Wednesday, August 25, 2021

40th Anniversary Poem

 

Three-quarters of the bed belongs to you, and
three-quarters of the bed belongs to me, so
there must naturally be some overlap, some
point in which we occupy the same space. 

This place can either be a place of contention, or
a breathing space together, a face-to-face space.
It can be a place for melting together, or invasion,
a place for a game of space invaders, or a place where 

each in each is buried alive but breathes, not
suffocating, but finding a new way to breathe
in each other. Or it can be a place of trespass, as in
you’re sleeping in my space, you’re squashing my

life out of me, you’re removing my room, you’re
crowding me out. Three-quarters of the bed belongs to
each? Not true. All of the bed belongs to each, and
each beaches in each other, and reaches harbour.


2014 

In Memoriam: Helen Vicary Mann

My self-proclaimed ‘most favourite customer,’
constant supporter of OC Books.

As one who knew you best through your passion for books,
I find the list of your other passions intriguing:
wine, chocolate, Pilates, makeovers, opera, French perfume. 

And how did I never hear about Malawi,
the Mothers Union, amoebic dysentery,
the construction of pit privies,
the expertise on flute and piano? 

I heard all about Celtic Christianity –
you may have been first to bring it
to my attention. And Lampeter, a place in
Wales that might have been on the moon. 

Then there was Pelagius, whom you
considered much underrated in the
sainthood department; we may have debated it.
You had no time for his bête noire, Augustine.
When a young student used the word Pelagian
in one of his doctoral essays, you bristled:
he’d leaned towards the concept that
Pelagius was a heretic – the very idea! 

And, of course, having been the first woman priest
to be ordained, by the first woman bishop
not only in New Zealand, but also in the world,
you bristled at the notion of women as
lesser creatures, a thought that flitted – then fled - across the minds
of those male priests who regarded women priests –
let alone women bishops – as somehow opposed to nature,
opposed to God Himself. Sorry, Herself. 

Is there some irony in the fact that your middle name was
Vicary, you vicar at Holy Cross, at Palmerston, at Hampden?
Was it your small stature that made you more aware of those
creatures who attended your Cathedral-based Pet Services,
barking heart-stopping barks, or flittering in cages,
on hands, searching perhaps for St Francis?
The line in your obituary, she always had an eye for the
underdog, says maybe more than the writer intended. 

The last time we saw you, blown by a breeze in
King Edward St, wanting to chat (as always),
the yellow tinge in your skin, your
Trinitarian cancer alive and well,
dragging you step after step towards death,
we ached at the change.   

Helene,

may the saints and angels enliven your steps in the life beyond;
may the dogs who preceded you revel anew in your presence;
may you find Pelagius and Augustine at peace;
may you accompany on your flute wild Celtic songs sung by
wild Celtic saints, the fingers that once gained you a place in a
Norwegian orchestra flexing anew as they race beyond mere
human agility.

 

 

4.6.12

I was manager of the Christian bookshop, OC Books; Helene (pronounced Helen) was one of its most supportive customers. 

Lampeter is a town in Wales. 

Blackbird - I think

 

For years I was convinced it was a blackbird.
Now someone assures me it's a thrush.
Oh, what the heck, blackbird or thrush,
this bird sings like no other, no thrush or
blackbird known on earth, his song is
unique, spontaneous, jazz, a riff - or
several dozen of them - or a
street magician’s magic, a
pack of cards pitched through the
air, purloined again.


Of course, now that I start to write
about him, he stops. Only half a dozen
sparrows continue their diminutive
plainsong sans harmony, sans melody,
barely rhythmic. They wait for the master
musician-thrush-or-blackbird that God
invested with this extraordinary
ability to never muck the music up.


For a few seconds he starts up again,
but aware I’m writing about him, he
feels exposed, naked on his branched perch,
and stops. Goes home for tea perhaps.

 

Flitting past, a rustic sparrow
picks at a crumb or worm and
paraphrases Billy Collins at me:
Mostly poetry fills you with the
urge to write poetry. ‘Put Billy aside,’
he chirps, ‘and let the bird sing, unaccompanied by
your pitiful attempts to describe the song of a
avian whose name you can’t even decide on.’

Knowing what we're getting

 

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Well, I ask myself, why not?
The difficulty will be making sure that the
summer’s day is not atypical and therefore an
inordinately awkward day with which to compare
thee.

Thou hast to be compared to something that is
not so overheated we would all prefer to
stay inside, drinking endless cups of tea,
ignoring the weather, avoiding nasty sunburns and
melanomas.

Nor would I be keen to compare thee to
a day starting light and shiny then steadily
clouding over, hinting at rain in the late
afternoon. Such a day has a sense of not
boding well for the evening, leaving a
feeling of if only. 

If only I compared thee to the perfect summer’s day,
thou would be satisfied and not at all out of sorts
because of the possibilities of being compared to a
day that turns up on the weather reports as having
been less than satisfactory.

Regrettably, summer days are like any other days –
at least in our part of the world; moody, sulky,
telling lies about themselves, leaning to pretence,
opening dull and heating up, or hiding blue skies
well and truly behind a cover of cloud. 

If I compared thee to a winter’s day, then we
might all know what we were getting:
often more than a little cool, occasionally frosty,
once in a while snow-covered, iced-over,
likely to send you toppling if you step
incorrectly, bleak for a week, a
time to stay indoors and sit by the fire...

Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day?
Wrapped up warm, gloves, hats, scarves,
layer on layer over thermal underwear,
bed-snuggled beneath a bevy of
blankets, hot-toddied, feet
hot-water bottled, wheat-bagged,
wrapped round each other, legs, arms, independent parts...

Give me thee in winter more than summer.

Moth

 

I’ve seen a moth near-drowning
slide across a hot bath, flicker
up and off the surface, onto walls
and ceiling quicker
than my eyes can follow,
seen it smash into the light-bulb,
flash into a mirror, speed from
wall to wall in frenzy, like a
dervish all a-shimmer, settle down
into a corner, flutter briefly,
catch its breath and in a moment
dive its suicidal path towards the
bath and start all over.

Dog

 

Without me, Boss would be at a loss.
I dob in robbers bobbing their heads over the fence.
I stop plotters lobbing bombs on the grass.
Fob me not off, ignore my woof not!
I bark and blot out the wobbling hand,
The desire to mollycoddle – I’m a dog,
For God’s sake! I have no problems
With collywobbles but give me strong,
Solid assurance I’ve done a good job.
Double ‘good dog, good dog’ for my
Trouble. I have no foibles needing
Avoiding, nor rubble in the bowels
Of my cranium needing psychology:
I’m biologically
Dog. 

Aquajogging

Togging up to go
aquajogging.

Slogging,
dead horse flogging,
the laps doggedly
logging,
the mind fogging -
or thinking about
blogging.

Aquajogging is at the
opposite extreme to
tobogganing.

Gossiping women
hogging the centre lane.

For couples,
aquajogging
is a sloshing
form of snogging.