Low wet night,
dripping gutter path,
snail-weather, invisible
to the socked and buttoned,
blanket-draped, who’ve
curtained their day off early,
to sit with the flix, who must
only throw a chewy ball
over the couch repeatedly
to the dog who thinks
everyone’s gathered here
facing the same way
to play fetch.
Tag Archives: poem
I wish
I wish I was in Greenwich Village
reading Macbeth, legs crossed, a glass of wine at my ear.
Or in the Sistine Chapel
seeing Adam raise his dandy arm to bearded God.
Or in front of Socrates proclaiming
the revolution of reason, reaching for his cup.
Or in a Parisian café drinking absinthe
with poets, painters and philosopher junkies
in wrinkled collar shirts.
Or eating fruit with Manet and his companions by a lake.
Or crossing a bridge over the Sumida River in the rain.
Or shopping at Macy’s and seeing Adrian Piper
with WET PAINT on her top.
Or driving a bulldozer for the first time
through the Nevada Desert.
Or side-by-side with children flying their kites
through a hole in the prison wall.
As artists do
it’s the blankness
that
still appears
even
after you’ve filled
all the canvas
which becomes
again
a question
of what to do
which brush to use?
which colour to mix?
how again to fill
the canvas
to link
these next strokes
with the ones
before
to make the composition
work
painting over
and over
the blankness.
Kupe
Moana! It’s me…
I’ve run from Hine-nui-te-pō
to hear the waves break in the twilight morning
and see once more the waka pulled up high
on the beach, their tauihu standing
like warriors, proud amongst the gulls
and scuttling crabs.
I dig in the sand,
two lengths from the great pohutukawa,
until my lonely hands touch what we buried:
the waka huia I carved
with our bodies entwined on every side,
mouths open, tongues hungry.
The edges of the box
have softened over time, but the embers
we placed inside still glow, which we can use
to light again a fire in the dunes
that will burn like the one Ranginui
and Papatūānuku lit in the beginning.
A memory
your summer dress I remember:
orange, green, a touch of turquoise
was it?
how it clashed so madly
with the dull buildings
dulled by a sky-full
of grey clouds
pressing inappropriately
around you
and your smile—dashed off
as you ran past in the light rain
bright as the sound
tyres make
on a smooth wet road.
Catalogue of objects
The handmade espresso cup
is satisfying on my lips
and if I wished
I might imagine the touch
of those classical lips
on the woman’s face, painted
on the cup, quickly, just a few lines
with a thinnish brush.
Once, full-frontal, her nose
a straight line to her brow
between eyes which are dabs of black
run into a wash of sea-green.
The other, her face lying down,
looking over the curved hill
of her shoulder, described
with one stroke.
Knowing
“Poor clay toy creature of Eternity”
– R. A. K. Mason
knowing the way
we didn’t move
knowing how
we didn’t do
knowing less
we pretended more
knowing why
we didn’t try
knowing true
we still lied
knowing what
we didn’t say
knowing when
we didn’t show
knowing where
we searched there.
Notes
Fast ride oil economy collapsing. I’ll have to walk
or saddle a donkey (dung and fun) to petition
Washington: careful of stealth.
An archaeologist’s brush, poetry and Plato:
my understanding of humanity. The Hagia Sophia:
lights you can jump to touch.
No person freed from working for someone else
ever complained―or only about the weather
and marauding armies.
Of Leonard Cohen: he slowed it down―no line
more important than the whole: a sexy prophet;
no time for constitutions.
They would make our world a Venus. Too late,
I’m abandoning the rich―their compliments
and donations―I shall eat my bread
with the class of a peasant. Let words live
for awhile. Domes and colonnades
can fall down as they will.
My miniature Degas
I have a miniature Degas:
a twenty dollar souvenir
from a world that’s far
from this desk, these walls.
There: you could believe
red was revolution,
cadmium yellow truly divine,
and where pale azure
mingling with gold
was a gasp of rapture!
—ah, my miniature Degas,
where are we now?
Vaughan Gunson : Writing 