(no subject)

[labellementeuse]

Still avoiding packing! [Okay, I've gone through and sorted my clothes into "take away to Wellington" and "leave behind", and folded most of the leave behinds into bags and put them away; and I've gotten rid of about four plastic bags of rubbish, old notes, wastes of paper, etc; and I'm sorting my filing system (otherwise known as "four banana boxes sitting in the corner") into vital (birth certificate and transcripts), personal (letters and stuff from my old schools and old notebooks), things I need in Wellington (addresses and sheet music), books, DVDs, CDS and magazines (my Listener collection), and "file directly in the rubbish bin." I've picked up almost all the books and dragged them into my bookshelf, which is in the laundry, which by the way is a HUGE drag and next year I want to get bookshelves for the hallways, which are easily wide enough. HOLY SHIT SO MUCH CRAP, Y'ALL.]

Anyway, I'm doing that thing where you stumble across crazy poetry that you wrote when you were young and angsty, and this one kind of horrifies me.

disposal

eventually, the problem becomes
what to do with the body.

she cleans her hands thoroughly,
before turning to look at the problem.

yes, it could be sliced & diced
& served in stew; she lays it

out on the bench and traces
joints and cuts of meat.

a long time ago, her father taught her
how to carve; here the breast, the stretched wing.

she imagines herself beating a tattoo
with the drumsticks, hollow bones and the ribcage.

but the problem is still how
to get rid of the body, so

eventually she feeds it down the insinkerator.


I can't remember if this was supposed to be part of the same poem:

because he'd made a mess

not of her house but of her,

entering without knocking

leaving the milk and meat out on the bench

under the windowpane, hot sun and a rancid smell;

after he had gone, she found herself

returning the milk and meat to where it should have been.


And a couple of other ones in very old notebooks:

if I could paint,
I would do you in oils;
the liquid arch of your neck, the sun
rising in your hair.

if I could sketch I would draw
this: the moment before you smile.

if I could take photographs, perhaps
I could capture your laugh,
soundless and still.

if I could write music, surely
I would be singing songs about you
your endless quiet and all of your still.

instead I am writing about you:
this picture, worth
my words.

Dateline Conspiracy

we are hanging
in an uncertain moment
somewhere over the South Pacific.

I am not sure where we are:
or more to the point, when
we are.

someone told me it is the day before yesterday,
which I refuse to believe. the fine line between
today and tomorrow is blurring,

fading in and out of focus, but I am hanging on
there is one thing I'm certain of,
the day is today is the day:

beyond that, only the stewardess knows
and she's not telling.

poem to really piss of amarynth
(not its original title ;))

this land it is a rumpled bedspread
tossed carelessly over Ruamoko
at the morning of time: beware
lest he roll over!

In each dip and fold of the blanket,
we build houses,
tucked in a crook of the land
as if Papatuanuku has curled her arm around every one.

Of course I love the people of the country,
and the lambs.

I love the weather. I like to run in the rain
to the highest hill in Wellington,
stretch out my arms and prepare to let the wind
blow me into the harbour.

Our forests tangle at my feet,
rata twining around kauri,
making its way up my legs and
holding my bones together.

I am even fond of the pine trees
in bossy rows, looming over State Highway One.



*sigh* Well, that was a diversion. Back to the grindstone.