made for weather

Sky's Last Act

2009-07-14T21:40:00.006+12:00

The air at five p.m. is certainly fresh, but not bitter. No need for any extra adornment of hat, gloves or scarf. I head for the inlet where the tide is out, the mud and puddles touched-up with the mild pinks and apricots of a winter sunset. Headlights from the string of homeward-bound traffic, form smudgy reflections in the still water. A few black-backed gulls feed from the darkening water.

The air is smoky, the ponderous clouds bottom-heavy, then thinning out at the top to stream away into tender, fragile edges of creamy silver. The water of the inlet reflects this last, quiet, low-key act of today's sky.

A eucalyptus tree vies with the clouds and sky for room. For reflection. Other people also out walking, slip past like shadows. Some shadows say 'Hello', some remain voiceless. Some walk dogs. It is almost dark. I head home

***

Grave Considerations

2009-07-12T22:34:00.005+12:00

A good thing to do on a cold day is go for a walk. Maybe a walk to the cemetery wouldn't be first choice for a lot of people. However I don't find them depressing, spooky or morbid ... if anything, they are peaceful places.

(Andersons Bay Cemetery.)

It was a little unsettling to see that vandals had knocked the heads off a lot of the statues - as you can see here.

At one stage, Robert and I became separated and I lost sight of him among the graves somewhere. Which was a surreal moment! However, his reassuring figure, tall, steady and reliable, eventually emerged from the grey, and all was well once more.

From there it was a short step over to Tomahawk Beach.

There was even a rainbow to end what was a very pleasant walk on a winter's Sunday afternoon.

Work tomorrow and Tuesday, then Wednesday off to write and read. Work again on Thursday, then Friday off to write and read. I am really sold on my new three-day working week.

Kindness and Lace

2009-06-29T22:29:00.012+12:00

Kindness is what oils this planet's squeaky wheels. Or something to that effect. It makes you feel better about life and yourself anyway. Kind people are to be treasured. And I do. People like Tim Jones, for example, who has been kind enough to give my blog a nod. I thought I better quickly put up a new post. I have been resting on my laurels a bit as far as blogging goes.
I celebrated my birthday on Thursday (yes, the same date that Michael Jackson died, although for us, it was the Friday he died rather than on my birthday.)
Not much fun having to work on my birthday, but I did get the next day off - which happened to be a Friday, and then Monday (today) off as well, which has more than made up for it.
So on the Friday I went shopping. Something I rarely do. I am not a fan. But I had great expectations of doing lots of looking around and maybe being tempted to buy some clothes, or trinkets and such. But by the time I got down town, into a car parking building and set off, I found I was no longer in the mood for that kind of shopping. I started to feel bored just looking at the outsides of the malls. It was time to have a coffee (and write a poem* while sitting there- which I did) and then head for a bookshop (with birthday tokens.) I did have a lovely time choosing my purchases. I even caught up with Sue who has worked at Whitcoulls since the beginning of the 80s (when I worked there!) back when we sold the Farrah Fawcwett-Majors (as she was then) poster. Sue is the long-term, friendly face of Whitcoulls. Continuity is not to be sniffed at, and I was cheered to find some of it on Friday.

Then as I had some time to kill before meeting a friend for a coffee, I ended up at the library (think: comfort zone) where I got out some more books. Poetry books. Catching up on a huge backlog of some-time-I-must-reads. All NZ poetry, my favourite poetry it has to be said. One of the books was Tim's book, 'All Blacks' Kitchen Gardens', which I am enjoying, especially for its Southern references - but not solely, as it is a fine read for many other reasons. I loved the poem about the kea in the Gore Botanical Gardens, 'Tethered Flight' and am presently working on a response to it. I am grateful when a poem stirs and inspires me enough to write something because of it. It's how poetry should work - ripples and reverberations. And I also adore the poem, 'Two Creek Beach' - Tim will know why. It has to do with stamping grounds.
I got some lovely birthday presents, but probably the most surprising gift of all was from my d-i-l's mother, Nuiko, who I met when they came out to NZ from Japan in January, for the wedding. She sent me a beautiful lace cloth she'd made herself ...

(See my initials? Isn't that so sweet?)

I feel like a lucky woman. Even if tomorrow it's back to work starting at 7.15 a.m. and a staff meeting tomorrow night as well as a tax return to do ... Yep, it's back to the mundane. (But at least I have my memories of the bliss of these last four days.)

*walking through the Octagon

How can one not love

this drizzle?

Burns' dark glower

as I rush by

under splattered cover.

Ah, there. See. That girl

in the fake-fur,

tiger-skin hat

smiling to herself

does too.

Kay McKenzie Cooke

Wild-Boar's-Head Hunting Trophy Takes Precautions.

2009-06-22T20:52:00.008+12:00

On Saturday night our niece's 21st was held at my brother's local, the Beaumont Hotel. There we witnessed the precautions that conscientous Beaumont locals have taken against any danger to local pigs from Human Flu!

Polar Plunged

2009-06-21T18:52:00.006+12:00

The time away was great. I haven't got time right now to describe in length, so will leave that until tomorrow.
I planned to get back in time for today's (the shortest day here in the Southern Hemisphere) plunge into the cold waters of the Pacific Ocean here at St Clair, Dunedin.

My son Mike also took part and Kate took the photos, and a video. Here we are looking for her among the observers.

The plunge into the high tide waters was invigorating and fun. And just to make sure I was well and truly soaked, a particularly large and mischievious, white-whiskered wave tackled me by the ankles and I fell flat on my face. Fantastic!

Drifting To & Away

2009-06-19T11:24:00.007+12:00

I took this photo of a driftwood deckchair two years ago at the place where our son is living in Haast, South Westland.

This photo seems kind of appropriate for me at the moment, drifting as I am from home, by bus, to the borders of our province and crossing over. Into Southland. I am going to Gore. (Cue for a country music track. Maybe Buffy Sainte-Marie's 'I'm Gonna Be A Country Girl Again'.) I am off to see my aunt who lives there, and my sister from Christchurch who has been visiting there for a couple of days already.
My sister sent me a pxt of my most favourite place in the world, as a tease, because alas I will not be able to make it quite that far south this time and she made the pilgrimage to the 'homeland' without me. Tomorrow we travel from Gore through to the borders of Central Otago, to Beaumont. This is where my brother and his family live and where our niece is celebrating her 21st birthday. At the Beaumont pub.
Beaumont is where there is a bridge over the Clutha river, and the threat from one of the evil Power Companies to flood and drown the whole place. For yet another dam. Damn the dam! (The locals have opted to take a positive stance and highlight the beneficial features of Beaumont, trusting that these positive, vibrant vibes may work more against the dam construction than any negative protests. Think: Aesop fable about the competition between the wind and sun to make the old man remove his overcoat.)
Will report re provincial travel and sundry family adventures upon return.

Winter is Great (Number Two)

2009-06-16T15:00:00.005+12:00

I couldn't get to sleep last night. For whatever reason, I am going through a patch where my brain just won't switch off. I heard the writer Kate de Goldi say on the radio this morning that anxiety that keeps you awake at night is a sign of an imaginative mind. All well and good, but what benefit is creative energy to a sleep-deprived brain? The myriad of ideas for stories and poems I conjured up last night, are all gone now.

So I responded to the news R brought in with a cup of tea at 7.00 a.m. that snow had forced schools (as well as the childcare centre where I work) to close for the day, with a whoop of delight.
And promptly fell asleep for a couple more hours.

We haven't really moved from the fireside all day. Presently listening to Emmylou Harris and Linda Ronstadt's CD, 'Tuscon Wall'.

Yep. Winter is great.

Heroes (Number Two)

2009-06-15T20:17:00.004+12:00

I have been a little remiss on the 'Heroes' theme for June ... let's see if I can do something about that.

This is where I was this morning. At a school a little out of town.

Despite appearances, there were children. However, I am sure posting photos of them without parental consent wouldn't be appreciated; so you will just have to take my word for it.

I was there to take a look at the poetry they have been working on for the past few weeks, and also to read them some of my poetry, as well as answer any questions. I had been asked along as their guest, 'real live poet'.

I thoroughly enjoyed my time with these country-school kids. I found them to be very switched on to what poetry is all about. They asked some perceptive questions, such as "What would you like to be doing, if you weren't doing what you're doing now?" (I answered that I would like to be the owner of a bookshop.) And, "How did you find your poet's voice?" "Who influenced you the most as a poet?" (I said, my mother for it was indeed she who got me writing poetry very early on in life.)

Of course they were being taught by a gifted teacher who knew what she was doing. The whole impression was of a quiet, industrious, courteous class where the children were participants as well as the recipients of some fantastic learning.

A class enthusiastic about writing poetry is something to celebrate! (Ten year olds who know what a simile is, as well as how to work the rhythm of a line.)

All heroes in my book. (And I'll include my mother in there as well.)

At Home

2009-06-14T19:47:00.011+12:00

I'm not sure what bird this is - I don't want to get into trouble with Dinzie! (who I am indebted to for identifying any wrongly identified NZ fauna on this blog) so will say it's probably a goldfinch. If it is indeed a goldfinch, I will be happy to report this to Forest and Bird, who are wanting members to note the birds that visit our backyards.

S & E's wedding was in January. Since then, remnants of the bouquet have been quietly fading and drying out into shells of themselves, all the light and life that they contained when in full bloom, reduced to a paper-thin essence.

Yesterday the beach looked resplendent under clear blue, winter skies.

Our house is a very, very fine house ...

with two cats in the yard ...

I love the way these wooden bungalows in Crest Street line up.

And this is where R spends a lot of time, de-stressing after a day (or week) at work.

Winter is Great

2009-06-07T03:19:00.006+12:00

Saturday's weather was horridible!

And it was good that it was horridible. I like horridible weather. Of course no-one believes me, but it's true. Winter has really always been my secret, favourite season.
Despite the bitter winds outside, our house was cosy-warm and so I sat and wrote. All day.
I wrote poetry. I would have liked to have written of the moment, but the past kept hauling me back to address some issues.
When R got back from his solitary perambulations of inside urban spaces; such as the Museum (he was a bit lost because golf had been put off for the day) I had to drag myself back from the 1960s so that he had some companionship.

Outside, behind our house, the tops of large pines and eucalyptus trees shimmied in the wind. Tucked in behind a hill, we're sheltered from the southerlies

and attracted by the shelter and various, berried shrubs and trees, birds spent the day leaping and springing from branch to branch. Mostly bellbirds, waxeyes and chaffinches.

I've set out a pie-dish with sugar water for them. So far they haven't discovered it, but once they do, I'm sure they'll make it known to all and sundry in birdworld that it's party time at our place.

Two Heroes

2009-06-05T20:52:00.027+12:00

The June NaBloWriMo theme is Heroes. When I'm asked to think of personal heroes off the cuff (as I have been on occasion) I never seem to be able to come up with many at all. Certainly not 30.
But I've decided to give it a go, although I won't be posting every day, but will attempt through the month of June to mention a few of my heroes.
I feel compelled to start with my own family. I think of my great-great-grandparents, how they left their own countries and its familiarity for an uncomfortable journey by ship to an unknown country on the other side of the world. Or of my Maori ancestors centuries before that, who left Hawaiki by canoe to make their migratory journey to Aotearoa.
And even farther back, the hordes of ancestors who lived their daily life of ordinary toil, who died having babies or fighting wars. (Some of my ancestors most likely fighting each other, such are the peculiarities of history.) It is a little naive to call them all heroes, because there would be a fair share of fools, scoundrels and cowards among them.
I need to go back to the ones I knew a little more personally. I have heard very little about my great-grandfathers, but have been told a little more (although sadly still not a lot) about two of my great-grandmothers; my mother's maternal grandmother, Alison Butler (nee Riddell) and my father's maternal grandmother, Agnes Reid (nee Barlow). Both fairly ordinary woman I suppose in the eyes of the world, but with admirable spirits. Alison, a Presbyterian, whose parents came from Peebles, Scotland. Agnes, a Roman Catholic, who came from Northern Ireland.
Alison had three sons and a daughter (my Nana.) Her husband (a Cockney named Joseph) died when Nana was three years old. Later she lost two sons in the First World War. She lived a long, quiet, dignified life, spending her last few years in her daughter's home. Her grandchildren remember a calm, church-going woman with a lovely face and long, silver hair; a good woman, a good mother, a good grandmother. Patient, principled and beloved by those close to her, the portrait of her on my auntie's wall shows that she retained her beauty well into old age.
Agnes (married to Michael from Derry) bore eleven daughters and one son (or maybe two, I'm a little hazy on this.) One story my Dad remembered was when the grandchildren were asked to pick up grass clippings after the long lawns had been mowed (by scythe.) They were told that they would be paid by the sackful. They thought this was going to be really easy money. However their hope quickly turned to despair, as each time they brought a sack of fluffed-up grass to her for the money, Granny Reid would press it down, packing it in tighter, saying, "Just a little bit more my jewels, just a little bit more." She and Michael made one return trip back to Ireland in 1911. Agnes visited her village in Ireland (Aghadowey, I believe) where it is rumoured she divined water for a well and became more famous than Lloyd George. (Or so she said when she got back to NZ.)

Excuse the Metaphors

2009-06-02T22:16:00.010+12:00

I thought this piece of driftwood that I spotted on Saturday, looked just like some weird, alien sunbather.

Good news today - a poem of mine has been accepted for the on-line magazine, Qarrtsiluni.

The Introductory piece by Anna Dickie for the June - August edition (with its theme of Economy) is up now and features a place called Tilting. Yep. Tilting. Don't you just love the idea of living in a place called Tilting? I know I do.

***

We went for a bit of a walk tonight to help Robert's back after a day of sitting at work. The evening was cold and clear, and the stars were out. We looked for the Southern Cross and found it directly overhead, like a centre seam in a knitted hat. We had to tilt (there's that word again) our heads right back to see it. And it was perfect. Just sitting there. Pointing out.

This is what I feel like in the middle of a working week. A little, round, stubby log stranded at low tide with a long wait ahead of me before the next high tide comes to float me away.

***

Foaming Ocean

2009-05-30T17:03:00.008+12:00

Despite appearances, after descending the sand-dunes and hitting the beach itself, heading into the wind was a little bitter. I was forced to shove my hands into my pockets, pull my woolly hat farther down over my ears and put my head down against the sting of drifting tails of dry sand that whipped along the damper sand, like wreathes of smoke.
However, after turning to head the other way, with the wind at my back, things were altogether different. My hands warmed-up and could emerge from my pockets. With the wind at my back, I started to enjoy the sight of foam draped against wood and kelp,

of sunlight on a patchwork of hills

and all the tiny, sand drawings and sculptures where the wind and sand had played with the detritus left behind from a high tide.

And all the while, at my side, the huge, roaring waves kept within their boundary,

as the ocean like a wild dog foaming at the mouth, strained and bayed against the chains of sky and earth that keep it tethered.

Alas A Lack

2009-05-26T21:12:00.018+12:00

The photos featured this post are from my library of images, so if you think you've seen them somewhere before, you have - right here. When I got out of our staff meeting tonight, a frosty mist was swirling above the streetlight. We could feel the frost clenching its fist tight around the city, promising (or threatening) an icy start to the day tomorrow.

I'm looking forward to going to a play at The Playhouse tomorrow. Some very good friends of ours, Burt and Liz Nisbet, are in the play running there at the moment. The play, written by JB Priestly, is called, 'When We Are Married' and is meant to be very funny. It is a production being put on in celebration of Dunedin Repertory Society's 75th anniversary. Our friends were very active in Dunedin's vibrant world of theatre and music in the late sixties - we have heard many a tale of those heady days.
(Review of tomorrow night's production will follow anon.)

***

Coming up in Dunedin is another Pecha Kulcha night on June 10th at the Art School. Should be a fascinating entertaining evening. It is Dunedin's second such event. The first one I reviewed here.
PECHA KUCHA NIGHT DUNEDIN #2
Wednesday 10 June, 2009
Doors open 7.30pm, start 8.20pm
Lecture room P152 (new building), Ground floor. Enter off Riego Street.
School of Art, Otago Polytechnic

***

I see the Port Chalmers poetry reading sessions have come to an end. A shame it has had to stop as I know its existence was appreciated. A friend and I always meant to go and check it out, but somehow never quite made it out there.

***

Now that that Poetry reading event has ended, I get the impression that Poetry Reading events in Dunedin are a little thin on the ground now. It might be that I am just right out of the loop; there could be a secret, pulsing, fiery, little heart of Poetry going on somewhere in the basement of some hotel. But, sadly, I don't think this is the case.
This present dearth is a bit different to the past when we had a few young, energetic, university-driven generators who were right into the world of poetry; organising, leading and pumping out regular poetry reading events. Those were the days. I am talking the mid-to-late 90s and early on into the twenty-first century when Nick Ascroft, Richard Reeve, James Saville-Smith et al. were the drivers, ably supported by local celebs. such as Jenny Powell, Claire Beynon, John Dolan, Diane Brown, David Eggleton, Katherine Liddy, Peter Olds, Sue Wootton, Martha Morseth, David Karena-Holmes, Elizabeth Isichei, Nicholas Reid, Emma Neale ... and many others ... as well as local eccentrics, ravers and other assorteds. Some of the Burns Fellows during their year in Dunedin, supported these nights as well ... I can think of James Norcliff and Alison Wong (and there were probably no doubt others I've forgotten ..)
For a time too we had running alongside these readings, the Martha Morseth-driven 'Upfront' poetry readings, allowing some quieter poets to emerge and take the spotlight, gaining confidence and rightful acclaim.
And we have recently had the Circadian Rhythm poetry readings run by Poppy Braithwaite and the Octagon Collective, but I haven't heard about any events planned for this year. For whatever reason, we've hit a bit of a slump. That's okay ... a resurgence will erupt somewhere sometime I am sure of it. Dunedin and poetry go together and there are certainly many poets residing here. Let's hope that if they have gone underground, they are at least writing, ready to emerge into the spotlight to reveal all. When the time is right.

***

'The Sky Was A Petrifying Blue' *

2009-05-23T09:54:00.021+12:00

* the title for this post is taken from the song 'Maize Stalk Drinking Blood' by The Mountain Goats. (Lyrics by John Darnielle.)

This photo was taken by me on the Otago Peninsula two years ago, about the same time of year and in similar weather to today's.

As I write this, the rain falls mercilessly on to our iron roof, echoing in our wood burner's free-standing, metal chimney and only ever drowned out by the rumble of the electric jug when I switch it on.
And I seem to be switching the jug on at regular intervals, either for a cup of tea or for water for the hot water bottle Robert applies to his bad back. Today sees an unusual ocurrence, my husband bed-ridden, cut down by cruel, leg-buckling spasms.
Robert could never be accused of being part of the 'Man Flu' Brigade'. He's in some other flotilla altogether, probabaly called 'Silent Sufferers' who never take days off work and never suffer from a cold (or if they do have what the rest of the world would call a cold, they pronounce it as something to ignore along with the headache they'd never take medication for.) In their manual of written instructions, Positive Thinking and Reason will defeat any bacterial or viral assault.
Today though, his painful back has temporarily pummeled any positivism and reason into a pulp of screaming nerves. So, anti-inflams. have been seconded to come to the rescue. Let's see if we can get him to a state where he can at least can make it into the car to get to the physio. without the aid of an ambulance.

***
The only things happy about this rain are the ferns. Whenever I make a pot of tea, or fill up the hot water bottle, I look out the kitchen window and see them dancing.

***
I feel less grumpy now that it is the weekend and no more work for me until Tuesday. Even a wet Saturday and a disabled husband isn't bringing me down. I am reading Huberta Hellendoorn's book and loving her voice in my ear as she describes her daughter's upbringing. It is both a biography and an autobiography rolled into one with delicious charm. I am thoroughly enjoying this window on to the life of a remarkable, gifted woman and her equally remarkable and gifted daughter. Addressing her daughter Miriam, the book tells of the development of a daughter's artisitc talent and achievements from the point of view of a proud and devoted mother. Of course there is so much more that Huberta describes and relates as well; for example what it was like to emigrate in the 1960s from your own country (Holland) to a foreign country (New Zealand.) I find that I am absorbed by every aspect that is brought into this story. The title of the book, 'Madonna in a Suitcase', refers to the painting by Miriam as featured on the book's cover.

***
This photo was taken on the way down to Invercargill. It was taken somewhere between Clinton and Gore. (The reference to US politics has been duly noted, with an official road-sign stating: 'Gore-Clinton Highway.') I took the photo because the Hokonui Hills, very familiar to me, by some trick of sky and cloud appeared on that day to be surrounded by the sea. A fantastic notion indeed. (And yet ... not so much, as due to an ancient heave up out of the sea, petrified seashells have been found on these hills many kilometers inland from the nearest coast.)

I enjoy fantastical poetry when written by other poets. I am even envious of poets who can write this way. I could write a poem about something as eternally expansive as the universe, or about some historical event; the day in the life of a woolly mammoth, for example; and one day I probably will. But being me, even though the boders of time and/or space have been effortlessly tapped and widened, for the poem to have a warm centre I would still have to write it within the framework of reality and by the 'rules' of poetry. Otherwise, when I apply my own intuitive temperature gague to it, the poem would feel remote and icy-cool. But that's just me and how my writing 'neurons' operate. I can't speak for anyone else.
I feel all holds are off when I am writing prose, and I feel restricted when I am writing poetry. Don't get me wrong, poetry is no god. It is just another way of writing. I prefer not to get too precious about it. It doesn't need an ivory tower. Make it too heavenly, and it's of no earthly good.

***
Lyrics to Maize Stalk Drinking Blood :
by John Darnielle

lying in the hot sun today
watching the clouds run away
thought a little while about you
the sky was a petrifying blue
and while the geese flew past
for no reason at all
i let the sky fall
this is an empty country, and i am the king
and i should not be allowed to touch anything

i picked myself up off the ground
shook the grass from my hair and i
walked around
felt the warm sun in my eye
strangers were passing by
i shinnied up the black walnut tree
let the hard blue sky fall right through me
and i saw the sad young cardinals, trying to sing
and i should not be allowed to touch anything
[ Maize Stalk Drinking Blood Lyrics on http://www.lyricsmania.com/ ]

Call It A Crisis Of Confidence, or Just a Bad Day At Work

2009-05-21T23:06:00.010+12:00

Okay I am going to moan. I am sick of being nice. In my job you have to be nice to people who don't deserve it. You are not allowed to snap back at them when they snap at you. I am talking about parents of young children here. It gets a little depressing being snarled at by ungrateful parents of upset children you have been holding until your arms ache, whose noses you have wiped countless times, whose nappies you have changed and who you have generally been a drudge for, got down and dirty for ... To have parents swan in in their clean, business clothes (power-dressed to the hilt) with high-heeled. clacking boots and complain because their kid's sock has gone missing is, quite frankly, insulting. Yes parents, I am talking about you - how about saying for once, 'Hey, thanks for looking after my child today and giving him/her the love and attention I wasn't able to give them. Oh, so what if he's looking a little unkempt, and ha-ha, look he's even got the wrong top on - but heck, what does that matter when you have provided affection, fun and safety and what's more sweated and worked yourself into a stress headache to provide it, on top of sacraficing your own sense of decorum, value and prestige in an understaffed centre without enough money for resources?' Hey parents!? Hello! Are you listening? Consider it from our p.o.v. for a moment. How about when you arrive to pick up your child, instead of the first words being 'where' or 'how many' or 'did he/she', let them be, 'thank you' ? A little radical I know. But how hard is it? (Note: New Zealanders are the worst affirmers on this planet.)

***
And now I'll wear my other hat ... but still feeling a little grumpy ...

When I won the Jessie McKay Prize for Best First Book of Poetry at the Montana NZ Book Awards in 2003, it was indeed thrilling. Glenn Colquhoun (a previous winner) told me that many doors would open ... Ummm ... yes? Is that so? Have yet to feel the draught.
I have poems I post on-line here (and in my poetry blog.) Other poems (ones I want to be considered for publication elsewhere) I keep back, because I am still unclear as to whether posting poems on-line is considered as publication per se. Usually after writing a particularly satisfying (imho) poem, I resist the temptation to show off my latest pride and joy, because maybe I can't truthfully enter or post it off elsewhere as 'unpublished'. Consequently I post poems here that I am fond of, rather than ones I consider 'best'.
Anyway, sometimes I am tempted to give up writing poetry and just stick to prose. A friend said that when he stopped writing poetry - and as far as I know he has written only prose for the past five years or so - it felt like he'd got rid of a heavy backpack. I know what he means. Poetry can feel like a weight - you can't fob or fudge, or expand, with poetry; whereas with prose you can fudge and fob and expand and wheel and whirl and dance all you like really. Think about it.

But enough of inarticulate, scattered thoughts from a non-intellectual ignoramus. Here is a poem I wrote about poetry. It's a poem I won't send out anywhere else, so I have no qualms about posting it here. I would have liked to have included it in my second collection, 'made for weather'. I would have used it as a kind of foreword, but at the time I wasn't feeling that confident about my ideas. However for my next collection (and when will that be? Maybe never ... ) I want it there; front pew; because it pretty much sums up my relationship with this thing called poetry.

behind my eyes

Poetry alone
tugs at my brain
with its seed-cracking beak.

It returns to me
views simple and unregarded.

It asks in tones clearer
than human speech, Who am I?

On wings coloured underneath it flies
to roost behind my eyes
in all its pandemonium.

Kay McKenzie Cooke

Inside Knowledge

2009-05-19T21:15:00.007+12:00

We spent six weeks in February and March learning a little Japanese for two hours every Wednesday night. This is in readiness for our trip over to Japan later on this year. It was just a smattering, but to me it felt like I was now on the inside of the door rather than standing outside 'in the dark'.
Now we have to make sure we brush up on it a little nearer the time of our departure. Already it seems I have forgotten most of what we learned.

Japanese Evening Class

Give each vowel
its own emphasis
and sense of importance.
Don’t forget suffixes
and prefixes.

It’s very simple.
Very complicated.
Sometimes funny. For example
the word for potty,
is omaru.*

But at least
I am now on the inside
with my head full of the difference
and holding in both hands
(the Japanese way)

language’s twisted skein.
The one that is beginning
to unravel in order
for my clumsy fingers
to wind it up again

into tidy hanks.
Strange words, puzzling
sentence orders, run to me,
beg to be remembered
and (quickly, quickly) gathered in.

Kay McKenzie Cooke

* In NZ, there is a town called Oamaru.

Afterthoughts

2009-05-18T21:34:00.011+12:00

A while ago now I had an interview for a new job. I didn't get the job but did write a poem.

there is no spring
(in response to a bad interview)

Bad answers
to dull questions thud
on to the concrete slabs

of your eyes
where there is no spring.
You have decided I will not do.

But that’s okay, I walk away
getting my teeth into
the wind and rain, happy

as an unopened crab
still full
of its own sweet meat.

Kay McKenzie Cooke

A Breath Away

2009-05-16T20:04:00.002+12:00

Fallen berries from an over-reaching branch of our strawberry tree. Each year it creeps farther and farther out over our back lawn. A few of the trees around here are doing that. Growing. We have lived here twelve years now, in a house surrounded by trees which have largely been left to do their own thing. We are in serious need of some arbour rescue.

The autumn colours have peaked and are now receding as the leaves drop. The cracked-wax look of bare twigs against winter's taupe, is just a breath away.

Book Sale

2009-05-16T17:10:00.029+12:00

I managed to get to the annual 24-hour Regent Theatre Book Sale ... proceeds go to the on-going restoration and upkeep of the theatre. Built in 1928, it has survived any threat to be knocked down and is now in good going order again, thanks to the loving care of dedicated supporters and volunteers.
The book sale runs from lunch-time Friday through to lunch-time Saturday, with local singers and musicians providing free entertainment.
This year I was only able to pop in for the blink of an eye, but even so snaffled from the hard-backed section, Anya Seton's 'Katherine', a Margaret Forster (one of my favourite English writers,) a water-stained, Frances Hodgson Burnett's,'The Secret Garden' (with a name pencilled in child's handwriting on the inside cover, along with the date 1956) and a book I've never heard of before, but grabbed because I liked the title; 'Beach Music,' by Pat Conroy. (After some internet research I have learned that he is an American writer who has written a lot of books, including 'The Prince of Tides' and 'The Great Santini.')

All books on the ground floor are priced at only a dollar each. Some people arrive armed with cardboard cartons to fill up. And why not?
When I bought my books a woman volunteer commented favourably on my scarf and asked me if I'd knitted it.

"Oh this is going to be one of those women's conversations isn't it?" said the man who was wrapping up my books in newspaper.
"No," said the woman working next to him, "It's a person's conversation."
I liked her face; it was an attractive, intelligent, middle-aged face.
"What is it about women and knitting?" the man said, undeterred by any women's lib. jibes. (Or maybe he was just thick. Okay, good-natured.)
"Women have been knitting since the guillotine, haven't they?" he continued in his jolly, good-natured way. When a band of volunteers work together - especially for twenty-four hours straight - no doubt you get this good-natured banter thing going on.
I wouldn't be surprised if my mouth dropped open at that stage. And in that manner of the brain going off on to its own tangents, subliminal thoughts sparked ...
What?! Isn't it more a case of women knitting since the dawn of time?
I didn't know people still did that - link the French Revolution and the guillotine with the act of knitting?
Is this a case of knitting giving a bad name to the guillotine, or the guillotine giving a bad name to knitting?
Is knitting going to be forever linked with the mental image of cackling, old women out having a good time?
Hey! Wouldn't it be something to knit a jersey with a picture of a guillotine on it?
Then the man remembered a fonder connection of women and knitting.
"It was great in Italy when my wife and I were over there, seeing women sitting down by the harbour knitting," he said. I swear a dreamy look - even admiring - came into his eyes.
I was feeling a little bamboozled because between all his comments, some other volunteer came up and said she was off for a coffee as she had a headache and needed sugar and the intelligent woman who seemed a little mesmerised by my scarf, continued to ask me several questions about how I got all the colours into it, what stitch it was knitted in, how I'd bordered it, how I'd managed to hide all the knots. However, I was able to do it all - answer the woman's questions, field the man's interruptions, pay for the books and at the same time note any subliminal thoughts. I believe it's called multi-tasking. Something women have been doing since the guillotine ... I mean, the dawn of time.

Getting It Down

2009-05-14T20:20:00.014+12:00

I've been writing more these past few weeks than I have for a couple of years now. Dropping down to a four-day working week has made the difference, giving me more time. A whole day free of any distraction, has kick started me into the rhythm of writing and owning the focus and concentration that it takes to sit down, and write.
I find this day's writing effort builds up a momentum, a bit like a large wave, that overlaps into other days of the week making me more inclined to grab other spare moments available to write.
I know I need to test the writing. So I send it out. This is also something I haven't done a great deal of in the past few years. It's a bit like starting again, but this time with a difference. I feel more relaxed about any outcomes. There's a certain ... hmmm ... nonchalance, I guess. (One dictionary definition of that word is: 'having an air of easy unconcern or indifference.') I don't really care whether the work I am sending out is accepted for publication or not. At the moment it just feels like I am 'playing about' with ideas for short stories, long poems; maybe even back stories for a novel. Getting down to writing and getting the writing down.

Awards

2009-05-09T20:32:00.013+12:00

1. Post the award on your blog and link to the person who gave you the award.

That would be the Watermaid. Thanks Carol.

2. List seven things you love.

(I decided not to state the obvious like husband, family, God and country ... and choose with wild random and/or abandon just a few from a very long list.)

... wild weather, bodies of water, mountains, apples, stone, coloured glass, the colour blue ...

3. Pass it on! List seven blogs you love and let those people know you’ve given them the award.

Barbara's bleeugh!
Still Standing On Her Head
Mountain to the Sea
Just Wandering Through My 40's
Weekly Grind
Accept All Offerings
Under the Microscope

***

Hangout

2009-05-07T19:01:00.008+12:00

Dunedin's painted bus shelters catch the eye and are much photographed. These are two that I passed today on a walk along the harbour at Vauxhall. Most of the shelters were painted by John Noakes. (This link's sidebar takes you to more of his bus-shelter art. Sadly he died in 2006, aged 67 years old.) It's a wonderful thing that his art lives on for a bit longer on many bus-shelters, and that his original idea to paint the shelters is now being upheld as a tradition. I don't know if these shelters I saw today are of John Noakes' design, because of course as the original murals become faded they are re-touched/re-done. But I trust the original spirit that the shelters were painted in is being kept in mind by the artists.

***

You used to be able to walk right out along this little pier, but I noticed today that it had one side missing and I didn't trust myself to walk safely all the way to the end. Besides, at the end of the rail there were was a hangout (which is the official collective noun, I looked it up!) of shags and it would have been very rude of me to disturb them.

***

Startlement

2009-05-05T22:44:00.003+12:00

I was woken this morning by the phone. It startled me from a deep sleep. It was my boss asking me did I realise that I was starting at 8.30 this morning and that it was now 8.45? I didn't realise how reliant I was on R (who was away last night and today) to wake me up (he's far better than I am at this going to sleep and getting up at a reasonable hour business, and I tend to just follow in his very reliable wake - excuse pun.)
In my panicked state I tried to do all the preparation for work in fifteen minutes that it normally takes me an hour to do, and realised as I did so that I hadn't experienced such a soup of disorientation and embarrassment since probably high school - though come to think of it, Mum wouldn't have let me sleep in and arrive at school late. So maybe it's more a memory of me starting out on my independent life, and failing at times, as a tertiary student. Oh well, I guess it gave me a taste again of being young and disorganised, forgetful and irresponsible, which is a change from what is now the staid, habitual routine of the disciplined, responsible organised life of a middle-aged woman.

Lately I have been writing a lot of poetry and short stories, which is making me feel like a real writer (something that has eluded me somewhat these past couple of years) even if slightly foggy and 'out of it' (hence I guess the sleeping in.) The writing act feels fresh and exciting again. ('Blackbird has spoken'.)

When I got home from work I went for a walk. The early evening stillness had settled under a grey-sky calm. Very Dunedin. Very beautiful.

Not Much Poetry-Writing Today, But ...

2009-04-27T22:13:00.022+12:00

... but look who happened along on Saturday.

See, my teeth are as sharp as your teeth.

See, I am much taller than you are.

What speed limit?

***
On Sunday I wrote a poem to add to my increasing file of '09 poems (much bigger already than my '08 poetry file. For me '08 was not a great poetry-writing year. I think I was more into writing short stories.)

***
And today ...

According to Becky, Ron McLarty is a writer worth checking out, and because Becky is cool and as sardonic as hell and I put great stock in what she thinks, I did - all three of his books from the library.

***
And today ...

I finally caved in to my yearly, autumn urge and bought wool and a knitting pattern ... and now my itching, knitting-happy fingers are glad little digits. A striped, hooded jacket for a baby size 0 - 3 months coming up.

One of the colours for the stripes is a butternut yellow - I wonder if Dinzie's 'Day of the Pumpkin' influenced my choice?

***
... and had a coffee with a friend. We looked at photos she had on her laptop. Because we were enjoying the sun at an outside table, we had to peer hard, trying to screen out the bright light.
After that I took a bus to the Warehouse and downloaded photos of S&E's wedding in January. How good to feel the weight of actual photos in my hands. But I do miss having the negatives. Nothing like a good negative.

***
... then walked home, sweating in the heat. I felt like a loaded down pack horse I had so much to carry - I had taken all my Grandma Brag Books to show my friend and those three, hard-backed McLarty books didn't help.

***

The weather lately has been warm and deep. As if autumn's full of the peace that comes before time runs out. I remind myself not to fret about things (like staff meetings and long, grey days) that haven't happened yet.

***
Our Great-Aunt clock has just chimed midnight.
Today is now officially over.
Long live tomorrow.

***