Behind the Pallisades
Tonight she throws a glance at me
like Jonathan's arrow
I 'flee', as is appropriate,
to the summit of Maungawhau
inside a cloud
where the rain conceals everything
beyond Dominion Road
and ticks in time
with the cooling of the engine
Later I will go home
spiralling down -
wake her from her dream of:
wrestling with escalators?
or at least the teeth of them?
But for now I turn to my book
another car comes up
circles around and leaves
There's nothing showing tonight
only a light from a lamppost
entering the rain on the windscreen
projecting droplets onto my page
silver cells under a microscope
Later I will go home
spiralling -
lean over her as she opens her eyes
and pulls me down
As I leave
the weather clears
and, like landing at night in a foreign city
grids of lights rise
to bring me in
Gaze to Mt. Albert
If, for some legitimate reason
you're all alone one night
and if you feel like it
drive to the top of Maungawhau
then circle around and drive
straight down
like the character of some other poem
After you cross the cattle-stops
turn left
drive into the parking bay and look
out at the summit of Mt. Albert
It will appear to be a witch
surrounded by torches in the night
and clouds will seem like smoke
from the flames
Then, if you want to,
reverse your gaze and see the
host of lights moving towards you
But hold out - don't confess
because you can always go home,
unlock the door,
turn on the hall light,
and become one of them
Tumbleweed
tumbleweed, if anything-
rootless
one of many quiet voices
bundled across the sands
by a south-westerly of some vigour
and when I think of those forbears
they're not thinking of me
they're just trying to get along -
to get off the bottle
or trying not to get
caught up with drifters
or strung up in old rope
they came
drawing lines across Whatipu beach,
drawing lines all the way to
Karekare
leaving tracks in the sand
rusting rails
and myself,
drawing lines about them.
Questions for the Qoheleth
and vice-versa:
Who can make crooked
what man has straightened?
Who can over-write the lines,
smudge the edges,
break the frames?
Standing in a doorway,
who will not be tempted to say
I am in or I am out?
The more words one uses
the greater is the emptiness of it all;
and where is the advantage to mankind?
One wonders,
braced between these pillars:
birth / death
when both points are in darkness.
Where is the strongman now?
You must try to feel for these markers,
must try to collapse these supports,
yet
The more words one uses
the greater is the emptiness of it all;
and where is the advantage to mankind?
One wonders,
at the supposed tyranny of langue
For example: Who can remove their name?
Or who can 'tip out the water'
without 'filling the glass with air'?
Either way there's oxygen involved
O impotence of mind, in body strong
Speech and silence,
birth and death,
definition and truth,
The rock and the hard place.
And what do we make of our strong hands
when the first
and last thing we need
is someone to bathe us?
