Another Poem

I'm having a bit of a rethink about the direction of this blog. I'm toying with the idea of leaving Blogger for greener shores, and broadening out the scope of my posts. If I do so then I'll be making a commitment to post more often and more widely. I'll finally get around to creating that blog roll and I'll be posting on a variety of topics. If I decide to make the switch I'll start posting more commentary and more links to other sites. There'll still be the training posts most of you read this blog for at the moment. However there will also be a return to more regular poetry posts. If I get my act together I'll be posting on the issues that are important to me, and I'll be posting on daily life and happenings here in Wellington.

In the meantime, here's another (still very draft) poem! This was inspired a few weeks back by a news article stating that the current government is looking at loosening up the rules around overseas investment in New Zealand.

That Which Was Ours

They came across the border
when our eyes were averted,
too busy looking inwards
to notice the attack from outside.

They took us on the beaches
first of all, our defences weak,
their firepower stronger.

While we were still dusting the
sand from our arms and gathering
together the possessions we had
clutched to ourselves as we
scrambled to retreat they
turned on our utilities.

Before we knew it our
water and our power
were no longer our own,
left begging at the
doors of strangers to
cook our last suppers,
scraping together cash
to pay for enough light
to see as we tucked our
children into their beds.

But it will all be ok, they
crooned to us, as we lined up
to fill buckets so we could
heat water for our weekly baths.
You see, things are more efficient
this way. Your dollars
are still your own.

So we sat on cliff tops
looking down at the waves below
us while we sipped on Pepsi and
Bud, unable to afford to drink
what used to flow freely from
our taps. We kept bees for
the wax and felled trees from
the local reserve
for firewood.

That which was what ours
was not truly quantified
until it was listed on the
asset sheets of those that
came.

Sneaky Mid-Day Poetry

Wellington, Spring 2008

Come spring

vines, waking push

through from under

pink fingernails,

crescent mooned.

Moist loamy dirt

lies scattered on

the kitchen table,

tumbling down white

pillows each morning.

Seeds fall from pursed lips,

inconveniently

mid-rebuke.

Fuscia flowers bud

from ears, muting

the sound of all

other than the humming

of bumble bees flying

through open bedroom

windows.

All inhabitants here

walk under the weight

of a seasonal infestation

until the coming of

the Equinox brings

wind from the North,

blowing new foliage

back out to the

hillsides and

away.

A Random Poem

Small Observations
The light arrives through
the sash windows,
filtered by yesterday's washing
still hanging under the veranda.

Morning creeps onwards,
despite your night-time hair, a
greying shadow retreating
back underneath the duvet.

The cats are completing
their change-of-shift handover,
one waking, one settling,
seeking the heat of the sun.

I am getting ready
around your bare consciousness,
listening to the weather forecast,
switching on the hair dryer.

After all this time
you are still not fit for the morning.
and still there are aspects of you
that I find strange and amazing.

Harbour Capital Half: A few more thoughts

Well, the shoes have dried off now and I'd like to mull over my race once more. I'll try to keep this short!

It seems funny to think now that only a few years ago this whole race thing used to completely terrify me. I was intimidated by all the 'real' runners, struck down by a sense of duty to achieve some self-imposed goal. These days I enter at the last moment. I sleep well the night before, and my pre-race nerves have finally been conquered by a well-rehearsed routine and honed sense of self-awareness.

So it was this year. I went out to dinner at a friend's the night before. A highly spicy Thai curry with lots of coconut cream would not have been my choice of pre-race fuel. At least I stuck to orange juice and water! I went to bed early, but not excessively so. I slept well and woke half an hour before my alarm, lying in bed until it went off. As always I listened to the news. I got up and, as I always do, I dressed in the clothing I had left out the night before. I went through my usual preparation, including a warm porridge breakfast. My stomach felt a little queasy, but nothing too major. I put on my timing chip and race number, added my usual pre-race layers for warmth.

The weather forecast had been pretty grim. It was supposed to be wet, cold and blowing a gale. At 7a.m. the sky was black, bar a red sunrise over the mountains to the East. My first thought after getting out of bed was that it was remarkably warm. I had been considering turning on the central heating and getting in the shower if it had been really cold, but ended up not feeling the need.

After breakfast I got a few minutes down the road before realising I'd left my Hydrocortisone behind, so I quickly turned around and raced back down our steps to grab it. That also enabled me to pick up the face-plate of our car stereo off the kitchen table. It started raining as I was driving into town. Now that it was light the wind was picking up as well and the weather was looking distinctly unpromising.

The queue to get into the stadium carpark was shorter this year, but it was difficult to find a park once I was in there. It was really starting to rain by the time I made it under the cover of the stadium concourse. It was packed full of runners togged up in thermals and various rain jackets. I had elected not to wear a thermal but had donned my grey and orange Adidas windbreaker, thinking that it would be good to keep the rain off my arms. Underneath I wore a short-sleeved black technical t-shirt.

I had been thinking about doing a few warm-up exercises, but with noone keen to move outside there wasn't really any room. It took forever to locate the two hour pace runner and I never managed to find Sarah or any of the other Les Mills runnners. Everyone waited until the last possible moment before moving outside.

Finally we were waiting near the starting line. I had already decided that I wasn't going to worry about pushing for two hours. I didn't feel that the conditions were right and I wasn't feeling in the mood to fight for it. However once the race started things changed. The start was horrifically congested, even worse than last year. There were the usual walkers being shoved from side to side as they were passed by hundreds of runners.

I had harboured vague ideas about sticking with the pace runner, but he was running way too slowly. I checked my Garmin to make sure I wasn't racing off too fast, but was happy that I was sticking to my goal 5.30 to 5.40 pace so left him behind. I knew that I would quickly be able to feel whether I was going to run strong or not. By the time we were running along the Quay I already knew this was going to be one of my better days. I started to think about aiming for two hours again.

Within minutes I spotted Sarah running in the crowd ahead of me. I considered whether I should try to catch up and run with her, but I fully expected her to take off so decided I would just aim to keep her in my sights. I didn't want the pressure of trying to keep up with anyone else. I stayed about ten metres or so behind her all the way around the waterfront.

In one of my blog-posts in the lead-up to this race I reminded myself that I would probably feel nasty at around the five to seven kilometre mark and that when that happened I would just have to push through. I expected to get the stitch at around the twenty minute mark. Well, neither of those two events came to pass. I felt strong the whole way to the turn-around, and the stitch never eventuated. It seemed that just knowing I could run through a rough patch helped me to avoid the rough patch all together.

I was slowly creeping closer to Sarah but was content to remain anonymous. My cover was blown however at Freyberg, where Duck and co cheered the both of us on. Darn! I drew level and stuck more or less just behind her shoulder all the way to Miramar. I felt a bit guilty. It must have been annoying to have a shadow. I wasn't intentionally sitting in that exact spot, it just happened to be were I ended up.

I also feel a bit guilty about my rant about runners not paying attention. To be honest, I was a real idiot and managed to spectacularly demonstrate my own lack of attention. Wellington runners will know that, around Pt Jerningham, there is a low white post-and-rail fence separating the footpath from the road. Well, I was so distracted by my Garmin that I managed to run right into the end of it. Smack, bang, ouch! True to form I never even paused to dust myself off. I reassured everyone that I was fine and kept on running, ignoring the pain in my quad.

The rest of the first split is a bit of a blur. I do remember being passed at a rapid pace by the two hour pacer. The woman next to me and I checked our wrists. We commented that, having started out too slow, he now seemed to be running waaayyyy too quickly. There was a small pack of green-banded runners trailing in his wake.

I'd skipped the water stop at the 5km mark but thought a little Peak Fuel at the 8km might give me a little boost. I made myself run through the drink stop, sipping as I went. My memories of this part of the race are a little hazy. I remember thinking I'd gotten here rather quickly. I remember there being a lot of water on the footpath and I remember there being a nasty headwind on the approach to the Miramar cutting. I remember seeing the guy who ran in a suit and thinking that he looked like he was having some chaffing issues. I was a little frustrated to note that I'd hit the turnaround in almost exactly the same time as last year. I was less than a minute off pace, but I knew I'd be running into a headwind on the return and that I would probably tire over the last few kilometres. I knew it would be a push to hit two hours.

In what felt like no time at all I was back at the drink stop - eight kilometres to go. I drank a little more Peak Fuel. Now the headwind was having a bit of an impact. I was slowing and my aim switched to trying to surge through the wind then pick it back up to goal pace or less in the shelter. It was a tough strategy. Psychologically however, this was not a particularly difficult part of the race. Never has 21 kilomtres felt like such a short distance. Familiarity can sometimes be a good thing and being able to check off each landmark made a huge difference to my morale. It was also a lot of fun to be able to run along the edge of the road rather than on the curb.

At this point I would, again, like to acknowledge the many, many people who cheered me on during the race. I'm embarrassed to say that I missed seeing most of you until you called out to me. Don't take that personally. I was in my own little headspace! It was fantastic, however, to have Les Mills staff out on the course. I was thrilled to have Duck and co cheering me on again at Freyberg. I had overtaken Sarah not long after the half-way mark and was happy to be able to point that fact out (sorry Sarah). However I was also glad to have her behind me because I was convinced she was breathing down my neck and about to fly past at any moment. Every now and then I would take a quick glance backwards to check for a speedy smurf. She kept me moving!

As previously noted, my longest training runs have been 15km long, and I've only been running at most three times a week thanks to a dodgy ankle. I fully expected that this would come back to haunt me over the last six kilometres, and to a certain extent it did. I was a little slower than I would have liked and my legs were hurting a bit. I was trying to stick to a pace that would enable me to make two hours, but it was getting harder.

Around Te Papa and past the two kilometre marker. A guy next to me turned to his buddy and said "come on, we can still do under two hours if we pick up the pace". He took off, leaving his friend behind. Duck's advise to me had been to push it for the last five kilometres. I was trying - hard. Before the race I'd been nervous about pushing it with over 25 minutes to go, for fear of crashing and burning (or vomiting). Now I was giving it as much gas as I could. With that two kilometres to go I checked my own wrist and saw that I would have to run at a five minute pace to get there. Oh dear, I wanted it so badly but it was soooo not happening.

I wondered whether I could make 2.02. I remembered reaching Queens Wharf Events Centre last year and being thrilled to be nearly finished. This year there seemed to be almost no distance between the Centre and the Stadium. Suddenly I was there. I wanted to run strongly up that damn ramp, but it just wasn't happening. I remember last year putting on a spurt down the concourse to make it to the finish in under 2.08. This year there was a spurt to get under 2.04. I made it, just.

I hadn't really been feeling nauseaus when I was running, but I got hit with a big wave once I stopped. I had to hold onto the fence and bend over for a couple of minutes. My quads cramped up immediately. I shuffled into the stadium and smiled at a random volunteer, who rewarded me with a spot prize voucher. I was feeling too queasy to contemplate any more Peak Fuel, but I thought I should try some water. Unfortunately the water tasted badly of plastic so most of it got binned.

I spotted Sarah in the queue behind me as I was picking up my goodie bag. I picked up my spot prize then walked back to meet her. We chatted while she picked up her bags. I'd slipped my wind parker off my shoulders at Oriental Bay on the return leg, because I was starting to get a bit warm. Now though I was starting to feel as wet as I was, and rather cold. I ducked down to my car (walking sideways down the stairs), threw on some warm clothes, and then we limped off to Les Mills for a much-needed shower and stretch.

Never has a shower felt soooo good. So hot, so powerful. Afterwards, changed and waiting for Sarah, I started feeling very cold and shaky. I'd had a Replace drink, but it wasn't enough. Another running friend and half-marathon finisher, Jo, practically forced me to eat a couple of her gummy lollies. Within seconds I was feeling warm and recovered. I suspect my blood sugars were bottoming out. The same thing happened to me after the Grape Ride. I don't think it was low cortisol (I'd doubled my usual morning dose). After the lollies and a Subway chicken fillet sub I felt fine.

After the walk back to the stadium for prize giving it occured to me that it wasn't my quads that were sore as such, it was my quad. Specifically it was my right quad, exactly where a huge red and black bruise was now forming. The next day I continued to feel very sore where my leg had impacted with the fence, but the rest of my quads felt fine. By this morning my right ankle and the bottom of my left hamstring were a bit niggly. Otherwise, I've been very pleased with my recovery. I would have run a short recovery run yesterday had it not been for the atrocious weather and a deliberate decision to leave my running gear at home.

In summary then, I expected to know within minutes whether I'd have a race on my hands, and I did. I knew I could make it to the turn-around at my goal pace or less, and I pretty-much did. I theorised that a little energy-drink would help give me a boost, and I'm fairly certain it did. I expected to slow down on the return leg, and I did. I expected to start to crash a bit after an hour and a half, and I did. In retrospect, some jelly-beans or similar would have been good here. I knew that if I could cut down on last year's positive split I would pretty much be guaranteed of a PB. I managed to cut four minutes off last year's return leg, and that was how I achieved the PB. As mentioned earlier, the first 10.5km were run at almost the exact same pace as last year.

In conclusion then, I know I am definitely capable of going sub-two hours. A little more training (including a few more long runs and some speed-work), and slightly more favourable conditions and I'd be targeting 1.55. One day I might even be as fast as my mother-in-law! A quick look at the results today showed me as finishing 49th out of 99 women in my age group. So my place as a mid-pack runner has been firmly cemented. Given that I've spent my whole life finishing last I'll settle for top 50! As life returns to normal this race is doing a lot to boost my confidence in my own abilities.

This morning I got up and did Dee's 6a.m. RPM class. My legs felt ok, though I didn't push the dial too hard. In fact, they felt rather strong. A lunchtime Body Balance was a little more telling though. My hips were very tight and sore and this seemed to lead to a weakness through my core in the ab track and a general decline in my balance poses. It was good to be able to stretch out though.

In the morning I'm getting up early to work out with a colleague, Murray. He teaches Impact at Les Mills, so I know I'm in for some kind of boxing training. I'm looking forward to it. He's intrigued with my reputed pull-up and push-up capabilities, so they may also both be tested. I'm meeting some of my Les Mills running buddies for lunch and I may try to run tomorrow night. I feel quite ridiculously full of energy and I think the race may have led to a little surge in my fitness levels which I'm keen to capitialise on.

Gearshifters starts again on 1 September, at which point it will all be about the bike again. For the next couple of months I want to really push my leg weights to maximise my leg strength. Once I start riding I'll have to ease off again. There are a couple of half marathon options in August, both on fairly flat, fast courses.

Speaking of bikes though, this little darling is currently sitting in Penny Farthings, on sale for just over $1400. How badly do I want her? Oh Lola, I'm ashamed to admit I'd leave behind your big-boned, arthritic Sora componentry behind for this extremely light-weight little baby. Give me some carbon-forked niceness and a little female-specificity! How tragic is it that I lust over a narrow pair of handle-bars and a padded saddle? Plus how sexy is that cream and gold colour scheme? And how cool is it to have a 'genius' bike? I want my bike to have a high IQ ...

Just for a change - Poetry!

Photo courtesy of B29 Flickr group

While You Sleep
Awake the lines
on your face suggest
wear like paint
on the side of our
villa where sea spray
carried on Southerlies
has ground clear
through to the
harder beauty of
Kauri underneath.
Asleep there is
something soft, an
easing akin to the
sun that shone
when we were
young, the dreams
and hopes that were
then still warm and
fresh and as charming
as they were naïve.
And yet I love the
both of you. I
would not want to
repair the past
nor attempt to
paint over the future.
You are day and
night and I savour
the dawn and the
twilight of you
both.

In response to a Read Write Poem prompt that took a little while to take hold.

Random Poem: The Cleansing

The Cleansing
When it left
there was no final struggle,
no climax of battle.
When it left there was
only a gentle subsidence,
like the outwards tide
at Pakawau, a slow
exhale of breath.
I had to stop for a moment
to listen for its silence,
to ensure that it was
really gone.
It took some time
to unwind myself
from its absence,
to quietly explore the
exposed tidal pools
and to wade amongst
the sea anemones I found
waving their rose-coloured
tentacles in my soul.
Although it took from
me its volume it did
not leave me smaller.
It removed only excess,
and afterwards I was
more precisely crafted,
and therefore stronger.
It took a while to know
that it was really gone,
but once I was truly
certain I could not
mourn its passing.

A Poem and a Green Consciousness

Photo courtesy of Hamish - Labour Weekend Kite flying at Queen Elizabeth Park

I haven't been posting to any of the post-Poetry Thursday sites lately. I have been a bit lackadaisical when it comes to dedicating time to my writing. My current focus seems to be on environmental issues and to educating myself by reading many of the excellent greenie blogs. I've also been getting back into my training and enjoying making use of my physical, rather than my mental energy.

Two poems wrote themselves this week. One was a simple mind-blurt, a way of releasing some of that physical energy via a mental process. It was a gorgeous spring day and I was itching to be outside moving around, instead I was stuck at my desk.

The other poem was a response to a Writer's Island prompt from a week ago. Neither have had any real editing, and neither are that good, but at least I'm creating again. I will have to wait tomorrow to post my 'message in a bottle' poem, because it appears I forgot to email it to myself after I wrote it (as usual, I was composing poetry at my desk).

So for today, the mind-blurt:

Buzz

When you’re dancing

on the tips of your toes.

When you’re singing

the same bar over

and over and over

again because it’s the

same tune that’s been

stuck in your head for

days. When you have to

shout because it’s all too

much and it’s pouring out

of you and if you try to

hold it in you will burst.

That’s when we want to

touch you, to feel that

energy fizzing from you,

to borrow some of that

love of everything and

anything and to feel

young by proxy because

you have never worked

out what it might mean

to grow old.

And still on a green note, I was depressed today by the National Party's apparent promoting of a New Zealand "Think Tank's" recommendation that the country be a follower, rather than a leader in meeting its Kyoto commitments. At a time where all relevant experts are saying that carbon dioxide levels are increasing faster than predicted, at a time where the ice is melting at phenomenal levels, at a time of wild weather and climactic records, when the consensus seems to be that we are already at a tipping point, to argue that business sustainability will be threatened if we act quickly seems irresponsible to say the least. Sticking one's head in the sand is self-defeating when the sand is thermal-heated and scalding.

More Garden Poetry

Back to last summer's recurring theme.

Clearing Blackberry in Spring
The anise odour of wild fennel
is wafting over the edge of the
veranda from the garden below.
Today we slashed back blackberry
and honeysuckle until we could
again walk around the cabbage tree,
if only for a few short months.
Your fingers have been attacked
by thorns and I have forgotten
to wear long sleeves so the skin
on my arms is raised red by the
Wandering Dew.

We are sitting now looking East
to the mountains as they turn
to shadow. I am swinging in the
hammock and you are sprawled
beneath the open bedroom window.
Our sunburned faces are weary
but content as we sip Pinot Gris
and reflect on a job well done.

We can even kid ourselves for
a moment longer that the onion weed
will not flower, that no mice will
feast on native berries and that
the cat didn’t just kill the fantail
that was nesting in the courtyard.
Below us the Vogeltown Kaka are
chasing each other in lazy circles
over the golf course and for a few
still moments their screeches are
the only sound we can hear.

There are forces at work

Image borrowed from here

Elemental

Here the ice groans and shudders.
Beneath our feet the tide ebbs
and flows immeasurably,
something we can sense but not see.
What seems solid rises and falls.
Cracks open in front of us only to
close again by morning.

Everything here defies time
yet nothing is permanent.
Flux and flow are one continuum.
What we see is not what we know.
We can not settle here in this land
of unease and elements.

This place was not put here to comfort
us but rather to open us to the
uncertainty of change and permanence.
Death and eternity, life and
regeneration. Who will you be here
when everything is shifting
where you stand?

Winter Arrives

Winter has finally arrived in Wellington, right as the Winter Solstice passes by. For the first time this year Southerlies have kept me awake at night, rattling our sash windows and slamming into the wall behind my head as I lie in bed. Perhaps it's just a reflection of my higher awareness of the environment around me at the moment, but I seem to be reacting to the cold more this year. Although I love it when snow falls to the East, the plummeting temperatures have made cement of my bones.

Winter Solstice 2007
This house is so cold today
it freezes us in place.
Winds blowing from the
Strait fly up the ridge
from Berhampore and
infiltrate the lounge
through cracks in
Matai floorboards.
We stuff the chimney
with shopping bags filled with
balled up newspaper but the
central heating battling
valiantly through corner
vents can not dent the chill
tonight as snow gathers
on the Orongarongas.
I would do so many things,
compose symphonies,
dance a tango with you
down the hallway if
I could only coax these
chilled bones from the
sofa. Instead I loiter,
offer myself as some
small heat source to
short-haired, thin-blooded
Burmese cats, and
dream of summer.

We Should be Dancing

Em, Uprising 2007

Ever since Hamish and I first got involved in crewing New Year's dance festivals, around this time of year, I start having dreams on a theme. As the mid-winter Solstice nears I begin to dream that we are back at Visionz, near Pakawau, trying to set up our camp. Often my family is there. Usually the place is full of people I don't know, strange hippie types. Inevitably I end up wandering around trying to find the crew kitchen, where I used to volunteer. When I finally find the crew kitchen I always discover it full of unfamiliar and unfriendly types, and I am never able to find Tony, the camp chef and general campsite looker-outer.

The things that happen in the dream are easy enough to explain. I always feel a sense of dislocation on arriving at a party. We are always coming from outside, being as we are from Wellington, and there are always new people in charge. It always takes me a few days to find my place, and to learn again that I am accepted and that I belong. This process has gotten easier over the years. We know enough people now that we are almost part of the scene for real, and I have more confidence in my right to belong.

I have never been sure exactly why this dream occurs with such regularity. My best guess is that it has something to do with longing for the grasshopper lightness of summer in the midst of the cold and wind of a Wellington winter. However we have had a remarkable winter so far this year - both still and bright. Perhaps my soul just starts longing to dance.

I've been listening to CDs a lot recently at work on a pair of noise reducing headphones. I've never joined the MP3 player generation, though I'm starting to think I might need to. Last week I was into Tim Finn, Age Pryor and Samuel Flynn Scott. I kept getting carried away in the subtlety of fading piano chords in the Tim Finn album, distracted by Age Pryor's lisp, charmed by the slightly out-of-tune roughness in the voice of Scott.

This week guitars and vocals just didn't do it for me. Instead I've been listening to fat beats. In particular I've been listening to Salmonella Dub's earlier albums, a gem from Pacific Bass Culture and a Rhian Sheehan remix album. A single line from a Rhian Sheehan track keeps infiltrating my thought processes. Over and over something - my heart, my soul - tells me that we should be dancing.

Pip in a Pink Hat with Bubbly, Uprising 2007

In my imagination I'm dancing to Salmonella Dub surrounded by the tall trees of Canaan Downs. The sun is out, although perhaps there is a rainbow in the distance. I'm dancing in bare feet. I have a pink hat on to cover the fact that my hair hasn't been washed in five days. I'm wearing a skirt that I bought at the festival market for very little cash, and a t-shirt that cost me even less. Since I bought them I have worn little else. I have a chain of small bells around my ankle that my imagination can hear jangling quietly over the bass rippling out from the speakers to either side of me. I have a string of rosewood Mala beads wrapped around my wrist. A bottle of cheap sparkling wine is being passed around. Someone else is passing around a plate of orange slices. We are dancing.

At my desk I hit save on the paper that I am writing for my recalcitrant Minister. Salmonella Dub finish and I switch back to Rhian Sheehan. Should I now confess that this is not music that my mind pictures me dancing to in the sun? This is music to strip naked to with someone you love, to seduce them with in a dark room lit by a roaring fire. Not so good for focusing attention on work then. Even worse, this whole album would operate equally well as an RPM class. Except I'm not going to strip naked in an RPM class. That would just be silly, not to mention unhygenic!

We Should

We should be dancing.
Bare feet grass,
dusty toes,
dub bass fat.
Gather.

Conscious elements.
Sun, oxygen
drums.
Breathe,
move.

Sound silence
all thought that
does not rejoice.

Bind us here,
earth floor,
rhythm tied.
Dance.

Down the Rabbit Hole

Quantum Physics

I am standing facing the sun.

Behind me you are

spinning on one foot,

standing on your head,

doing one-handed cartwheels,

declaring your love whilst

singing the National Anthem

in Maori.

I turn and you are standing

smiling, one arm extended,

beckoning me to join you.

Behind us birds are singing

the Hallelujah Chorus

as they hover over

blossoming lotus flowers.

White Tara gazes benevolently

and Jesus rises again.

We turn and a cicada

flees in self-defense,

migrating from warm concrete

to the safety of a nearby Puka tree.

Why, when all the dots became

waves and you saw and chose

did that choice become me

when you have always had such

a thing for Helen Hunt?

Perhaps if I were a quantum physicist

I would be waking up each morning

in the Bahamas, and drinking orange juice

over breakfast with Brad Pitt.

Image courtesy of Electric Sheep.

Inspiration courtesy of What the Bleep: Down the Rabbit Hole

Winter

Today my camera and I went on a Wellington walking adventure...

Winter
The city today
is paused in the space
between the in-breath
and the out.

I walk in silence
and stillness
down to the coast
and the sea.

You walk this way
with me in a
parallel universe
some weeks earlier.

Later I will cross the
space-time continuum,
call a Wellington number
and speak to you in America
about this.

Golden Bay 2004

We had just enough room
for one small hitch hiker
not too much luggage
squeeze them into the
back seat of the Polo
we saw the first passenger
just out of Nelson
flew past her like we were
in a hurry, slammed on the
brakes and u-turned
she was going to Collingwood
we dropped her at her destination
it was only slightly out of the way.
days later we were on our way home
gone through Nelson and
not one hopeful thumb lifted
we were commenting on this
when there was Murray,
thankfully taiko drumless,
though with his black dog
Orphius, animal talisman.
Murray and dog shared the
front passenger seat
crammed against the windscreen
I hugged the back seat
between backpacks, sleeping bags
and holiday detritus
we shared red wine
drunk from the bottle
on the beach in Picton before
man and dog parted on the Arahoe
and we steered the Polo
onto the Bluebridge
we made plans for fire circles
for drumming and
fire dancing all night
under full moons, and
we wondered for years
about predestiny disguised
as coincidence.

Go Walking

Go walking South on a
soft warm evening.
Turn left up the rise
until the city spreads herself
out beneath you.
Everyone is roasting chicken
tonight so that fat
and salt linger on the air
together with the heated
fragrance of honeysuckle.
Walk past cheap houses
falling down steep slopes
where cats either welcome
or run while children’s bicycles
lie beneath dark windows.
Climb the sty and scramble
towards the ridge.
Tread purposefully on
unmown grass, past
post and wire fences holding
back coconut-scented gorse.
Look West to the men of stone -
cold, still beacon to ships
coming home from the Strait.
Climb to nestle at their carved feet.
Perch on stone cairn as
Red Admirals stage war
around you. To the East
the Orongorongos are
wearing shades of amber and.
late evening has sedated the Strait.
Mark the passing of the
Kaitaki and the Bluebridge.
Breathe in stillness and
the last of the sun as its
grip slips loose from
Seatoun Heights and its fingers
drag wearily across
the flat plain of
Lyall Bay.
Stay till the sun is
defeated. Cool currents
slip into the tepid
air flowing up from the
North. Stand in salutation
then turn to home.

Large Man

He was a large man
even in death, his
barrelled chest now
still but solid lying waiting
on the bed for the
undertakers.

We felt the need to
rest our hands on his
ribcage in hope of
understanding the mystery
of death, that someone
could be there and still
not be with us, that
a heart could really
stop and blood
run cold.

When he was cremated
the weight of his presence
resisted the furnace’s heat.
The small box in which he was
returned to us possessed a
startling heaviness, a
big man squeezed into
a cube of rosewood.

One spring afternoon
we embarked on
a clandestine mission.
We trespassed the scout
camp where we had been raised,
took the path to the outdoor chapel.
Birds and insects watched
as we scattered him,
soft grey dust
billowing in warm air.
We lay him down under the
trees he had tended,
and on the grass
he once had trimmed.

When we got home
we found he was lodged
under our fingernails,
encrusted in our skin.
We wondered about etiquette
in such situations then shrugged
as we washed him off.
Earth and water, man of
elements returned to the
place of his making.
Our large man
at last reduced.