For Margaret

As the clock ticks towards midnight,
I do not want to take on tomorrow;
for then, I have no choice but to say:
"Margaret died yesterday".
Already, I've lived one day without her.

Died, passed away, passed over, gave up the ghost;
I prefer the German verschwindet, disappeared.
Yesterday, Margaret disappeared,
and for my remaining tomorrows
I will play hide and seek with her,
till the tomorrow when I disappear,
and you'll be the ones searching.

Maybe

Today the wind harp was singing;
at times a chord, at others a ripple
and great long silences.
My inner self resonates
in very much the same way.
Yes: and I feel connected;
No: a black fog swirls around me;
Maybe: an endless waiting.
But the harp is governed
by the wind, which, as we are told,
“Like the Spirit, bloweth where is listeth.”

And I don't even like Wagner

The Flying Dutchman, at least,
had the hope of a reprieve;
every seven years
he could come ashore
and search for the one true love
who would redeem him.
It's hard to imagine
his desolation at the start of
each seven year stint.

My illness will have a reprieve;a death.
Only I do not know when or where.
Already, it's as if I've spent a lifetime
sailing the open seas,
rounding, again and again,
the Cape of Good Hope.

Waste

Today I bought a hedgehog

for one hundred and twenty dollars;

I don't usually dabble

on the hedgehog market

so I do not know the going price.

I think I've been ripped off.

The hedgehog, without compunction,

had slipped into my drain;

$120 is the call-out price

for a drain-layer.

It wasn't Beatrix Potter;

The hedgehog was in so sorry a state

I couldn't display it as a trophy

on my mantlepiece.

I feel I've been done in the eye.

How much would you pay for a hedgehog?


P.S. The hedgehog in the photo is not Diana's hedgehog. 
Original photo: Creative Commons licence, by Justin and Elise

Theories please!

I am stranded, as night falls

and a thick fog swirls in.

In this nowhere place,

sounds are muffled,

I cannot tell left from right,

forward from backward,

tomorrow from yesterday.

My courage plummets;

I lose touch with my inner self,

no dreams, no poetry.

I cannot fathom whatever,

however this murky black cloud

descends upon me, engulfs me,

and disappears whenever it chooses.

Days, weeks, months later.

I emerge into light.

My artistic self playing tricks?

The dark night of the soul?

M.S. malfunctioning?

Certainly, suicide territory.

My only theory, will sound

gobbledegook.

My inner self wakes up to the fact

that I am missing and reconnects.

I am grounded, feel secure.

Daft, yes, but you come up

with something better.

“About suffering...”

Consider Brueghel's painting

'The Flailing of St. Anthony'.

The suffering saint in the foreground,

in the background, a boy skating

and a man climbing an apple tree.

Man and boy seem oblivious

of the saint's agony;

but he has his back turned from them

as if unaware there are witnesses.

The events are simultaneous,

but not connected in any way.

For many years, I have managed my pain

by remaining outside the painting.

Yes, pain has been at the fore front,

but I have still enjoyed

pond and apple tree,

birds and walnut tree.

But recently the pain levels

have increased;

I have found myself

drawn into the painting,

have identified with the flailed figure

and have ignored everyday life,

which has receded away from me

in both space and time.

I am not happy about this.

My prayer for the future is

that I learn to cope with the pain,

dissociate myself from the painting

and appreciate once more

the ordinariness of life:

a man picking apples,

a boy skating in sunlight.

Scarlet Heels

On Friday evening, 1st June, first day of winter, I had an occasion here: thirty-one people and a ten week old baby, for me, the whole of the evening was counterpointed on the lovely sound of a baby drinking (those of you who came may not want to be bothered reading on, although it's not quite word for word).

My good friend, Rachel McAlpine, is a well known writer and, in fact, her most recent book, Scarlett Heels, has been selected by the New Zealand Society of Authors to represent New Zealand at the forthcoming Frankfurt book fair, at which New Zealand is an honored guest. So, Rachel and I put our heads together and decided she would come down from Wellington and read some of her saucy stories to a group of my friends. Apparently, she tried out different stories that were different from those she had given at previous readings, which made us into successful guinea pigs. She did this with panache, in-dispersing the stories with clips of 50's music to arouse nostalgia in those of us who were the appropriate age.

Now, all that sounds quite easy. But, this is Christchurch! Some six weeks ago, EQC took down the chimney in my living room and in the process broke the gas flue which made the gas heater unusable. I was promised a new heater would be installed on Wednesday the 30th of May and I specially requested a heater with a remote. The technician arrived, removed the old heater which although only 13 years old could not be supplied with a different flue and had therefore become redundant. During this activity he registered that the owner of the house was elderly and disabled; he inquired why we hadn't got a heater with a remote. When we explained he agreed he would contact his manager and was sure something could be done the next day. You will not be surprised to hear that nothing was done the next day. I was faced with 31 people coming to a room with cardboard wadding between us and the outside air and no heater. Fortunately the transference of heat from my wood burner room does operate into the living room, but, otherwise, I will have paid a small fortune in electricity getting the oil filled heaters to warm the room up. It is very large and south facing.

Then we had the problem of aesthetics. There was a large cardboard area where the heater should be. I ceased on the idea of removing my curtain from my warm room which has no door into the kitchen, and, luckily, we found that although the velvet was so heavy that we expected it to immediately fall down, the rail fitted perfectly onto the mantle piece without the velvet falling. The room no longer looked so hideous.

Rachel commented about the stories in that she felt the need for sex to be out in the open a bit more, given that when she was a teenager an older sister got pregnant and the rest of the family (all girls) knew nothing about what was going on.

That made me realise how fortunate I'd been, but fortunate through someone else's misfortune. My mothers older sister married without any knowledge and discovered the facts of life on her wedding night. From odd things she let drop, I think she became frigid. Before my mother married, that Aunt talked to my father and together they told mother what to expect. She was determined that Nick and I wouldn’t suffer the same way, so I was told about sex so young, I cannot remember not knowing. In the same way, I learnt about periods and could recognise immediately what was happening to me unlike a Ukranian friend in Melbourne the same age, who thought she was bleeding to death.

My parents enlightenment went even further. When girls in the 1950's got pregnant, they either had to have the baby adopted out, were forced into shotgun marriages or were taken to a back street abortionist. Not so with me, and anyway I didn't get pregnant. When I was about 16 my father said to me: “If you get into trouble, don't do anything stupid. Come to me, and we will adopt the baby.” Many years later I mentioned this to Mother and she could remember that they had agreed that thats what Dad would say to me.

After the stories and the music my friends had wine, cheese, bikkies and dips. And, would seem had a great time catching up. I admit I was tired and cannot be heard above loud noise so I retreated. But, altogether, it was a fun evening.