Last night was Friday, and though I wrote my rough drafts, I blobbed out instead of posting, knowing the weekend was coming.
The prompt "root" made me think of the roots of trees in cemeteries, growing through concrete slabs and prising bones apart. Probably because I've written on the subject before - but I needed something new. So instead of writing about that, I started thinking about the roots of my poetry. Where does it come from? It seems that whenever I am where poets gather, there are people talking about their Irish Catholic childhood and the language of the liturgy, and how their poetry is nurtured in that language. It makes me feel a little lacking. Whatever another poet claims as the root of their love of language, seems to be something specific that I don't share:
Because I am neither Irish nor Catholic
I lack the language of liturgy.
Because I do not live in the country
I lack the language of nature.
Because we have different birds here
I lack the language of crows.
Because my city is a very small one,
I lack the language of the urban metropolis.
Because I am not indigenous
I lack the language of the land.
Because my people have been here
for only a few generations
I lack the language of history.
Because my family was happy
I lack the language of suffering
Because I spend my days with numbers
I lack language.
Where then will I find my poems?
I search the silence
and the spaces between.
The next prompt at Poetry Thursday was "fishing hole". For a moment, I was stumped. There are fishing holes in New Zealand, I suppose, but most of us grew up near the sea, so it's not a term that resonates. You don't refer to a "fishing hole" when that fishing hole is a large harbour. But then I just forgot about the "hole" part and wrote about "fishing", and what resulted took a turn that surprised me.
Fishing
Moki Mick knew where to find fish
when everyone esle was coming ashore
empty-handed. At least,
that's what my mother said.
But what did we know?
The nearest we came to moki,
or anything else big enough to be edible
was the fish and chip shop on a Friday night,
carrying home newspaper wrapped parcels
of battered fillets. We spent our days
paddling in rock pools,
trying to catch cockabullies with our bare hands,
or fishing from the jetty where shoals of small fish
played around the wooden posts. The rough planks
were strewn with the crushed shells
of the mussels we pried off the rocks
to use for bait. Fish guts and blood
mingled with the red pools
of pohutukawa blossom.
But we weren't fishing that day,
Anne and I, when we went to the beach
full of bluster and bravado
for an early winter swim. And later
in the deserted changing sheds,
the stranger came in, older than my father,
younger than my grandfather, a little pudgy,
and he dropped his trousers to reveal it,
pale and flopping like the spotties we caught
from the jetty, and then he did himself up
and went away again,
and later when I went home and told my mum,
I wondered what all the fuss was about.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Thursday, April 19, 2007
NaPoWriMo #17
Today is Poetry Thursday. I didn't follow the suggestion to print out the template and leave poems in various places, guerilla style. I may try it in the future - if I do, I am thinking that I may print out this poem and leave it at various spots around the airport near where I work - on the magazine racks in the bookstore, among the tourist brochures. Another day, when I have more time.
I did get home though, and find a set of these poetry postcards in my mail. They come from the Scottish Poetry Library by way of my friend M at Creative Voyage. Thanks M!
As it is NaPoWriMo, and I am following the daily prompts, here is my poem using the prompt "tick tock"
The Waiting Room
tick tock
the clock
on the wall
sweeps the seconds
as he flicks
through the pages
of a magazine
tick tock
doesn't see
the words
a child pushes
a toy car
back and forth
back and forth
tick tock
door opens
door closes
people walk
in and out
tick tock
looks up
looks away
looks up
the doctor
in a white coat
stethoscope swinging
like the pendulum
of a clock
tick tock
I did get home though, and find a set of these poetry postcards in my mail. They come from the Scottish Poetry Library by way of my friend M at Creative Voyage. Thanks M!
As it is NaPoWriMo, and I am following the daily prompts, here is my poem using the prompt "tick tock"
The Waiting Room
tick tock
the clock
on the wall
sweeps the seconds
as he flicks
through the pages
of a magazine
tick tock
doesn't see
the words
a child pushes
a toy car
back and forth
back and forth
tick tock
door opens
door closes
people walk
in and out
tick tock
looks up
looks away
looks up
the doctor
in a white coat
stethoscope swinging
like the pendulum
of a clock
tick tock
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
NaPoWriMo #16
Today, I'm grateful for an accommodating boss. I wanted very much to go and hear Jeanette de Nicolis Meyer speak at our city Art Gallery. She is spending a month in Christchurch as artist in residence at the Arts Centre, and was speaking as the Friends of the Art Gallery speaker of the month, on "The Narrative Thread".
The Friends of the Art Gallery tend to be of a certain generation - or at least the ones who attend "Speaker of the Month" are. The generation of "Ladies who Lunch". Consequently the events are on a Wednesday morning. Some of us have to work. Not today. I told my boss I had things I needed to do, and could I come in late? Fortunately he said yes. I'll make up the time in a week or two when my second, temporary, job comes to an end. Leaving me less tired and with less money. You can't have it all!
Jeanette is an abstract art quilter, and yet her quilts tell stories. It was fascinating to hear her speak and to come to understand more of the symbolism behind her quilts. And I was pleased to hear that an exhibition of six Pacific Northwest quilters, of which she is one, will be coming to Christchurch later in the year. And also that she is having an open studio in a week's time (at the weekend, so I won't have to figure out how to take more time off work).
In the evening I attended another in the local Poets' Collective autumn series of poetry readings. Bring your own poetry in the first half, and guest readers in the second half. It was an interesting evening, because each of the four guest readers presented poetry from a different European country, both in the original and in their own translations - poetry from Germany, France, Russia and Italy.
All this led to a rather full day, and inspiration for my own poetry was a little lacking. However, I'm beginning to see my series of daily poems as a sort of poetry sketchbook. I'm not trying to do huge landscapes or fully developed portraits here. Some sketches may be more detailed than others, but on some days, perhaps a quick sketch will suffice.
The Narrative Thread
In the darkened auditorium
she speaks of the softness of cloth,
of the threads which stitch our lives.
We emerge to a river of glass.
Its panes fracture the brittle sky
into a thousand pieces.
(I included a photo of the art gallery windows in this post)
The Friends of the Art Gallery tend to be of a certain generation - or at least the ones who attend "Speaker of the Month" are. The generation of "Ladies who Lunch". Consequently the events are on a Wednesday morning. Some of us have to work. Not today. I told my boss I had things I needed to do, and could I come in late? Fortunately he said yes. I'll make up the time in a week or two when my second, temporary, job comes to an end. Leaving me less tired and with less money. You can't have it all!
Jeanette is an abstract art quilter, and yet her quilts tell stories. It was fascinating to hear her speak and to come to understand more of the symbolism behind her quilts. And I was pleased to hear that an exhibition of six Pacific Northwest quilters, of which she is one, will be coming to Christchurch later in the year. And also that she is having an open studio in a week's time (at the weekend, so I won't have to figure out how to take more time off work).
In the evening I attended another in the local Poets' Collective autumn series of poetry readings. Bring your own poetry in the first half, and guest readers in the second half. It was an interesting evening, because each of the four guest readers presented poetry from a different European country, both in the original and in their own translations - poetry from Germany, France, Russia and Italy.
All this led to a rather full day, and inspiration for my own poetry was a little lacking. However, I'm beginning to see my series of daily poems as a sort of poetry sketchbook. I'm not trying to do huge landscapes or fully developed portraits here. Some sketches may be more detailed than others, but on some days, perhaps a quick sketch will suffice.
The Narrative Thread
In the darkened auditorium
she speaks of the softness of cloth,
of the threads which stitch our lives.
We emerge to a river of glass.
Its panes fracture the brittle sky
into a thousand pieces.
(I included a photo of the art gallery windows in this post)
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
NaPoWriMo #15
Don't think that the following in any way comes from my personal experience:
The Long Winter
First, we ate the grain we had stored for seed.
We ate the livestock. When the hens stopped laying,
we ate the hens. Then, we dug beneath the snow
for the stubble of last autumn's harvest. We ate
the small birds that fell frozen from the branches.
Once, we found a fish frozen solid into the ice of the creek.
When the snow became too deep, we ate the bark
from the logs that we cut for the fire. We melted the snow
and dissolved the glue from the spines of books.
We drank the liquid. When the snow started to melt,
and the first wagons came through, they brought us flour
and meat. We stared at it, dull-eyed. We did not want
to eat. Our hunger was the only thing
we knew could fill us up.
For the prompt "hunger" at Poetry Thursday
The Long Winter
First, we ate the grain we had stored for seed.
We ate the livestock. When the hens stopped laying,
we ate the hens. Then, we dug beneath the snow
for the stubble of last autumn's harvest. We ate
the small birds that fell frozen from the branches.
Once, we found a fish frozen solid into the ice of the creek.
When the snow became too deep, we ate the bark
from the logs that we cut for the fire. We melted the snow
and dissolved the glue from the spines of books.
We drank the liquid. When the snow started to melt,
and the first wagons came through, they brought us flour
and meat. We stared at it, dull-eyed. We did not want
to eat. Our hunger was the only thing
we knew could fill us up.
For the prompt "hunger" at Poetry Thursday
Monday, April 16, 2007
NaPoWriMo #14
Today's prompt at Poetry Thursday is "pearl". I thought about a number of possibilities for the word, but hadn't decided on which to use. In fact, I thought I was going to write something about the possibilities I came up with, and then write a different poem instead. Until I realised that my list of possibilites made a sort of prose poem in itself:
This is the poem I am not writing. This poem contains a large family of sisters with names like Pearl., Ruby, Opal and Garnet. Each sister wears a brooch that matches her name. This poem references a famous painting by Vermeer. This poem wakes early in the morning. It picks roses in the garden where dew sits like strings of pearls on spiderwebs. The sisters have flaming red hair and many suitors. This poem references a well-known story about Cleopatra. Scientists cast doubt on the story about the pearl. They say it would have taken many hours to dissolve in the wine glass. This poem strolls in the garden in the afternoon when clouds light up like mother of pearl in the pale sky. The eldest sister dresses in an ivory satin ballgown and places a string of pearls around her neck. Each pearl contains the reflection of the crowds of whirling dancers, the gallery of paintings on the wall, the crystal chandeliers. Each pearl contains a small world, like this poem.
This is the poem I am not writing. This poem contains a large family of sisters with names like Pearl., Ruby, Opal and Garnet. Each sister wears a brooch that matches her name. This poem references a famous painting by Vermeer. This poem wakes early in the morning. It picks roses in the garden where dew sits like strings of pearls on spiderwebs. The sisters have flaming red hair and many suitors. This poem references a well-known story about Cleopatra. Scientists cast doubt on the story about the pearl. They say it would have taken many hours to dissolve in the wine glass. This poem strolls in the garden in the afternoon when clouds light up like mother of pearl in the pale sky. The eldest sister dresses in an ivory satin ballgown and places a string of pearls around her neck. Each pearl contains the reflection of the crowds of whirling dancers, the gallery of paintings on the wall, the crystal chandeliers. Each pearl contains a small world, like this poem.
Sunday, April 15, 2007
NaPoWriMo #13
Today's prompt at Poetry Thursday is "plunge"
This poem has been waiting to be written for a while, but I resisted, as it felt influenced by Mary Oliver, and who wants to compete with Mary Oliver? The word "plunge" was just the nudge I needed to try and set it down.
Let me tell you about shags,
how they sit for hours on the branches of trees
above the river, wings outstretched
like laundry on a line.
They are entirely unsuited
to an aqueous life, lacking oil
in their feathers. Hour after hour
they sit, waiting for the sun
to relieve them of their burden,
for the water to rise in a mist.
And then, one sudden,
fierce plunge.
This poem has been waiting to be written for a while, but I resisted, as it felt influenced by Mary Oliver, and who wants to compete with Mary Oliver? The word "plunge" was just the nudge I needed to try and set it down.
Let me tell you about shags,
how they sit for hours on the branches of trees
above the river, wings outstretched
like laundry on a line.
They are entirely unsuited
to an aqueous life, lacking oil
in their feathers. Hour after hour
they sit, waiting for the sun
to relieve them of their burden,
for the water to rise in a mist.
And then, one sudden,
fierce plunge.
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Rabbits, Pincushions and the Daily Poem
Yesterday I left work early for the first time in weeks. My desk was clear. I could have found some work to do but chose not to. This is my main job where I'm paid for a fixed number of hours. It is assumed that if I work a few less hours when it is less busy, I'll work more when it is busier. (In my other job, I'm only paid for the hours I do, so less hours means less money).
I had magazines to deliver to bookshops in town (that's my third job which is totally unpaid). I used this as an excuse to browse in the bookshops. I went first to the shop near the river:
It won't be long before these trees have completely changed to their autumn colours.
Then I strolled down to the art gallery:
Yes, that is a giant inflatable rabbit in the foyer. Part of one of the current exhibitions. They have a very nice shop at the art gallery. It has books, cards, stationery, children's games etc mostly with an art connection. But it does have some rather odd things as well. What I noticed on this occasion was a St Sebastian pincushion. I guess with a giant inflatable rabbit in the foyer, it's a good idea to have something for people who like to stick pins in things!
There was a cold wind blowing outside, so I didn't linger too long. But I did stop to take photos of the ripples in the shallow pools surrounding the building. It was fairly late in the afternoon so the shutter speed was a little long, and the images aren't as sharp as I would like. But I thought the reflections made an interesting pattern.
I haven't used the daily prompt for NaPoWriMo today (it was "bluff"). Nothing came to mind, so instead I played with an idea I had a while back, when Poetry Thursday had a food theme:
The True Story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden
She brings him apples.
She bites one, shows him how crisp it is,
how neat. He is not tempted.
She brings him bananas.
She peels one, bites into its soft flesh,
shows him how easy it is.
He is not tempted.
She brings him peaches.
She shows him the blush of its skin,
its juicy flesh. He sees its hairiness,
and finds it distasteful.
She brings him pears, broad-hipped,
lightly freckled, glowing golden
in the afternoon sun. He takes one,
bites into it, lets the juice dribble down his chin.
Leaving Eden, he has no regrets.
******
(Can you tell I like pears?)
I had magazines to deliver to bookshops in town (that's my third job which is totally unpaid). I used this as an excuse to browse in the bookshops. I went first to the shop near the river:
It won't be long before these trees have completely changed to their autumn colours.
Then I strolled down to the art gallery:
Yes, that is a giant inflatable rabbit in the foyer. Part of one of the current exhibitions. They have a very nice shop at the art gallery. It has books, cards, stationery, children's games etc mostly with an art connection. But it does have some rather odd things as well. What I noticed on this occasion was a St Sebastian pincushion. I guess with a giant inflatable rabbit in the foyer, it's a good idea to have something for people who like to stick pins in things!
There was a cold wind blowing outside, so I didn't linger too long. But I did stop to take photos of the ripples in the shallow pools surrounding the building. It was fairly late in the afternoon so the shutter speed was a little long, and the images aren't as sharp as I would like. But I thought the reflections made an interesting pattern.
I haven't used the daily prompt for NaPoWriMo today (it was "bluff"). Nothing came to mind, so instead I played with an idea I had a while back, when Poetry Thursday had a food theme:
The True Story of Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden
She brings him apples.
She bites one, shows him how crisp it is,
how neat. He is not tempted.
She brings him bananas.
She peels one, bites into its soft flesh,
shows him how easy it is.
He is not tempted.
She brings him peaches.
She shows him the blush of its skin,
its juicy flesh. He sees its hairiness,
and finds it distasteful.
She brings him pears, broad-hipped,
lightly freckled, glowing golden
in the afternoon sun. He takes one,
bites into it, lets the juice dribble down his chin.
Leaving Eden, he has no regrets.
******
(Can you tell I like pears?)
Friday, April 13, 2007
NaPoWriMo #11
I am really beginning to enjoy this process. I've realised that it doesn't take very long to produce a first draft. I'm not actually taking any less time on the writing process than I used to. It's just that when I have an idea, I know I have to set pen to paper within a day, whereas previously I'd let it roll around in my head for days and conjure up all kinds of resistance to actually writing something down. Probably because I wanted it to be really good on the first try, so that I didn't spoil my bright shiny idea.
Having the prompts is great. Each time I see one I think I can't possibly come up with anything using that word. And then my brain cells have a secret meeting somewhere, and pretty soon the ideas are coming. Or at least one idea which is all I need. Because they are words I might not think of using, left to myself, I find myself remembering things or exploring things that I wouldn't have done on my own.
Editing of course, is another matter. There will have to be a lot of that in the coming months.
Celluloid
Saturday afternoon at the Kinema.
It is somebody's birthday,
or we wouldn't be here.
Ninepence for the stalls, or sixpence
for the cheap seats at the front
if you don't mind a crick in your neck.
The rich kids in the dress circle come every week.
They send a rain of lollies
down from the balcony.
We are not sure what rich is,
having no television to tell us
what we are missing.
Perhaps they are not rich after all,
merely the children of parents more indulgent
than ours, or more desparate. Anyway,
they are initiates in the mystery
of the weekly serial, which for us is a story
without beginning or end. The cartoons
and the main feature are what we are there for.
And yet now, we remember nothing
of these celluloid stories - only the accent
of the reporter on the Movietone News
and the sound of jaffas
rolling down the aisles.
(Jaffas are a round sweet found in New Zealand, with a chocolate centre and a bright orange outside. As far as I can tell, no one ever bought Jaffas at the movies to eat, only to make noise with).
Now, I'm off to Poetry Thursday to check out the next prompt.
Having the prompts is great. Each time I see one I think I can't possibly come up with anything using that word. And then my brain cells have a secret meeting somewhere, and pretty soon the ideas are coming. Or at least one idea which is all I need. Because they are words I might not think of using, left to myself, I find myself remembering things or exploring things that I wouldn't have done on my own.
Editing of course, is another matter. There will have to be a lot of that in the coming months.
Celluloid
Saturday afternoon at the Kinema.
It is somebody's birthday,
or we wouldn't be here.
Ninepence for the stalls, or sixpence
for the cheap seats at the front
if you don't mind a crick in your neck.
The rich kids in the dress circle come every week.
They send a rain of lollies
down from the balcony.
We are not sure what rich is,
having no television to tell us
what we are missing.
Perhaps they are not rich after all,
merely the children of parents more indulgent
than ours, or more desparate. Anyway,
they are initiates in the mystery
of the weekly serial, which for us is a story
without beginning or end. The cartoons
and the main feature are what we are there for.
And yet now, we remember nothing
of these celluloid stories - only the accent
of the reporter on the Movietone News
and the sound of jaffas
rolling down the aisles.
(Jaffas are a round sweet found in New Zealand, with a chocolate centre and a bright orange outside. As far as I can tell, no one ever bought Jaffas at the movies to eat, only to make noise with).
Now, I'm off to Poetry Thursday to check out the next prompt.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
NaPoWriMo #10 (and Poetry Thursday)
For today's poem, I have managed to use the daily prompt "breathless", along with a line left by a Poetry Thursday participant, Megan for the weekly prompt ("but we're used to it"), and then for good measure, I added an ending that uses one of my favourite words, "meniscus".
I had planned to ignore the daily prompt in favour of doing the weekly prompt to use someone else's line, but when I saw Megan's line and started figuring out how to use it, I realised that "breathless" fitted right in. Thanks Megan!
Untitled
There isn't much romance here
but we're used to it. We have settled
into the packets of our lives,
space at the top showing how there used to be
more air. But the weight is the same.
I do his banking, fetch the drycleaning,
post his letters. He knows what to do
when a child wakes in the night
breathless and wheezing. You can't eat kisses.
We are practical people. We may not be sure
whether the glass is half full
or half empty, but we do know
how to read the water level
from the bottom of the meniscus.
I had planned to ignore the daily prompt in favour of doing the weekly prompt to use someone else's line, but when I saw Megan's line and started figuring out how to use it, I realised that "breathless" fitted right in. Thanks Megan!
Untitled
There isn't much romance here
but we're used to it. We have settled
into the packets of our lives,
space at the top showing how there used to be
more air. But the weight is the same.
I do his banking, fetch the drycleaning,
post his letters. He knows what to do
when a child wakes in the night
breathless and wheezing. You can't eat kisses.
We are practical people. We may not be sure
whether the glass is half full
or half empty, but we do know
how to read the water level
from the bottom of the meniscus.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
NaPoWriMo #9
After yesterday's whiny post, I find I actually managed to come up with two today. Setting the words down on paper during a coffee break at work helped (instead of waiting until I got home).
I'm hoping to play catch up this weekend, and visit all the other participants to see what they are doing with the prompts. I've only had time for a few so far.
One of these results from my musings on the possibilities of today's prompt at Poetry Thursday - "hollow" (yesterday's prompt, by the time I post the results). The other is a description of a scene near my work, into which I drop the word - whether it belongs there or not, I haven't quite decided.
Hollow (1)
You keep on rewriting
the book of your life. At each retelling
you become more tragic.
The cover bears illustrations
of delicate colours and haunting beauty.
Do not read it any longer. Keep it in the background
to enhance your decor, hollow out its pages,
use it as a hiding place
for your most secret key.
Hollow (2)
The leaves are falling from the trees
and all the colour has fallen out of the sky.
It is a landscape in black and white,
but the fields are from the studio
of another photographer - a study in sepia.
Tall seedheads scattered among the grasses
flocks of brown birds fly up and perch
on the backs of the sheep, brown with dust.
Over beyond the plains
the inky blue mountains
scroll across the horizon
like a painted backdrop. A hollow wind blows
from the proscenium arch.
I'm hoping to play catch up this weekend, and visit all the other participants to see what they are doing with the prompts. I've only had time for a few so far.
One of these results from my musings on the possibilities of today's prompt at Poetry Thursday - "hollow" (yesterday's prompt, by the time I post the results). The other is a description of a scene near my work, into which I drop the word - whether it belongs there or not, I haven't quite decided.
Hollow (1)
You keep on rewriting
the book of your life. At each retelling
you become more tragic.
The cover bears illustrations
of delicate colours and haunting beauty.
Do not read it any longer. Keep it in the background
to enhance your decor, hollow out its pages,
use it as a hiding place
for your most secret key.
Hollow (2)
The leaves are falling from the trees
and all the colour has fallen out of the sky.
It is a landscape in black and white,
but the fields are from the studio
of another photographer - a study in sepia.
Tall seedheads scattered among the grasses
flocks of brown birds fly up and perch
on the backs of the sheep, brown with dust.
Over beyond the plains
the inky blue mountains
scroll across the horizon
like a painted backdrop. A hollow wind blows
from the proscenium arch.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
NaPoWriMo #8
Today's prompt: "at first blush".
It wasn't until I did a search at dictionary.com that I found this phrase had a meaning I wasn't familiar with: "without previous knowledge or adequate consideration". I don't think it is used in New Zealand English. I was thinking more of the "first blush of dawn" and wondering how to avoid sentimentality.
I'm getting to the point of wondering why on earth I set out to do this. A poem a day? When I get up, go to work, come home, do housework and collapse tired into bed? I must be nuts! I couldn't possibly keep going if I worried about whether what I am writing is any good or not. I may or may not cringe when I come back to it after the month is over. Much of my working out is done in the car, or similar places. What seems like a good idea then tends to feel really stupid when I come to write it down. There's nothing to be done about that but to carry on regardless, I don't have time to stress about quality. Thank goodness for the prompts - even if I think I have nothing to say on a subject, it stops me dithering and changing my mind all day. The prompt is the prompt and that is that. (But I'm thinking of resorting to a few days of haiku, just to keep the count up).
At First Blush
1. The dawn, the rose bud,
the baby's chek.
2. The man who gives you this card
is an air raid warden. Lie down
on the floor and do exactly
as he tells you.
3. At first, blush. Later,
learn to join in.
4. She draws an "f" from the bag of tiles.
She changes "blush" to "flush"
From innocence to guilt. Or rage.
5. After the petals fall
the thorns, the blood.
It wasn't until I did a search at dictionary.com that I found this phrase had a meaning I wasn't familiar with: "without previous knowledge or adequate consideration". I don't think it is used in New Zealand English. I was thinking more of the "first blush of dawn" and wondering how to avoid sentimentality.
I'm getting to the point of wondering why on earth I set out to do this. A poem a day? When I get up, go to work, come home, do housework and collapse tired into bed? I must be nuts! I couldn't possibly keep going if I worried about whether what I am writing is any good or not. I may or may not cringe when I come back to it after the month is over. Much of my working out is done in the car, or similar places. What seems like a good idea then tends to feel really stupid when I come to write it down. There's nothing to be done about that but to carry on regardless, I don't have time to stress about quality. Thank goodness for the prompts - even if I think I have nothing to say on a subject, it stops me dithering and changing my mind all day. The prompt is the prompt and that is that. (But I'm thinking of resorting to a few days of haiku, just to keep the count up).
At First Blush
1. The dawn, the rose bud,
the baby's chek.
2. The man who gives you this card
is an air raid warden. Lie down
on the floor and do exactly
as he tells you.
3. At first, blush. Later,
learn to join in.
4. She draws an "f" from the bag of tiles.
She changes "blush" to "flush"
From innocence to guilt. Or rage.
5. After the petals fall
the thorns, the blood.
Monday, April 09, 2007
NaPoWriMo #7
Today's prompt: "leather"
(I have been reading Miroslav Holub's wonderful series of poems "The Minotaur")
The Minotaur to Theseus
Never trust a woman.
You don't need her magic
ball of thread. She wants it to entangle you,
not to guide you. Just keep your head,
and your left hand on the wall,
or your right, it doesn't matter,
as long as you're consistent.
Reverse hands, and you'll find your way
back out. I don't know why
I'm telling you this, since it will lead
to my death, most likely.
I'm not the monster they make me out
to be. No danger to anyone
bold enough to do anything
but cower in a trembling heap.
Just because I'm big and ugly, doesn't mean
I wouldn't be kind to old women
and small children, given half a chance.
The roaring? In another century
it will be motor bikes. I'm just another boy
trying to be a man, wearing a leather jacket
and trying to look tough.
(I have been reading Miroslav Holub's wonderful series of poems "The Minotaur")
The Minotaur to Theseus
Never trust a woman.
You don't need her magic
ball of thread. She wants it to entangle you,
not to guide you. Just keep your head,
and your left hand on the wall,
or your right, it doesn't matter,
as long as you're consistent.
Reverse hands, and you'll find your way
back out. I don't know why
I'm telling you this, since it will lead
to my death, most likely.
I'm not the monster they make me out
to be. No danger to anyone
bold enough to do anything
but cower in a trembling heap.
Just because I'm big and ugly, doesn't mean
I wouldn't be kind to old women
and small children, given half a chance.
The roaring? In another century
it will be motor bikes. I'm just another boy
trying to be a man, wearing a leather jacket
and trying to look tough.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
NaPoWriMo #6
Today's prompt at Poetry Thursday is "kneel"
The wave runs at the shore,
falls on its knees to kiss the sand
The sea brings offerings
a seaweed necklace, driftwood, shells
The land buries them deep
The sea erodes her boundaries,
grain by grain. The land
heaves herself up from the sea's depths.
What the sea once covered
becomes a mountain.
It is the age-old tussle of the littoral zone
but still the sea
writes love letters on the sand.
(I think maybe I am being a bit indulgent sneaking the worl "littoral" in there. It's a word I love, but I'm not sure that it makes the poem any better).
Only 24 days to go!
The wave runs at the shore,
falls on its knees to kiss the sand
The sea brings offerings
a seaweed necklace, driftwood, shells
The land buries them deep
The sea erodes her boundaries,
grain by grain. The land
heaves herself up from the sea's depths.
What the sea once covered
becomes a mountain.
It is the age-old tussle of the littoral zone
but still the sea
writes love letters on the sand.
(I think maybe I am being a bit indulgent sneaking the worl "littoral" in there. It's a word I love, but I'm not sure that it makes the poem any better).
Only 24 days to go!
Saturday, April 07, 2007
NaPoWriMo #5
"Don't mess with the muse"! - Feeling edgy yesterday, I headed off for a walk up the hill. As I walked, I calmed down and found myself composing in my head about half of the poem I had been trying to write based on the first daily prompt at Poetry Thursday - "absolve". As I joined in on these prompts a bit late, I had missed this one out earlier.
When I got back home I found dinner was nearly ready. I had gone over the lines so many times that I thought I would remember them, but of course when I came to put them down on paper later in the evening, I didn't remember them so well after all. I think I have just about recreated what I came up with. But it is a reminder to me, that the poetry muse demands that her ideas be paid attention - they should be noted down straight away.
"Absolve" to me is quite a formal word. I fell in love with the sound, and wanted to work in all of its rhymes. I didn't, quite, but I used a fair few of them. Of course formal rhyming poetry is really hard to do well, but I wanted to try. Trying to use the word at the end of a line, without changing it to "absolution", made it even harder. Despite the religious use of the word "absolution", I see "absolve" as being different to "forgive". "Absolve" to me means a declaration that there was no fault in the first place. Forgiveness is an acknowledgment of a fault before a release from the longterm effects of that fault.
(I really should come up with better titles than the word which is the prompt. But a poem a day is hard enough without worrying about titles).
Absolve
Low tide. Mudflats pockmarked by breathing holes
of hidden clams. A heron stalks. The slow revolve
of leaf fall, joining others to turn to silt
where tree trunks join reflected trees. They shatter and dissolve
as the wading heron lifts in flight, pissing as it goes.
This mud and shit is necessary beauty
- part of life - it's how all things evolve.
Whatever I have done, or failed to do
that lies between us unresolved
is as it is. I will not whine "it's not my fault",
may ask you to forgive me, but never to absolve.
(The photo is of the "Sugarloaf" - taken on my walk yesterday. Low cloud wreathes around the television transmitter tower while sunset streaks across the sky in the background).
Friday, April 06, 2007
NaPoWriMo #4
I've been looking forward to Easter, because it means four whole days of not going to work. What I still don't have, that I had before I was working fulltime, is great stretches of time when I'm in the house alone (or at least, alone except for one or two very quiet people). This weekend we have visitors. And we went over to my daughter's house for hot cross buns at lunchtime, and then everyone came back here for more hot cross buns for afternoon tea. Somehow I seem to have less poetry writing time than on those days when I know I have to get my daily poem posted before I leave for work in the morning.
The latest NaPoWriMo prompt at Poetry Thursday is "broken thread". This one has such obvious metaphorical connotations, that I wanted to see what else I can do with it. I came up with the following, that as far as I can see doesn't have a single metaphor anywhere. Everything is exactly what it is. Sometime, when I'm not pushing myself to produce a new poem every day, I'd like to push this one around some more and see if I can shape it into a rhyming (or almost rhyming) sonnet. I think it has that potential.
Broken Thread
Because he was born in poorer times, he saves
everything that can be mended. And because
he lives in richer times (time poor),
he hasn't mended any of it. A burnt-out
electric kettle, a toy truck with one wheel missing
(the children long since grown, and in no hurry
to produce children of their own). In the garden shed
lies timber, wire, electric plugs, old tins
of paint - one day he'll use these things
to fix something, he's sure of that. Meanwhile
in a chest in a corner of the spare room, there's more
- old letters tied with string, a child's shoe,
a necklace of pearls on a broken thread
less valued for what they are
than what once (long ago) they meant.
The latest NaPoWriMo prompt at Poetry Thursday is "broken thread". This one has such obvious metaphorical connotations, that I wanted to see what else I can do with it. I came up with the following, that as far as I can see doesn't have a single metaphor anywhere. Everything is exactly what it is. Sometime, when I'm not pushing myself to produce a new poem every day, I'd like to push this one around some more and see if I can shape it into a rhyming (or almost rhyming) sonnet. I think it has that potential.
Broken Thread
Because he was born in poorer times, he saves
everything that can be mended. And because
he lives in richer times (time poor),
he hasn't mended any of it. A burnt-out
electric kettle, a toy truck with one wheel missing
(the children long since grown, and in no hurry
to produce children of their own). In the garden shed
lies timber, wire, electric plugs, old tins
of paint - one day he'll use these things
to fix something, he's sure of that. Meanwhile
in a chest in a corner of the spare room, there's more
- old letters tied with string, a child's shoe,
a necklace of pearls on a broken thread
less valued for what they are
than what once (long ago) they meant.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Poetry Thursday: Interview with a Poet
In Bernadette Hall's book, "The Ponies", I came across a poem with the following lines:
Did I tell you that since her death the only people
I can bear to read are the beautiful Czechs?
It must be their weight and their sardonic wit
This led me to seek out the Czechs. I am currently reading a book of poems by Miroslav Holub, "Notes of a Clay Pigeon". In it I found the following poem. This is not quite what Dana and Liz had in mind, no doubt, when they asked us to write a letter to a poet, but it seemed similar to me. I had plans originally to write a poem of my own on the theme, but I have been busy with the daily prompts for NaPoWriMo. So if you would like to read some of my own poetry (rough first drafts anyway - one a day is hard), just check out my other daily posts.
Interview with a Poet
You are a poet? Yes, I am.
How do you know?
I have written a poem.
When you wrote the poem, it means you were a poet. But now?
I shall write another poem some day.
Then you may again be a poet. But how will you know that it
really is a poem?
It will be just like the last one.
In that case it will certainly not be a poem. A poem exists
only once - it cannot be the same again.
I mean it will be just as good.
But you cannot mean that. The goodness of a poem exists only
once and does not depend on you but on circumstances.
I imagine the circumstances will be the same.
If that is your opinion, you never were a poet and never will
be. Why then do you think you are a poet?
Well, I really don't know...
But who are you?
- Miroslav Holub
More Poetry Thursday here
Did I tell you that since her death the only people
I can bear to read are the beautiful Czechs?
It must be their weight and their sardonic wit
This led me to seek out the Czechs. I am currently reading a book of poems by Miroslav Holub, "Notes of a Clay Pigeon". In it I found the following poem. This is not quite what Dana and Liz had in mind, no doubt, when they asked us to write a letter to a poet, but it seemed similar to me. I had plans originally to write a poem of my own on the theme, but I have been busy with the daily prompts for NaPoWriMo. So if you would like to read some of my own poetry (rough first drafts anyway - one a day is hard), just check out my other daily posts.
Interview with a Poet
You are a poet? Yes, I am.
How do you know?
I have written a poem.
When you wrote the poem, it means you were a poet. But now?
I shall write another poem some day.
Then you may again be a poet. But how will you know that it
really is a poem?
It will be just like the last one.
In that case it will certainly not be a poem. A poem exists
only once - it cannot be the same again.
I mean it will be just as good.
But you cannot mean that. The goodness of a poem exists only
once and does not depend on you but on circumstances.
I imagine the circumstances will be the same.
If that is your opinion, you never were a poet and never will
be. Why then do you think you are a poet?
Well, I really don't know...
But who are you?
- Miroslav Holub
More Poetry Thursday here
NaPoWriMo #3
The fourth NaPoWriMo prompt at Poetry Thursday: yield
Yield
The rock to the water
the cement to the grass
the shell to the insistent beak
the carcass to the maggott
the bridge to the storm
the rose to the aphid
the aphid to the ladybug
the ladybug to the first frost of autumn
the frost to the noon sun
everything yields
if it were not so
we should all be stopped
in a single frame of a movie,
so let us sit a while and listen,
let us yield
to the soft flow of the air
filling our lungs, to our bodies
turning to dust,
to the approaching dark.
Yield
The rock to the water
the cement to the grass
the shell to the insistent beak
the carcass to the maggott
the bridge to the storm
the rose to the aphid
the aphid to the ladybug
the ladybug to the first frost of autumn
the frost to the noon sun
everything yields
if it were not so
we should all be stopped
in a single frame of a movie,
so let us sit a while and listen,
let us yield
to the soft flow of the air
filling our lungs, to our bodies
turning to dust,
to the approaching dark.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
NaPoWriMo #2
From the third prompt at Poetry Thursday : perennial
Perennial
You have planted a garden
of bitter herbs, of everything
that has spines and thorns.
You are bored even with the colours
of your happiness. You want flowers
of different hues. You are moving
to another part of town. Do not expect
things to be different there. You carry
your seeds with you: in your hair,
under your fingernails, caught in the folds
of your desires. With every exhalation
they shower onto the earth.
Perennial
You have planted a garden
of bitter herbs, of everything
that has spines and thorns.
You are bored even with the colours
of your happiness. You want flowers
of different hues. You are moving
to another part of town. Do not expect
things to be different there. You carry
your seeds with you: in your hair,
under your fingernails, caught in the folds
of your desires. With every exhalation
they shower onto the earth.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
NaPoWriMo #1
I'm running a little late to get started on this. And what I thought was going to work out while I was driving in my car has fled my brain now that I've found time to sit with a pen and paper. The idea of NaPoWriMo is to write a poem a day during April - I feel that if I can write thirty poems, whether one a day, or none some days with a catch-up at the weekends, that will be good enough for me. And that establishing a regular writing habit will be far more valuable than actually producing something I like.
Here is the first very rough draft based on the second of the daily prompts at Poetry Thursday : "spiral"
A Spiral is the Shortest Distance Between Two Points
How efficient you have become, rising
in the dark and leaving early to avoid
traffic. You have searched out
the most direct route, studied intersections
to find the easiest turns. All day
you will add numbers, balance the books.
You have calculated the easiest curve
around the park. The joggers are always there,
but this is unexpected, beyond the trees
and their long shadows, a flock of white gulls
wheeling and looping in the early light.
Here is the first very rough draft based on the second of the daily prompts at Poetry Thursday : "spiral"
A Spiral is the Shortest Distance Between Two Points
How efficient you have become, rising
in the dark and leaving early to avoid
traffic. You have searched out
the most direct route, studied intersections
to find the easiest turns. All day
you will add numbers, balance the books.
You have calculated the easiest curve
around the park. The joggers are always there,
but this is unexpected, beyond the trees
and their long shadows, a flock of white gulls
wheeling and looping in the early light.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Take a Walk With Me #5
Last Saturday, I took a long walk. This Saturday, I'm being domestic. It's a beautiful warm autumn day. I have two loads of laundry on the line. I'm getting my exercise by sweeping and mopping floors, vacuuming and generally tidying up. My pedometer broke months ago, but I'd guarantee that I've walked enough steps to get in my daily quote of exercise, and then some more. I'm enjoying little things. Like my new electric jug. It replaces the one given to us for a wedding present. That one was a fine long-lasting stainless steel jug, but it was built in the days before they came with a built-in shut off. Every so often I'd leave the room for a minute while it was boiling and forget to come back for a while - which resulted in a burnt-out element. This time I planned to replace the element, but I found that it would cost as much as a new jug. Furthermore the plug was no longer legal, so should the cord need replacing I wouldn't be able to. The new jugs come all in one. If the element goes, there's nothing to do but throw it out. I have deep reservations about this from an environmental point of view, but at least the jug turns itself off when it comes to the boil. Which means I am far less likely to return to a steam-filled kitchen and a burnt-out element.
Oh, and then there is drinking coffee from my favourite mug from Happy Hens.
In the meantime, here are more photos of last week's walk.
After High St, I arrived at Cathedral Square which is the centre of the city. There is an area in the city which is promoted as the "Cultural Precinct". It includes the cathedral, library, museum, art galleries and the historic tram which takes a tourist route around the central city. All these attractions were having an open day last Saturday, which was one of the reasons I went into the city. Of course, by the time I had got there I was getting tired! I estimate it would have been about a one hour walk, but I kept stopping to take photos and browse in shops, so I was on my feet for more than three hours.
This is the spire of the Anglican Cathedral. Usually they charge five dollars to climb the tower steps - there is a fantastic view from the top. Last Saturday it was free. I had planned to make the climb, but by the time I got there I looked up, listened to my feet talking to me, and decided "been there, done that".
The various attractions of the Cultural Precinct were marked for the day by these huge red inflated balls. I was about to take a photo when the young girl came up to give it a push. (She did move it a few feet, though it was rather wisely tethered by a chain).
Often at the weekend there is a game of chess going on in the Square using these huge chess pieces.
Almost at the end of my walk now - I will post the final few tomorrow and then I will have to think of something else to post about!
Oh, and then there is drinking coffee from my favourite mug from Happy Hens.
In the meantime, here are more photos of last week's walk.
After High St, I arrived at Cathedral Square which is the centre of the city. There is an area in the city which is promoted as the "Cultural Precinct". It includes the cathedral, library, museum, art galleries and the historic tram which takes a tourist route around the central city. All these attractions were having an open day last Saturday, which was one of the reasons I went into the city. Of course, by the time I had got there I was getting tired! I estimate it would have been about a one hour walk, but I kept stopping to take photos and browse in shops, so I was on my feet for more than three hours.
This is the spire of the Anglican Cathedral. Usually they charge five dollars to climb the tower steps - there is a fantastic view from the top. Last Saturday it was free. I had planned to make the climb, but by the time I got there I looked up, listened to my feet talking to me, and decided "been there, done that".
The various attractions of the Cultural Precinct were marked for the day by these huge red inflated balls. I was about to take a photo when the young girl came up to give it a push. (She did move it a few feet, though it was rather wisely tethered by a chain).
Often at the weekend there is a game of chess going on in the Square using these huge chess pieces.
Almost at the end of my walk now - I will post the final few tomorrow and then I will have to think of something else to post about!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Poetry Thursday: More Image Inspired Poetry
I seem to have jumped the gun on the Poetry Thursday prompt. Last week we were asked to write poems inspired by images, and I posted a poem inspired by a Picasso painting. This week we were asked to take it one step further, and try a poem based on a painting - perhaps specifically from the point of view of the model or the painter - what were they thinking? Since that's what I did last week, this week I am posting the poem that was my alternate choice for last week's prompt.
I am happy to say that I was talking to the poetry editor of Takahe magazine at a poetry reading last night, and asked him about his definition of "previously unpublished". I've now established that it's OK for me to submit poems that have been on my blog. Some journals won't accept them. Since Takahe is the only literary journal that has ever published my poems, I now know I can post my poems here and still have at least one possible place to submit them. (Being on the staff probably helps - I do the accounts).
This poem was inspired by a number of things I saw in one particular week. I thought the fence photo showed the name of the fence strainers, but when I checked it didn't show up. Strainrite is the brand name.
(Poem taken down for publication reasons)
I am happy to say that I was talking to the poetry editor of Takahe magazine at a poetry reading last night, and asked him about his definition of "previously unpublished". I've now established that it's OK for me to submit poems that have been on my blog. Some journals won't accept them. Since Takahe is the only literary journal that has ever published my poems, I now know I can post my poems here and still have at least one possible place to submit them. (Being on the staff probably helps - I do the accounts).
This poem was inspired by a number of things I saw in one particular week. I thought the fence photo showed the name of the fence strainers, but when I checked it didn't show up. Strainrite is the brand name.
(Poem taken down for publication reasons)
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Take a Walk With Me #4
A few years back our esteemed City Council decided to instal a sculpture to honour Queen Elizabeth II. This sculpture is placed on the pavement just outside Alice's, the video store I referred to in the previous post. What did they choose? Three bronze corgis. It was not a decision that was without controversy. I think they are quite fun, except that they do tend to get in the way of pedestrians.
On the opposite side of the road I was intrigued by the contrast of the bright orange bin and graffitti covered concrete wall at the back of the alley, against the rather upmarket shoe shop next to it. (I'm thinking I might go back and experiment with the angle on this one).
A small correction: of course, as I should have seen if I had looked at the photo, the phrase "Do what inspires you" doesn't advertise the CPIT. It is actually a slogan of NatColl which is a private tertiary institution teaching subjects such as graphic design, web design, digital imaging etc. (It's still a good slogan!)
On the opposite side of the road I was intrigued by the contrast of the bright orange bin and graffitti covered concrete wall at the back of the alley, against the rather upmarket shoe shop next to it. (I'm thinking I might go back and experiment with the angle on this one).
A small correction: of course, as I should have seen if I had looked at the photo, the phrase "Do what inspires you" doesn't advertise the CPIT. It is actually a slogan of NatColl which is a private tertiary institution teaching subjects such as graphic design, web design, digital imaging etc. (It's still a good slogan!)
Monday, March 26, 2007
Take a Walk With Me #3
At the end of yesterday's post I was heading north, on the eastern fringes of the city. I then turned off that street onto High Street. Christchurch is laid out on a north-south and east-west grid of streets, mostly, but High Street cuts across on a diagonal. So in these photos I am headed north-west into the city centre.
High Street has quite a quirky mix of shops - some slightly seedy and others less so. There are antique shops, second-hand record stores, stores selling designer fashions, others selling herbal products, crystals and incense.
I was rather taken by the mint green motor scooter propped up against this bollard (is that the right word for it?). Behind it was a small cafe with tables and chairs on the pavement. The posters at the top advertise CPIT (seen in my previous post) and read "Do What Inspires You".
Charlie Chaplin stands outside a video store called "Alice in Videoland" or "Alice's" for short. Alice's is Christchurch's best store for alternative and foreign videos and DVDs although they do have mainstream movies as well.
High Street has quite a quirky mix of shops - some slightly seedy and others less so. There are antique shops, second-hand record stores, stores selling designer fashions, others selling herbal products, crystals and incense.
I was rather taken by the mint green motor scooter propped up against this bollard (is that the right word for it?). Behind it was a small cafe with tables and chairs on the pavement. The posters at the top advertise CPIT (seen in my previous post) and read "Do What Inspires You".
Charlie Chaplin stands outside a video store called "Alice in Videoland" or "Alice's" for short. Alice's is Christchurch's best store for alternative and foreign videos and DVDs although they do have mainstream movies as well.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Take a Walk With Me #2
These shipping containers were stacked by the railway tracks. I thought the blocks of colour looked rather quilt-like.
Across the railway overbridge and into the fringes of the city area. This is the Roman Catholic Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament.
Looking back towards the hills in the direction I had come from. A rather ordinary street scene, except that I loved the way the blue building and the blue car echoed and intensified the blue of the sky. The blue building is part of the CPIT (Christchurch Polytechnic Institute of Technology).
Across the railway overbridge and into the fringes of the city area. This is the Roman Catholic Cathedral of the Blessed Sacrament.
Looking back towards the hills in the direction I had come from. A rather ordinary street scene, except that I loved the way the blue building and the blue car echoed and intensified the blue of the sky. The blue building is part of the CPIT (Christchurch Polytechnic Institute of Technology).
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Take a Walk With Me...
My plan was to get up early this morning, go for my usual walk up the hill, then take my daughter shopping (she had a step ladder to pick up for her new house which is a bit awkward on the bus, and she doesn't drive).
When I woke, however, I found the hills were shrouded in mist. So I read the Saturday papers until she arrived. Later, when the mist had burned off, I thought about my walk. But I also wanted to go into the city centre for various reasons. So, I thought instead of driving into town, driving home, then driving to the hills for my walk, I would just walk into the city instead.
I took a great many photographs. So I decided to spread them out over a number of posts - if you care to come back later in the week, you get to walk with me all week :)
I started off in the suburbs of course, and went past this park where a game of late summer/early autumn cricket was taking place:
I'm not really into cricket, but I did love the crisp green and white, bathed in sunlight.
When I woke, however, I found the hills were shrouded in mist. So I read the Saturday papers until she arrived. Later, when the mist had burned off, I thought about my walk. But I also wanted to go into the city centre for various reasons. So, I thought instead of driving into town, driving home, then driving to the hills for my walk, I would just walk into the city instead.
I took a great many photographs. So I decided to spread them out over a number of posts - if you care to come back later in the week, you get to walk with me all week :)
I started off in the suburbs of course, and went past this park where a game of late summer/early autumn cricket was taking place:
I'm not really into cricket, but I did love the crisp green and white, bathed in sunlight.
Friday, March 23, 2007
It's a New Zealand Thing...
I snapped this photo of the latest Tui billboard on the way to work this morning. Can you tell what it is advertising? This is a long-running ad campaign in which the left hand side of the billboard changes (it has a black background, but the photo has lightened it and picked up the fact that the previous lettering has been painted over). The right hand side is always the same - "yeah, right".
This phrase has come to represent Tui so much, that road signs pointing to their headquarters apparently read "Tui. Yeah, left".
Since I feature poetry on my blog regularly, I was rather taken by this version.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Poetry Thursday: Images
This week's prompt at Poetry Thursday was to be inspired by an image.
Once again, I've been pretty busy (looking forward to a break at Easter), so I pulled a poem out of my files. This poem was inspired by a Picasso painting which you can find here (you will need to scroll down the page).
Seated Woman with Fish Hat
after Picasso
I'm sitting here with a turbot on my head
This is ridiculous
I hope it's finished soon
Even with the lemon on top,
This fish is starting to stink.
That fellow - Pablo something-or-other -
Calls himself an artist - Hah!
He's given me two eyes on the same side of my face
Like a flounder
Doesn't know a front view from a profile
If he's an artist, I'll eat my hat
More image-inspired poetry here
Once again, I've been pretty busy (looking forward to a break at Easter), so I pulled a poem out of my files. This poem was inspired by a Picasso painting which you can find here (you will need to scroll down the page).
Seated Woman with Fish Hat
after Picasso
I'm sitting here with a turbot on my head
This is ridiculous
I hope it's finished soon
Even with the lemon on top,
This fish is starting to stink.
That fellow - Pablo something-or-other -
Calls himself an artist - Hah!
He's given me two eyes on the same side of my face
Like a flounder
Doesn't know a front view from a profile
If he's an artist, I'll eat my hat
More image-inspired poetry here
Monday, March 19, 2007
Four Seasons in One Day and other Weather Related Matters
Summer is coming to a close here, and the weather has been very erratic with wild temperature swings. Yesterday started cool and damp. I set off with a friend for an orienteering event. We went over the hill (the crater rim of an extinct volcano) and headed around the harbour, and suddenly as we rounded a corner we found brilliant sunshine.
I completed my course in the warm sunny weather (perhaps a little too warm since it was quite steep!). I'm pretty pleased with the way my fitness has improved - I maanged the steep climb pretty well. I was slowed down a little by a couple of navigation mistakes. I'd planned to run the last few controls which were on open fields in a slightly downwards direction, but the ground was so rough I had to pick my way fairly carefully. The course started and finished in a rather attractive farm park where there are historic farm buildings and equipment, and rhododendron gardens. So I had taken my camera along planning to take photographs afterwards. But shortly after I finished I realised that the sky had turned dark, and soon drops of rain were falling. We set off back home just as a spectacular thunder and lightning storm struck, and at one point we had to pull off the road as heavy hail made for poor visibility.
Later in the news I heard that in the North Island, the crater rim of Mt Ruapehu broke, releasing a long-expected lahar - photos at this site.
This morning at work we had a power surge. I'm not sure if this was weather-related too. I headed along the road to job number two to find that the computer network there was down and I couldn't do anything. As I sat there contemplating what to do I gazed at the hunting trophies on the wall and realised that of the four stags, three were looking straight at me. A little unnerving!
(Eventually I figured that as I couldn't do any work, I might as well just head back to job number one and do some more there until the computers were fixed. It's very handy when juggling two jobs to have them five minutes stroll away from each other).
I completed my course in the warm sunny weather (perhaps a little too warm since it was quite steep!). I'm pretty pleased with the way my fitness has improved - I maanged the steep climb pretty well. I was slowed down a little by a couple of navigation mistakes. I'd planned to run the last few controls which were on open fields in a slightly downwards direction, but the ground was so rough I had to pick my way fairly carefully. The course started and finished in a rather attractive farm park where there are historic farm buildings and equipment, and rhododendron gardens. So I had taken my camera along planning to take photographs afterwards. But shortly after I finished I realised that the sky had turned dark, and soon drops of rain were falling. We set off back home just as a spectacular thunder and lightning storm struck, and at one point we had to pull off the road as heavy hail made for poor visibility.
Later in the news I heard that in the North Island, the crater rim of Mt Ruapehu broke, releasing a long-expected lahar - photos at this site.
This morning at work we had a power surge. I'm not sure if this was weather-related too. I headed along the road to job number two to find that the computer network there was down and I couldn't do anything. As I sat there contemplating what to do I gazed at the hunting trophies on the wall and realised that of the four stags, three were looking straight at me. A little unnerving!
(Eventually I figured that as I couldn't do any work, I might as well just head back to job number one and do some more there until the computers were fixed. It's very handy when juggling two jobs to have them five minutes stroll away from each other).
Saturday, March 17, 2007
More Poetry and a Housewarming
I am having a very poetry filled week. Yesterday after work I headed off to the Madras Cafe Bookshop for the launch of Bernadette Hall's new book "The Ponies".
The first part of the book is made up of poems based on Bernadette's experience as an Antarctic fellow. Artists to Antarctica is a wonderful scheme which each year sends around three artists to the Antarctic. They are from all disciplines: writers, musicians, painters, textile artists, furniture makers and others have all benefitted from this scheme.
The title poem of the collection, "The Ponies" can be found here.
The second section of the book is a short one - four beautiful elegies written after the death of Bernadette's niece in the London Underground bombings in 2005. And the third section is more of a mixture. Of these, The History of Europe was included in Best New Zealand Poems 2005, and several of the poems, and an interview, are online in Turbine 2006 (along with many other fine New Zealand poets).
I love book launches - there's always tasty finger food, speeches that are interesting and not too long, readings from the book (Bernadette is a great reader) and a good gathering of local writers, many of whom are friends. I used my book voucher from Wednesday night to help pay for the book. (There are all sorts of things I am doing without, to save money, but I can't do without poetry). And when I got it home I noticed the page with the list of her previous books. There, in the section "edited" was "The Chook Book" - the collection of poems produced by the small poetry group I belong to. This is typical of Bernadette's warmth and generosity. It certainly wasn't a career advancing move for her to edit our book. And to see our small, self-published collection listed along with other "important-to-national-literature" publications gave me a small thrill.
I rushed off from the book launch because my daughter was holding her housewarming party. That's another pleasure - for me to see her established enough to buy her own house, in a financial climate that makes it very difficult for young people to do so - especially young single people.
I'm taking this as an excuse to get some quilt photos onto the blog. When I saw that one of the bedrooms has lilac walls and purple curtains, I thought of this quilt:
I went to fetch it when she moved in, to offer it to her as a house-warming gift, and found this quilt as well:
At the moment she is trying them both out to see which one she likes best. I did suggest she keep them both, but she said then she would have to decide every night, instead of just once! (Edit: I realised it wasn't clear from what I wrote, but I made both of these. I have quilts on the beds and quilts in the cupboards here. Giving them away means I can make more! We don't have money to spare at the moment to buy here a big housewarming gift, as I would like, but it's a pleasure to have something to give her from our non-cash abundance)
The first part of the book is made up of poems based on Bernadette's experience as an Antarctic fellow. Artists to Antarctica is a wonderful scheme which each year sends around three artists to the Antarctic. They are from all disciplines: writers, musicians, painters, textile artists, furniture makers and others have all benefitted from this scheme.
The title poem of the collection, "The Ponies" can be found here.
The second section of the book is a short one - four beautiful elegies written after the death of Bernadette's niece in the London Underground bombings in 2005. And the third section is more of a mixture. Of these, The History of Europe was included in Best New Zealand Poems 2005, and several of the poems, and an interview, are online in Turbine 2006 (along with many other fine New Zealand poets).
I love book launches - there's always tasty finger food, speeches that are interesting and not too long, readings from the book (Bernadette is a great reader) and a good gathering of local writers, many of whom are friends. I used my book voucher from Wednesday night to help pay for the book. (There are all sorts of things I am doing without, to save money, but I can't do without poetry). And when I got it home I noticed the page with the list of her previous books. There, in the section "edited" was "The Chook Book" - the collection of poems produced by the small poetry group I belong to. This is typical of Bernadette's warmth and generosity. It certainly wasn't a career advancing move for her to edit our book. And to see our small, self-published collection listed along with other "important-to-national-literature" publications gave me a small thrill.
I rushed off from the book launch because my daughter was holding her housewarming party. That's another pleasure - for me to see her established enough to buy her own house, in a financial climate that makes it very difficult for young people to do so - especially young single people.
I'm taking this as an excuse to get some quilt photos onto the blog. When I saw that one of the bedrooms has lilac walls and purple curtains, I thought of this quilt:
I went to fetch it when she moved in, to offer it to her as a house-warming gift, and found this quilt as well:
At the moment she is trying them both out to see which one she likes best. I did suggest she keep them both, but she said then she would have to decide every night, instead of just once! (Edit: I realised it wasn't clear from what I wrote, but I made both of these. I have quilts on the beds and quilts in the cupboards here. Giving them away means I can make more! We don't have money to spare at the moment to buy here a big housewarming gift, as I would like, but it's a pleasure to have something to give her from our non-cash abundance)
Friday, March 16, 2007
Poetry Thursday: Defined
"Twas brillig, and the slthy toves..."
Oh wait, that's Lewis Carroll!
For this week's Poetry Thursday prompt we were invited to find words that we didn't know the meaning of, choose a favourite and write a poem defining it. I turned to "Mrs Byrne's Dictionary of Unusual, Obscure and Preposterous Words". It was hard to resist peeping at the definitions. But I did come up with quite a long list of strange words - too many to restrict myself to one. Hence my poem which attempts to define "Zythepsary" includes quite a number of the other words. It will be interesting to check the meanings and find out how much nonsense I've written.
Despite being as busy as ever, I really wanted to take part in this prompt. So it was rather hastily written, ten minutes at bedtime one evening gathering words and ten to fifteen minutes last night putting them together. And now it's Friday morning, but after all it is still Thursday in the USA so I'm not really too late. (And for a bonus, my Wednesday post was about poetry, too).
Zythepsary
Book of secrets
I dare not put it
with the other books
It sits in a dark corner
In sunlight it might become
velivolant, the unicorns, greffiers
and monachals that adorn
its cover might kick up their heels
tardigrade, might escape
into the room, a fanfaronade
of creatures around my bed.
I am quisqous - I dare not
open the cover
lest I drown in its
fimetarious pages
More strange words here
Oh wait, that's Lewis Carroll!
For this week's Poetry Thursday prompt we were invited to find words that we didn't know the meaning of, choose a favourite and write a poem defining it. I turned to "Mrs Byrne's Dictionary of Unusual, Obscure and Preposterous Words". It was hard to resist peeping at the definitions. But I did come up with quite a long list of strange words - too many to restrict myself to one. Hence my poem which attempts to define "Zythepsary" includes quite a number of the other words. It will be interesting to check the meanings and find out how much nonsense I've written.
Despite being as busy as ever, I really wanted to take part in this prompt. So it was rather hastily written, ten minutes at bedtime one evening gathering words and ten to fifteen minutes last night putting them together. And now it's Friday morning, but after all it is still Thursday in the USA so I'm not really too late. (And for a bonus, my Wednesday post was about poetry, too).
Zythepsary
Book of secrets
I dare not put it
with the other books
It sits in a dark corner
In sunlight it might become
velivolant, the unicorns, greffiers
and monachals that adorn
its cover might kick up their heels
tardigrade, might escape
into the room, a fanfaronade
of creatures around my bed.
I am quisqous - I dare not
open the cover
lest I drown in its
fimetarious pages
More strange words here
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Breathing Space
That's something I don't seem to have much of lately. I find myself thinking back to the last time I worked full-time. It was before I had any children. I seemed to have more spare time then - well, I started work earlier (which meant getting up earlier) but I was finished by just after 4 o'clock. In summer I would often stop by the swimming pool on the way home to swim laps, but I was home in time to cook dinner and then I had all evening free.
There were only two of us - so the laundry was all done at the weekend, and often the dishes were left till the weekend too :) At one point I was studying for a piano exam, and when the exam date was announced it was a month earlier than I expected, so as soon as dinner was finished I practised the piano for three hours every evening.
Now I wonder where I found the time. Since my husband and the adult children still at home take turns cooking and doing dishes, I only have to do that a couple of times a week. But still, by the time I finish work, get home and eat dinner I don't seem to fit in much else besides laundry, ironing, various household chores, bits of necessary paperwork and of course I do manage to walk or jog several times a week still. I've taken off 12 kgs (about 26 lbs) since last September, gaining energy in the process, and I'm not about to let all that effort go to waste.
Still, tonight I managed to get to a poetry reading. Every autumn the Canterbury Poets have a series of readings, once a week for around six to eight weeks. Usually they receive a grant which helps pay for the costs of bringing guest poets from out of town. This year they missed out, so there are no out-of-town poets. Judging by the first two, however, the standard will be as high using only local talent.
Tonight's two readers were Tom Weston and Fiona Farrell. What struck me about Tom's poems was that lesser poets write about the usual poetic topics, while more talented poets often (not always) find inspiration in much more unexpected places - poems, for instance, about a plague of mice in a medieval town, or about a Turkish poet's journey to New York to find Paul Auster. One of the poems he read was The Unprepared Mind.
Fiona, on the other hand, had spent six months in Ireland last year, and her poems grew out of that experience. They drew on history and genealogy and the experience of immigration and invasion. Here is an earlier poem of Fiona's Eel
Both guests were a treat.
The first half of the evening is always "open mic". I read this poem. There is a weekly vote for the audience favourite - a process which I have mixed feelings about - however I was delighted to receive second place - a $10 book voucher - which is most welcome given our current limited income. I'm planning on putting it towards the cost of Bernadette Hall's new book "Ponies" which is being launched here on Friday night.
(Note to my American readers: $10 here is the equivalent of about $7 US. And books are much more expensive. $25 is fairly standard for a book of poems from a New Zealand poet).
There were only two of us - so the laundry was all done at the weekend, and often the dishes were left till the weekend too :) At one point I was studying for a piano exam, and when the exam date was announced it was a month earlier than I expected, so as soon as dinner was finished I practised the piano for three hours every evening.
Now I wonder where I found the time. Since my husband and the adult children still at home take turns cooking and doing dishes, I only have to do that a couple of times a week. But still, by the time I finish work, get home and eat dinner I don't seem to fit in much else besides laundry, ironing, various household chores, bits of necessary paperwork and of course I do manage to walk or jog several times a week still. I've taken off 12 kgs (about 26 lbs) since last September, gaining energy in the process, and I'm not about to let all that effort go to waste.
Still, tonight I managed to get to a poetry reading. Every autumn the Canterbury Poets have a series of readings, once a week for around six to eight weeks. Usually they receive a grant which helps pay for the costs of bringing guest poets from out of town. This year they missed out, so there are no out-of-town poets. Judging by the first two, however, the standard will be as high using only local talent.
Tonight's two readers were Tom Weston and Fiona Farrell. What struck me about Tom's poems was that lesser poets write about the usual poetic topics, while more talented poets often (not always) find inspiration in much more unexpected places - poems, for instance, about a plague of mice in a medieval town, or about a Turkish poet's journey to New York to find Paul Auster. One of the poems he read was The Unprepared Mind.
Fiona, on the other hand, had spent six months in Ireland last year, and her poems grew out of that experience. They drew on history and genealogy and the experience of immigration and invasion. Here is an earlier poem of Fiona's Eel
Both guests were a treat.
The first half of the evening is always "open mic". I read this poem. There is a weekly vote for the audience favourite - a process which I have mixed feelings about - however I was delighted to receive second place - a $10 book voucher - which is most welcome given our current limited income. I'm planning on putting it towards the cost of Bernadette Hall's new book "Ponies" which is being launched here on Friday night.
(Note to my American readers: $10 here is the equivalent of about $7 US. And books are much more expensive. $25 is fairly standard for a book of poems from a New Zealand poet).
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Sunday Photos
Some images from my walk yesterday.
I took a different track from my usual one. It was quite a bit steeper. This is a view from the top, looking over the valley to the next spur where you can see the track I take on most of my walks. As you can see the hillside has got very dry and brown in the last few weeks. Summer is nearly over - in fact, technically it is autumn already, but we are having the warmest weather we have had all summer.
Normally the sheep would get up and wander off when I approach. This one was looking at me as if to say "Nah...it's just too hot to bother".
The magpies really do say quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle
I took a different track from my usual one. It was quite a bit steeper. This is a view from the top, looking over the valley to the next spur where you can see the track I take on most of my walks. As you can see the hillside has got very dry and brown in the last few weeks. Summer is nearly over - in fact, technically it is autumn already, but we are having the warmest weather we have had all summer.
Normally the sheep would get up and wander off when I approach. This one was looking at me as if to say "Nah...it's just too hot to bother".
The magpies really do say quardle oodle ardle wardle doodle
Saturday, March 10, 2007
And in Other News
I just had to publish a link to this news story, which has to be one of the craziest I have seen this year.
Food Miles
It seems obvious. If we buy food that is grown locally, we can help combat global warming. This is the concept of "food miles" - surely food flown or even shipped around the world must contribute far more to carbon emissions than food grown nearby? I believe it's not as simple as that. For instance, there are two Farmers' Markets held on Saturdays within driving distance from my home. The food is locally grown - more or less - after all the farms are not within the city boundaries, but on the outskirts. The stalls are small. So each grower is driving perhaps 30 km in a small car or van to bring their produce to the market. And if I shop there, it is a longer drive than my nearest supermarket, which is just around the corner. Or even a no-so-close supermarket which I can stop at on my way home from work. I am fairly sure that each kilogram of produce sold at the Farmers Market is responsible for more carbon emissions than the equivalent produce sold at the supermarket - even though the latter may be driven several hundred kilometres to get there. It's the economies of scale - moving a large quantity of produce in a large truck to a supermarket closer to the target market.
I worry about what will happen to New Zealand if the concept of food miles catches on. Or if long-range tourism declines due to fears of global warming. It's what our economy relies on. So I was interested to read some figures in this article. (If you are interested, bookmark it. In the interests of selling magazines, the full text of the main feature articles are not available on line for a few weeks after the issue date). New Zealand farmers are not subsidised, unlike farmers in the European Union and other countries. They have to be efficient to survive. Apparently, in most cases, less total energy is used to produce food in New Zealand and ship it to the other side of the world than to produce it and sell it locally. Another interesting statistic was that half of all the energy used in transporting food is used in the journey from the supermarket to home. To reduce emissions you could choose the locally grown product, or you could combine your shopping list with your neighbour's and cut your trips to the supermarket in half for exactly the same effect. Or you could make sure to stock your pantry well, reducing your number of trips.
You can use a simplistic measure of emissions like food miles. Or you can investigate the true measure by researching all the emissions produced in the lifetime of the product. Unfortunately this takes a lot of research, so it is heartening to see that the UK supermarket chain Tescos plans to do it for us, and label goods sold in their shops with information on their total carbon footprint.
I hope that the world will keep buying our produce, and keep visiting us. Or will New Zealanders become an endangered species, starving at the bottom of the world? Perhaps then the World Wildlife Fund will mount a rescue campaign. One thing is for sure - we can't all emigrate back to Britain.
I worry about what will happen to New Zealand if the concept of food miles catches on. Or if long-range tourism declines due to fears of global warming. It's what our economy relies on. So I was interested to read some figures in this article. (If you are interested, bookmark it. In the interests of selling magazines, the full text of the main feature articles are not available on line for a few weeks after the issue date). New Zealand farmers are not subsidised, unlike farmers in the European Union and other countries. They have to be efficient to survive. Apparently, in most cases, less total energy is used to produce food in New Zealand and ship it to the other side of the world than to produce it and sell it locally. Another interesting statistic was that half of all the energy used in transporting food is used in the journey from the supermarket to home. To reduce emissions you could choose the locally grown product, or you could combine your shopping list with your neighbour's and cut your trips to the supermarket in half for exactly the same effect. Or you could make sure to stock your pantry well, reducing your number of trips.
You can use a simplistic measure of emissions like food miles. Or you can investigate the true measure by researching all the emissions produced in the lifetime of the product. Unfortunately this takes a lot of research, so it is heartening to see that the UK supermarket chain Tescos plans to do it for us, and label goods sold in their shops with information on their total carbon footprint.
I hope that the world will keep buying our produce, and keep visiting us. Or will New Zealanders become an endangered species, starving at the bottom of the world? Perhaps then the World Wildlife Fund will mount a rescue campaign. One thing is for sure - we can't all emigrate back to Britain.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Poetry Thursday: Not a Red Poem
This week continues to be busy, although I am gradually settling in to working full time. At the moment, P. is a house husband so one of my current delights is coming home knowing that someone else will cook the dinner. And sometimes I also find the laundry on the line. But I have been helping my daughter move house, baking a birthday cake for another daughter, shopping for her birthday present, and taking care of paper work, not to mention trying to fit in regular exercise - all of which leaves little time for writing.
Which is why this week's post is titled "Not a Red Poem". Red was the prompt at
Poetry Thursday this week. But since the prompt is completely and totally optional, I have pulled out a poem from my archives on "white". Who knows? Maybe one day Liz and Dana will post the prompt "white". And maybe by then I will have a "red" poem to post. (I have had a little time to read passages on red in some of my books on "colour" - a topic that intrigues me. I have a wonderful list of names for different types of red. I'm sure a poem is lurking there somewhere).
I always felt this white poem needed three sections for balance. But somehow it seemed determined to stop at two.
White
1
white is proud
she scorns light’s caress
returns all gifts
has no form
does not possess
her own shadows
2
the baptismal gown
the daisy chain
the picket fence
the clean sheet
the fallen petals
the spider’s web
the far mountains
the ghost moon
the sharp fang
the winding cloth
the sepulchre
the bleached bones
Which is why this week's post is titled "Not a Red Poem". Red was the prompt at
Poetry Thursday this week. But since the prompt is completely and totally optional, I have pulled out a poem from my archives on "white". Who knows? Maybe one day Liz and Dana will post the prompt "white". And maybe by then I will have a "red" poem to post. (I have had a little time to read passages on red in some of my books on "colour" - a topic that intrigues me. I have a wonderful list of names for different types of red. I'm sure a poem is lurking there somewhere).
I always felt this white poem needed three sections for balance. But somehow it seemed determined to stop at two.
White
1
white is proud
she scorns light’s caress
returns all gifts
has no form
does not possess
her own shadows
2
the baptismal gown
the daisy chain
the picket fence
the clean sheet
the fallen petals
the spider’s web
the far mountains
the ghost moon
the sharp fang
the winding cloth
the sepulchre
the bleached bones
Saturday, March 03, 2007
Gratitude
Possibly, I should feel anxious right now (see Wednesday post). After all, I am generally a rather anxious person. I get uptight about small things. Strangely, I don't seem to be feel especially anxious. Mostly, I feel grateful.
Here are some of the things I am grateful for (in no particular order):
1. The lovely place where we live. The river and the hills close by, where I can go walking.
2. The fact that our house is so close to paid off that the bit left really doesn't matter.
3. Free internet (courtesy of a son who works for an ISP).
4. Digital cameras - because of all the fun of taking photos without the expense of buying film.
5. Extra paid work just when I needed it (see Wednesday post, again). Granted, it is temporary, but it makes me feel something will turn up.
6. Free internet.
7. Our wonderful public library.
8. A big stash of fabrics, art supplies, etc just in case I should have time in between the extra work to feel like making something.
9. The fact that our trip to the UK in September is booked and mostly paid for, on non-refundable tickets. Can't back out of this one! (The air fares, a bit over half our accommodation, and the rental car are all paid for. We still have to pay for about a week and a half of accommodation, petrol, food - bread and cheese anyone? - and spending money).
10. The fact that writing takes not much more than a computer or a pencil and paper, and therefore is pretty close to free.
11. Did I mention free internet? :)
Here are some of the things I am grateful for (in no particular order):
1. The lovely place where we live. The river and the hills close by, where I can go walking.
2. The fact that our house is so close to paid off that the bit left really doesn't matter.
3. Free internet (courtesy of a son who works for an ISP).
4. Digital cameras - because of all the fun of taking photos without the expense of buying film.
5. Extra paid work just when I needed it (see Wednesday post, again). Granted, it is temporary, but it makes me feel something will turn up.
6. Free internet.
7. Our wonderful public library.
8. A big stash of fabrics, art supplies, etc just in case I should have time in between the extra work to feel like making something.
9. The fact that our trip to the UK in September is booked and mostly paid for, on non-refundable tickets. Can't back out of this one! (The air fares, a bit over half our accommodation, and the rental car are all paid for. We still have to pay for about a week and a half of accommodation, petrol, food - bread and cheese anyone? - and spending money).
10. The fact that writing takes not much more than a computer or a pencil and paper, and therefore is pretty close to free.
11. Did I mention free internet? :)
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Poetry Thursday: Beauty
The prompt at Poetry Thursday this week sounded rather interesting. The idea was to describe whatever we thought was the most beautiful thing in the world, but without describing it. I may try it one day, but this post will explain why I didn't have time this week.
I couldn't miss Poetry Thursday, though. So I thought I would offer this small poem by Robert Bridges, on the topic of beauty and craftsmanship, which I have always liked (well, at least for the last forty years or so). It seems as if this week has been full of "hasty days". Perhaps I will have time to think about the prompt at the weekend.
All Beauteous Things
I love all beauteous things,
I seek and adore them:
God hath no better praise,
And man in his hasty days
Is honoured for them.
I too will something make
And joy in the making;
Although to-morrow it seem
Like empty words of a dream
Remembered on waking.
- Robert Bridges (1844 - 1930)
I couldn't miss Poetry Thursday, though. So I thought I would offer this small poem by Robert Bridges, on the topic of beauty and craftsmanship, which I have always liked (well, at least for the last forty years or so). It seems as if this week has been full of "hasty days". Perhaps I will have time to think about the prompt at the weekend.
All Beauteous Things
I love all beauteous things,
I seek and adore them:
God hath no better praise,
And man in his hasty days
Is honoured for them.
I too will something make
And joy in the making;
Although to-morrow it seem
Like empty words of a dream
Remembered on waking.
- Robert Bridges (1844 - 1930)
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Insanely Busy
I was waiting to explain properly what is going on around here until I knew what's going on. I still don't know what's going on. Not long-term anyway, but I decided it was time to reveal a little about events so far.
I did post about going to Auckland for my uncle's funeral. What I didn't mention in that post was that I knew that when I came back my husband would know whether he had a job or not. As it turned out, he didn't. This of course will shortly cause a radical change in our financial situation, since he was the one with the highly paid specialised IT job and I was the one working part time for average wages (after being out of the work force for many years raising children).
On the following Friday I went to work intending to tell my boss that I would need to look for a second part-time job, or a full-time job, and to ask if he would be my referee. He wasn't there. After I'd been working for a while, the phone went. It was my boss wanting to know if I wanted to work additional hours. Since I've been there seven years and I've never been asked that before, it would have to be one of the stranger coincidences in my life.
Originally I thought it was going to be a permanent part-time job. However it looks as if it will be temporary. There is a full-time person leaving, she has been training me for the last couple of days, and the position is being advertised. So I will have to train the new full-time person. I could apply for it, but I won't. It seems to me as if there is really too much work for one person full-time. With luck they will realise this, and keep me on for a while at least after the new person starts.
In the meantime I'm moving between the two jobs (for different companies - my boss is involved with quite a few) and stacking up as many hours as I can to build up some reserve funds. So my life runs along the lines of "hang out the laundry, go to work, cook dinner, do dishes, iron the laundry and go to bed". Fortunately the adult kids here take turns with the cooking and dishes which means I can fit in a few extras - like my poetry group meeting last night, or taking a walk between work and dinner. But my internet time is severely restricted.
And learning to be super-efficient doesn't seem to be quite the right frame of mind for writing poetry.
I did post about going to Auckland for my uncle's funeral. What I didn't mention in that post was that I knew that when I came back my husband would know whether he had a job or not. As it turned out, he didn't. This of course will shortly cause a radical change in our financial situation, since he was the one with the highly paid specialised IT job and I was the one working part time for average wages (after being out of the work force for many years raising children).
On the following Friday I went to work intending to tell my boss that I would need to look for a second part-time job, or a full-time job, and to ask if he would be my referee. He wasn't there. After I'd been working for a while, the phone went. It was my boss wanting to know if I wanted to work additional hours. Since I've been there seven years and I've never been asked that before, it would have to be one of the stranger coincidences in my life.
Originally I thought it was going to be a permanent part-time job. However it looks as if it will be temporary. There is a full-time person leaving, she has been training me for the last couple of days, and the position is being advertised. So I will have to train the new full-time person. I could apply for it, but I won't. It seems to me as if there is really too much work for one person full-time. With luck they will realise this, and keep me on for a while at least after the new person starts.
In the meantime I'm moving between the two jobs (for different companies - my boss is involved with quite a few) and stacking up as many hours as I can to build up some reserve funds. So my life runs along the lines of "hang out the laundry, go to work, cook dinner, do dishes, iron the laundry and go to bed". Fortunately the adult kids here take turns with the cooking and dishes which means I can fit in a few extras - like my poetry group meeting last night, or taking a walk between work and dinner. But my internet time is severely restricted.
And learning to be super-efficient doesn't seem to be quite the right frame of mind for writing poetry.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Poetry Thursday: The Body Knows
I suspect my body knows a lot. But my body and my brain don't always communicate very well. My brain is apt to make journeys which take it far from paying attention to what my body knows.
I felt this week's prompt at Poetry Thursday - "the body knows..." - demanded that I try and find different approaches to the writing of poetry than my usual brain-driven approach. So I decided to experiment a little. The results, therefore, are more in the nature of an ongoing experiment than a finished poem.
I've been wanting to try drawing myself naked for a while. I finally got around to it. After drawing for a while I wrote by free associating some of the images that came to mind from the drawing session. I'm not a very experienced artist! However one of the resulting drawings was slightly less clumsy looking than the others. I scanned it in to the computer, printed it out, typed out a selection of the words and phrases in a separate document, printed them over the scanned drawing, and then scanned it again. This is the result. To read the words better, click on the image for a larger version. (I thought about cropping the original scan to remove the spiral binding of the sketchbook, but I decided I liked the look and left it in).
I felt this week's prompt at Poetry Thursday - "the body knows..." - demanded that I try and find different approaches to the writing of poetry than my usual brain-driven approach. So I decided to experiment a little. The results, therefore, are more in the nature of an ongoing experiment than a finished poem.
I've been wanting to try drawing myself naked for a while. I finally got around to it. After drawing for a while I wrote by free associating some of the images that came to mind from the drawing session. I'm not a very experienced artist! However one of the resulting drawings was slightly less clumsy looking than the others. I scanned it in to the computer, printed it out, typed out a selection of the words and phrases in a separate document, printed them over the scanned drawing, and then scanned it again. This is the result. To read the words better, click on the image for a larger version. (I thought about cropping the original scan to remove the spiral binding of the sketchbook, but I decided I liked the look and left it in).
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
The Last Tuesday Walk
Tuesday morning is when I go walking with my neighbour (and sometimes her dog Bella).
Today instead of walking in our own neighbourhood I suggested we drive out to the beach. It was a beautiful morning. We walked along the beach past Cave Rock, past the mums and small children playing in the sand:
as far as Shag Rock:
and then back along the beach
to where we had parked the car.
Then we stopped at a restaurant and had morning tea - which by that time was really lunch.
After getting home I found that I was feeling rather sad as this may be the last Tuesday morning walk. The reason for that is that it looks as if I will soon be working fulltime. The details aren't finalised yet, so I will wait and reveal more later.
There are going to be two challenges: one is the challenge of the new job, and the other is the challenge of readjusting my life and finding time to work, run the house, and still be creative.
Today instead of walking in our own neighbourhood I suggested we drive out to the beach. It was a beautiful morning. We walked along the beach past Cave Rock, past the mums and small children playing in the sand:
as far as Shag Rock:
and then back along the beach
to where we had parked the car.
Then we stopped at a restaurant and had morning tea - which by that time was really lunch.
After getting home I found that I was feeling rather sad as this may be the last Tuesday morning walk. The reason for that is that it looks as if I will soon be working fulltime. The details aren't finalised yet, so I will wait and reveal more later.
There are going to be two challenges: one is the challenge of the new job, and the other is the challenge of readjusting my life and finding time to work, run the house, and still be creative.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
There's New Zealand, and then there's Auckland..
I was up early on Wednesday morning to drive to the airport, where I boarded a flight to Auckland. At about the same time my brother, who had flown to Auckland the night before, was leaving the house where he was staying to drive to Auckland airport. And twenty minutes or so later, my other brother and sister were leaving Wellington airport to fly to Auckland, where we all met up at 9 a.m. Yes, you can fly from Christchurch to Auckland in the same time as it takes to drive across Auckland city.
Technically, of course, Auckland is not one city but three. Manukau city is in the south, and it is where the airport is situated. Auckland city is in the middle, between the Manukau harbour and the Waitemata harbour. And North Shore city is, well, on the North Shore. Which is where we were headed.
I once heard a US city - I think it was Philadelphia - described as having "Our Lady of Perpetual Construction" for its patron saint. Auckland is rather like that. Roadworks and new motorways everywhere, but still they can't keep up with the traffic. I thought we would be able to drive right through from the airport to the North Shore on the motorway, but there is quite a large section from the airport to just south of the central city that has no motorway yet, so we sat in rather slow traffic for quite some distance (not that we sped up all that much when we got on the motorway either). It occurred to me that the "rush hour" is misnamed, as it is the hour when no-one can rush anywhere. And in Auckland, the rush hour seems to be spreading out to take over most of the day. Cars everywhere. Huge suburbs of nothing but houses - no cafes, supermarkets, post offices, corner shops or other facilities - which of course means more cars. And almost everywhere you go, you can see the Sky Tower. The symbol of the Auckland landscape, what uniquely identifies Auckland, used to be the harbour bridge - now it is the casino.
To be fair to Auckland, there are some older suburbs that are wonderful and gracious and close to amenities. (But only the rich can afford to live there). The situation between two harbours means that there are many beautiful spots - plenty of green reserves with birdsong and glimpses of water.
I spent a year living in Auckland over thirty years ago, when we could live cheaply in a rundown suburb close to the City Centre (now gentrified). Before the traffic became almost impossibly congested. I don't think I want to go back.
The reason we were there was to attend my uncle's funeral. The cemetery at least, is in a lovely spot by an inlet in the upper reaches of the Waitemata harbour. He was a navigator in Lancaster bombers in World War 11. As we stood by the graveside, the air filled with the sound of cicadas, and wading birds wandering over the far end of the lawn, an Air Force Orion on a training exercise flew circles overhead. A fitting tribute.
I had a four hour wait at the airport on my return as we all had different flight times. The interflora shop was filled with red roses, and heartshaped chocolates - three small chocolates in a bag for $6. The cafe was selling pink iced heart shaped biscuits. It was Valentine's Day. By the time I reached home, it was past bedtime. It's a good thing that Valentine's Day is not a big thing over here for most people. It has really only arrived in the last few years, pushed by retailers. Not too many people of my generation bother with it.
Technically, of course, Auckland is not one city but three. Manukau city is in the south, and it is where the airport is situated. Auckland city is in the middle, between the Manukau harbour and the Waitemata harbour. And North Shore city is, well, on the North Shore. Which is where we were headed.
I once heard a US city - I think it was Philadelphia - described as having "Our Lady of Perpetual Construction" for its patron saint. Auckland is rather like that. Roadworks and new motorways everywhere, but still they can't keep up with the traffic. I thought we would be able to drive right through from the airport to the North Shore on the motorway, but there is quite a large section from the airport to just south of the central city that has no motorway yet, so we sat in rather slow traffic for quite some distance (not that we sped up all that much when we got on the motorway either). It occurred to me that the "rush hour" is misnamed, as it is the hour when no-one can rush anywhere. And in Auckland, the rush hour seems to be spreading out to take over most of the day. Cars everywhere. Huge suburbs of nothing but houses - no cafes, supermarkets, post offices, corner shops or other facilities - which of course means more cars. And almost everywhere you go, you can see the Sky Tower. The symbol of the Auckland landscape, what uniquely identifies Auckland, used to be the harbour bridge - now it is the casino.
To be fair to Auckland, there are some older suburbs that are wonderful and gracious and close to amenities. (But only the rich can afford to live there). The situation between two harbours means that there are many beautiful spots - plenty of green reserves with birdsong and glimpses of water.
I spent a year living in Auckland over thirty years ago, when we could live cheaply in a rundown suburb close to the City Centre (now gentrified). Before the traffic became almost impossibly congested. I don't think I want to go back.
The reason we were there was to attend my uncle's funeral. The cemetery at least, is in a lovely spot by an inlet in the upper reaches of the Waitemata harbour. He was a navigator in Lancaster bombers in World War 11. As we stood by the graveside, the air filled with the sound of cicadas, and wading birds wandering over the far end of the lawn, an Air Force Orion on a training exercise flew circles overhead. A fitting tribute.
I had a four hour wait at the airport on my return as we all had different flight times. The interflora shop was filled with red roses, and heartshaped chocolates - three small chocolates in a bag for $6. The cafe was selling pink iced heart shaped biscuits. It was Valentine's Day. By the time I reached home, it was past bedtime. It's a good thing that Valentine's Day is not a big thing over here for most people. It has really only arrived in the last few years, pushed by retailers. Not too many people of my generation bother with it.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Poetry Thursday: Prose Poems
I've had a busy week so I was glad of the prompt which enabled me to post an old poem from my files. If it is a poem. What makes a prose poem?
I don't think I can answer this, but I believe that it is not really a question that is specific to prose poetry. The question "is it a poem?" is the same question whether it is a piece of writing that has rhyme and metre, or has line breaks, some sort of metre but no rhyme, or whether it is set out in prose (or any variant in between these).
Is it poetry, verse or a jingle?
Is it poetry, or a political statement with line breaks?
Is it poetry or just a rather strange piece of prose?
I don't know.
The first time I found out there was such a thing as a "prose poem" was at the first every poetry workshop I attended. I was browsing a collection of poetry books that were available for our inspiration, and came across the work of Charles Simic. His prose poems are delightfully surreal. I hope you might consider exploring them. In the meantime, here is my own contribution:
Six Blind Men and an Elephant
This is a joke my children used to tell. They would pick some unsuspecting person and ask “I’ve got a riddle for you. What is the difference between an elephant and a hammerfor?” They were just waiting for the question “What’s a hammerfor?” and then they could say “Banging nails in”. We know this joke pretty well by now, so the other day when my daughter asked “what’s a hammerfor?” I said “Banging nails in” almost without thinking and then she asked “what’s a metaphor?” Of course the thing about a metaphor is that it’s really only useful if we know both the things being compared. So I might say for instance that a book is a magic carpet that takes us to other worlds. You know, and I know, dozens of ways that a book is not at all like a magic carpet and that’s why we can appreciate the point of the comparison. And then there’s the old story about six blind men and an elephant. One of them felt the trunk and said it was like a snake. Another had a hold of the tail. “An elephant is very much like a rope” he said. A third, grasping the leg, declared that the elephant was like a tree. And so on. But anyone who hasn’t seen an elephant is left with the image of a snake in a tree which has a rope hanging from one branch, which really doesn’t help much at all. So when I learnt that atoms have nuclei with orbiting electrons, I thought of planetary systems and believed I knew what was going on. Then I learnt that light is particles, called photons, which made some sort of sense, until I learnt about light waves. So which is it, particles or waves? Both, and neither, depending on the mathematics, and that’s when physics started to get confusing. Somewhere around Stage 2 I was completely lost, which is to say, I could do the maths and come up with the right answers, but I just couldn’t picture it any more. That was pretty scary, because up till then I thought I could get a handle on just about anything. And somewhere in the years between then and now, the physicists stopped talking about waves and particles and started talking about tiny strings curled up in about ten or thirteen directions. Now, when I think of Einstein saying “God does not play dice with the universe”, all I can picture is God playing Cat’s Cradle.
I don't think I can answer this, but I believe that it is not really a question that is specific to prose poetry. The question "is it a poem?" is the same question whether it is a piece of writing that has rhyme and metre, or has line breaks, some sort of metre but no rhyme, or whether it is set out in prose (or any variant in between these).
Is it poetry, verse or a jingle?
Is it poetry, or a political statement with line breaks?
Is it poetry or just a rather strange piece of prose?
I don't know.
The first time I found out there was such a thing as a "prose poem" was at the first every poetry workshop I attended. I was browsing a collection of poetry books that were available for our inspiration, and came across the work of Charles Simic. His prose poems are delightfully surreal. I hope you might consider exploring them. In the meantime, here is my own contribution:
Six Blind Men and an Elephant
This is a joke my children used to tell. They would pick some unsuspecting person and ask “I’ve got a riddle for you. What is the difference between an elephant and a hammerfor?” They were just waiting for the question “What’s a hammerfor?” and then they could say “Banging nails in”. We know this joke pretty well by now, so the other day when my daughter asked “what’s a hammerfor?” I said “Banging nails in” almost without thinking and then she asked “what’s a metaphor?” Of course the thing about a metaphor is that it’s really only useful if we know both the things being compared. So I might say for instance that a book is a magic carpet that takes us to other worlds. You know, and I know, dozens of ways that a book is not at all like a magic carpet and that’s why we can appreciate the point of the comparison. And then there’s the old story about six blind men and an elephant. One of them felt the trunk and said it was like a snake. Another had a hold of the tail. “An elephant is very much like a rope” he said. A third, grasping the leg, declared that the elephant was like a tree. And so on. But anyone who hasn’t seen an elephant is left with the image of a snake in a tree which has a rope hanging from one branch, which really doesn’t help much at all. So when I learnt that atoms have nuclei with orbiting electrons, I thought of planetary systems and believed I knew what was going on. Then I learnt that light is particles, called photons, which made some sort of sense, until I learnt about light waves. So which is it, particles or waves? Both, and neither, depending on the mathematics, and that’s when physics started to get confusing. Somewhere around Stage 2 I was completely lost, which is to say, I could do the maths and come up with the right answers, but I just couldn’t picture it any more. That was pretty scary, because up till then I thought I could get a handle on just about anything. And somewhere in the years between then and now, the physicists stopped talking about waves and particles and started talking about tiny strings curled up in about ten or thirteen directions. Now, when I think of Einstein saying “God does not play dice with the universe”, all I can picture is God playing Cat’s Cradle.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Bruises and Boggarts
I think I have been watching too much CSI. I found myself looking at the bruises on my legs and wondering what the coroner would make of them if I died in an accident today. They are particularly distinctive small bruises in little lines. I must admit, the first time I had them I was stumped for quite a while, until I realised they were from squeezing through the strands of wire fences while I was out orienteering. The more athletic young males of course vault over the fences, barely touching except maybe for a hand on top of the fence post for balance.
This is where we were orienteering on Sunday.
The longer courses went right to the top of the hill, but since I do the "short red" course - technically difficult but not too strenuous - the course setter took us mostly into the forest at the bottom of the valley on the right. Since I'm just getting back into orienteering after doing very little last year, I was grateful for the shortness of the course and lack of significant climb. Nothing comes without a downside and in this case it was lots of boggy swampy ground, and lots of prickles. But overall I was pretty pleased with my efforts which show that all my hill climbing in the last few months is paying off. The winner took 52 minutes, I took 1 hour 22 minutes, and the slowest on the course was 2 hours 30 minutes (someone who got lost and added a big extra loop to the course).
If you'd told me when I was a teenager that one day I'd be competing in organised sport, I'd have laughed. This is because I lack coordination for ball sports, and I can't run. OK, to some extent I believe that anyone can improve at anything they want to if they practice enough. But I also believe in inborn differences between people. And I think I have good reason to believe I can't run. I was a real outdoor kid, often found up trees, loving the beach, able to swim long distances (slowly) and going for long Sunday afternoon walks with my father. I loved the outdoors. But I wasn't speedy. Fortunately I went to a small primary school and there wasn't much in the way of athletics. Once a year we went to the interschool sports day where I would take part in the obligatory running race, finish twenty or thirty yards behind everyone else (and that was the heats, not the final), feel stupid for a little while and then enjoy the day in the sun with my family, with treats such as pies for lunch and ice creams.
The humiliation I still remember though was at Brownies. Once a Brownie had passed the initial simple tests like learning the Brownie law and promise, it was time for enrolment. And the enrolment ceremony involved being chased by a boggart. Not a real boggart, of course. Another Brownie was chosen to be the boggart. I had to start at one side of the fairy ring, the boggart started at the other side, and I was chased twice around the fairy ring before running to the centre. The story was that if the boggart caught you, you couldn't be a Brownie. I don't think it ever occurred to anyone that the boggart would ever catch anyone. After all that would mean running 33% faster. But just before I got to the centre, I felt the boggart tag me. And of course the leaders had to pretend that it hadn't happened. So, apart from feeling utterly humiliated that I was so slow that it hadn't occurred to them that anyone could be that slow, I learnt that adults should really think carefully before they threated a punishment that they have no intention of carrying out.
That was all sprinting, of course. Maybe if we had had cross country running at school, it would have been a different matter. All my children seem to have had to run cross country at school, but it didn't seem to happen so much back then.
After I first heard about orienteering and thinking that sounded fun, it took me a while to get into it because I thought I would have to be able to run better. But in fact there's room for all abilities, and good navigation makes up for a lot. When I started, my children were small. Walking round the easy courses with a two or three year old in tow is a wonderful excuse to be slow. I'm not expecting to win anything this year, unless the faster runners in my age group make some huge mistakes in navigation, but I aim to get to no more than 25% slower than the winning time.
Blogger has forced me to upgrade, finally. It seems to be OK. But it works no better with Safari than the old blogger does.
This is where we were orienteering on Sunday.
The longer courses went right to the top of the hill, but since I do the "short red" course - technically difficult but not too strenuous - the course setter took us mostly into the forest at the bottom of the valley on the right. Since I'm just getting back into orienteering after doing very little last year, I was grateful for the shortness of the course and lack of significant climb. Nothing comes without a downside and in this case it was lots of boggy swampy ground, and lots of prickles. But overall I was pretty pleased with my efforts which show that all my hill climbing in the last few months is paying off. The winner took 52 minutes, I took 1 hour 22 minutes, and the slowest on the course was 2 hours 30 minutes (someone who got lost and added a big extra loop to the course).
If you'd told me when I was a teenager that one day I'd be competing in organised sport, I'd have laughed. This is because I lack coordination for ball sports, and I can't run. OK, to some extent I believe that anyone can improve at anything they want to if they practice enough. But I also believe in inborn differences between people. And I think I have good reason to believe I can't run. I was a real outdoor kid, often found up trees, loving the beach, able to swim long distances (slowly) and going for long Sunday afternoon walks with my father. I loved the outdoors. But I wasn't speedy. Fortunately I went to a small primary school and there wasn't much in the way of athletics. Once a year we went to the interschool sports day where I would take part in the obligatory running race, finish twenty or thirty yards behind everyone else (and that was the heats, not the final), feel stupid for a little while and then enjoy the day in the sun with my family, with treats such as pies for lunch and ice creams.
The humiliation I still remember though was at Brownies. Once a Brownie had passed the initial simple tests like learning the Brownie law and promise, it was time for enrolment. And the enrolment ceremony involved being chased by a boggart. Not a real boggart, of course. Another Brownie was chosen to be the boggart. I had to start at one side of the fairy ring, the boggart started at the other side, and I was chased twice around the fairy ring before running to the centre. The story was that if the boggart caught you, you couldn't be a Brownie. I don't think it ever occurred to anyone that the boggart would ever catch anyone. After all that would mean running 33% faster. But just before I got to the centre, I felt the boggart tag me. And of course the leaders had to pretend that it hadn't happened. So, apart from feeling utterly humiliated that I was so slow that it hadn't occurred to them that anyone could be that slow, I learnt that adults should really think carefully before they threated a punishment that they have no intention of carrying out.
That was all sprinting, of course. Maybe if we had had cross country running at school, it would have been a different matter. All my children seem to have had to run cross country at school, but it didn't seem to happen so much back then.
After I first heard about orienteering and thinking that sounded fun, it took me a while to get into it because I thought I would have to be able to run better. But in fact there's room for all abilities, and good navigation makes up for a lot. When I started, my children were small. Walking round the easy courses with a two or three year old in tow is a wonderful excuse to be slow. I'm not expecting to win anything this year, unless the faster runners in my age group make some huge mistakes in navigation, but I aim to get to no more than 25% slower than the winning time.
Blogger has forced me to upgrade, finally. It seems to be OK. But it works no better with Safari than the old blogger does.
Friday, February 09, 2007
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I think our finance minister is sleep deprived and hallucinating. His latest brilliant idea is a levy on fixed rate mortgages. The backgournd to this is that the main inflation control weapon in New Zealand is interest rates. When inflation gets too high, the Reserve Bank raises the official cash rate, which supposedly dampens demand and inflation is kept in control.
Unfortunately our high interest rates attract overseas investors, which mean that the exchange rate is high, and exporters suffer. Supposedly the economy is strong but the balance of payments is terrible, because people are rushing to buy cheap imports, and exporters are earning next to nothing.
Supposedly the imposition of an additional levy on fixed rate mortgages will dampen demand for housing, while not offering any additional incentive to overseas investors.
Here's what I don't get: the idea is that a raise in the official cash rate takes to long to flow through, so doesn't decrease demand for mortgages immediately. This seems strange to me, as surely it will decrease demand for new mortgages. It's only the existing ones that aren't affected until they are due for renewal, and surely the government doesn't want to throw people out of their houses? (Oh, I have just figured it out - if their mortgage costs go up, they won't have money for other things like, say, food and clothes, so that reduced spending in these areas will keep inflation down).
Secondly, house ownership rates in New Zealand are at an all time low, and it is predicted that huge numbers of people will never be able to afford their own home. And yet demand increases. That's because of the baby boomers looking to property as an investment. So maybe to dampen demand they could find some measure to increase taxes on property investors, and leave young people struggling to buy their first homes alone? Or maybe even help them along?
As the banks say in this article, this idea will never float, because about 1.2 million people in the country have mortgages, and that's a lot of votes (in a country of 4 million).
And I'm very glad to say that despite interest rates of nearly 8 percent, and house prices that are very high in relation to wages, compared to many other countries, my eldest daughter has successfully managed to buy her first home and will be moving out in a month. (I'll miss her. But I'm happy for her). It's not big, it needs a few repairs, but it is attractive and conveniently sited close to a very regular bus route.
Unfortunately our high interest rates attract overseas investors, which mean that the exchange rate is high, and exporters suffer. Supposedly the economy is strong but the balance of payments is terrible, because people are rushing to buy cheap imports, and exporters are earning next to nothing.
Supposedly the imposition of an additional levy on fixed rate mortgages will dampen demand for housing, while not offering any additional incentive to overseas investors.
Here's what I don't get: the idea is that a raise in the official cash rate takes to long to flow through, so doesn't decrease demand for mortgages immediately. This seems strange to me, as surely it will decrease demand for new mortgages. It's only the existing ones that aren't affected until they are due for renewal, and surely the government doesn't want to throw people out of their houses? (Oh, I have just figured it out - if their mortgage costs go up, they won't have money for other things like, say, food and clothes, so that reduced spending in these areas will keep inflation down).
Secondly, house ownership rates in New Zealand are at an all time low, and it is predicted that huge numbers of people will never be able to afford their own home. And yet demand increases. That's because of the baby boomers looking to property as an investment. So maybe to dampen demand they could find some measure to increase taxes on property investors, and leave young people struggling to buy their first homes alone? Or maybe even help them along?
As the banks say in this article, this idea will never float, because about 1.2 million people in the country have mortgages, and that's a lot of votes (in a country of 4 million).
And I'm very glad to say that despite interest rates of nearly 8 percent, and house prices that are very high in relation to wages, compared to many other countries, my eldest daughter has successfully managed to buy her first home and will be moving out in a month. (I'll miss her. But I'm happy for her). It's not big, it needs a few repairs, but it is attractive and conveniently sited close to a very regular bus route.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
Poetry Thursday: Change
This week's prompt at Poetry Thursday is change.
I'm a little distracted this week by things I can't post about yet. I find myself spending my time on physical work in the garden and the like and not thinking too much. I have written some lines on this week's topic at Poetry Thursday - I'm not sure if it's a poem yet. I decided to post anyway, and to think of this as my writing notebook, and the lines as a very rough first draft.
Somehow I hate to miss Poetry Thursday.
The More it Changes...
With each breath out
I scatter myself to the wind.
The child who shares my name
shares little of my substance.
Each minute a slow burning of molecules,
each inhalation a replacement. Why then do I imagine
that I am her, and she is me? I am my own observer.
I change along with what I observe
and feel myself the same. Every minute I remake
even my memories. Even as they die, my neurons
play Chinese whispers with their successors.
I'm a little distracted this week by things I can't post about yet. I find myself spending my time on physical work in the garden and the like and not thinking too much. I have written some lines on this week's topic at Poetry Thursday - I'm not sure if it's a poem yet. I decided to post anyway, and to think of this as my writing notebook, and the lines as a very rough first draft.
Somehow I hate to miss Poetry Thursday.
The More it Changes...
With each breath out
I scatter myself to the wind.
The child who shares my name
shares little of my substance.
Each minute a slow burning of molecules,
each inhalation a replacement. Why then do I imagine
that I am her, and she is me? I am my own observer.
I change along with what I observe
and feel myself the same. Every minute I remake
even my memories. Even as they die, my neurons
play Chinese whispers with their successors.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
I May Never Need to Read Another Book...
...after spending the evening watching "All the Great Books (Abridged)" performed by the Outwits.
This is part of our city council's Summertimes programme and was therefore free (sort of - the bucket was passed round at the end for donations).
Many people took their picnic hampers, wine, etc and enjoyed the setting in the gardens.
Katherine Mansfield (she was a "short" story writer)
The Trojan horse
Just in case the 76 books covered weren't enough for me, my daughter introduced me to this website:
Book a Minute
(A sample: The Confessions of Augustine: "I was bad. I was very, very bad. Not any more though.")
This is part of our city council's Summertimes programme and was therefore free (sort of - the bucket was passed round at the end for donations).
Many people took their picnic hampers, wine, etc and enjoyed the setting in the gardens.
Katherine Mansfield (she was a "short" story writer)
The Trojan horse
Just in case the 76 books covered weren't enough for me, my daughter introduced me to this website:
Book a Minute
(A sample: The Confessions of Augustine: "I was bad. I was very, very bad. Not any more though.")
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Proof
For Poetry Thursday
We were invited to write a poem using the language of science. It was suggested fro instance that we start with the formula "let x equal".
My response is a little different. My first encounter with scientific method was in the later years of primary school, when we did small experiments with titles like "How do we know that air exists?". This is when I was introduced to the methodical setting out of experiments in sections. As far as I recall, they were titled "to show", "method", "results" and "conclusion". For some reason this is what first made me fall in love with science.
So, here is my rough draft of a poem based on those four sections:
Proof
To show:
that the (he)art
and love
in spring and the moon
in June
or any other time makes the world go
round or
square or any other
shape
Method:
If there is any since love
is not methodical but
if love be madness
there may yet be method in it
Results:
If love is not blind then
at least it produces
hallucinations of perfection
temporary amnesia
possibly followed by small irritations
assuming unreasonable proportions
and an inevitable cooling which is not measurable
with a thermometer
Conclusion:
which is what we have learnt
(nothing)
or alternatively which is an end
at least until the next time
when it all starts again.
We were invited to write a poem using the language of science. It was suggested fro instance that we start with the formula "let x equal".
My response is a little different. My first encounter with scientific method was in the later years of primary school, when we did small experiments with titles like "How do we know that air exists?". This is when I was introduced to the methodical setting out of experiments in sections. As far as I recall, they were titled "to show", "method", "results" and "conclusion". For some reason this is what first made me fall in love with science.
So, here is my rough draft of a poem based on those four sections:
Proof
To show:
that the (he)art
and love
in spring and the moon
in June
or any other time makes the world go
round or
square or any other
shape
Method:
If there is any since love
is not methodical but
if love be madness
there may yet be method in it
Results:
If love is not blind then
at least it produces
hallucinations of perfection
temporary amnesia
possibly followed by small irritations
assuming unreasonable proportions
and an inevitable cooling which is not measurable
with a thermometer
Conclusion:
which is what we have learnt
(nothing)
or alternatively which is an end
at least until the next time
when it all starts again.
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