When God made the fly

Since flies find their way in

But not out again,

I’d like to know why

When God made the fly

He couldn’t have added

Something that mattered:

A form of reverse.

A short poem that's been hanging around for a long time. I might finally have sorted out what seemed to have been a problem with it. 

A small dog considers being rubbed

Just in time for National Poetry Day, which is tomorrow, the 26th August, 2016. A poem written some while ago...

A small dog considers being rubbed

Oh, I can be rubbed until the

veritable cows come home,

those large dociles not of my

own ancestry.

I can lie on my back while you

massage my tummy

(infantile word)

as though I had no organs inside

excepting one organ, a

heart already pulsating

fast, pulsating

faster at every stroke of

your rough hand.

I can have my ears mangled and tangled

around my head as though my

brain barely knew anything beyond the

scratching and rubbing, though

if the need arose, alert

would be my first instinct ˗

if I could choose between

alert and rubbing.

I can have that monstrosity of a

tail, that appendage which is in

reality a curled sausage,

one found after being
left the pantry too long,

that hanger-on covered in

fine fur flailing, a

peacock’s tail, though of course it

lacks some degree of iridescence; I

can, as I say, have it flicked and

fluttered by you without

ignominy.

It is your touch I crave, not

respectability, not honour, not

pride in the self that I am through

God’s own design; I acquire such a

deep intensity through your touch that

all I am as Dog is affirmed.

Food I can fast from; walks can wait

(though not indefinitely);

sleep is pleasant but never the

ultimate necessity. There is only one

necessity: that when I sit snuggled beside you,

or lean my chin on your knee, or

push my head between your shins

like those aforesaid cows calmed before any

possible storm by heads enclosed in a

padded containment; or stand on your

lap, front paws on your chest where the

beat pulsates at a rate

slower, heavier, than mine,

snout to nose, greatly tempted to

lick you, the necessity is

only to be stroked.

Sweep my fur back to front,

I will love you.

Clean gunk around my eyes,

I’ll love you.

Thrust me in a bath and wash my bum,

I’ll love you.

Take me frantic to the Vet’s,

I will love you,

Unconditionally.

Perhaps that’s putting

something too

fine of a point on it:

I will love you

if you rub me. 

The reference to the dog pushing his head between my shins and its connections to cows comes from Temple Grandin's research into cattle behaviour, where cows were made less stressed by being put into a device called a squeeze chute. At least that's how I remember it from the movie where Grandin used a smaller version of this to calm herself during anxiety attacks. 

Remix Mashup poems

Two 'exercise' poems...making poems using the 'rules' from the 'Remix Mashup' in The Exercise Book, edited by Bill Manhire and others. 

1.

Iamb is a poet’s word -

reminds me of I Am:

a God Word.

I am is a phrase I might duck

even though those who know me would say

‘It’ll be good for you,’

going to the height

going to the moment

going to the desire.

If I AM, that McCahon painterly phrase,

is swapped for poetical iamb,

what enclavier will I introduce into the

waddle and monitor of time?

Field Marshal Edmund Henry Hynman Allenby

introduced an enclavier for T H Lawrence,

helped him find himself the man of the

hour, though Allenby unenjoyed that

introduction, that momenting in time.

Did Lawrence repair Allenby?

Book him into the I-Am-bic mystery?

Typing this I think of Lawrence’s

typewriter – the photo’s onFlickr, that

irritatingly misspelt word. 

That I AM word

misspells me.

Iamb is a poet’s word. Reminds me of I Am.

Iamb looks like lamb.

2.

Crawl, walk, drop.

And spell.

When you tell me you

can’t have an opinion

I tell you that’s

blather.  So jump!

Crawl, walk, drop.

And spell.

No, not spell like in the

dictionary.  I thought you were

smart.

Are you barking mad?

Have you an unmercifully

cluttered mind?

Is your brain in the proximity of

your shoes?

Your consciousness of shoes makes you

Slurp and scoot. 

How smart is that?

Crawl, walk, drop.

And spell.

Scoot the hell out of here. 

13 ways of looking at race

 An attempt to write a piece along the lines of Wallace Stevens' Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird ...

13 ways of looking at race

1.      One way is looking for my pen before I can write.

2.      Race is black, even when it’s brown.

3.      The opposite of black isn’t white. 
Sometimes it’s brown.

4.      White Michael Jackson.

5.      In New Zealand black is
Maori, Tongan, Fijian, Samoan -
you name it.
Do they all think black?
Do they all look black?
Is that my reflection looking back?

6.      Do I see black when I watch
(a) Sione’s Weddding?
(b) Once were Warriors?
(a) No. 
(b) Yes.

7.      Black is someone’s anger expressed in
news reports, TV reports, negative reports:

“They always...” “Just what you’d expect....”

8.      Black is our national colour,
but not the colour of most of our

nationals.

9.      No, I am not a colonialist.
No, I am not a chauvinist.
No! I am not a white supremacist.
            Sometimes the man in the mirror is.

10.  The Dominion Council of the
Returned Services Association
has adopted a recommendation
from its Immigration Committee
to reaffirm the policy of
“a white New Zealand”
and express the opinion
that every obstacle should be
placed in the way of
Asiatics entering the Dominion.
Mr C J Dickie, the MP, in

moving the motion, said it applied,
of course, to Hindus and other
Asiatic British subjects, and it was a
serious problem.
Once they were admitted they would
soon overrun the country.[1]

11.  Dear God, don’t let me be like Mr Dickie.
Of course I’d love all people to be white,
just like You are;
was it Your fault You put some
tint in the mix?

12.  I love Maori people.
What choice do I have?
                But I don’t love Muslims.

13.  We’re All Blacks at heart.
Aren’t we?

---

[1] June 5^th, 1926  Otago Daily Times

Image from Edward Picot's blog.