From The Russian Doll
(see poem, "Home")
I look at myself
And I am like this:
There is a person
within a person
within a person
within a person
Quite unlike the outside person
each has a different person face
(see poem, "Home")
I look at myself
And I am like this:
There is a person
within a person
within a person
within a person
Quite unlike the outside person
each has a different person face
The Writer Within
There’s summer in strung cherries
nuance in the blood red stain of the juice
rhythms for dancing as the stones hit the plate
She is a maker of fine jams and jellies
yet does not smear her hands by stains of berries
She finds fruit enough
beneath the boughs of the cherry tree
eats those fruits that drop
sucks at the sting of insects
fills her page with words that dance
bites into the flesh of her senses
fashions it as rhymes that sing
draws out the colours of the season
rids her heart of stones come to the surface
her mind the colander
time the pectin
There’s summer in strung cherries
nuance in the blood red stain of the juice
rhythms for dancing as the stones hit the plate
She is a maker of fine jams and jellies
yet does not smear her hands by stains of berries
She finds fruit enough
beneath the boughs of the cherry tree
eats those fruits that drop
sucks at the sting of insects
fills her page with words that dance
bites into the flesh of her senses
fashions it as rhymes that sing
draws out the colours of the season
rids her heart of stones come to the surface
her mind the colander
time the pectin
ON POETRY AND WRITING
To Be Served on a Dish
Poetry is a fish
to be served at table
Oh, to eat it if we were able
first the flesh
no bones attached
the stuff of life
served on a dish
raw or cooked it matters not
there is substance there to nourish the mind
feed the soul
meaning to find
metre to scan, and rhyme
sometimes cold
sometimes hot
Oh, verse by verse to eat the lot.
Poetry is a fish
to be served at table
Oh, to eat it if we were able
first the flesh
no bones attached
the stuff of life
served on a dish
raw or cooked it matters not
there is substance there to nourish the mind
feed the soul
meaning to find
metre to scan, and rhyme
sometimes cold
sometimes hot
Oh, verse by verse to eat the lot.
Words – 1
With words we flounder
Form peace treaties make amends
Without words we drown
Take others under with us
We must tell it how it comes
Words – 2
As pearls from antiquity
Strung together
Becoming a myth
Threaded by the child
In haphazard order
Large from her forest of make-believe
Colourful, enchanting
Strung out
On coarse twine
Knotted and wayward
Around a parcel of strong purpose
After taking the pulse
Of patterns and pictures
In myths and history
And everyday images
She takes up her pen
She creates a Kingdom
Makes sense of the senseless
Breathes life into dying
Captures the roving
Defying all reason
She scans oils-slicked oceans
The dawning of day
Catches shadows on sand dunes
And grounds them in words
The cage is wide open
Let the birds sing
With words we flounder
Form peace treaties make amends
Without words we drown
Take others under with us
We must tell it how it comes
Words – 2
As pearls from antiquity
Strung together
Becoming a myth
Threaded by the child
In haphazard order
Large from her forest of make-believe
Colourful, enchanting
Strung out
On coarse twine
Knotted and wayward
Around a parcel of strong purpose
After taking the pulse
Of patterns and pictures
In myths and history
And everyday images
She takes up her pen
She creates a Kingdom
Makes sense of the senseless
Breathes life into dying
Captures the roving
Defying all reason
She scans oils-slicked oceans
The dawning of day
Catches shadows on sand dunes
And grounds them in words
The cage is wide open
Let the birds sing
My Grandmother
Have you heard me tell
of my grandmother?
I loved her well … I recall
how she rocked in her chair
floured skirts wrapped about
and with crochet hook and linen thread
wove a sachet for the dead rose
while the yeast of the bread
swelled large in the oven
and the slime on the water-trough
froze solid
I remember her well
and so like to tell
how she lived for the flowers in her garden
her deft fingers flew
and cornflowers blue
pansies, violets, and wild roses too
wove a fragrant spell
over snipped and clipped hedges
And the skins of rabbits still warm
froze solid
I remember her well
and dare to tell
how she scoured and scrubbed
kauri benches
slatted floor
butter pats and churns
and roasting pans
and when the weary day was done
and her too many children were asleep
she rocked in her chair
with her skirts to the floor
her laces and frills
froze solid
Have you heard me tell
of my grandmother?
I loved her well … I recall
how she rocked in her chair
floured skirts wrapped about
and with crochet hook and linen thread
wove a sachet for the dead rose
while the yeast of the bread
swelled large in the oven
and the slime on the water-trough
froze solid
I remember her well
and so like to tell
how she lived for the flowers in her garden
her deft fingers flew
and cornflowers blue
pansies, violets, and wild roses too
wove a fragrant spell
over snipped and clipped hedges
And the skins of rabbits still warm
froze solid
I remember her well
and dare to tell
how she scoured and scrubbed
kauri benches
slatted floor
butter pats and churns
and roasting pans
and when the weary day was done
and her too many children were asleep
she rocked in her chair
with her skirts to the floor
her laces and frills
froze solid
My Grandfather--Man of Few Words
He’d lace his boots criss-crossing the chimes of the grandfather clock
into the beginning of his day
Yesterday’s fire still as stars in the grate needing to be kindled to blazing
Rattle the coal bucket and stick in the shovel
Cook up the oats and a pot of strong tea
Straight back and un-clipped beard he’d drink from the mug smudged with blue
and take up the billy to fill for the larder from house-cow Daisy
(whose udder and tail he lovingly washed)
and whose moo was the thrust of a lover’s words in his ears
he was a man of few words
and she let down her milk
His name was solid as the ice on the troughs
Richard it was but Dick it became
His life played out in the Livingstone hills
in the blue-sky-space
above tailings of gold
In the gully of countryside squared by sod fences
the shepherd’s home crafted from bricks of clay
his children born onto ochre floors were given one sweet at Christmas
the savings of one full year
while
Dick his three sons one daughter and wife were housed in wood
where potpourri smells of garden met odours of roasting pan
Magpies called morning to come from dark places
Dogs fought battles over ugly lean corpses
Elizabeth in pinny crumpled from churning the butter
smilingly served the evening meal
to the tick tick tick of the grandfather clock
He kept all his thoughts inside his head
The table polished by silence
Canter turning to gallop in the blue-sky-place on the summit
he breathed cool air and darted his eyes sideways, rifle slung ready
Stained saddle-bags abreast for still-warm rabbits that had to die
Must be culled from the too many thousands burrowed deep in the hills
Tails caught by the sun in the blue-sky-place drew
shots which split the air like ice cracking on the troughs in spring
and the life-blood drained to the soil
The smells of oats sheep’s oil and hay baled tight
hid captured by his pockets and the pores of his skin
Dick sat by the fire in his rocking chair
The warmth his reward for sawing chopping raking dung
Sorting shit from the fowls for composting the garden
No waste of words spent in chatter just a Whoa Girl
And a pat on the rump as he breathed deep the blue air
from the space in the sky where day had parked till dusk
leaving him with his tired body to endlessly rock by the light of the coal range
fresh stoked
He was a man of few words deep feelings
The rocking was a comfort said Lizzy
On Sunday all washed and suited with the animals out to graze
barring the carthorse which took them to the school for church
to sit at the desks with their well-scrubbed children
The hymn books given out to prompt words of praise to the creator of the hills
the magpies the rabbits alive and dead
For they were people of God
and their hearts needed to sing
He’d lace his boots criss-crossing the chimes of the grandfather clock
into the beginning of his day
Yesterday’s fire still as stars in the grate needing to be kindled to blazing
Rattle the coal bucket and stick in the shovel
Cook up the oats and a pot of strong tea
Straight back and un-clipped beard he’d drink from the mug smudged with blue
and take up the billy to fill for the larder from house-cow Daisy
(whose udder and tail he lovingly washed)
and whose moo was the thrust of a lover’s words in his ears
he was a man of few words
and she let down her milk
His name was solid as the ice on the troughs
Richard it was but Dick it became
His life played out in the Livingstone hills
in the blue-sky-space
above tailings of gold
In the gully of countryside squared by sod fences
the shepherd’s home crafted from bricks of clay
his children born onto ochre floors were given one sweet at Christmas
the savings of one full year
while
Dick his three sons one daughter and wife were housed in wood
where potpourri smells of garden met odours of roasting pan
Magpies called morning to come from dark places
Dogs fought battles over ugly lean corpses
Elizabeth in pinny crumpled from churning the butter
smilingly served the evening meal
to the tick tick tick of the grandfather clock
He kept all his thoughts inside his head
The table polished by silence
Canter turning to gallop in the blue-sky-place on the summit
he breathed cool air and darted his eyes sideways, rifle slung ready
Stained saddle-bags abreast for still-warm rabbits that had to die
Must be culled from the too many thousands burrowed deep in the hills
Tails caught by the sun in the blue-sky-place drew
shots which split the air like ice cracking on the troughs in spring
and the life-blood drained to the soil
The smells of oats sheep’s oil and hay baled tight
hid captured by his pockets and the pores of his skin
Dick sat by the fire in his rocking chair
The warmth his reward for sawing chopping raking dung
Sorting shit from the fowls for composting the garden
No waste of words spent in chatter just a Whoa Girl
And a pat on the rump as he breathed deep the blue air
from the space in the sky where day had parked till dusk
leaving him with his tired body to endlessly rock by the light of the coal range
fresh stoked
He was a man of few words deep feelings
The rocking was a comfort said Lizzy
On Sunday all washed and suited with the animals out to graze
barring the carthorse which took them to the school for church
to sit at the desks with their well-scrubbed children
The hymn books given out to prompt words of praise to the creator of the hills
the magpies the rabbits alive and dead
For they were people of God
and their hearts needed to sing
My Children
( Alastair, first…)
After the hurly-burly
of the day
when my child
rushed to and fro
twixt school and play
tumbled into bed
my head bowed beside his
we prayed
as always
I stayed just long enough
to quieten his mind
reassure him of our love
and tuck him in
before he slept
We kept watch after the light was out
My daughter, composer Dorothy Ker, was visiting New Zealand from London and wanted to set a New Zealand poem but couldn’t find one that suited her project so I decided that she would have a new New Zealand poem and in the night wrote Koru which she subsequently set for a girls’ choir.
Koru
ringed in upon itself
foetus furled unfurling
a coil ready to spring springing
quivering to catch the dew
beckoning the morning sun
wanton in the wind
like the wild waters of the sea
yet held in by the parent fern
till the moment is right
for it to become
the fine fingered leaf of green
ringed in upon itself
foetus furled unfurling
a coil ready to spring springing
quivering to catch the dew
beckoning the morning sun
wanton in the wind
like the wild waters of the sea
yet held in by the parent fern
till the moment is right
for it to become
the fine fingered leaf of green
(Koru of the Fern set against colourful NZ native – Flax)
The Picture in Her Head
Christine
I watch her make sense of the pieces
in a space as tight as a fitting shoe
her three children about her engrossed in play
From blocks on the floor she builds attitudes
From notes of music sings songs of happiness
fine-tunes heart-strings
raises the pitch, the money, the meals
puts the pieces of childhood together
Is putting new adults into the picture
Her body, her talents, grew
in space enough to play fortissimo double-stops on viola
forte arpeggios up and down the piano
call ‘coming-ready-or-not ’ in the hall with the neighbourhood gang
She had space enough to run races till she dropped
climb the red-wood tree to the top
swing from branches
play in a hut thick with walnuts in their shells
race her siblings to fetch the mail
yodel from the garage roof before running off to school
Her skills are now refined confined
She is making the puzzle from the picture in her head
remembering the view from the top
10 September 1998
Christine
I watch her make sense of the pieces
in a space as tight as a fitting shoe
her three children about her engrossed in play
From blocks on the floor she builds attitudes
From notes of music sings songs of happiness
fine-tunes heart-strings
raises the pitch, the money, the meals
puts the pieces of childhood together
Is putting new adults into the picture
Her body, her talents, grew
in space enough to play fortissimo double-stops on viola
forte arpeggios up and down the piano
call ‘coming-ready-or-not ’ in the hall with the neighbourhood gang
She had space enough to run races till she dropped
climb the red-wood tree to the top
swing from branches
play in a hut thick with walnuts in their shells
race her siblings to fetch the mail
yodel from the garage roof before running off to school
Her skills are now refined confined
She is making the puzzle from the picture in her head
remembering the view from the top
10 September 1998
Woman
circling each woman
the moon
orange and beaming
full and welcoming
drawing each to itself
solace
omen
rhythm hidden mystery
drawing out pulling
until the tide turns back
to begin the journey
toward the spring tide
a new shape
cycle
a new moon
a new month
wombman
circling each woman
the moon
orange and beaming
full and welcoming
drawing each to itself
solace
omen
rhythm hidden mystery
drawing out pulling
until the tide turns back
to begin the journey
toward the spring tide
a new shape
cycle
a new moon
a new month
wombman
We lived in St Martins Christchurch for some years till my husband died in March 1995. To walk along the banks of the Heathcote River which ran opposite our home was pleasurable for all of us.
The Heathcote
I.
Heathcote at six a.m. in a hurry
ducks that scurried to catch it
swept downstream
the little ones tumbling
bobbing floating
keeping with the covey of big ones
Rooster near the pine
four times crowed its greeting
toward the sun
A girl in white called hi
as she jogged alone
Walkman in pocket
on her head a band and ’phones
The thrush on the lawn
fed on the fat worm
just caught
and the willows lined the bank with silence
II.
A high sun at eight
already sizzling hot
not a cloud to be seen
before me a gray path
lawns of green
a tabby cat s t r e t c h e d o u t
to clean itself in the sun
it looked at me with uncertain eye
then hurried away
and a blackbird rose warily
into the day
into the trees lining the river
III.
Sighing willows
limbs dipping swinging
petticoats of green spilling
foliage into the sky
playing green music
their sigh
rising and falling
rising and falling
A magpie chortled its spiteful tune
and fairy-down seeds danced free
I retraced my steps
and the cat in pancake gold
continued to preen
I.
Heathcote at six a.m. in a hurry
ducks that scurried to catch it
swept downstream
the little ones tumbling
bobbing floating
keeping with the covey of big ones
Rooster near the pine
four times crowed its greeting
toward the sun
A girl in white called hi
as she jogged alone
Walkman in pocket
on her head a band and ’phones
The thrush on the lawn
fed on the fat worm
just caught
and the willows lined the bank with silence
II.
A high sun at eight
already sizzling hot
not a cloud to be seen
before me a gray path
lawns of green
a tabby cat s t r e t c h e d o u t
to clean itself in the sun
it looked at me with uncertain eye
then hurried away
and a blackbird rose warily
into the day
into the trees lining the river
III.
Sighing willows
limbs dipping swinging
petticoats of green spilling
foliage into the sky
playing green music
their sigh
rising and falling
rising and falling
A magpie chortled its spiteful tune
and fairy-down seeds danced free
I retraced my steps
and the cat in pancake gold
continued to preen
The Cross
The ruggedness in all I do
the struggle, pain and hurt
is but a tiny needle jab
to what my Lord endured
endured
to what my Lord endured
The sneering, leering, taunting crowd
who wanted him to die
thrust words as knives into his heart
“Him? Crucify! ”
You took all that for me
for me?
You took that crap for me?
But there it is. You’ve done it now.
We can’t pretend you haven’t!
You’ve hung and bled; sighed out the pain
cried out to God - too late!
Too late! You asked for help too late!
I’m sorry you felt deserted, Lord,
It was really tough on you
All I can say at this late stage
is “We’re bound together, Christ!”
We both cried out too late, too late,
We both cried out too late.
You knew it would be hard for me
you had me sussed, I reckon
even contracted before I came
to walk in step with me
Pick me up
When I fell down
Spread your garment at my feet
And give me sustenance to eat.
28/3/97
The ruggedness in all I do
the struggle, pain and hurt
is but a tiny needle jab
to what my Lord endured
endured
to what my Lord endured
The sneering, leering, taunting crowd
who wanted him to die
thrust words as knives into his heart
“Him? Crucify! ”
You took all that for me
for me?
You took that crap for me?
But there it is. You’ve done it now.
We can’t pretend you haven’t!
You’ve hung and bled; sighed out the pain
cried out to God - too late!
Too late! You asked for help too late!
I’m sorry you felt deserted, Lord,
It was really tough on you
All I can say at this late stage
is “We’re bound together, Christ!”
We both cried out too late, too late,
We both cried out too late.
You knew it would be hard for me
you had me sussed, I reckon
even contracted before I came
to walk in step with me
Pick me up
When I fell down
Spread your garment at my feet
And give me sustenance to eat.
28/3/97
Easter Morning
Two Mallards
a princely Teal between
carried
in a fierce current
downstream
At the edge
a gaggling, noisy flock
against the flow
strong
but unaware
that
out of view
the Teal
rose from the watery grave
and upward flew
Two Mallards
a princely Teal between
carried
in a fierce current
downstream
At the edge
a gaggling, noisy flock
against the flow
strong
but unaware
that
out of view
the Teal
rose from the watery grave
and upward flew
No not Yes
To do what in my mind I see
takes confidence beyond the vision
of being bold to disagree
when what I face is rank derision
but what the shape illusive dreams
takes skill to define from the inner view
a trust that what outrageous seems
will confidence one day renew
doing, saying from the heart
not yes when what is meant is no
being prepared to stand apart
without a sense of guilt and woe
No, may have to be the choice
for my life’s song to find its voice
To do what in my mind I see
takes confidence beyond the vision
of being bold to disagree
when what I face is rank derision
but what the shape illusive dreams
takes skill to define from the inner view
a trust that what outrageous seems
will confidence one day renew
doing, saying from the heart
not yes when what is meant is no
being prepared to stand apart
without a sense of guilt and woe
No, may have to be the choice
for my life’s song to find its voice
I Cannot Wait Till Sunset To Dream
(3rd stanza from the poem of this name p11-14 Your Snow Falls in Summer)
I have returned
again and again
to the clear waters
of that country stream
seeking to recall
the happiness
of yesterday
That stream
the ongoing
ever moving stream
records no story
keeps no trace
of the dreams
I have shared
or the whispered secrets
of my heart
Simply
clearly
it only reflects
today
(3rd stanza from the poem of this name p11-14 Your Snow Falls in Summer)
I have returned
again and again
to the clear waters
of that country stream
seeking to recall
the happiness
of yesterday
That stream
the ongoing
ever moving stream
records no story
keeps no trace
of the dreams
I have shared
or the whispered secrets
of my heart
Simply
clearly
it only reflects
today
Yesterday
(stanza 5 from previous)
Yesterday I lay in a rock pool
bathed in sparkling sunlight
Today the elements are wild
the sea and the hills hide
in a blanket of mist
rain deluges down
smacks against the window pane
Seated with my pen
I conjure up
the vast blue sky
catch the snow’s chilly breath
merge rainbows and moody shores
into stories
(stanza 5 from previous)
Yesterday I lay in a rock pool
bathed in sparkling sunlight
Today the elements are wild
the sea and the hills hide
in a blanket of mist
rain deluges down
smacks against the window pane
Seated with my pen
I conjure up
the vast blue sky
catch the snow’s chilly breath
merge rainbows and moody shores
into stories
While living in Matsumoto, Japan, these small poems - which have some characteristics of haiku but are not strictly so (I am a purist) - tumbled onto my page on 31 May, 1984
nature has a voice
the wind sings and sometimes moans
the moon speaks of love
playing in the grass
children hunt for tiny things
adults cannot see
sun-down is the cue
for the waiting hoards of frogs
to croak their spring song
the tree blossoms forth
but soon weeps its branches clean
ready for the fruit
people tend the vines
of the young and fragile grape
then devour the fruit
sun-dried fruit withers
but the taste is sweeter still
within the soft flesh
the young think that noise
from machines is impressive
silence says much more
burbling spring water
forms an ostinato while
a bird sings its song
the wind sings and sometimes moans
the moon speaks of love
playing in the grass
children hunt for tiny things
adults cannot see
sun-down is the cue
for the waiting hoards of frogs
to croak their spring song
the tree blossoms forth
but soon weeps its branches clean
ready for the fruit
people tend the vines
of the young and fragile grape
then devour the fruit
sun-dried fruit withers
but the taste is sweeter still
within the soft flesh
the young think that noise
from machines is impressive
silence says much more
burbling spring water
forms an ostinato while
a bird sings its song