NaPoWriMo 14: Road Trip

Top of Mahakipawa Hill on Queen Charlotte Drive,

view ofPelorus Sounds

The road is narrow.
It twists and turns.
Here it rises steeply,
now it drops tightly,
gravel lying treacherously
at its corners.

If you were not vigilant
you could come this way
and see only road.
Lift your eyes however,
and here you will see
bush reaching to your left
elbow, the marble
stretch of water to
your right that is
the Sounds.

If you take the time
to notice you will
register that you travel
to a chorus of bellbirds.
If you should care to listen,
that is.

If you are lucky you
will remind yourself in time
that it is not the destination
that is important,
it is the journey you take
on the way to getting there.

NaPoWriMo 8: The Cats

Well, my pain levels are dropping but I'm suffering extreme exercise withdrawal. I now know what it means to have taper madness. My body is jangling with unused hormones and energy and I've been on a bit of a psychological roller coaster. The only thing getting me through this is the knowledge that I do seem to be healing, so I'm obviously doing the right thing. In any case, I needed to concentrate on something a little more lighthearted today. Here's an off-the-cuff piece on a less substantial topic!

The Meeting of the Feline Bonnie and Clyde
You can see the hamster
wheel smoking in the
poor boy’s brain, the
cat that thinks he’s a
dog, the blue Burmese
baby indoors, bully without.
There is a small brown ball
of fluff wending its way
towards him, orange eyes,
orange chin, small orange paw.

Then, as we wonder whether
the new edition will become
fodder, whether we need to
embark on a rescue mission,
we can see him thinking
“Oh look, it plays”!

There follow a couple more
fraught hours as he works out
that six kilos of muscle must
adapt its methods if it wants
the game to continue for
very long, then suddenly
success and running and
chasing and friendship and …

That was the last night we
were able to sleep without
disturbance in a very long,
long time.

NaPoWriMo 7: Healing

Without realising it I've written poems about being kind to myself two days in a row.

In Need of Healing
There is nothing much
to be said today.
The words have all
been sucked away,
pulled in by a hip
that pinches and
snarls, reaches
upwards and
forwards, dragging
me with it, radiating
a gagged ache
through my shoulders,
down my right
quadricep and into
my right knee.
Stand and the rope
it holds binds
tighter. Lie and
it bears down,
weighting bone.

Soon I will rip
free of these
bonds, scream
defiance then
once certain of
my strength
soften again,
croon gently to
these punished
limbs, be kind
to myself, and
rest.

NaPoWriMo 6: Feeling Moody

End of Daylight Savings
Early autumn in this
city bares her
complex beauty.
No showy coat of
reds and golds here.
The Southerly has not
yet arrived and the
harbour is a flat
slick slate.

At home mist is
channeling through
Berhampore from
the Strait and across
to Brooklyn. The sea
is grey, the sky is
grey and the mountains
have turned their
flanks to sulk
behind a curtain.

I would feel better
about this flux, the
clocks set back for
the year, the dip
in the temperature,
but my body aches
for sun and warmth
and in the absence of
both demands rest.

Today I will cower
beneath a blanket
and be gentle on
myself. All reckoning
can wait until
tomorrow.

NaPoWriMo5: Rain

Do not curse the rain
falling from a Sunday sky.
The rain is a river
running through the
valley of your memory.
It is the pulse at
the corner of your eye,
the mist rising from the
earth at midnight
at Canaan Downs, the
dancers with their
hands in the air.

The rain carries with
it no motive or
malice. It simply
falls and does not
mind where or on
whom it lands.

You are the rain,
lying on your bed
with its sheets warm
from the moist
pores of you body.

Go, spread floods over
waiting seeds in the
fields of your life.

NaPoWriMo 4: For Leonie

Because it's always nice to have a fan club ...

A Conversation That Never Happened But
Could Have Done
We are sitting on the bench at
the bottom of the garden,
the one that looks out over
the airport runway and
Peter Jackson’s film set,
the one with the giant
bluescreen.

Planes are landing
from the South and when
they touch down there is
smoke from the tires and
the loud roaring of brakes.

I didn’t know, he says
that the sound is the planes
taking off, not landing.
We all nod, take another
sip from our wine glasses,
and watch in silence.

Do you ever think, he asks,
about the woman sitting
by the Ganges somewhere
in India, scrubbing her
Sari clean? Or about the
old man sitting on his
porch in Kansas, watching
his corn grow?

There’s a woman sitting
on that plane who is
returning home from
a business meeting and
is hoping her husband
has cooked her dinner.

The sun sets, the sky
grows dark and everywhere
street lights flicker on.
We watch cars driving
along Lyall Bay,
and we wonder who
is watching us and
whether anyone is
watching everyone.

NaPoWriMo 3: Eyedropping

In response to the prompt "Eavesdropping"

Eyedropping
There's a guy,
short, light
grey pinstriped suit,
expensive.
Black curly hair,
gel.
Talking on a cellphone
with his right hand,
supermarket bag,
no,
department store,
in the other.
His hips pulse
rapidly to
the left,
the bag
swings revolutions
around a bollard.
He talks,
intent,
a
circulatory
conversation.

NaPoWriMo2: Let's get this started

On the prompt "Smudge":

Postscript
There’s a smudge on the
wall under the window sill,
right below where a spider
web is gathering dust.

Outside the peach tree
has blossomed, people
are walking in the park
in short sleeves and
dogs are chasing frisbees
in the Domain.

But here grease is collecting
behind the stove-top and
mould is growing in the
vegetable bin.

I’m lying in bed
watching the spider web
blowing in a draught
coming through a gap
in the window frame.

Over and over
I’m thinking of
dirt and disorder and
I’m thinking of
you.

NaPoWriMo 1: Am I really doing this again?

I must be mad. Here's one based on a prompt from a few weeks back:

Quantum

There were days when she

felt everything to be surreal,

days of disassociation from

the world around her, nights

where her hand was not her

hand and the connection between

the woman who thought and

spoke and the flesh that

carried those proclamations

of identity seemed

overwhelmingly tenuous.

One morning she sat in

a garden in the sun and

silence listening to the

sound of her heart and her

breathing and felt everything

receding until rational

experience shrank into a

single strand on the woven

fabric of the universe.

She could not explain who

she was nor how she

had come to be here, any

more than she could explain

the Bumble Bee humming

nearby nor the mildew on

the shaded side of the

wall against which she

was leaning.

From paralysis and division

there somehow grew

an awareness that

some things are best

not thought too deeply

about. Some matters are

best left to surrender and

acceptance and a trust

that somewhere something

or someone must have

some kind of plan.

Because regardless of

her perception of

separation or otherwise

the world stubbornly

continued to go on

its own business, refused

to collapse in response

to a simple crisis of

self and confidence.

Because in fact she

was not other,

merely but not simply

part of an unquantifiable

whole.

NaPoWriMo 29: Split

Yep, I know. It's well into May and NaPoWriMo fell of the radar long ago. In fact it's NZ music month, and I'm compiling a list of great NZ music for you all to be inspired by. However NaPoWriMo and I have two items of unfinished business. Here's one of them, for what it's worth!

Rant
Don’t try to tell me
my life is lived in binary.
You, Mr Professor with your
mind body splits and your
duality of reality.
Try telling my mind that
it is separate from this
body next time the
red rages kick in!
Easy for you, this
rational mind thing, this
women’s body has been
accused of being
uncontrolled for too
long as it is.
Thanks very much for
your patronising patriarchy.
Who asked you anyhow?
Not me. This mind, this
heart know very well
they are connected to,
defined by these
lovehandles, the
bumps on my thighs.
Take a look at the
tits on Lara Croft
some time if you
don’t believe me.
Stop trying to sort me
into little boxes.
I’m quite happy the
way I am!

NaPoWriMo 28: Circle

So many nice things I could have written about circles, and I come up with something completely opposite! Goodness knows why goats popped into my head, but I kept thinking about the habit we have in New Zealand of tying a goat on a rope to a stake in the ground, so that it grazes the grass down in a circle. The poor goat is often left to graze down grass verges with no access to shelter or water. It's a real issue for the SPCA.

As a child we had three goats: two lovely docile females who called to each other from their respective corners of the lawn, and one very aggressive billy goat, who used to charge anyone who got near him. I actually love goats (and goat's cheese), though I guess you wouldn't know it from this poem.

This one doesn't feel finished, but I couldn't work out any other way to end it. I like the first two verses, then it kind of loses its way. In case Hamish still reads this blog I would like to point out that it is not about us, or in fact anyone else I know!

Beastiality
It seems we’ve been here before.
like goats we have worn the grass
down around us straining at the
tether that keeps us in place and together.

Frustrated we move in circles,
gnawing hungrily at every corner
of this relationship until
all fresh green tips are gone and
we are left gumming dry roots
and spitting out soil.

This marriage has reduced to a
four-legged cantankerous beast,
held onto because its all-consuming
habits would take too much effort
to cure or dispose of.

NaPoWriMo 27: Improper

Inadmission
The fog has settled on
this ridge again tonight,
cold winds and warm air,
the chemistry of opposites
that attract.

I am lying here thinking
highly improper thoughts,
imagining the weight
of the warmth of your skin,
my cool feet against
your shins.

In dreams I massage
swollen bellies,
grown pregnant with
the imagining of a
cheek, a shoulder blade,
a thigh.

Mist condenses on
the sash windows and
hangs weighty over
my bed as I gestate these
particles of you.

NaPoWriMo 26: Glimpse

I've skipped past 'blaze' for now. Like some other bloggers I'm starting to feel a little poemed out. I wonder whether continuing to push out work just for the sake of it is actually damaging to creativity. However I suspect that after all of this is over my output will continue to be higher than it was prior to April, because I think of life in poetry terms now. I feel like a poet.

Uruwhenua
Wait until winter,
they say,
you won't like it
as much here then.

And over the days
as we pay $12 for
two corn fritters with
some salad and
$8 for a couple of
pieces of toast and
the blow flies swarm
in the kitchen and the
electric fence ticks
and the septic tank overflows
we catch a glimpse of
the grim reality
of paradise.

Sitting on the beach
at Totaranui the
sand makes us homesick
for Oriental Bay.
Yes we could live here,
we tell ourselves,
but not yet.
Too isolated.
Too much effort.

On the ferry we
sit in the sun and
raise a toast as
we pass Red Rocks
on our way
back home.

Footnote: Reading about Wellington Harbour for this poem I discovered that the Harbour's Maori name is Te Whanganui-a-Tara. Tara, of course, is also a Buddhist deity, and I have always felt White Tara to be my own personal deity. Perhaps that is why I feel comfortable here.

NaPoWriMo 24: Sheen

When I thought of the word sheen I thought of the patina on a piece of furniture that has been polished by contact with countless humans. I also thought of sitting in the bath this week, my skin gleaming from bath oils and candles creating light and shadow in the room.

Pay Attention
Awareness is in the
patterns the tea-light
candle throws on
the bathroom wall,
the varnish on an antique
writing desk worn
to a sheen by the
caress of countless
coat sleeves.

Try not to miss the
cry of the blackbird
that signals a cat
strolling through the
courtyard or
the way the house
creaks when the wind
blows in just the right
South-Easterly direction.

Do not sleep as the
cicada sings from the
Puka tree or the skink
crawls out from the flax
and into the sun.
Do not miss the soft
thud before the clock
in the hallway begins
to chime.

Today everything is
seeking your focus,
demanding that you
exist now, here,
in this moment.
Pay attention!

NaPoWriMo 23: Pluck

Oh, if I wrote my poetry on paper there would be a whole wastepaper basket full of balled up failed attempts at this prompt in the corner of my room. I tried several different shades of the word's meaning, in several different contexts. In the end I admitted near-defeat. I needed to move on, so this is what I wrote:

Desire
Famished I pluck you
Peach sun-ripened skin swelling
Dew beaded on fruit.

NapoWriMo 22: Misplaced

In the end when the
CDs were shared out and
the joint bank account
closed and emptied and
joint ownership of the
family pets agreed on it
was the little things that
continued to confuse her,
the way the shavings from
his electronic razor still
collected in the wash basin
and that the bedroom still
smelt of him sleeping
when the windows were kept
closed for too long.
Right up until she finally
left the house they
had bought together
after their honeymoon
it seemed like he wasn’t
really gone from her life,
rather that he was a piece of
matrimonial property she had
somehow been careless enough
to misplace.

NaPoWriMo 21: 10 items or less

So I had some fun with this one. I don't know if it really qualifies as a poem. I guess this qualifies as artistic license! That's me in the photo above, second from the left in the crocheted tank top (which, in all fairness, is actually a lovely piece of clothing). For our Christmas function our office dressed up as 'what we wanted to be when we grew up'. A bunch of us dressed up as 80s pop stars. Cheesy, but unexpectedly fun!

Staff Christmas Function in 10 Items or Less

Two free drinks vouchers: The number of vouchers she was entitled to at her staff Christmas party.
Six free drinks: The number she actually drank, after procuring more than her tax-payer funded entitlement by sneaky and nefarious means.
Two high-heel sandals from the Number 1 Shoe Warehouse: Finally rubbing after six hours’ continual use, taken off halfway down the pedestrian access way to her street and carried the rest of the way home in the pouring rain.
One diamante-studded denim mini-skirt: Borrowed from a colleague and now sopping wet.
Half a can of hairspray: Used to tease her hair into an 80s bouffant, now running down her nose in rivulets of chemical ooze.
One pair of black three-quarter length tights: For some reason back in fashion.
One uncontrollable fit of giggles: Halfway between her letter-box and her front door.
One giant hangover: Waiting for her the next morning, but thankfully shared by most of her office.
One lost hairbrush: Found a couple of weeks later by her husband, sticking up in the grass at the top of the garden.

NaPoWriMo 20: Fishing Hole

Opanuku

When we were young it
was a place to go hunting
eels. Spike hook with
bloody meat, tug and haul.
The vanquished beasts would
tie themselves in knots and
try to crawl back to the
stream and it was left to our
poor father to grab an axe
and dispatch the poor creatures.

Poor Dad as well, it transpired he
had a mortal fear of eels. Lucky
for him we discovered it was far more
fun to stuff Mum's pantihose with
bread, rotten eggs, cooking oil and
dangle them in the water.
Dark shapes would emerge from
holes tunneled deep into the bank and
lured by the heady odour would
flow gracefully over river stones
and algae to sink small sharp teeth
into nylon. Oh the thrill and the
beauty of those creatures we once
clubbed with such repulsion. We
grew to feel ashamed of our past selves.

NaPoWriMo 19: Rooted

Rooted
This mother pine tree
is reached by tramping upstream
and scrambling up the river bank
for around 100 metres.

A Hihi male will trace your progress
calling his territory and
pausing on a low branch to
size up your intentions.

Trust pine needles cloaking the
forest floor to provide solidity underfoot
so that you not stumble into a pothole
and turn your booted ankle.

Here as you settle beneath
this pine tree the air seems
warmer. The sun filters through
and her arms shelter you.

Here a female Hihi feeds her
chicks, flitting between nestbox
and feeder, alighting briefly above you
to nibble at bark and to preen.

Here is old life and new life,
regeneration and healing
in a quiet corner where water
runs and cicadas sing.

All things here are rooted.
Sit here for a while and you too
will remember that once you
existed in symbiosis with this planet.

Not my finest work ever, but certainly one that reveals a little bit of me and why I do what I do.

NaPoWriMo 18: Tick Tock

It took a little while for me to overcome my opposition to this prompt. I knew I didn't want to use the words themselves in the poem - too clunky. So that left the concept of time more generally. Then it occurred to me to write about the sound. This poem grew from there.

Waiting
Sitting here she can
hear his watch ticking,
the hush in this room
so intense that small
mechanical sounds
become theme songs.
The buzz of the florescent
light overhead, the
whine of the computer
at the reception desk.

He is flicking through
a magazine with
Brad and Jennifer on
the cover and pages
torn out where recipes
and the crossword have
been souvenired.
She finds herself staring
at an old scrapbook filled
with images from old
greeting cards cut out
and stuck to the pages.

They are waiting for the
man with the white coat
to tell them life can
return to normal,
that they can reclaim
the medical diagnosis
formerly known as their
son and climb into
their Toyota Starlet to
go back home where
tea comes from a
kettle instead of a
dispensing machine
and background music
comes in the form of
a child’s voice.