Tuesday, May 19, 2015

Albert Park by Alice Miller

I hear the sea how we come back                                claiming to be altered when    
the painting of the barracks shows                  once we were never    
live in what’s                           now owned by us, round trees curled
down to hear                           your thoughts starred
bold but let’s walk unscripted             to the bar where we sang
when we knew where we were                      where the baby grand played
her high chalked notes and we                                     cried ourselves to water

(Shared with permission. Previously published in  IKA 2, Manakau Institute of Technology.)

Alice Miller was a finalist for this year's Sarah Broom Poetry Prize, the winner of which was announced on Sunday at the Auckland Writers Festival. 'Albert Park' was part of her submission for this.

I had all the best intentions in the world to attend the Sarah Broom Poetry Prize event at the festival and to visit Albert Park in between times, but festivals can be crazy places. However, I was delighted Alice gave us this poem and although I initially thought of the wonderful Albert Park in central Auckland - the curled trees and being framed by water - I also like the generic name of the park that you could find anywhere in the world. Alice Miller is a universal presence herself, having lived and written in New Zealand, North America and Europe.

The line breaks intrigue me and I'm inclined to read them in several different ways as they curl about the page like the leaves and branches implied. The lines also create a sense of movement - the "unscripted walk" to the bar perhaps, the sea or the claim of having been altered as "we" return. 

The "round trees curled / down to hear / your thoughts" echoes so clearly a Charles Simic poem I love, 'Evening Walk' that I can't escape marrying the "high chalked notes" and crying at the end of Miller's poem to the sound of nightbirds like lost children at the end of Simic's. "Once we were never" is an absolute truth of this poem, again evoking the "other evening strolling ahead" in Simic's world. The past is just so damn present.
'Albert Park' is dynamic and subtle. I urge you to read it again.

Alice Miller is a poet, essayist, short story writer and playwright. Her first book The Limits was published by Auckland University Press and Shearsman in 2014. She has been the Grimshaw Sargeson Fellow, a Visiting Writer at Massey University, and a resident at the Michael King Centre. These days she calls Vienna home.


This week's Tuesday Poem was selected by Saradha Koirala, a teacher and poet based in Wellington. 

Check out the other Tuesday Poems in the sidebar to the left.

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

Love Poem in Allelujah

Here are the things I would hand you –

the smell of roses and something peppery.
the small warmth of sweat.

keys that interrupt                  still 
   you used to touch tentatively
                   child gentle and wild.

Saying you are beautiful is not the whole truth.
You are beautiful and ugly.

teenagers climb            wide
on a trunk of pohutukawa

I am drinking mango and ginger tea.

Your hair is hay/ a mane/ a serpent
when we fuck it tangles down like jungle vines.
It is sparrow brown,
Rapunzel, it is a nest.

at the next table              a water jug 
a slice of orange is a goldfish
a girl that says           ‘I have no idea what I am doing’.

Dance hall palm trees wash against dirty boys in checkered shirts,
Cigarettes, pens, ginger beer
the plasterwork elegant and dated
you and she are oddly athenian.

Saying I am beautiful is not the whole truth.
You haven’t seen the ugly in me yet.

A sparrow chirps slow love to late afternoon light.

I would hand you
     blue hydrangea in a paint jar
   on a window sill.
You would hand me your quiet.
salty hours rising between us like gospel.

(Shared with permission, previously published in Blackmail Press 34.)

I first came across Tulia Thompson when she sent in an expression of interest for a conference I was organising about biographical poetry, and so I Googled her, and found her wonderful and intelligent blog: https://tuliathompson.wordpress.com/. At the conference she organised and chaired a panel of three talented Pacific poets: Karlo Mila, Teresia Teaiwa and Leilani Tamu, which was one of my highlights. Tulia is a poet herself, among other things, and I wanted to share one of her poems here.

For me, a decent love poem needs to have some of the complexity, some of the salt of real love for it to be believable to me. That's what attracts me about this poem - it's a love poem, it's full of joy and sensuality, but it's not simple. Love isn't simple. It's roses and pepper, it's beautiful and ugly, it's a sparrow's song and silence.

Another thing I love about this poem is the specificity of the details; not just the trunk of a tree, but a pohutukawa tree, the blue hydrangea in a paint jar.

But most of all I love the beautiful tension it creates between these two people, the narrator and the beloved, like a spring or a tug, like the jungle vines of the beloved's hair.


Tulia in a Fijian rainforest
Tulia Thompson, is of Fijian, Tongan and Pakeha descent. She has a Masters in Creative Writing from the University of Auckland. She is published in Niu Voices: Contemporary Pacific Fiction 1, Blackmail Press and Overland (forthcoming). Her young adult novel Josefa and the Vu was published by Huia in 2007. She blogs about social justice at www.tuliathompson.wordpress.com.

This week's poem was selected by Helen Rickerby, a poet and publisher from Wellington. She has published four collections of poetry – her most recent, Cinema, was published by Mākaro Press in 2014. She runs Seraph Press, a boutique publishing company with a growing reputation for publishing high-quality poetry books, and she is co-managing editor of JAAM literary journal.

And check out the other Tuesday Poems in the side-bar to the left.

Monday, May 4, 2015

'Taken' by Jo Bell

When a thief kisses you, count your teeth.’ – Yiddish proverb

Let’s just say it was complete surrender.
The wanted word is visceral; the usual
exchange of fluids doesn’t quite compare.
He closed his eyes and tilted back his head
and he was mine, as naked as a worm.
He yielded like a sapling to the axe.

Humility is not an asset in my trade, but
such an ecstasy of loss brought out
the best in me, at last.  I stripped.
His willingness unmanned me; such a glut
of giving.   It was hard to take but oh,
I took it, breath for breath and blow for blow.

I got up with the sun; gobsmacked, lovestruck.
My keys were missing.  All the doors were locked.

© Jo Bell
Kith’, published by Nine Arches Press 2015
Click here to hear Jo reading her poetry on Sound Cloud.

Jo Bell is great on love – the reality and absurdity of it rather than the romance;  the pain and the pleasure of it. One of my favourite poems is called ‘Your Helens and my Jonathans’ and deals with the baggage we bring with us to new relationships, going to bed ‘Just you and me/and everyone we’ve ever slept with.’  Jo writes that her poetry 'straddles the border between literary and performance'.  There is a lot of humour in her poetry, of the wry, understated, northern variety, and the lines have a certain 'grace' in the way they dance off the tongue and echo in the mind long after you've finished reading.

There’s also a wealth of images.  I love her description of ice ‘thick as bottle bottoms’, the old standing stones of ancient Britain ‘frank as knuckle dusters/on each ridge’, and the narrow boat, lifted out of her natural element, in dry dock –  ‘A welded tongue; she’s fluent wet / and dumbstruck dry’.

The title poem ‘Kith’ explores the meaning of the word, ‘made scant by frequent use’, little used now except in the expression ‘Kith and Kin’.  It is part of Jo’s northern identity ‘the Northern tongue behind my teeth’, and gives a tribal sense of belonging; ‘Something I can recognise/something that recognises me’.  That attachment – both to places and people – and the loss of those attachments, is at the root of many of the poems in the collection. There’s a clear sense of history, of the long genetic thread that has us all tethered to the ancients under their  bronze age barrows on those bare uplands. ‘Their names and mine will pass like rain/ but I am buried in them, they in me:/ their  soil will cling to me a little when I fall’.

Jo is a northerner -  born in Sheffield, UK,  she went on to become an industrial archaeologist.  After winning several major poetry prizes she was appointed as the UK’s Canal Laureate and she lives on a narrow boat.

What better recommendation than Carol Ann Duffy - ‘Jo Bell is one of the most exciting poets now writing and no time is wasted in the company of her work’.  I’ll second that!

I’m sharing another of Jo’s poems ‘The Shipwright’s Love Song’ on my own blog this week - click here to read it. 

Jo reading from Kith at the London Book Fair
Jo also blogs at The Bell Jar
and you can find her on Facebook too, where she ran the very successful '52' online workshop.

Kathleen Jones is an English poet, biographer and fiction writer who blogs at 'A Writer's Life'.  Her most recent collection of poetry is 'Not Saying Goodbye at Gate 21', published by Templar Poetry. 

Be sure to click on the link on the sidebar to check out what the other Tuesday Poets are getting up to!

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

In Carbondale by Cliff Fell

Consider the glue 
that holds all this together,
be it the cold light 
of the diamond in the mine, 
the gold in its seam 
below the forest
or the shale oil reserves 
of the Arctic Circle—
each in its way a party hat
that pays homage 
to DJ culture
or signals the slow 
corruption of thought. 
But right from the start 
let it be said 
that to our knowledge 
the art of the oil slick 
has not yet been 
seen in the highest places.
But it is spring, 
or it will be tomorrow, 
so this will go viral 
on totally nothing. 
Get out among the birds,
behind the weather 
and collaborate.
It’s what you must do.
Let me know. 
At least we might try 
to advance your case, 
however tight things are 
with juice or money. 
Jump on the bandwagon,
get the company 
involved again, 
their logo on the solar 
panels. After all,
you’re only asking 
for five thousand bucks. That’s how 
you have to think—
on the backs of everyone.
Text me a promise. 
Text me the text 
to be read in your presence. 
Text me the radiance 
of the white light 
as you set out on its storyline, 
the plot that says 
you almost became 
a miner again  
as you sang the ‘Days of ’49’. 
If only you’d known 
you were mining yourself. 
Unlucky, not to recognise
the mind’s own form.
Now you will wander 
among the hungry ghosts
or in the lower realm 
of the animals. 
You will feel sad
as the fog descends, 
as the world becomes 
indistinct and you move on
in your ceaseless 
roaming the streets 
like a latter-day saint,
or a Prospero 
with his gang 
of Ariels and Calibans.
Well, if I had to, sir,
most surely I would do it all again.
I’d go down among 
the lower animals
on that Saturday night floor,
I’d go with them crazy
from bar to bar
dressed to kill in a hoodie
or off-the-shoulder 
down and dirty 
in the sweat and lights.
Well, are you not of a piece, sir?
Wouldn’t you want to move
to whatever it takes—
an old calypso tune,
the insistent riff
of power chords,
or the pluck of her Venus hyper tines,
and all of it cranked up 
into full reverb
and touching us
with a tempo
that feeds the skull
this thump of drum and bass.

Author's note:

‘In Carbondale’ was first published earlier this year in Phantom Billstickers Café Reader Vol. 5 but unfortunately, due to a proofing error for which I take full responsibility, it was missing three lines. While that probably did little harm to the poem, I appreciate having the opportunity to publish the full version it in its entirety.

The title of the poem references a line from Bob Dylan’s 2012 song, ‘Duquesne Whistle’. Within the poem, there is a further reference to a poem, ‘The Days of ’49’ by the 19th century Californian poet Joaquin Miller, which is now more familiar as a folk-song. Dylan recorded it for his 1969 album, Self Portrait. As for the rest of my poem, much of the first half was derived from notes scribbled down as I listened to various speakers holding forth during a rather tedious official meeting. The second half draws on images from The Tibetan Book of the Dead.

There's a kind of poetry I love which I think of as speculative or errant. The poem takes me on a walk with an idea. It goes off—like a dog pulling the reader on a lead as it follows scents in the language. These poems are full of possibilities, chance encounters, echoes of the familiar and they tend to be longer than short lyrical poems as their adventure is not concerned with a singular experience or memory. 'In Carbondale' is such a poem. It begins with a confident 'consider this' which promises a flash of insight, but we soon find that we’re offered advice on how to speak the only real jargon that carries currency in today's New Zealand: the slick language of business and self-marketing. There’s a swagger in the voice advising us on how to speak the lingua franca of the funding proposal or job application. But then could this voice be mocking our own proposals?

We can read the title of the poem as not just functioning as a proper noun referring to the town of Carbondale, Illinois, but as an kind of epithet for all life on Earth. Like all life we're all primarily in Carbondale—our bodies, our world—but in the second half of the poem we find ourselves to be a post-Carbondale ghost. In the Tibetan Bardo Thodol the voice of the shaman hopes to steer the disoriented spirit of the newly dead past the perils posed by the recently deceased’s unleased unconscious fears which manifest as demons. Now the adventure begins as the voice becomes a shamanic guide steering through all the nightmare hallucinations and projections—the angels and demons of late petro-capitalism which are so neatly captured by those long gone Saturday night-Sunday morning dancefloors we once loved. And who would not want to go back again to those heady days and leave fresh wine-stained carbon footprints on the sticky floor? But that revenant hunger is both trap and desperation, the destroyer of worlds, dressed to kill and drill in a hoodie. In other words that hunger is nothing other than us. There’s no promise of liberation; no easy tips on reaching enlightenment or favourable rebirth. But there is a chance of a choice in the poem’s final question and the lives to come depend on our answer. Wonderful.

Cliff Fell is the author of three books of poems, the latest of which, The Good Husbandwoman's Alphabet, was published by Last Leaf Press in 2014.

This week's editor, Harvey Molloy, is a writer and teacher who lives in Wellington. His first book of poems, Moonshot, was published by Steele Roberts in 2008. His poetry has appeared in many New Zealand publications including Best New Zealand Poems, Blackmail Press, Brief, JAAM, Landfall, NZ Listener, Poetry New Zealand, Snorkel and Takahe. He was the poetry editor for JAAM 31.

For more Tuesday Poems, check out the side bar to the left.

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

The quiet life at Glenfinnan (1877, Runs 458/468) by Robynanne Milford

...........................              By the East Matukituki in a shieling picket fenced with currants gooseberries, oats and ducks, Mrs MacPherson, her heirlings, and
Forty walls of deadfall water incessant cascade drowning
lip-sound. Inside and out avalanching ice, thousand-foot roars
into cauldron scoured, reverberates unseen
Duncan’s gone on
government work  
rumbles round and round       vibrates rocky
land resounds in every cup of tea. Constant cannon crack 
that He   I search from the roof   and aye the ever river 
boil of boulders     big as Bank of England         thunder bank
to bank. Riflecrack of trees snow-snapped  wet airs cloth-stiffs
on a line furious hissing
must  be   going mad beneath
Blackpeak serrations
shriek of a winding-up norwester
wild pasture rabbit-savaged. ........ thwack and blizzard
Is he crossing yet
            the sudden rise my four bairns and nary
an adult voice
 screaming shingle-roil the little one drowned
here, I fear the ever river deafness descends with the darkness is
he crossing now            watch from the roof the garden is
struggling for butter
 deafness descends                  Some18
months ere               I eyed another

Miss Moreland. You must come in
iceavalanchesleetsnow and the rain-rain drizzle to deluge
watersfalling and the windwhistle shriek-shake
of timbers lifting, river roil and
Forty walls of dreadful waters

© Robynanne Milford, 2015
*Miss Maud Moreland early tourist


Featured on The Tuesday Poem Hub with permission.

Editor: Helen Lowe

In last year's Canterbury Poets' Spring Reading Season, I very much enjoyed the poems read by guest, Robynanne Milford – many if not all of which were drawn from her (then forthcoming) poetry collection, Aspiring Light (Pukeko Publications), which was launched last Sunday, 19 April.

The focus of Aspiring Light is on the Wanaka area of Otago. In particular, the poems highlight "characters who shaped, explored, named and pioneered the area" throughout its history. In her cover quote for the collection, poet Bernadette Hall, observes that Wanaka is: 

"A place of myth and mystery, where suffering has scoured many a soul, but where dreams may still come true."

In choosing a poem to feature today, I felt that The quiet life at Glenfinnan//1877 Runs 458/ 468 exemplified the pioneering narrative that Bernadette alludes to. The poem records the harshness of an environment where people were dwarfed by both the terrain and the elements:

................."Forty walls of deadfall water incessant cascade drowning
lip-sound. Inside and out avalanching ice, thousand-foot roars
into cauldron scoured, reverberates unseen ..."

The overwhelming presence of nature is juxtaposed with the material highlighted in italics within the poem, which records the response of those, such as Mrs MacPherson and her children, seeking to survive its harshness:
"Duncan’s gone on government work...//...must  be   going mad...//...my four bairns and nary an adult voice ...  the little one drowned here..."

On first hearing, then subsequently reading the poem, I felt it captured the experience of pioneers, but most particularly pioneering women, in an authentic and powerful way. And the physical form of the poem, where the initial "block" effect of the text reflects the physicality of the landscape in the area (in which the mountains do indeed rise like sheer walls), in combination with the subsequent, more staccato and almost "distracted" (i.e. "overwhelmed") narrative voice, both work together to reinforce the poem's story.

But what I love most is the way the experience of "woman alone" within this overpowering landscape resolves into the normalcy of:

"Miss Moreland. You must come in"

– belying the fact that Miss Moreland is the first fellow adult Mrs MacPherson has spoken with in eighteen months. But for me, as reader, it is this note of "normalcy" that grounds the poem and in so doing, really makes it work – as work it undoubtedly does.
Robynanne Milford is a Christchurch poet and former general practitioner, ground-breaking in the medical care of sexual abuse survivors. Aspiring Light is her third book of
poetry, the first being Songcatcher in 2009, the second Grieve Hopefully in 2012.  In 2010 she was runner up in the International Manuwatu Poetry for Performance competition. Her poetry has been published in Landfall, takahē, Poetry NZ, Catalyst, The Press,Voice Print Three, and in anthologies Crest to Crest, Roses and Razorblades and In this Bitter Season.

Today's editor, Helen Lowe, is a novelist, poet and interviewer whose work has been published, broadcast and anthologized in New Zealand and internationally. Her first novel, Thornspell, was published to critical praise in 2008, and her second, The Heir of Night (The Wall Of Night Series, Book One) won the Gemmell Morningstar Award 2012. The sequel, The Gathering Of The Lost, was shortlisted for the Gemmell Legend Award in 2013. Helen posts regularly on her Helen Lowe on Anything, Really blog and is also active on Twitter: @helenl0we

In addition to "The quiet life at Glenfinnan", be sure to check out the wonderful poems featured by the other Tuesday Poets, using our blog roll to the left of this posting.