worryingly jolly batman

101 sonnets

101 Sonnets from Shakespeare to Heaney,
a Faber Penguin audio tape

"A sonnet is a box of dreams" ~ Don Patterson

A hundred winding dusty miles, and all the while
these sonnets, each burnished where an elbow meets
the desk; each fourteen lines a box of dreams
within whose walls lies pressed, like yellowed lace,
the hand-worked filigree of words. You can't beat
an old song for tough roots, for plunging into wells
of sorrow, for countermelodies of regret,
for adding salt or sugar to the pulse
and to the tongue. Each sonnet, when its lid is sprung,
releases dreams into the air — shakes off sleep
and waking, flings away the sheets. these words on wings,
a hundred winding miles they sing, and leap
and spangle through the car like motes. Each fourteen lines
from dust to dust unravels, strings the world in rhyme.

-- Sue Wootton

This poem is from Sue Wootton's Magnetic South, which I haven't read much but we have it in the classroom here and I was browsing around. (It looks good, by the way. Steele Roberts, 2008). I admit, I first hit on the poem because 101 Sonnets from Shakespeare to Heaney is also in our classroom, and we've been asked to select a poem from it (or from elsewhere) to speak aloud, from memory, to the class. We talked briefly about how meter and scansion affect readbility and memorisation, how the sonnet is supposedly the perfect size to express a thought, etc. I like this one very much, having read it. I like the internal rhyme (always a favourite of mine) and I like how it doesn't succumb to sonnet rhyming until the couplet. I think it expresses quite nicely the pleasure of returning to a familiar poem, the extra depth and meaning I bring to a poem when I return to it after some time, not to mention the resonance of a poem that has stayed with us for some time.

Tuesday is poem day:

So I wasn't feeling it yesterday poemwise and today I still don't have personal inspiration. Here's an Anne French poem herself, or actually (since it's a very long poem) part of a poem. This is from her book Wild, and I often - being a Wellingtonian - find myself thinking of her last couplet as I walk.

I: In Petts Wood (from Seeking the wild)

Woodhurst Avenue, Nightingale Road,
Lakewood Road, Haslemere, Birchwood,
Woodland Way, Greencourt, Westholm,
Riverwood, Pine Road, Wood Ride-
as though you all lived in the forest still,
not in this sylvan grove of tiled semis,
as though Petts Wood were in a clearing
and Grendel could storm in at ay time,
as though Sir Gawain rides still:

Into a forest ful depe, that ferly was wilde,
High hilles on uche a half, and holtwoods under,
Of hore okes ful huge a hundred togeder;
The hasel and the haghthorne were harled al samen
With rugh ragged mosse railed aywhere

And so I go by way of Crestview, Tent Peg Lane,
and Thornet Wood, across three bridges
and seven sets of tracks, across Great Thrift
to the top of Petts Wood and St Paul's Cray
Common, across the A208 and into Park Wood
in seach of wildness and the ancient forest.

But find dozens of dogs walking their people;
and a Cornishman with curly hair and a lurcher,
wearing moleskin trousers, mending a fence,
who recommends tyhat I try Cornwall or Wales -
and a flock of sheep grazing
in a field on Hawkwood Estate where no one
may set foot; and a sequence of molehills;
with London a distant haze, and all the houses
and roads and railway lines dropped out of sight,
with wooded hills as far as the eye can see
through the thickening morning air.

O, let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet!

But the people out walking avert their gaze
and stare sightlessly to one side or the other
like polar bears in the zoo on hot Saturdays,
rocking from side to side, longing for
impossible ice, and white-green distance,
trying to make the crowds disappear
in the sun's dazzle, and their cries and chatter
turn into seals barking and the creaking of ice.

I am a foreigner here in my father's country.
I know the true meaning of wind, mountain, wild.

-- Anne French

April is poetry month. A word or two about poetry month: I tend to post New Zealand poets. This is not because I inherently think I should, or anything, but because the poets I read fall into two categories: very famous American and occasionally British poets; and New Zealand poets. I feel like the idea of poetry month is not "Let's post "The Love Song of Alfred J Prufrock" and "Dream Deferred" and "Funeral Blues" and "A Rose is a Rose" continue series for 30 days", you know? So I post NZ poets. If you can afford to pay money to support these people, you should.

This guy is dead, though. This is a poem by James K. Baxter, who you can read about on Wikipedia. I was given a first edition of Pig Island Letters for my birthday last year and I've been attempting to digest it slowly. There are several poems in it I really like. Here's one.

A Wish For Berries

TODAY the waves of bright lead
lift rubbsh, driftwood, in eah
high bending wall: a good day
for gulls or dogs. The worn touch
of air and sun unkindly
like a dull whore tames the blood

offering only sleep. Yes . . .
I think of a friend who took
poison lately. Being dead,
he has gone into the dark
sheaf of truth and shares a word
with me just as my eyes close--

'Pity all things'--Do the tough
kids need pity who wrestle
under the bathing shed wall?
or the girls whose broad muscles
slide in bermuda shorts, all
intent on a thunder-proof

world of knowledge? I cannot
pity what is; but look up
at the karaka tree whose
thick wide leaves contain such ripe
yellow berries, their clusters
would take a fortnight to eat.

- James K Baxter

Note: karaka berries are poisonous. (Actually, technically not the berry but its kernel, but the need for contextualising stands.)

Timepiece

I got home from work and looked at
my watch and it said
Ten to five, so I did the washing and
picked some greens and tidied up the
kitchen and sat down and had a cup of coffee,
and looked at my watch and still it said
Ten to five, so I did some ironing and
made the beds and thought Hell I might
get all the housework done in one day
for a change, then looked at my watch
but nope, no change, and I turned on the
radio and it said ten to five, so
I cleaned the bathroom like mad and
picked some flowers and wrote some
letters and some cheques and scrubbed
the kitchen floor and got started on the
windows -- by this time I was getting a bit
desperate I can tell you, I was thinking
alternately Yay! soon there'll be no more to
do and I'll be free, and Jeez what if I
RUN OUT? I did in face run out, and out,
and out, past the church clock saying
Ten to five and the cat on the corner with
big green eyes ticking away, and up into the
sky past telephone wires, and
up into the blue, watchless, matchless, timeless
cloud-curtains, where I hide, and
it is silent, silent.

-- Cilla McQueen

I pretty much want to write like Cilla McQueen when I grow up, she and Jenny Bornholdt are my favourites EVER. Read them read them read them.

Haka

I want to know!
Don't I belong here?

I was born at Papa-kura.
My whenua turned the soil red.

My mother cried like a seagull.

Her ancestors are buried in Papa-toetoe.
Their old heads are white plumes.

My father held me to this
upside-down sky and I sneezed.

Am I not maori?


I want to know!
Do you belong here?

Where is Kupe from?
His canoe was a strange tree.

Could he feel what my people felt?

This place to rest from the sea.
This longing for home.

Where do the dead return to?
Hawaiki nui. Hawaiki roa. Hawaiki pamaomao.

Are you not pakeha?

-- Glenn Colquhoun

Somewhere, it's international blog against racism week. I do not think I am qualified, both literally and personally, to talk about the race relations problems in my country with sincerity and with good judgement. Instead, I'm going to post a series of poems from Glenn Colquhoun's book The Art of Walking Upright. Colquhoun is a Pakeha man who took a year off from training to be a doctor to live in Te Tii in the Bay of Islands, in a small Maori town. As far as I'm concerned, these poems are required reading for anyone living in this country; they are beautiful in both form and content. Some of these I have posted here before, but I think they're worth reading twice. I'm also going to leave them outside a cut; but if this bothers you, let me know.

Race Relations

My great great grandfather was from Luss.
This is a village on the shores of Loch Lomond.
My parents hang his coat of arms on their wall.

My great great grandmother was a Murray
She lived in Glasgow, by the Clyde.

I don't know if their families fought
but I wouldn't be surprised.


Some Murrays live in Whangape.
I guess we are related
except that I am Pakeha
and they are part Te Rarawa.

Somewhere along the line
I have managed to colonise myself.

It is not the first time this has happened.


My grandmother's grandfather is from England.

This has been a problem for the Scots.

I can't forget what I did to myself at Culloden.

Or what Edward Longshanks
did to William Wallace in Braveheart.

I still hate the bastard which of course I am.


And if that's not bad enough
my grandmother's grandmother is German.

And so is my grandmother's mum.

One half of me has lost a war the other half has won.


Even more complicated is the fact
that my mother's father's family are Jacobs
which if I'm not mistaken makes us Jewish,

who of course won't speak to the Germans.


No-one mentions they were from Tasmania.


Sometimes I don't know how to live with myself.

I am a civil war.


The australians fight the english
and keep the scottish happy.

The scottish fight the english
and then they fight themselves.

The english are offended
and won't speak to the germans.

This annoys the germans
who of course annoy the jews.

The pakeha think they own the place.

The maori want us all to go home.


I would if I knew where that was.


Sometimes it seems I'll never win.
Sometimes I never lose.

( A Problem while translating the Treaty of Waitangi )

(that one's behind a cut because of formatting issues but it's really short so do have a look.)

senri recently admired Kate Camp's poem The Insomniac Learns a Lot. I have a few more Camp poems here, because I should think they'd be difficult to get overseas.

Dear Sir

I have received your visit and comments, with regret.
I am always disappointed to lose a lover,
especially a long-standing lover like yourself,
and I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for your past contribution.
I enclose a list of our recent sexual encounters,
which I hope will be of interest.

Regarding your concerns about our relationship,
I can certainly sympathise with your position.
However, like most things in life,
relationships are not simple,
and I can assure you
that my policies have been decided
after careful consideration
of the best available science.

This correspondence is now closed.

( Broken Glass to Evening Dress )

The Naming of Cats

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there's the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey --
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter --
But all of them sensuble everyday names
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular,
A name that's peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum --
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there's still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover --
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

-- TS Eliot

because everyone loves Possum more than Prufrock

Tempo


In the first month I think
it’s a drop in a spider web’s
necklace of dew

at the second a hazel-nut; after,
a slim Black-eyed Susan demurely folded
asleep on a cloudy day

then a bush–baby silent as sap
in a jacaranda tree, but blinking
with mischief

at five months it’s an almost-caught
flounder flapping back
to the glorious water

six, it’s a song
with a chorus of basses: seven, five grapefruit
in a mesh bag that bounces on the hip
on a hot morning down at the shops

a water melon next – green oval
of pink flesh and black seeds, ripe
waiting to be split by the knife

nine months it goes faster, it’s a bicycle
pedalling for life over paddocks
of sun
no, a money-box filled with silver half-crowns
a sunflower following the clock
with its wide-open grin
a storm in the mountains, spinning rocks
down to the beech trees
three hundred feet below
- old outrageous Queen Bess’s best dress
starched ruff and opulent tent of a skirt
packed with ruffles and lace
no no, I’ve remembered, it’s a map
of intricate distinctions

purples for high ground burnt umber
for foothills green for the plains
and the staggering blue
of the ocean beyond
waiting and waiting and
aching
with waiting

no more alternatives! Suddenly now
you can see my small bag of eternity
pattern of power
my ace my adventure
my sweet-smelling atom
my planet, my grain of miraculous dust
my green leaf, my feather
my lily my lark
look at her, angels –
this is my daughter.

-- Lauris Edmond

PS, don't forget to ask me character questions! *puppydog eyes*

To a woman who fainted recently at a poetry reading

A blood pressure of ninety millimetres of mercury is normally required to adequately perfuse the central nervous system. If the head is lowered, however, the pressure needed to maintain consciousness is considerably lower. Of course if one has severed a major artery or torn it lengthwise like a weak seam in the lining of a jacket then poetry should not be blamed and, in fact, may become entirely appropriate.

It is wise to consider hypoglycaemia as a contributing factor. I have heard that a barley sugar placed per rectum in obtunded patients with a precipitously low serum glucose may at times mean the difference between them dying and never eating barley sugar again.

Simple dehydration, overheating or a sudden shock can also be associated with fainting. For this last reason poetry should not be left lying around especially if it is graphic in nature, with swear words in it like ‘bugger’ or ‘bastard’ or ‘shit’. Lines such as ‘She used to love me but now I am a crumb in the biscuit tin of life’ can induce vomiting. ‘She used to love me / My heart is the sound of oysters opening at low tide’ can also be counted on to take the breath away.

Micturation syncope is a syndrome in which men who increase their intra-abdominal pressure at the moment of urination can impair their venous return, cardiac output and subsequently faint, however this cause will usually be obvious from the history and immediate setting. Individuals suffering in this manner can sometimes be confused with those who have drunk too much then pissed themselves before collapsing.

Despite a strong link between alcohol and poetry this scenario seems unlikely to be the case in your situation and so it only remains for me to write you the following prescription – four black wheels swallowed whole like pills; one siren, the blade of a sharp knife; three sheets, as crisp as biting apples, two flashing lights striking matches in the wind – and in this small ambulance send you, like flowers, straight to hospital.

--Glenn Colquhoun

I Love to Read

But my life better not turn out

to be like one of those hideous books

where the mother dies

and so the girl has to

go live with her absentee father

and he turns out to be

an alcoholic heroin addict

who brutally beats her

and sexually molests her

thereby causing her to become

a bulimic ax murderer.

I love to read,

but I can't stand books like that.

And I flat out refuse

to have one of those lives

that I wouldn't even want

to read about.

-- Sonya Sones

This is from a Sonya Sones book, One Of Those Hideous Books Where The Mother Dies. Sones writes teenage novels in poetry and, while they don't always say great things about the state of the universe, every now and then they do; and they make me want to write, for some reason. Even when she's writing about banal silly things I like the way she writes. Anyway, I picked this particular one because I think it's accessible without the rest of the plot of the book, and also I couldn't find the one I really wanted to post. :P I like it a lot anyway.