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Snapshot of a Soul
in Transit
Mark Laurent
poetry 2005-10
ISBN 978-0-473-17360-9
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CONTENTS
The Blank Page 4 I Wait Now 5We Went Forth 6
Where At Last We Can Speak 7You Love To Be Out There 8
Ive Got A Brand New Pen 9What Was It, Again? 10Before I Learnt 11
Like Ink From The Nib 12Two Green Apples 13
Did You Notice 14When I Feel Anxious 15Straight Lines 16Before I Make My Entrance 17Sunflower 18
How Am I Supposed To Know 19
Foragers 20Creating A Masterpiece 21Gee, I Was Writing So Well Before 22
And So I Write 23Tiny Dog 24Cracked Sacrament 25Water Spills From Heavens Cup 26
A Walk In August 27The Saints Make Me Nervous 28
Faulty Thinking 29Taste 30Standing Up Here 31
I Just Picked Up This Stone 32 A Shy Boy Sits 33
I Have A Photo Of You Now 34 I Didnt Shave This Morning 35 Desert 36The Table Is Kauri Gold 37
Every 38Our Words Are Angels 39
I Can Let You Go Now 40 Doing Nothing 41
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There Werent Any Brochures 42 It Gets Harder Every Day 43 Empty Spaces 44 I Wish 45 Heaven Is Like This 46 A Man Would Give His Sandal 47Seagull In The Storm 48The Look Of Words 49Youve Got Mail 50
Harrisons Gallery 51 I Am Awake 52Whangamata 53Beautiful Loser 54Stab 56T 57Blank Page # 2 58
Fishing Trip 59 Revolting Green 62
For Jane 64
to Jane Fromontwith our love
Cover photos: Paul Restall, Mark LaurentGraphic design: Brenda Liddiard
Copyright Mark Laurent 2010www.marklaurent.co.nz
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The Blank Page
Each day is an empty canvas, and we painton it as we will. Sometimes we choose thepalette, sometimes its chosen for us.Sometimes other hands and imaginationsmay contribute to, or interfere with, ourwork-in-progress. But we always have a wetbrush in hand, and can modify the hues, ifnot always the composition. And we get tochoose when and how to hang the work, andwhen and how to start a fresh canvas.
This blank page is my final frontier, myEverest. Its the cell where Ill achieve
transcendence; my cross and my emptytomb; my Emmaus and Damascus roads.Writing is a kind of meditation, a way ofprayer. Here I find a forum for angst andintuition. Here I make my confession, andfind absolution. Here, where I shed my past,lies my secret map of tomorrow.
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I Wait Now
I am hereIm waiting for you
to find mewaiting to hear
your voicelonging to feel
the urge -to know you again
Like a compass needleI will orient my map
by the pullof your nearness
Where will I goif you do not lead me?
What will I doif Im alone?
How shall I speakif you stay silent?
I wait nowall senses open
all paths before menowhere to go.
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We Went Forth
We went forthwe multipliedwe relinquished
the earth
A sower went out to sowand his seed fell on
the groundand thorns sprang up
and choked the earthquicker than any dirt
he could pile on
You can tell a tree byits fruit
you can tell a man byhis seed
but its no good telling anyof this to the earth
So go forthand subtractand replenish
the earth.
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Where At Last We Can Speak
Emotions split into soundsthoughts break down
to syllable and syntax
This fragile thread oflanguage
suspends us nowlike nervous childrentraversing a hair
bridgehearts and hands
tremblingabove the chasm of
not-knowing
as ifby crossingwe might find
safe haven for ourdreams
and a company of mindwhere at last we can
speak
in whole sentencesof our broken-ness
and find each other inour aloneness.
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You Love To Be Out There
You love to be out thereriding that shapely platform
of dreamssurfing the blue tube of adrenalin
transcending the turbulencea momentary conqueror
of the powerful ocean
which, in macrocosmis so much like your world
reallywith its peaks and troughs
You never could abide a flat calm
You love to be out therelike a child swinging
on the skirts of Gods cloakspinning on the rim of the
whirlpoolflying in Leviathans wake
at the swelling, surgingbosom
of life.
(for Dennis Conquest Whale Bay, Raglan)
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Ive Got A Brand New Pen
Ive got a brand new penits a brand new daythe cicadas and birdscelebrate matinsin the dew-washed treeseverything is ready
waitingto see what happens next
And Im reaching,stretching
scrutinising these wordslonging to be taken by
surpriseto wake to a fresh dawn
within myself
For this is the parable ofdaybreak
preached afresh each morningso that we have no excuseto doubt the wonder of
creation
and every day, like Nicodemuswe relearn the mystery
You must be born again.
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What Was It, Again?
How did so much goodnessfail
and innocence morph to pain?Was there a single moment
of blind turningor a thousand little deathsthat only the dumb night
noticed?When did those beautiful eyes
begin to hate the lightand your ears retreat from
the sound of truth?Who stopped your mind from
knowing -your heart from caring -
that it was lost?Where is the door in the
wallyou built against God?Who sold you the armourwhich you now wear daily
into battle with life?
Do you still know me at all?I once thought that I knew youbut time has played tricks on
both of usand taken something away- what was it, again?
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Before I Learnt
Under the housein the cobwebbed twilightamongst garden toolsthe old lawn mowera couple of rubber gas masksleft over from that
unconsummated wara scattering of lead croquetteson the dust-matted floor
I never did knowwhat they were for
next to the grimy windowsits my old yellow pedal car
right by the spot whereI used to pick up my
imaginary friendson innocent, pre-school
morningsin the 1950s dream-timebefore I learnt that
imaginary friendscouldnt go driving with meand didnt have real names.
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Like Ink From The Nib
Im learning to trustthough I seem to learn slowly
that God-gifts, once givenare given for keeps
like this gift to fill paperwith language and spirit
so that each time I chooseto pick up my penideas will flow freelylike ink from the niband even if someare fickle
or wasted
the gift will make sureof its reason for beingwith words that add valuespread out before meas if by some magic
yet strangely familiarbecause God-gifts are
like thatthey never prove empty
as I think you can see.
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Two Green Apples
Two green applespocked with tiny brown
bullet-holeslie on the morning-damp
grassbelow the house
diminutive first-fruitsof what promises to be
a good harvest
but well have to shareseveral of them
with the burrowing mothswho also knowthis garden as home
- the Lord is their realtorthey shall not want
their ancestors probablyhave a stronger claim
than we(with our deeds of title)
to be tangata whenua ofthis patch of earth.
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Did You Notice
Did you noticehow completelynothing has changed?Is it any wonderwhen truth stubbornlyholds its ground?
Revolutionariesdont really standmuch of a chancewhat with the sunand the starsand seasons
all so stuck in their ways.
What hope has a new idea gotagainst the unrepentant earth?How can we possibly make
progresstoward any idea
of transcendencewhen all creation insists
unflinchingly
on these arcane rhythmsof birthing and dying?
Perhaps wed makea better success of livingif we overcame our fear
of the way things are.
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When I Feel Anxious
When I feel anxiousI start to get spiritualand my prayers fill heaven
like wind-driven smoke
God must be so gladto hear from me againIm sure he was getting lonely
Maybe if he allows meto get into more troublewe can develop a really
healthy relationship - ?
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Straight Lines
Straight linesdelineate your life
punctuate your thoughtsmap your certain trajectory
Order, you saywe must maintain order
tame the wildernessfence every paddock
wall our gardenssubdue natures prodigal
inconvenient urges
But God didnt createany straight lineseven his crucifix
was a rough-hewn thingunlike any altar piece
or gabled rooflineor concrete intersection
in this town
Look to the mountains
from whence your help comesbut youll find
no straight linesout there
either.
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Before I Make My Entrance
I am in my placebut where is that exactly?
Is there a role for thosewhove played the show
so longthe script has worn thin?I can no longerclearly hear my cuesso am unsure where to
enterwhen to exit
and I sit here, uncertainat the side of the stage
half-hidden in shadowsdoodling with my lines
shuffling pageswondering if a new playmight magically emergefrom this time of waitingand just a little afraidthat the audience may havevacated their seats
before I make my entrance.
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Sunflower
Sunfloweryou lived a good life
though shorter than Id havewished
stood tall and joyfulsaluting the light
a large, humble beautyin your corner of the garden
where you seemed quitehappy
just to be theremostly unnoticed
with no need of fanfare
no promise of immortalitycontent to be visitedby the occasional bee
or butterfly.
But my eyes have seenyou
and this page remembersyour curious statuaryyour telescopic climb
from soil to skyand your bowing at last
to the will of naturethat your manifold childrenso close to your open heart
might find their wayhome.
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How Am I Supposed To Know
Choices tease mea box of chocolatesheld out to a five-year-old
ooh!its so hard to decidewhen you know thatall of them are nice
if I choose this oneIll miss out on that one
and even if there aresome of those tart onesthat only the grown-ups likehow am I supposed to know
which shapes to avoidwhen theyre so cunningly
disguisedin silvery brightnessafter all, Im only smallI cant read the labelsand besides Im in a hurrypleasure like this cant waitso Ill just have to take a dipand hope I get a nice one
eenie, meenie, minie
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Foragers
Oh Lord, your larderwhere theres plenty of food
for all!Our garden is verdantand the possums rampantfighting over the delicacieswe thought were oursbut creation is a lolly
scramblenot a supermarketyour money, or statusis no guarantee of provisionbut the rain falls where
it fallsthe sun shines where
it shinesand if youre lucky enoughto be there at the momentwhen blessing happensthen youre truly blessedand if you happen to miss
outthen the snacks youll get
are the crumbs that fallfrom the jaws of other
foragers.
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Creating A Masterpiece
Creating a masterpieceisnt that easy
first youve gotto be a master
then you must decidewhat sort of piece
youll createand until you decide
youll have no peacebut a head-full of creatures
to master.
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Gee, I Was Writing So Well Before
Gee, I was writing so well beforebut the well is mud and echoesand nothing comes cleanon these dusty daysdryness might yet desiccate
my soulwhile I hover here at the rimwhere Id hoped to find waterbut I cant even see my
reflectionas I stare darkly intothe bottom of this pitempty bowl in my hand
no flow of thought in myhead
only a slow drip fromsomewhere
staining a ragged patternwhich seems to make no senseto my parched brain.
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And So I Write
Write, you seem to be sayingand so I write
and sometimes my words flow like watersometimes they drop like constipation
but they always come
the many and few, joyous and strugglersthe free and fettered, hopeful and doubters
- they come together
they are my companionsmy messengers and slaves
tormentors and liberators
they strip me nakedand pin my heart to the city gate
I will always be grateful to them.
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Tiny Dog
Tiny dogpeers from thedrivers windowof an SUVin the supermarket
car park
I wonderhow he managesto reach
the pedals?
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Cracked Sacrament
We are trophies of gracewe dont actually do much
just sit thereas signs of successreminders of redemption
Gods little rewardsto himself
rough earthenware gobletsto hold heavens libation
cracked sacramentsof hope
plaques on the walldeclaring to thosewho stop to read us
JesusFirst Prize
Love
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Water Spills From Heavens Cup
Water spills from heavens cupwhose sop will absorb it?
Where can Gods excess be storedor who counts his tears?
What has caused this catharsisand who will comfort the clouds
in their great grief?
Grey is the colour of mourningand rain the sound of healing.
If this storm is a measure of agonythen no waiata will bring back
the light
till the earth soaks upthe skys darkening sorrow.
18 May 2005 - the Bay Of Plenty floods
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A Walk In August
This winter seasonleaves me bare
sun denies lightto faltering sky
while mourning earthand skeletal trees
stand trembling, nakedbefore, behind me
regarding this strangerwith chill dispassion
The ghostly voicesand prying fingers
of frosted windcreep under my collar
invade my spacenarrowing my eyes
which turn inwardsquinting in twilight
hoping for signstrying to believe
time will passwinter will end.
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The Saints Make Me Nervous
The saints make me nervousthose lovers of holy pain
who run to embrace the crosswelcoming the pitiless spike
in hand or heart or brow
You consorts of solitudecompanions of the empty tomb
willing gardeners of Gethsemanedaily hiking the Via Dolorosa
- I wish I could travel with you
But Im afraid that Id falter
half-way up Skull Hilland turning back is even worse
than never starting to climb.
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Faulty Thinking
Faulty thinkinghas got me this far
quite a long wayI suppose
Poor judgementdecided my fate
cast the runessomewhere east of Eden
Self-deceptionhas protected me
from many hurts
cushioning my fragile ego
Double-minded-nessdubiously propels
my somewhat erratic coursenevertheless.
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Taste
Do I have tastelike a morsel on your plate?I may sting like salt on a woundbut sprinkle my substanceand Ill preserve your flesh- when I touch ice, it melts
For I am elemental, and crudely potentat least for this short span of wordsand you can use me up if you like- that is my earthy naturemy one true gift
And when I have been exhaustedthere wont be much residueexcept, perhaps, that the savourof the world might be a little richerand maybe your tired eyeswill shine bright again
Then my energy will be well spentand you can scatter whats left of mein the water, or on the wind.
(a reflection on Matt.5;13, Mk.9;49-50)
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Standing Up Here(by The Singer)
Do you think it looks easy?standing up here like a fairground target
moving just enoughto put you off your aim
as I cower behindmy six-string fig-leaf
and try passionately to fend you offwith this plaintive ululation
Would you like to swap places?and Ill sit in your seatwhile you call the tune
and render me placidrelieved that the spotlightisnt shrinking my pupils
- I will see your fragilityand know youre just like me
Shall we sing one together?
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I Just Picked Up This Stone
I just picked up this stoneits a beautiful thing
hard and weighty and shapely
this stone is a lot like you and meit may look inert, and of not much use
but it has a story a past, present and future
I just picked up this stoneonce it was part of a mountain or riverbed
somehow it broke awayand time has carried it here
one day it will be worn down to sandand maybe a flower will root and grow there
but right now it is in my handand I am seeing its beauty and potential
this stone is a miracle, andit makes me feel love
God holds us in the palm of his handjust as I hold this stone
he sees our hardness and our beautyhe feels our weight and rough edges
he knows our history, and our potential
we are all miracles waiting to happenwe should feel loved.
Wellington/Whangamata, 1971-2005
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A Shy Boy Sits
A shy boy sitson concrete stepsa black and white portraitof a rosy timein the Box Brownie decade
He tilts his fair wavy headsmiles guilelesslyat whoever held the camerabare knees protrudeabove little Roman sandalsa knitted cardiganwith big wooden buttons
holds his skinny frame together
Hands grip the steplike a pillion passenger
just to make surewhere he is
When I look closelyeverything in this photo is blurryas if maybe the photographer
was moved by what she sawor as if this imagewas a snapshotof a soul in transiteither not yet quite formedor on the point of leaving.
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I Have A Photo Of You Now(to Philip Hayvice, 1953-1988)
You took yourselfout of the picture
with no saying goodbye
Left us with torn canvasa broken frame- its hard to remove all our traces
from the world
You wanted to disappear- but not entirely
You were putting togethera snapshot album of your fading lifeyou asked me for photosbut I didnt have any
If youd asked me for helpwhat would I have said?
I have a photo of you nowthat your sister sent
but I dont see you in it.
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I Didnt Shave This Morning
I didnt shave this morning
I got up with the first streakof eastern light
and an over-ripe moon hangingin the western deep
pulled on warm layersof wool and nylon
against the dry ice southerlymade my way down streets
steeped in sleepto the Tuesday morning
prayer group
a small, tight circle ofstraight-backed chairs
with Jack and JimSue, Jennifer
Robbie and Lionelall of us huddled around
one struggling fan heater
And Jesus was there, too.
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Desert
Adventure would be nicebarren worlds make you feelbetter to be alivedeserts are living places, too
Discomfort will be forgotten, sodont miss the opportunitydrag yourself up a chunky,dry crust is better thanendless days of thin soup
Harsh winds force openingsjourneys begin with thresholds
known ways wont satisfy, tilllittle by little youmiss the path amidmonochrome landscape andmonotonous horizon
Its anormal state of alienationnot the way youd planned it, theroad less traveled
rough justice of the spirit
Scenery breaks the heartsigns and wonders season thetasteless flesh of fear, sotolerate any amount of abuse itswrong not to try.
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The Table Is Kauri Gold
Its a grey, damp afternoonIm sitting at the kitchen tableblue pen in my handa pensive tilt to my elbowsthe table is kauri goldtheres a stub of candlein a squat glass holdera smear of congealed waxon the table-topand a square bottle withpink daisies and lavenderblossoming from its mouththe daisies have furry yellow hearts
which glow like tiny sunsIm leaning toward their lightas one hunches by a firenot reaching, not withholding
just waiting to see who moves firstme, or the pen.
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Every
Every story tellsa picture
Every picture holdsa clue
Every clue createsa memory
Every memory sparksa story
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Our Words Are Angels
Our words are angelseach one a miracle-worker
or a lurking demonour mouths portals from heaven
gateways to the graveour tongues sparks of fire
with which we inflame the worldevery open ear a chalice
brimming with bitter/sweet infusionswe ingest the nectar, or dregs
of the spoken worlddividing sound from sound
deciding, syllable by syllable,
whether to fly, or fall.
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I Can Let You Go Now
I can let you go nowthough Im sorry its taken so long
so much leverageIm a slow learner
for all my compliant wordsand reluctant to obey
wisdoms subtle nudges
Ill have to stand alonewith no excuses to scaffold
my teetering frameI wonder what passers-by
will make of me?
a man so utterly strippedsuch nakedness will get me
into troublenow I wont have you
to cover me
Still, I think I can letyou go now
because holding on so tighthas come to feel
stiff and unsustainableand the grip that locks us together
is mostly reflex.
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Doing Nothing
Ive finished all my choresand now I sitand listen to the beatof my restless heart
and feel the effortof my hungry lungs
and notice the tremorsof this stoically resigned bodyso used to my striving waysattuned to my urgency
fixed in my service- ready enough to stop
if only Id give it a chance! -
But of course Im alreadyswivelling in my chair
wondering what to do next- thats why Im writing
because its easier thandoing nothing.
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There Werent Any Brochures
I didnt sign on for thisthere was nothing about it in the brochures
actually, there werent any brochuresI just took peoples word for it
though how would they know?I certainly dont any more.
But theres no exit clauseand if I do decide to defaultIm left carrying the damages.There shouldve been some warninga big red circle on the packet
DID YOU KNOW LIFE CAN BEHAZARDOUS TO YOUR HEALTH?
Everyone pats you on the backsays, Congratulations! Go for it!No-one tells you about the painor if they do, its with embarrassed smilesDont worry, itll soon be overor You can do it, mate! Youre toughbut thats not how if feels
thats not who I amso show me the contract
theres no mention of guaranteed outcomesin the fine print
only a blank space at the bottom
PLEASE SIGN HERE...
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It Gets Harder Every Day
It gets harder every dayto think an original thoughtmy head is full of wordsbut most of them belongto somebody else
Perhaps Ive never reallyowned an original thoughtperhaps someone elsefills my mindmaybe when I was youngerI simply hadnt noticedthat my head had been taken over
Its possiblethat what Ive just writtenisnt even my idea.
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Empty Spaces
I offer you my empty spacesas they must be vacantfor a very good reason
If youd like to, you can fill themwith intentions of your own
Ill be like a jar holding wateryou can tilt me this way, or thatthen others who are emptycan be filled, as well.
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I Wish
I wish I had wordsto straighten your path
to light your way
I wish I had strengthto carry you
when youre feeling small
If only I held the keyId open the doors
so you could enter
If only I had a voice
Id speak the namethat you answer to
I wish I was youthen I could decide
what to do with your life.
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Heaven Is Like This
Heaven is like this:
A woman at the table
working yeast into the doughshaping life with her fingers
waiting for it to rise
Heaven is a loaf of bread.
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A Man Would Give His Sandal
A long time agoa man would give his sandal
as a pledgea sign of the promise he made
Today, in this world of promiseI wear my shoes
as a pledgea sign of the man I want to be.
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Seagull In The Storm
Ive never really been strongnever really held on to my directionlike a needle seeking northI can be thrown off
by any vibrationso I call out to youlike a seagull in the storma baby who cries
for his mothers arms
Sun is warm upon my backgreen earth instructs and enfolds methere is nothing that I lack
except the truth of the storiesyou told me
when I called out to youlike a heckler in the crowda sinner at the edge
of your circle of friends.
Ive never really been aloneonly in the depths of my imaginationand when theres nowhere to go
I stand still and hopefor salvation
then I call out to youlike a shepherd in the dark
just outside the shelterwhere love is born.
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The Look Of Words
I like the look of wordsthe way they flow on
the surface of paperand sink deep in the brain
One word can be wortha thousand pictures
it can set the heart on fire
A sentence mayovercome the world.
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Youve Got Mail
Im sending a message to youcan you feel it coming?
I impart emotion and logicthrough pressure of fingers
on tablets of plasticmy intentions are racing
through wires, through spaceat speeds much faster
than mind or sounds can traveland somehow they find you
in places I have never beenand if the ones and the zeros
successfully untangle
then the miracle of mind-travelwhich we now take for granted
will translate me safelyto wherever you are.
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Harrisons Gallery
The slender marksand splashed-on hues
expressive stroke-ingsthat artists use
to capture lightarrested in time
affixed by artframed in a line
and held up tothe wandering eye
these fragile visionssoul-food to buy
and most will pass
just one remainto buy the gift
to know its name.
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I Am Awake
Its 4:25 a.m.two stars wink at melike the eyes of Godthe bedroom door groans sleepilyas I slip downstairsnaked on this balmy nightto drink palmfuls of waterfrom the kitchen tap
Two morporks signal each otheracross the nestling valleyand a lone truck drivergrinds gears on the bypass road
awake with dreams of his ownheadlights searing the tunnel of night
The kitchen clocks heart beatsa counterpoint to my ownas my feet feel their accustomed wayback up the stairsin the circadian darkwhich silently beckons meinto her voluptuous arms.
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Whangamata
Walking into townunder bare-limned treesbeside the mangrove sealistening to the carsas they race somewherearound the curvesinto winter distance
Port Road is snoozingin weak afternoon sunshop doors gape dumblyas I saunter byalmost the only visitor
my reflection watches me passtheir pleading window displays
2 books for the library1 parcel to postIll find my wife a presentat the new age gift shopGreg stops his truck for a chatI lean in the passenger windowlife passes in slow motion
Walking out of townthrough the supermarket car-parkacross the helicopter landing fieldlistening to the gullsas they fly somewherecurving around the harbourinto winter distance.
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Beautiful Loser
Youre a beautiful loserin that red surfer tee-shirtand blue panel vaneven the paint smears on your labourer
forearmsand your possum-in-the-headlights stareadd wairua to your duckling grace
You cut off those dreadlockswhich youd cultivated for yearsand the other night you told meas we stood in the club bar meleemaybe youd been too hasty
I liked the image they gave youkind of piratical, wild-man, free-manbut youre still a beautiful loserthough youll need to wear a hat nowwhen the ozone hole stretches
Like the hole in your pocketthe cell phone bill makeswhen your wife phones too often
just to talk about nothing
or, Whatll we have for dinner?because she gets a bit lonelyonly talking to your babiesand shes really in lovewith her beautiful loser
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So youre a small-town productionshort hair, short expectations, short patiencewith politics, religion, social engineersyou suspect the reds and the greensmuch like your father in his time
he was a beautiful loser, tooand you dont want to be like himbut seem to be anywaywith your construction job prospectsloan repayments and family ties
You say youre overweighttry to resist bar-snack temptationto me you look plump with good healthbut you are how you feel
and we all bear a secret imageof disappointment close to our heartsand I can say what I likebut you have to believethat youre a beautiful loser.
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Stab
Sometimes I try so hardto be my mythical good selfbut no-one seems to notice
Did you feel like that Jesus?Pouring your soul out to thoseneedy, greedy, weary crowdsday after exhausting dayonly to have them turn on youstab you in the hand and side
Which is harder to bearintolerance, or indifference?
Did you ever feel thatdespite all your words and good intentionsand the discomfort occasioned by acts of lovethat your whole short life had beena bloody waste of time?
What tipped the scales for you?Whose soft-spoken words of encouragementmade it all worthwhile?
I could do with hearing that voice now.
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T
T corrals me at the parish picnicbehind the salad table
asks, Do you believe in conspiracies?
and wont take no for an answer
T worries about the Freemasonshes read that theyre infiltrating churches
planning to instigate Satan worshipThe ministers are often plants.
Have you noticed how many of themused to be insurance salesmen?
T gives me pamphlets
warning me to cut up my credit cardinsisting that Noahs Arks been found
(though Turkish authorities are covering itup)
T tells me about his mental health history- though hes been well now for two years
and is training as a crisis counsellorthough he declines to attend the Mens
Wellness lecture
at the Cosmopolitan Clubas hes heard its sponsored by the Masons.
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Blank Page # 2
This was a blank pagebut Ive changed that forever
There was a good reason for doing soas I hope will become clear soon
So if I just keep writingIll reach the bottom before long
- or maybe I already have
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Fishing Trip
Im in the salty bow of the fishing boatfeeling the oceans breathing belly
rising falling teasing my writers hand
The others have their lines outpassing comments and bait packets
across the deckbright bursts of boyish excitement
mannish laughter
I have my spirit-hook out, toohoping to catch something
in the ocean of silence
A lone seagull has shadowed us from shorehe circles, hovers, screeches encouragement
All of us eventually fall silententranced by the mantra of the wavessea and sky are one vast meditation
Our gull has been joined by a companion
even though were a long way from landthey obviously have faith in the goodwill of
fishermenwho experience the unpredictable generosity
of the sea
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Everything moves out here motionof blood, of breath, of light, of sound -
even when I make myself sit absolutely stillI bob like a cork, chest rises and falls
my hair snaps like prayer flags in the breeze
Islands of light and shadowmove along the coast
and across the water toward, over uscloud sculptures shape-shift fantasies from
zenith to horizonthe companioning wind sings about
the mast-headand against my chilled eardrums
At every point of the compassthe sea is a palette
silver, green, black, deep blue, grey, lemon
Im content being the scribe todaywith my paper net and ink-tipped barb
why should I fish when I dont need them?let them enjoy this day of freedom
nobodys catching much, anyway, and Imglad
though I wouldnt tell them that
B caught one a while back, and dropped itin a plastic box by the wheelhouse
I could hear it flapping in little, urgentbursts,
for ages
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maybe it was just auto-reflexbut it sounded like slow death to me
fishermen would probably shrug that off
I hinted to J that actually Im a closet
Buddhistand that the fishing would be better if I
wasnt hereputting out fish-compassionate energy
again, I wouldnt tell them thatmy names not Jonah.
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Revolting Green
Fence postsroad markersa concrete bridge buttressmounds of shingleflash by the car windowas we race toward Lewis Passand all those straight-backedbeech treeshemming us in- at rest now, but waiting row upon row upon green row- at ease now, but waiting -silent ranks of a vast standing army
- waiting till its time -poised to take back the battered earthfrom the clumsy humanswhove mismanaged it long enough
One dark and stormy nightthe tempest will give his signalthe forward line will drop to their belliesblocking these forest roadsand this army will move out
crashing down hillsidesrolling across the plainsrising up in every village and cityblocking all exits
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There will be no holding backtheir creaking, rustling advancebut they wont make their movetill the oil crisis has paralysed usand chainsaws no longer have
any power to intervene
This will be a bloodless revolutionbecause by then the humans will knowthat we have no right to resist.
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For Jane
I sit by your bedside in my mindholding your hand so frail in minehow does it feel for you, my friend?both of us know that its the endand theres not a lot that I can giveexcept for a hug and a prayertheres not a lot that you can takewhen its time to step out of here
We dont talk about this thing too muchits the one thing that comes to all of usand life gets more precious as years go bythe oftener we have to say goodbye
and there is no substituteno way of opting outthe light and the shadow landstand beyond faith or doubt
I stand by your graveside, my friendneither of us will pass this way again
just like the flowers by the roadnow we are here, and now we gobut I will remember you
and tell your story in the nightso there is no need to fearthe approaching of the light.