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LIVING AT A BAD ADDRESS
A Christmas Book
From
Leicester Kyle
Here are a few of my favourite poems from 2004. I don't think any of them have been published; they're not the sort of poems that suit literary journals and are, most of them, written from out of my own experiences and for my own purposes. I hope you enjoy them.
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ON THE EPISTLE
This is a passage from a sermon by Meister Eckhardt, who preached it somewhere around 1320. It is so imaginative, accurate, and so nearly impudent that it captivates me, and I arranged (and slightly edited) it into this poem.
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On the Epistle According To the
Dominican Mass
(Deus pacis dilectionis erit vobiscum)
Princes
who desire
to reserve accommodation at inns
are accustomed
to send messengers on ahead
to make the reservations
These greet the innkeepers
extol their masters
and give assurance
so that their masters
may be honourably
received
This is to be seen
in the Advent
of the Word:
The Angel
came to Mary
and said:
Hail,
thou that art full of grace,
the lord be with thee
and so received
the best accommodation
in the world.
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MY FATEFUL HOUSE
Calliope is the goddess (or 'muse') of epic poetry , and it might seem a coincidence that this house I bought turned out to be in a street named after her. It's no coincidence that I like being in it.
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My Fateful House
They sold it as in Gallipoli St
but it’s Calliope
which they couldn’t say
nor spell
so I’m a poet now
and not a veteran
My life’s gone out of knowing
I thought I knew the necessary
and was to age
as is the custom
out of sight
but now I have to write
and look to see
for I know
but a scrap
a page or two
from the book
and have seen no more
than the kitchen yard
where roses bloom
at the gate
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THE TOWN
Millerton became a bad address when the mine closed down in the 1960s; many of the houses were removed. Those left, including the pubs and the school, became inhabited by hippies. It is much quieter now. About thirty houses remain, hidden in the gathering bush, and there's a population of about forty people.
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The Town
This town has infirmities
She’s old
and she’s poor
She hasn’t the will for treatment
nor the wealth
She doesn’t know what’s wrong with her
she doesn’t like the pain
so she palliates
and hides in the bush
Her past is not a proud one
and she’s never been a looker
but she’s lived
and still lives
at one hundred and ten
gazing out dreamily over the sea
Her past she’s hidden in the trees
in case there’s something to hide
It’s a tale of small heroics
and she’s unconfident
If you find her
you might not like what you see
for age is only noticed
when it’s painted.
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AT SEVENTY
I'm anticipating, as I'm not seventy yet, but this little poem is making the point that growing older is not necessarily disappointing or unpleasant.
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At Seventy
They didn’t say
it would be like this —
that winter would be beautiful.
They spoke a lot of labour,
and the cold,
of the loneliness
of the old.
They didn’t remember the company,
and the clarity
of the light;
the days are long,
but the sun still rises,
and there’s fuel
for the fire at night.
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SYLLABLES
My dog Red, a Millerton mongrel, has been my close companion of the last four years. He knows me so well that we tell each other a great deal with not a word said.
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Syllables
Words of one
as children use
on wet days
words of two
by adolescents
for anger
words of three
by adults
to cogitate
or longer still
in rhetoric
or dense
in philosophy
but wordless
by my dog
whose speaking eyes
and touching tongue tell all
in conversation
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SNOW AFTER RAIN
During this last August the weather gave us a tough time; for most of the month we lived defensively, battered and close to zero. Then, on the morning of the last Sunday, we woke to a light fall of snow. Everything changed.
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Snow After Rain
The storms are a weight
they press from the side
and crush from above
with hail and gale
intent
like enemy
to shatter and remove
they spring
by surprise
at night
they mount
one storm on another
and crescendo
at 2.0
to awake
the lightning threatens instruments
the torrents take the road
there's no sleep
nor peace
until today
when there was snow
then sun upon the snow
clear skies and a drying world
and still
at the last
as if this is the end of it
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PROMENA
Every now and then a word is dragged out of the word bank (where it's been in storage for a time) and put to a more public use. Earlier this year, in the course of Solid Energy's application for a resource consent, this word PROMENA was pushed into my notice. I was interested enough to turn to the dictionary and, from it, to assemble this.
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Promena
pro
before -, in front of -
mena, menae —
small sea fish
Promena
small things before
the lesser
at the front
for courtesy
‘without whose help’
‘special thanks’
‘I particularly’
Errata
Prefaces
Notes etc.
to clear
the way
of prey
for the big fish
Promena
1 sing. pres. imp. act:
(you) GO!
in Latin
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LETTERS FROM HOME
Using e-mail has made me look more closely at the nature of correspondence. E-mail leaves out a lot of the more subtle aspects of communication, particularly nuances, while letters can convey too much. From out of these thoughts this diversion emerged.
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Letters From Home
1.Jim drove through the video shop — in one window, out the other. You have to take a stand, he says. We expect he’ll go to counselling.
2.They put Is on to lithium, and her hair’s falling out. She says she had too much of it but it’s getting into everything. We think it’s psychiatric but the doctor says keep out of the sun.
3.Cess woke up in the blackberry again. This time he’s got a bruise on the knee and doesn’t know where it’s come from.
4.It’s rained a lot and flooded the sceptic tank. Nev’s tried to pump it out but it gets blocked. Gloria says it’ll dry up soon but that’s only hope.
5.The money’s holding out alright. Cess is on the benefit now and that covers the food. Roxy makes a bit from her panel-beating, and Uncle Sim’s board’s a help. We’re not paying the rates.
6.You can have some if you want it, and we go without.
7.We think of you, but not too much in case we worry. Isn’t home good enough? It’s time you got stuck in and got your teeth into something. Other people do.
8.Jennifer pushed Mario down the stairs round the back. He lay there all night and wouldn’t go to the doctor. Netty had to clean up the blood.
9.Joe’s skin has mostly gone; we think it was viburnum.
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10.When are you going to go up north? Town’s alright, but you don’t do much. Aunty May keeps ringing up asking. It’s family. We ought to be able to say.
11.Grandad’s eating funny things, grey mushrooms nettles and stuff. He says they’re good for you, but no-one can tell the difference.
12.Helen came round the other day and told us what to do. Bart said ‘Yes, Prime Minister’.
13.The dog bit a market survey person at the door. She wanted to know what we watched. Julian said ‘The Weather’, but she didn’t have a chance to ask which one.
14.Grandad says you’re not making use of your time. You’ve got to come back, get a job, and raise enough to pay it.
15.There’s no use denying.
16.That’s the way of things, isn’t it. No matter what they do, it’s always the same.
17.Your cousin Jim’s helping with the wash now he’s lost his job at the bank; he says it’s the least he can do, and we think the same, considering.
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A COLLECTIVE TERM
FOR A NATURAL LIFE
At the end of March I attended a reunion at the Ch.Ch. Botanical Gardens. It was a gathering of the apprentices who were there in the 1950s. It was a delightful experience (though for me overshadowed by Anna's death) and this poem came from my attempts to find a collective name for the group.
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A Collective Term For A
Natural Life
Nothing matters
nothing else at all
now
but the past
so we meet
after fifty years of toil soil
and chlorophyll
to reminisce
gardeners all ––
Judy Peter Robert
Barry Graeme Ross Alison
Lynley Doreen Donald Chris
Lorelei and me
In a group
with drinks
and finger food
bound
by occupation
and experience
a Gathering of Gardeners?
(there are Packs of seeds
and Beds of bulbs)
a Bouquet, perhaps?
---too floral
a Graft?
---inimical
a Huddle of Horticulturists?
---verbose
Something oblique that packs a punch
and carries meaning with it —
a Mulch?
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WAITING FOR
THE C.E.O.
Earlier in the year Solid Energy wanted a publicity photo of me with its C.E.O. Don Elder, and I was asked to meet him after a staff meeting. A delay meant that I had to wait outside with his miners and mine-workers, many of whom regard me as a radical greeney trouble-maker.
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Waiting For The C.E.O.
He’s been delayed —
there’s trouble down south;
at Spring Creek there are questions,
so we wait,
I in my truck,
the miners at the car park over the road
where they lounge in their overalls
against the bonnets of their utes,
trying to make point to this pointless time,
talking small to pass it.
They’re here for his presentation:
‘Earning Our Right to Mine’.
‘Mining is a temporary use of the land,
but a permanent use of non-renewable resources’.
they’re to be told,
before they excavate.
I’m here to be photographed with him,
I, who have written to the paper,
the government,
protested in the streets,
who have threatened their jobs,
they say;
I’m to be photographed with their boss.
We’re both uneasy,
I at their resentment,
they at my threat,
but in this we are one:
there’s the road between us
and we long to move on,
each to our work:
theirs at the mine,
mine at the inexpressible.
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CHANGING PLANES
This incident happened on my way back from Anna's funeral, early in March. I was at Wellington, filing onto the plane to Nelson, and I stepped aside to check on her cat, whom I was bringing home with me. At that moment the incident seemed quite normal, and it wasn't until I was seated in the plane that I realised it.
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Changing Planes
We wait in the annex
for the small plane to leave
the flight will be short
I read
for distraction
from the grief of the day
until the call comes to board
we walk in single file
curving round the tail wing
and then the baggage cart
Mine is there
and the cat
hers which I'm taking home
I stop to give it comfort
The intercom in the cabin speaks
of airport trivia
in a tinny voice
and then her voice
her restless soul in a living voice
two words of thanks
from my care
resonant from death
through this instrument of advice
She comes to mind —
her long cool self
her grace and wit
her savage end
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and as I board
I doubt the flight —
what from
where to in purpose?
can such an end
be ended?
She's taken lead
she whom I made
confined me in alien space
fixed by my love
cowed by her violence
The world is overwhelmed
axis and angle turned about
I'm her father no more
but her survivor
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AT A DoC DINNER
During the winter Carol and I were invited to a dinner in Westport, presented to farewell the senior DoC officer, who was leaving Buller. At its end, when thanks were given, the hunters were thanked for supplying the meat; this struck me as something I would not hear anywhere else.
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At A DoC Dinner
and
thanks to the Hunters
You took the trouble
to stalk for a day
in the Blackburn
(where Sticherus carpets
the forest floor)
for the pork
for the roast
Three days
you spent
three days in the rain
on the Thousand Acre Plateau
(where the Gentians bloom
at this time of the year)
for the goat
for the kebabs
And the day
you went
in time for the dawn
on Mt. William
hopping the rocks
(and the Chionochloa
that grows there)
for the hare
for the casserole
Two days
you tramped
two days in the frost
up the Four Mile
(where the Winter Rata’s red now)
for the deer
for the pie
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Your labour’s long
your skills are great
For these
and your provisions
we thank you
It is your giving
and our receiving
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SELLING DORIS
After yet another guest fell off my lavatory steps, I decided it was time to obtain an indoor flush toilet. If this was to be done without indebtedness, I had to sell something, so I decided to sell a painting. It was sold for $25,000, which also greatly lessened my mortgage.
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Selling Doris
Once mid-day's past
it's late afternoon,
in Christchurch
on a day like this,
of cold and mist.
I'm sad.
I'm selling Doris,
mine since '72,
one more parting
in a year of loss,
and the gallery's keen:
Doris Lusk (1916-1990)
Golden Hill, near Kurow
oil on Hardboard
600 x 825 mm
signed and dated lower right
inscribed verso — top right:
GOLDEN HILL, NEAR KUROW
Doris Lusk, Feb-March 1972
(Black Marker: Artist's Hand)
I'm selling for gain,
to pay the mortgage
and for an indoor loo,
unworthy,
perhaps,
but required,
I get comfort in my wilderness,
someone else gets art.
I'm sorry,
Doris,
I love you,
and you'll understand —
you grew old.
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HEAD DEATH
CYCLED ALONG
A poem I was reading — by the American poet Louis Zukofsky — so took my imagination that this play grew out of it. What it means doesn't much matter; it's written for the sound of the words.
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Head Death Cycled Along
one of those times
nothing after it
can be
it never is
though this is different
like if Beethoven had —
been whistling Mozart when —
this is crux
with life-change in it
nonchalant
on a cycle
death and romance
was was whistling when
along came terror
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AND LIKE THE
STARS
The glow-worms on the cliffs by my creek provoke comparison with the night sky; viewing them one night caused this run-away sequence of thoughts.
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And Like The Stars
They’re out
It’s a good season
There’s more this year
and they’re fat
You can tell by their light —
it’s warm
not like the glow-worms
in the creek below
which are neon in their firmament
You wonder where they breed —
in this galaxy
or somewhere prepared
out of space
Imagine it —
a nursery
for meteors moons and asteroids
a preparatory place
for planets
a park perhaps
for stars
and a sweet broad champagne
fenced
for copulating comets
Think of it
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HE WENT THERE
YAWNING
This is about a misadventure that put me into the local paper. It happened on a bright afternoon. I was bored, so I decided to cross the creek and fell a few of my poplar trees for firewood. A three hour power cut was the result.
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He went there yawning
It was a sunny day
but empty
I am a man
he thought
I do big things
So he took his saw
and went across the river
to the trees
to fell a tree
for firing
for the winter
He had wedges and ropes
and the axe as well
but the tree fell in the wind
It rolled as it fell
from top to top
and pivoted
to the wires
with smoke
and a hoot —
the predatory breath
of death
He was ashamed
He wanted to hide
then thought to himself —
It’s a foolish mistake
but a big one
Someone came running
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© L. Kyle 2004
Further copies of this booklet may be obtained from: L. Kyle
P.O. Box 367
Westport, Buller.
lkyle@netaccess.co.nz
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A Christmas Book
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Panic Poems
Most of my neighbours have come here for freedom and peace. No human community, however, can fully permit either of these qualities, and limits access to them. Even here, in such a remote community as this, we have to adjust to the proximity of other peoples' dogs, machinery , use of water, fire, noise, and all this amidst our own struggles for survival against the eccentricities of an infringing wilderness.
These poems arose from my own adjustments to life in a very small isolated community, in which I've now lived for six years. In spite of these trials recorded here, I wouldn't leave it for anything.
Leicester Kyle,
Millerton.
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1.
There’s no use explaining
As Yeats said:
To have too many reasons
is to be not quite well-born
And there’s the sharper point —
that to explain myself
is to bore
I’ll live on amiably
me and my dog
shall mow the lawns
as proof of life
paint the house
for responsibility
grow a bit of pot
to be one of the boys
get some mail
have a visitor or two
for the connection
lest it be thought
that my existence
is not as others are
my generation
spontaneous
You must have antecedents and connections, be traceable, else they’ll think you’re out of Auckland, which is almost as unpleasant as the old belief that life bred spontaneously from dung-heaps. Aucklanders know neither fire nor weather, and are useless for anything but driving on motorways and making a certain type of money.
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2.
That I am not too well
must be pretended
and be seen
To be fit at my age
is to boast
My liver must be spongiform
memory lost in the shorter term
there must be aches and pains
from nights spent drunk in
in the blackberry
Halt and weary I must be
as I answer the knock
at the door
lest I condemn my neighbours
It must be clear
to all who call
that I who live here
am of the earth
we live in
When you are an older-type person you must appear to show your age, else those who are younger, and who for reason of self-indulgence are not so fit, will take your exuberance as a staged and personal reflection upon them.
I, to avoid such suspicion, frequently and tactfully insinuate both the shortness of my days and of my breath, and hint at maladies more threatening than my neighbours’.
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3.
At the end of every day
I kneel beside my bed
and pray
Not for any thing
not grace nor gift
but that there be no
empty space
and eternity be peopled
invisibly
who need not be addressed
and are anonymous
who have no need of me
but are there
at that last lonely choice
that there be company
indigenous
and for me
There is an ironic reasonableness in the concept of angels. Somewhere, in the whole vastness of space, and in the infinite complexity of space-time continua, the is a community of beings who will accept me.
They needn’t love me like me nor know me, but at least they will let me join, with no suspicion that I be from Auckland.
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4.
The sore rewards of insight
In which I waver
as if there is a need for pain
a pleasure in it
That they won’t ring
Though I am my own man
and adult
on my own feet and no
dependent
I tell myself again and again —
it’s my life
I’ve made it
and they are adult too
in theirs
But I’m drawn
by the sweet scent of victimhood
Need of return
for those nurturing years
The thought that one might have lived in vain is a hard one; that the children don’t need you, that your friends are more inclined to forget you, and that you’ve only your feet to stand on, is unwelcome.
It’s no use complaining — WINZ might hear of it and give you a job, even if you’re on Super.
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5.
A ditch on one side
a bog on the other —
It’s a narrow path that takes me
through a dark place
I’ve spent too much on food
and don’t know what to do
From fear of running out
and in case of guests
There’s nowhere to store
some’s in the garage
and I can’t eat more
of
sweet
cake
made
meats
chocolate has limits
and spirits
though they tempt with comfort
when the telephone doesn’t ring for days
and no-one comes to the door
I must eat plain
I say to myself
I must live that too
me and my dog
If you choose to live on the top of a hill, only those who can climb will call,
except for the meter-reader, one or two who are lost, a curious friend, and those who want a loan of your trailer .
You need to look after yourself: buy another fridge for comfort food and put it in the garage. Equip the home with nicely-judged prosthetic devices like SKY, a cookery book, and effective cleaning devices.
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6.
Similarly
it must not be
that I take a woman
I will be heroic
live and die lonely
and not be two again
I want to be my own
though the physical is lovely
and its want tedious
With women I am kind
in a conquering way
to signal the familiar
lest I be despised by my neighbours
suspected of that fearful flaw
that puts a man
outside
To have the neighbours’ trust you must have a partner of the opposite sex, or - at the very least - give an impression that you could have one if you tried. A fact-based bias against the opposite sex will work only for a time.
If you haven’t, no-one will come; there’ll be nothing to talk about and they’ll misunderstand you when there’s trouble.
Even at the surgery, dentist and doctor will be indefinite, and if you push too far your name will vanish from significant data-bases.
This you might think advantageous but, once again, will cause trouble when there’s trouble.
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7.
Tapping out in galactic code —
I’m prisoner at 404
being fattened for food
by a dog named Dirk
though in truth
like poetry
I’m counterfeit
and make things that are not
as though they are
Imagination has greater claim to my commitment than has fact, as poetry holds more life than science.
My invented world is warm, its language harmonious with songs that must be sung.
The truth is cold and makes me ill.
The dog’s name is Red.
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8.
No
it’s not said free —
Judges are the fruit of sterling silver
which has no sense
but lingers from a sleepy state
which took me while I wondered
what to do
to tell them I’d be over the hill
or not
If I do I’m ‘at it again’
If I don’t
I’m out of touch
in accident
A dilemma
for an isolated state
solved as well in sleep
by revelation dream by automatic writing
as by thought
It’s no use being public, for everyone else here is where I was at 40, and mine is an end-life crisis.
I’ve moved on out of all that and don’t want to go round again; I’m impatient, and want to be alone to think.
But if I’m too private, where is help when I need it? No-one will know my need.
If I drive off the road, who will see the marks?
There’s no help in logic.
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9.
But I would like to stop —
to lock the door
cut the phone
slash the net
and not go down for the mail
to be at peace in my bed
alone in my house
for a while
with a choice to not know
what anyone else in the world
is doing
It would be a cleansing rite
restorative
There’s too much happening
a crowded house
too many
It’s the last days it’s like
the Apocalypse
There must be revelation too.
Apocalypses don’t stand alone; they require divination, so there’s cause for holocaust and purpose to judgement,
So when all this fuss is done something better will be left, which is what I’m waiting for, why I pay the rates and keep the house in order.
•
10.
Their loss
is as great
from drugs
as mine
from age
I’m twice theirs
With them
senescence is promiscuous
Decay creeps upon them
as moss on a rock
on mind and body
house and car
But they’re still of this world
and look at my survival
as a plot
I
ingenuous
don’t think it is
Though I’ve planned it for years, unknowing.
I’ve left it late to implement because of conditions, and hover at the boundary now, uncertain where to put my aged feet — one on this, the other on the next?
The boundary’s opaque and there’s fog, like in a forensic.
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11.
The cake tastes of shampoo
and I have to eat it all
but that doesn’t matter
it’s not nourishing
Keep things in their categories
and all is clear
It makes for wisdom
to interpret the inscrutable
as it must be faced
She’s not coming over after all —
troubles have stopped her
my bed is forlorn
its rituals aborted
What do I do with my masculine intent?
Go outside and polish up the truck
clean the spouting
repile the shed
delay is just for a month or two
then her peace returns
Walk around with the chain-saw and big boots
Put each step deliberately down upon the earth hard, to say It’s mine and I’ll rule it as a man should,
as I would if she were here
which is probably why she’s not.
It must be hard for the earth to be ruled levelled ploughed and fertilised. Better for the doer than to be done by.
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12.
Now
after three-and-a-half metres of rain
the sun
in a glass sky
and the bush crackling
The creek’s at a murmur
What do you think of that —
will it rain again?
It stayed cold forever
will it be hot for as long?
It’s these vagaries —
everything veers extreme
and nothing’s at the mean
Whatever is
seems insupportable
and always to be
But why?
No-one’s trained for this
It’s prophecy —
You take what is and say it will go on forever;
If what you say is bad, everyone will agree, because misfortune seems to be the natural order, and we all think the pessimist is wise.
We forget good chance, and the average between.
Science makes a packet out of this, and politicians power.
•
13.
I talk to myself a lot
and to the dog
(it’s refreshing to speak to the wise)
but when the sun shines
the people come out
I walk about
and speak to a few
until the next rain
At 4.0
I should go to Happy Hour
at the pub below
but I’m disinclined
It’s encouraging to reminisce
with others of my age
but it worries me
I talk too much
and fuss
my head aches
and I want to escape
and besides —
speech makes entanglements
which I may not want
to untie
It’s best to stay home
with myself as company
and the dog
who by nature retires
The guilt that comes from doing what you want is about the same as the guilt you get from not doing what you want.
This makes God a necessity.
The alternative is a maintained mood of suspended somnolence — you smile and nod and doze with your eyes.You say nothing,until whatever is goes away.
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14.
They come to this disordered world
today late
when the sun sinks in a silvered haze
and the birds sing
They will be excited
at the space
and will sleep
Then in the morning
go for a walk to the end of the track
come back tired
and say they’ve been lost
I will give them a drink
cook a meal
They won’t talk much
they’re still lost
they don’t know where
It’s an incomprehensible space
that hasn’t been explored
The tracks go into shadows
There are marks on them
The only space we know is our own.
When we come to someone else’s we go in armed – with sunglasses lotions insecticides hat stick preconceptions walkman insulating interests for life support, to protect us from the alien air,
and microbes.
To go further out we take a ship.
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15.
Soon I will be slow
in my slippers
in the sun
and the grass will grow long
trees will crowd
the spouting block
and spiders web the window
I will sleep in the afternoon
and use more electricity
It will be too much
to chop wood
and make repairs
to paint and stop leaks
to dress in the morning
change the sheets
and wash them
there will be few who know me
Should I fall
who will find me?
This is the way of it
and I’m content
you can live youth at ease
To age takes strength
Some say this is sad; I don’t think it is.
Promise makes youth happier, knowledge makes age fuller. You know how to do things, the way of it, how to get peace, and how to make use of a sleepless night. There are other strengths.
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16.
Six steps down
and three floors up
it goes
erratic and uneasy
until the end
when you lie
finished
Work is done
the kids grown
the house paid off
There’s no further use for you —
you’re costing too much
and make worry
It’s time —
unless
of course
the Director has a job for you
one no-body’s thought of
like saving The Planet
(he doesn’t say which)
No such luck
you’re done
you’re off
and you’ve left your spleen
(the body part you valued)
to posterity
You have to leave something for the children; they’ve inherited your will already. Attitudes aren’t welcome, so leave some words, guidance ones, a story or two, a pithy epithet, or something they can quarrel with and thereby keep the peace. You can rule by division, even from the grave.
•
17.
Ho you
who are accomplished —
As the Preacher says:
have care for us
who are at whim
who at the crossroads
might as well return
We’ve no idea
of where to go
of stop or go
front or back
One idea’s as good as any other
no time nor deed more valued
than another
not life
nor death
Strength has uses
consciousness none
and we are the majority
Have mercy
On people like us, who live at a bad address,
that the district council would like to suppress,
who’s people often forget the law,
who haven’t much money and don’t want to have much,
who, if we had influence, wouldn’t know what to do with it,
who are too pushed to know what an accomplishment is,
and are too tired to understand.
•
18.
It’s this that made me kick the dog:
Neville had a leak at his header tank
so no water was crossing the creek
Debbie and the girls and me dried out
and Jimmie and Eva
Pete and Mike and Dinah
Henry too
Someone muscled in on things
and didn’t do it well
The IRD sent another demand
It rained when I sprayed the moss
Al wanted more for the fridge
than he paid at the first
It was all these things put together
Then
when we played
at the end of the day
he nipped me
But it’s me that should have been
kicked in the butt
and shut in the shed
to shiver
The shed’s a place to shiver in. You can close your mind and centre on the labour of repentance, the dusk and dirty windows, spider-webs, old tools, rubbish round the edges and memorabilia, half attempts at things, forgotten causes, samples of bad workmanship.
It’s like a mind.
•
19.
The rest of the world is a dangerous place
and you don’t know where
it’ll hit from
I stay put
for safety
but
people say things
that don’t matter
so why do they say them
That’s what hurts —
the motives
not the words
What have I said
what have I done
to provoke
Memories and imagined scenes
crowd and jostle
in my mind
for reasons causes facts
to justify
They make me fret
and be outcast
until time
or a happy chance
brings confidence again
Gardening’s the worst, amongst the strawberries, pulling out euphorbia and twitch; it lets memories in, of things said and done by me or by others to me, embarrassments I want to forget, that no-one with sense would think of. I want to hide until I feel shameless.
I must accept that fear and chance and sentiment may sometimes be too much for me.
•
20.
I catch her
if I can
between games
A note at the door says
‘Back Tomorrow’
but you can’t tell which tomorrow
Another says
‘Back In Ten Minutes’
and leaves the same doubt
Hours are
Tuesday to Friday
8.15-5.0
Which gives flexibility
if you add away-time
and tournaments
So I drive to town at 8.0
and wait at the salon door
in case
My hair has grown like bracken
She comes at 8.45
and I take the chair
Been keeping well, I ask
Oh yes, she says, and busy
It keeps me out of mischief
That’s a loss, I say
as a man should
to hint at himself
How’s bowls
It was a shame, she says
I disgraced myself
I’m better off at work
•
21.
It’s in the public places
and the parks
The Protected Natural Areas
and the reserves
In the gorges
wherever you go
among the rocks
for a scramble
It’s tended and pampered
and hid from the helicopter
And from predatory greed
that scuttles on the pakihi
to cut and plunder
in the dark
I’m afraid in the dark
Even my friend might
do this in the dark
The thought destroys
takes sleep robs rest
I can hold no trust
in anyone
I live lonely
and in dread
that he might so desire
Pot and paranoia go together.
The peace you have from smoking it is denied by worry about it.
•
22.
And other vaguer presences
like the time it snowed
when I wanted it to snow
But mostly it doesn’t
I get up in the morning
and it’s dull
It’s cold, I light the fire
and it clears
Or it’s fine, so I paint the house
but it rains
Life should prefigure itself
in shadows, hints
rhetorical gestures that
we recognise
a message in the sunset
sequences we know
It would save a lot of money
make it surer with the wash
but mostly
it would set my mind at rest
I wouldn’t need to worry much
and stuff like that
If life could be like the compliance officers of our Regional Council, who ring up offenders before they visit them — just a message a token a hint — something to say ‘we’re going to happen’, and if it could be written into the constitution, so to speak, to take out surprise and put in prediction; it would save on health, the police, and capitalism generally.
•
23.
It’s Monday
I know
from the radio
Last week
I did the wash on the wrong day
I thought it was Saturday
Once you’ve lost track
the calendar’s not definitive
If you didn’t know yesterday
you can’t tell today
and have to turn to the media
for the formality
It matters most
to the rest of the world
and not much here
We don’t much care
except for appointments
and programmes on TV
Though it would be a help
if the seven days
had signatures
colours perhaps
or songs
or each to one own sin —
venal, of course
not deadly
That’s the trouble with time, it doesn’t define itself to be easily read; we have to do that, make special days like Christmas, mark the seasons, make history, and be self-conscious about night and day, or else we would be like the animals who don’t know death.
•
24.
Welcome from the World
Sunny days and midnight rain
Green things go wild
and reach up writhing
But I am not green
and am sick in my soul
with longing for life
whose movement is not to death
where these green beings
can grow in splendour
in themselves unchanged
and flowers
where age is to strength
and does not mean decay
where rest is no loss
Age would be a pleasant thing if it didn’t weaken.
To grow from middle age into strength and experience would be a just return for the effort put into getting so far, and would encourage more people.
Life needs to give more to show for it, besides children and stuff.
•
25.
My eyes are slow
I can’t tell
on the open road
who’s driving
A wave to a stranger
is a wasted thing
yet I don’t like to give offence
and worry
when I get home
how to do it acceptably
Do I keep my hands
at the top of the wheel
a firm grip
and a muscular wrist
Do I lift one finger
from the right
in dignity and discretion?
Extend an arm
fascist and friendly?
A flick of the hand?
A toot of the horn?
Manners change
Requirements are reviewed
by society in its course
I like etiquette
and I like to be right
I dream a lot when I’m driving, and can’t tell who’s passing until it’s too late; then I’m surprised and wave carelessly, instead of in the ordered way of a man in control.
•
26.
Fog thick as a burning
and I can’t see traffic
on the road
There is no wind
There’s the sound
of fine rain sifting
and of the trucks
as they labour up the hill
unseen in this dark
which must be perpetual
They go to no visible goal
are only noise
All I hear
all through the day
is the same again
And there’s a dog barking on and on; its lonely need’s the same as the
trucks —
someone’s got to drive.
•
27.
Alien as my name in the bush
or a word from a dog
it rings against
the sound of the land
There’s water, wind
small animals
and a rushing from the moor
like the sea
And this
that a garden bird
has learnt
which brings me running
in case
it’s family
and editor impressed
a friend about to visit
or edifying news
Sometimes
it’s killed in a storm
and I forget
for weeks
until someone hints
at my isolation
Then I remember
and it’s fixed
Again I’m part
of the world of news
of alien images grafted on
and countdown time
•
28.
Today I’m stooped
from cutting gorse
and must hold myself
The legs work but there’s heaviness
in the head
and my eyes fall shut
when I forget them
If I sit
it is senseless to stand
If I stand
there’s nowhere to go
The day falls flat
no pattern
no things to be done
no need
There’s no part for me
I’m shut out
lest I infect
and spread
the malaise
How to exist with no need, nothing that needs to be done in this world in which I have no speciality; there’s nowhere only I can be.
There’s the dog; no matter how far off I might be I would come back for the dog.
•
29.
Tonight the sea
is an apricot shade
and flat
The sun’s a blot
the horizon out of sight
You can’t tell
in the sky
where anything is
There are reasons for this
that are these:
1. Bushfires on the other side
2. Old still damp air
3. A time of small tides
But these are just the factors
are not the fact
The sky’s decayed in its own dust
The clouds are mould
the sun corrupt
Some might rhapsodise at sunset’s effect, as they might say an open-cast mine’s a grand thing; but I say that’s destruction, and this light in the sky is the effect of old weather.
It’s best to keep to the fact when you can find one, in case the end-time finds you ill-prepared.
•
30.
It’s the Day of Rest
and we sleep in
each quiet as a baby after breakfast
Even the birds
are somewhere else
and motorbikes are mute
But rest from what?
We did little last week
and have no plans
for the week ahead
We don’t make plans
if the present’s right
and we don’t do
in case we do wrong
We let each day
look after itself
and the chores too
We don’t do mornings
very much either
But on Sundays especially
we doze on
because it’s good
to keep in step
with the world
Which is over the cliff by the sea at the end of the road, and is not much wanted by us much of the time, except for entertainment and necessities, but we didn’t come here for necessities, and can do without a lot of the time, until we get nostalgic, and think it would be nice to have the rubbish collected.
•
31.
All things being equal
on a morning like this
I should go to see Rick
about the moths that eat the broccoli
and go on to see John
about how he’s placed his tank
(I’ll have to do the same myself
sooner or later)
or call on Nev
about the rust in my truck
Then there’s Dinah and her house
(she’s away)
Jim and Eva
(they’re not well)
Debbie and the leaking pipe
and the blasted mid-town water supply
But they’re not
and I don’t care if it is
Today I’m myself
with book pen and paper
water and tree
the dog in the sun
and not a word said
to anyone
You have to ask yourself: if you stand on your own feet, will they carry you? Because of the prevalence of showers, most people have bad feet. They don’t see them in the shower because they’re standing on them, and toes go wild without their knowing.
•
32.
From my bed
I look over the sea
yet my eyes are shut
when I’m in bed
There are moonlit nights
and fishing lights
and storms at night
but through all these
my senses are asleep
Water lulls them
and the softness
and the dog at my feet
I dream
and puzzle when I wake
as to what the dreams mean
But if an arrangement
could be made
with my body and my mind —
then I might see
when I sleep
the sea
have rest in the night
and peace in the day
The bed is like television —
it leaves me with the feeling that I don’t get enough out of it. Like life itself it’s always there, but is not used well enough. I don’t remember what I did when I was in it asleep. Warmth, comfort, security, and the other good things of dreaming sleep, aren’t sufficiently savoured.
•
33.
In this weather
we mope a lot
Sun warms
and lessens pain
but cloud conceals—
there’s only the ache of it
under the rain
This is what it feels like
the past
(not what it was):
a cell
of stinging snakes
an underground
of wasps
a long inimical cul-de-sac
Weathers change
cloud dissolves
and the sun comes out
then this is what it is:
a morning at the end of the year
dawn upon the best of times
the marvellous of each season
in one day
Out of town, as Dylan Thomas said, there’s too much weather; it drives us in or lets us out. Its barometric episodes are ours, its fogs and katabatic frets set our days.
•
34.
By the end of the week
they’re grey —
flannels dish-cloth towels
the pillow’s smudged
They’ve been used as they ought
but carelessly
on convenient terms
and will have to be soaked
on Friday night
before they’re washed
with the sheets the socks the shirt
handkerchiefs and underwear
a pair of jeans
The dog’s things will have to be aired
and my bed
as part of my insistence
that my house
and my person
is respected
and by respect preserved
Grey is an unnatural colour —
it looks like something’s wearing out
A good wash puts things right — windows, sheets, shirts, towels, the kitchen floor, even one’s face.
It’s good to start and end with.
It’s a quick return for labour, and in this capitalist world is sure to make one well valued.
•
35.
A fine mild calm day
High cloud at first and last
You left at half past eight
with the Powelliphanta for Kath
At 9.0 I went to the Birchfield swamp
to botanise with Red
we found a clematis
a jointed rush
an orchid and a water-weed
sphagnum mounds
some typha
and we lunched on the floating turf
in the sun
Home at 3.0
I washed the mud off Red and the truck
cleaned the fire
and set it
a cold tea
2 rings
read the paper and watched TV
and now I want to go to bed
to close my eyes
and rest my mind
I miss your comfortable self
and in my own unease
grow tired of tiredness
•
Published by Heteropholis Press.
Further copies of this publication may be obtained from P.O. Box 367, Westport, Buller, New Zealand.
ISBN 0-476-00084-X
•
© Leicester Kyle, 2003
•
