about Pike River - this effort has reached $315 on Trademe so far. Just goes to show how people still reach for poetry when it comes to expressing extreme grief or joy.
tick tock tick tock
so short a time
to remember 29 lives.
Two seconds
tick tick
five days of hope
stretching longer and longer
thinner and thinner
until
snap
And now we stand here
in the street
beside our cars
listening to birdsong
Two minutes of our lives to consider
years that others have lost
words stopped mid sentence/mid larynx/mid thought
by the sudden sharp cough of methane
No more than the earth's reflex
as we, like Maui
climb steadily along the innards
of Hine-Nui-Te-Po
seeking the black richness of her intestines
grinding out her insides
rolling in the dark muck
while some outside
chuckle over their billions
and poor people in China
wait for coal.
But to ask why
and for what
and to where
is for another day.
Today I give you two minutes of my words
to remember all those you have lost.
It was declared that today the nation would observe two minutes of silence to commemorate those lost in the Pike River explosion. I was painting the house when the radio fell silent. It seemed too short for two minutes, and soon after RadioNZ Concert announced "a return to normal programming" which included a moving clarinet concerto and a news item about how the traffic in Napier (Napier?) stopped and you could hear the birdsong. Somehow all this mixed in my head and this is the result. I performed it tonight, on K Rd, under a smooth grey sky and to the rhythm of an electric guitar and some drums.
As a matter of interest, I'm not the only one writing poems about Pike River - this effort has reached $315 on Trademe so far. Just goes to show how people still reach for poetry when it comes to expressing extreme grief or joy.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Tuesday Poem: Only Breath, by Rumi
Not Christian or Jew or Muslim, not Hindu
Buddhist, Sufi, or Zen. Not any religion
or cultural system. I am not from the East
or the West, not out of the ocean or up
from the ground, not natural or ethereal, not
composed of elements at all. I do not exist,
am not an entity in this world or in the next,
did not descend from Adam and Eve or any
origin story. My place is placeless, a trace
of the traceless. Neither body or soul.
I belong to the beloved, have seen the two
worlds as one and that one call to and know,
first, last, outer, inner, only that
breath breathing human being.
Translated by Coleman Barks
I was in Wellington on Sunday and went to see the exhibition on at the City Art Gallery - Roundabout. An amazing feast of ideas. My attention was caught by this poem, written on a wall in explanation of the exhibition's themes. I love the way it circles, eventually distilling its wisdom of what it means to be human.
Buddhist, Sufi, or Zen. Not any religion
or cultural system. I am not from the East
or the West, not out of the ocean or up
from the ground, not natural or ethereal, not
composed of elements at all. I do not exist,
am not an entity in this world or in the next,
did not descend from Adam and Eve or any
origin story. My place is placeless, a trace
of the traceless. Neither body or soul.
I belong to the beloved, have seen the two
worlds as one and that one call to and know,
first, last, outer, inner, only that
breath breathing human being.
Translated by Coleman Barks
I was in Wellington on Sunday and went to see the exhibition on at the City Art Gallery - Roundabout. An amazing feast of ideas. My attention was caught by this poem, written on a wall in explanation of the exhibition's themes. I love the way it circles, eventually distilling its wisdom of what it means to be human.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Tuesday Poem: DIY Movember
OK, so this post is a little late, but I feel justified as I've been writing a poem-a-day for a week. Well, ditties, actually. They are my tribute to my friend and fellow poet, Chris Tse, who to overcome his hereditary trichoincompetence has pledged to wear a different designer moustache every day in "Movember" and raise money to battle men's health issues. You can see his blog here. And if you click on the comments section, you'll see my silly rhymes.
I'm working in Blenheim this week and one of the galleries is showing a selection of works and words by Claire Beynon, a fellow Tuesday Poet. It's a wonderful collision/collusion of words, paint,image and idea - and there's reference to blogs, too. Check out her blog, Waters I have Known.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Tuesday Poem:Through the looking-glass
mornings I wake
surrounded by shards
of mirror-glass
step backwards
into the shower
emerge from the foam
naked and once again
confused
the suit fits
but sits askew
my face different
under this sky
that tumbles pink painted blooms
onto me
as I drive to work
it seems familiar
but even the seagulls screech differently
and once more
the teeth of the sea
grin
at me
turn into tongues
waggle
say
this isn’t really your place.
Tasmania, September 2010
surrounded by shards
of mirror-glass
step backwards
into the shower
emerge from the foam
naked and once again
confused
the suit fits
but sits askew
my face different
under this sky
that tumbles pink painted blooms
onto me
as I drive to work
it seems familiar
but even the seagulls screech differently
and once more
the teeth of the sea
grin
at me
turn into tongues
waggle
say
this isn’t really your place.
Tasmania, September 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Tuesday Poem: Allen
Brain
he treasures this
organ
even above
his stomach
tenderly grazes it
on books
teaching tapes
and ancient hi-fis
holds it like a flag
before his daughters
tells them they must
go to university
so they can care for him when he’s old.
Lung
he has made his name
by mastering
the weaknesses
of human breath
knows each rhonchi
by its sound
feels the depression
of young ribs
sits behind
his rosewood desk
knows sometimes
he can give back
the lightness of air
sometimes not.
Heart
it was a chair
so fine
it did not need
any embellishment
he touched its curves
added a cushion
for comfort
it became his throne
on long days
it called to him
when he sat down
he smelt incense
and dumplings cooking
in ancestral halls.
Liver
he left the towers
of Hong Kong
their 1970s beehives
of people
asked his lady
to trust him
found himself
with a flat tyre
on a backroad
to Pukekohe
some Maoris stopped
he was worried at first
he still hates the thought
of force-fed pavlova.
Spleen
in his daily life
he strives
for balance
and regulation
tells his three daughters
to walk every day
always to breathe
and stay happy
at night he checks email
for news of his mother
keeps his passport
nearby
knows he could leave
at any time.
Kidney
he tells his siblings
that bowels
and urine
become more important
as you age
he likes to think
they still listen
to their older brother
once a year they return
home like birds
fight like tigers
eat like pigs
kiss their mother
hope for another year.
More of my Human Archeology series, this time in honour of my dad. It was at times difficult, renegotiating the relationship between us as I gradually claimed my adulthood. But it's beeen worth it, and as I get older I realise more and more what my dad had to give up (and still deals with) to give us a life in NZ. This is posted in honour of my dad, and of the Metonymy exhibition, which has just finished with a memorable performance night.
he treasures this
organ
even above
his stomach
tenderly grazes it
on books
teaching tapes
and ancient hi-fis
holds it like a flag
before his daughters
tells them they must
go to university
so they can care for him when he’s old.
Lung
he has made his name
by mastering
the weaknesses
of human breath
knows each rhonchi
by its sound
feels the depression
of young ribs
sits behind
his rosewood desk
knows sometimes
he can give back
the lightness of air
sometimes not.
Heart
it was a chair
so fine
it did not need
any embellishment
he touched its curves
added a cushion
for comfort
it became his throne
on long days
it called to him
when he sat down
he smelt incense
and dumplings cooking
in ancestral halls.
Liver
he left the towers
of Hong Kong
their 1970s beehives
of people
asked his lady
to trust him
found himself
with a flat tyre
on a backroad
to Pukekohe
some Maoris stopped
he was worried at first
he still hates the thought
of force-fed pavlova.
Spleen
in his daily life
he strives
for balance
and regulation
tells his three daughters
to walk every day
always to breathe
and stay happy
at night he checks email
for news of his mother
keeps his passport
nearby
knows he could leave
at any time.
Kidney
he tells his siblings
that bowels
and urine
become more important
as you age
he likes to think
they still listen
to their older brother
once a year they return
home like birds
fight like tigers
eat like pigs
kiss their mother
hope for another year.
More of my Human Archeology series, this time in honour of my dad. It was at times difficult, renegotiating the relationship between us as I gradually claimed my adulthood. But it's beeen worth it, and as I get older I realise more and more what my dad had to give up (and still deals with) to give us a life in NZ. This is posted in honour of my dad, and of the Metonymy exhibition, which has just finished with a memorable performance night.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Tuesday Poem: An open letter to Mr Peter Brown of New Zealand First
Dear Mr. P. Brown,
I agree absolutely the matter of Asian immigration
Demands serious attention. After all, Mr P Brown, the true definition
Of a true blue Kiwi, like yourself, is, firstly,
A love of the All Blacks. Not in the literal sense
Unless you’re down the Loaded Hog on Friday night,
But I mean, really love the All Blacks, who were robbed
Of their right to the World Cup.
Secondly Mr P Brown, I know you can sing
The national anthem in both English and Maori
After all, true blue Kiwis like yourself, Mr P Brown,
Can. Maori is, of course -
the language of those poor bottom dwelling bastards
soon to be displaced by 'mini societies of Asians'.
And we all know the Asians rob people.
It was probably them that robbed the All Blacks.
And now they’ll rob
Those poor brown people of their rightful place to be
At the bottom of New Zealand society.
I feel your pain, I really do, Mr P Brown. I feel it here.
Better, far better, to have a flood of brown people here
than yellow.
With a name like Mr Brown, Mr P Brown, who can blame you
For being a defender of the poor oppressed in our society.
Like Winston Peters, who’s never played the race card, ever.
He’s brown. And you work with other brown people too.
They clean your office toilet, flush your shit down the loo.
An Asian cleaning your loo just wouldn’t be patriotic, would it,
Mr P Brown?
There’s no telling what the Asians would do if they became
Substantial. The greater the number,
The greater the risk.
Sell substandard goods from China?
Our Prime Minister’s only a woman,
She couldn’t tell the difference.
Real quality is Kiwi-made. Macpac packs, Pumpkin Patch.
Those Asians will never integrate.
All they’re interested in are the A’s and
Sending their kids to our best schools.
Their kids won’t ever be Kiwis.
Having them here would only cause
Division, resentment and friction. And not the kind
Of friction you get, Mr P Brown,
By putting your hands down your pants.
Oh and – you can always tell an Asian by the way they look.
They’re yellow, you see. Squinty eyes, and
always in the library. None of them can drive.
And none of them speak
English properly. That brings me to my third point –
All true blue kiwis speak English, don’t they,
Mr P Brown? Even the brown people.
They signed the Treaty in English, after all.
And my last point, the most important. A true blue
Kiwi is born here, Mr P Brown, right here on this soil,
Part of the whenua, they say. So people
Not from this land have no chance
Of integrating into our just, free, and above all,
Tolerant society. No chance at all, Mr P Brown.
I mean, we wouldn’t want a mini-London
On our hands, would we, Mr Brown?
You’re right.
There’s no telling what they’d do,
These immigrants. They should never have been allowed in.
There’s no telling what they’ll say next.
I'm obviously not done with political poetry. So I found this recently.... a poem I wrote and posted in 2008 after the (now happily silent) Peter Brown of NZ First let loose some flatulent comments regarding Asian immigration. Unlike the current limp-wristed response, his comments immediately and deservedly drew a retort from media and National party members. I ended up performing this poem a lot - always to a delighted and sympathetic response.
I agree absolutely the matter of Asian immigration
Demands serious attention. After all, Mr P Brown, the true definition
Of a true blue Kiwi, like yourself, is, firstly,
A love of the All Blacks. Not in the literal sense
Unless you’re down the Loaded Hog on Friday night,
But I mean, really love the All Blacks, who were robbed
Of their right to the World Cup.
Secondly Mr P Brown, I know you can sing
The national anthem in both English and Maori
After all, true blue Kiwis like yourself, Mr P Brown,
Can. Maori is, of course -
the language of those poor bottom dwelling bastards
soon to be displaced by 'mini societies of Asians'.
And we all know the Asians rob people.
It was probably them that robbed the All Blacks.
And now they’ll rob
Those poor brown people of their rightful place to be
At the bottom of New Zealand society.
I feel your pain, I really do, Mr P Brown. I feel it here.
Better, far better, to have a flood of brown people here
than yellow.
With a name like Mr Brown, Mr P Brown, who can blame you
For being a defender of the poor oppressed in our society.
Like Winston Peters, who’s never played the race card, ever.
He’s brown. And you work with other brown people too.
They clean your office toilet, flush your shit down the loo.
An Asian cleaning your loo just wouldn’t be patriotic, would it,
Mr P Brown?
There’s no telling what the Asians would do if they became
Substantial. The greater the number,
The greater the risk.
Sell substandard goods from China?
Our Prime Minister’s only a woman,
She couldn’t tell the difference.
Real quality is Kiwi-made. Macpac packs, Pumpkin Patch.
Those Asians will never integrate.
All they’re interested in are the A’s and
Sending their kids to our best schools.
Their kids won’t ever be Kiwis.
Having them here would only cause
Division, resentment and friction. And not the kind
Of friction you get, Mr P Brown,
By putting your hands down your pants.
Oh and – you can always tell an Asian by the way they look.
They’re yellow, you see. Squinty eyes, and
always in the library. None of them can drive.
And none of them speak
English properly. That brings me to my third point –
All true blue kiwis speak English, don’t they,
Mr P Brown? Even the brown people.
They signed the Treaty in English, after all.
And my last point, the most important. A true blue
Kiwi is born here, Mr P Brown, right here on this soil,
Part of the whenua, they say. So people
Not from this land have no chance
Of integrating into our just, free, and above all,
Tolerant society. No chance at all, Mr P Brown.
I mean, we wouldn’t want a mini-London
On our hands, would we, Mr Brown?
You’re right.
There’s no telling what they’d do,
These immigrants. They should never have been allowed in.
There’s no telling what they’ll say next.
I'm obviously not done with political poetry. So I found this recently.... a poem I wrote and posted in 2008 after the (now happily silent) Peter Brown of NZ First let loose some flatulent comments regarding Asian immigration. Unlike the current limp-wristed response, his comments immediately and deservedly drew a retort from media and National party members. I ended up performing this poem a lot - always to a delighted and sympathetic response.
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