June 10, 2007
Ahem…
brings little needles and I let down.
First its just a drop, another drop and then
when I’m sitting on you, over you
it’s a steady flow and the milk is everywhere.I guess its not really a waste because
there is always more but I resent you a little
because its not yours. You think its
funny and I guess it is and I just need to let go
of that pendulous bovine feeling and love
the warm wet drops like rain after draught.
You check to see if I have teeth down there and
if you can pass to the other side.
You do think I’m a goddess and
the children tear us apart, me to earth, you
up in the air or is it the other way around?
Our fingertips can’t quite touch and I cry down on you
or do you cry down on me?
The children walk all over me or is it you?
Valley, hills, rivers and caves.
June 10, 2007
Matariki
hoping for brighter stars, better crops.
dirt under my fingernails,
Taewa pushed down.
The pre-dawn rise, the new moon, the new year
a whisper to earth ‘come on girl’
my quarter acre karakia
grows children and spuds.
For Billie
fussy stars
a ring of children
tacked together
five blooms
red coral
severed limbs
the pattern spreading
to a coverlet
over your knees.
Sudoku
tidy the numbers
like children’s toys.
does a pattern emerge?
I try unfocusing trees
to see leaves
I try unfocusing words
to see the page.
Friends
- Homer, The Iliad
The twin within blinks microscopically, pop-pop.
White coats murmur satisfaction.
Gemini (May 21 – June 21)
Born Today
You’re the ‘it’ girl or guy today. Everyone seems to think you have the answers – because you do. If only you could cover more ground by cloning yourself. Saying ‘no’
is just as effective.
‘Here that girl?’
She latches well and feed enough for two.
We will call you Abeni – much prayed for girl.
Four rounds of treatment and finally you bump into your sister
in the lab, fusing, growing, never alone.
March 4, 2007
Poetry Nz
she runs over banks of Ophelia hair.
Grass moves lightly,
quietly, under rusty water
- even though the noise of her running
fills your ears, rushing
like wind through Macrocarpas, darker.
Here you must watch out
for the goose that nips, attacks; hissing. Watching
for now from the darkness
of a silo shadow.
The rising water fills your ears.
Bang-bang
The bang-bang of the screen door
is the only indication she was here.
You never see her -
only her ripples.
How do I know I am still here?
This is not it.
This is not what I had in mind.
Undercut, undercurrent
again and again and still
its a surprise
You take notes
in a small spiral notebook.
February 23, 2007
El Dia De Los Muertos - it’s not finished yet
Calendula, Turkish delight, sugar skulls,
Watermelon, I can’t remember your favorite fruit.
4711, a small silver and turquoise ring tucked
between votive candles and a bowl of preserved ginger.
Stella thinks a fairy doll is a good idea.
Cosmo will build a Lego submarine.
Daniel will bake bread.
I will learn to crochet and finish that blanket.
December 6, 2006
Fringe Festival
You can catch me and some of my mates reading at the Fringe in Paekakariki
February 9th, 10th & 14th 2007
Come and join us!
October 29, 2007
Melbourne Poems
Fish tailing
on the desert road.
The roof of the escort van
in the gravel verge.
Crawling through
the side window
I take Shannon’s hand
and step out.
The road stretches
in either direction
to the horizon.
“Let’s not wait”
she says.
We stick out our thumbs
and jump the next ride.
==========================
Lonely girls
in toilets
make Neapolitan
rainbows
wind paper
round their fists
their wrists.
Lonely girls
in mirrors
convex, concave
eat whole
cabbages
reveal their insides
read red thread.
==========================
Heavy blankets
hospital corners
candlewick
wallpaper scraps inside wardrobes
oiled stripes under carpet
small spaces
to fit yourself into
knees by ears, tight
breathing all
of you.
=============================
Peel
She’s shaving inches off
with a potato peeler
whittling herself down.
Her legs, pounds
of butter
melting
from the heat
of pounding treadmills.
Distillation
tendons
bones
a framework
to hang
next season on.
=====================
The Memory of Silk
Perspiration
Little Blossom runs
her shoes
ta-ta-ta
in small steps.
The silk says
shu-shu-shu
to the dry leaves.
Tears
Little Blossom waits.
The sun rolls over
her heart
doki-doki.
The silk is silent.
March 4, 2007
Poetry Nz
she runs over banks of Ophelia hair.
Grass moves lightly,
quietly, under rusty water
- even though the noise of her running
fills your ears, rushing
like wind through Macrocarpas, darker.
Here you must watch out
for the goose that nips, attacks; hissing. Watching
for now from the darkness
of a silo shadow.
The rising water fills your ears.
The bang-bang of the screen door
is the only indication she was here.
You never see her -
only her ripples.
How do I know I am still here?
This is not it.
This is not what I had in mind.
Undercut, undercurrent
again and again and still
its a surprise
You take notes
in a small spiral notebook.
December 14, 2006
Boys, can’t live with them, pass the jellybeans…
I find a dollar note in the culvert
my older brother doesn’t.
It’s brown like the mud it was stuck in.
I pull it out, it’s mine.
We go places I haven’t thought of.Diana drives us in her dad’s car, looking for parties
circling, listening to Duran, Duran.
We sort the jellybeans by colour before we go.
There are always too many black ones.Parked up at the Petone foreshore, watching the lights
across the harbour. I want it.
The cool will come by osmosis when I get there
or something. I’m moving.
but short lived.
They’re basically attractive but
can be repulsive in hindsight.
Electro Magnetism boyfriends are long lived
but less intense.
They can start off attractive but
end up repulsive.
Weak force boyfriends
are responsible for
relationship decay. They are short lived
and, well, weak. You wonder why you bothered.
Gravitational boyfriends
are less intense
than Strong Interaction boyfriends
but very long term.
Furthermore they are always attractive and
definitely best prospective husbands.
===================================================
Evidence
The hills are my father
with a shotgun
as I write you a letter.
The train running at his feet
is probably Freudian,
my reflection in the window; Jungian.
I send the letter anyway.
Your trite ‘Auspice from the Cage’
runs several pages long –
the sparrows, the wire and
can I bring you sunscreen?
I shouldn’t even bother writing this poem.
There are things that should be noted:
a mattress on the floor;
windows without curtains;
your friends in the next room;
the state of the carpet.
November 28, 2006
My Mojo
4 new poems:
the ring slips
from her finger
to the sand.
what is the life
of a missing
object?
down into
the rings’
depths
so much space
under the rose bush
by the front path.
Shin skin
I hem her skirt
while she sits naked
on my bed.
The most
flattering length
is just below the knee
she says
pointing
to a freckle
on her shin.
Blow
At the side of the pool
mothers blow
tiny ‘Oh’s.
o, o, o, o, o, o, o, o, o, o, o
These instructions, little gifts
to sons and daughters
a silver thread from each
set of lips to under-water ears.
Plum(b)
The door pushing open, rubs against thick carpet
wakes me, shhh, he says.
The quiet of plum tree leaves, I’m hidden.
A smear of Blackbird shit.
The corrugated iron fence, flakes dry blood paint.
Fingering the pale crescent above my knee.
Shh, shhh
shhhhhhh.
Thanks for reading
June 18, 2006
Lost & Found
put aside thousands of unclaimed items, amassing
an extraordinary hoard of lost property hidden in his lock-up.
You can’t just let anyone into the lock-up says Frank
I need two forms of ID. People get really shirty but I
just tell them “Tough”.Labels on boxes may look like this:
Umbrellas 300
Hats 175
Tempers 962
Sunglasses 250 pairs
Patience 1,756
Pets 65
Trains of thought 2,685
Gloves 80 pairs
Rugby 1,200 games
Memories 1,228
Tickets 280
Marbles 897At a certain point a lost property department has to make a decision
about items. I don’t have infinite space. Says Frank
I have to decide what stays and what goes.
He is most unsure about “Memories” and “Marbles”
- the least likely items to be claimed but perhaps the most precious.
Frank is working on an essay titled “Profile of a Loser:
the exploration of dispossession” Or
“Get over it”.
There are 4 Stages of Loss says Frank, 1) Grief 2)Abandonment 3) Revision
and 4) Acceptance. Frank says, Losers constantly relive and rewrite their loss.
But until they can accept their item is [mine] gone they are lost.
Helen Heath
June 14, 2006
Athena & Newton
The lost & found poems are still in the wings but in the meantime, a couple more poems…
given to your true love
(alchemy not apples).More than a million words
in your love letters of:
The net, the oak, the sophic sal ammoniac,
the doves of Diana, and
the star regulus of MarsSleepless you think of her
design complex mechanisms
paint your walls at night
the bile in your stomach
bitter, irritable.
a lock of desiccated hair
back at Cambridge
mercury, lead, arsenic and antimony
remembers you.
Hephaestus & Athena
Hephaestus’ beautiful new armour
beautiful new amour
built by ugly amorphous hands
sly, shy, amorous boy knew his retort
to her How will I ever repay you?
G’wan (Poseidon, ever the shit-stirrer)
You know she’s gaggin’ for it!
Back against the workshop wall
Blank, blank, she blanked him
He couldn’t hold himself back
She wiped her thigh clean with a piece of wool
threw it to the ground
Helen Heath
June 1, 2006
Back on your screen
Here is the goss:
I’ve been appointed an NZSA mentor - Alistair Paterson, which is very exciting.
The project is a series of biopic poems that deal with my on-going interest in science, art and ‘the domestic’ (and how these public and private worlds intersect).
By the term ‘Biopic Poetry’ I mean that the poems create a biographical snapshot of people (often historical figures) with fictional aspects and perhaps even have a filmic quality. I see the manuscript in progress as having three sections: public figures; private / family figures; and imagined or mythical figures.
Michael Cunningham and Lyndall Gordon recently discussed the topic at Writers & Readers week in Wellington. They talked of finding the ‘hidden life’ and ‘finding the constructive moments on which lives turn’. They also discussed the spectrum on which fiction and non-fiction exist and finding a place on the spectrum for your work to fall. These are some ideas I would like to explore .
The goal is to write 1-2 poems a week and hopefully some will be keepers!
Here are some samples of work in progress, a couple of new pieces from the Athena sequence and one for the Lost & Found sequence (of which 2 more are in the pipe line with working titles “The profile of a compulsive loser” & “Frank Williams & the lost property”. Both are found poems I hope to post next week).
Anyway…
Tide’s lap
lap, slap
of wave against surface tension
distant but all encompassing
unknown depths sheltering
imagined monsters.
She pulled him around the room –
sway, what could contain him?
Who could give his love form?
The quiet, the lull in
constant movement
she reflected the light of stars.
changed the colour of her hair,
wore dark glasses,
kept moving, mercurial
twisting, shape shifting.
Still he was there; over her shoulder
wearing her down, relentless.
He blurred the edges, her vision
her eyes - slits, trying to focus.
The object always just out
but inside her the seed.
The object always just out
her eyes - slits, trying to focus.
He blurred the edges, her vision
wearing her down, relentless.
Still he was there; over her shoulder
twisting, shape shifting.
kept moving, mercurial
wore dark glasses,
changed the colour of her hair,
She took some convincing
Helen Heath
Note: I am trying to play with the cliché of “two sides to every story”, and how the nature of re-playing and re-telling alters meaning.
Te Keepa’s Archeology
Here is a landscape of ghosts.
Rise above, we see
below, shadows of abundance –
a midden rise
moa bone hollow
track ruts skirt
a Tawa tree negative.
A sandy hill roams
without bracken.
The distant sound of sawing
Taniwha beached, dry and hard.
Burn us with the trees.
Helen Heath
Note: This piece has re-occurring ‘oh’ sounds, which I would like to play with a little more to emphasize the lament.
Arial archaeology:
[The objects are absent. Instead the viewer is given visual indicators – hazy recollections, and shadowy marks. The memory of the object. A register records the work much like a museum itemises all its artefacts. So although we are aware of the existence of the objects we are often left without concrete evidence. -Stella C]
Hope you like ‘em
HH
February 16, 2006
Final portfolio, urgh! CREW 256
1. Enchanté
2. Jump
3. Gauss’ Law & The poetic redundancy of Gauss’ Law
4. Depending on Rhona
5. Diving
6. Reading topographic maps
PS the formatting in Enchanté and Reading has dropped off, Enchanté should have stanzas that are staggered across the page and Reading should be read as three on a horizontal page. Ah well!
The glass vial
of radium salts
transmit joy.
A moth at the window.
Fingers scarred hard.
Notebooks multiply,
salts burn through
her smock.
No.11 rue Pierre et Marie Curie
Safe replicas
on the desk
we can visit.
Library of St Genivieve, view to the Pantheon
Whispers of
gamma, gamma, gamma.
Jump
I am not in bed,
I am lying in warm grass,
traveling in time,
staring at stars.
I am practicing my violin.
I am learning maths.
I love that maths makes music.
I am a quasar,
a million stars packed into one sun.
I love that the universe
expands forever,
that dark matter particles
pass through me everyday.
There isn’t enough to hold me together,
‘round this burnt sun-hole.
In the meantime I jump,
I change my orbit.
There’s no light without change.
I have to find the strength
to jump.
*With thanks to Stuart Hoar and Beatrice Tinsley
Gauss’ Law
Shall I compare us to a magnetic
dipole? Me the south, directed inward,
you the north reaching outward. Our love – net
flux: exactly equal, pulling toward
each other, manifesting an exchange.
Atoms and molecules, held together
by this dominant force and interchange.
Everything depends on our love’s tether.
Yet, a tri-polar model does exist:
lightening strikes (the prime example) show us
how a third creates tension in our midst
and how an explosion can release us.
But, beware my love, Gauss’ law extols
that there are no magnetic monopoles.
The poetic redundancy of Gauss’ Law
A magnet
directed inward.
Our love-net
pulling toward
an exchange,
held together –
interchange.
Love’s tether
does exist,
show us
in our midst,
release us.
Depending on Rhona*
Which is up and which is down?
Rhona moves her arms gracefully,
turns her head,
peeks through her fingers at us.
*
Rhona says it doesn’t matter
if I jumped or fell,
I am falling.
*
Rhona says the first thing
she remembers
are small blue daisies with yellow eyes
and
is that why colour means so much to me?
*
Depending on Rhona’s
poplars
and macrocarpas,
red tin roofs
and orange winter
dusk on dry hills
and what do you call
that blue wash
so almost indigo?
We return
again
* Rhona Haszard 1901 - 1931
Diving
Diving for seashells
off a chair into our deep
blue carpet in Brisbane, I am
my brother’s mirror. Look,
a photo of me on the front lawn
wearing a nurse’s uniform
made by my mother.
Up the hill from the port at Vathy,
wild oregano fresh from rain,
tiny wild iris flowers the size
of your smallest fingernail,
the goats bleating: maa.
The sky, blinking
wider and wider.
Next to the bed all night,
Dad stroking your hair.
Someone’s leg jiggling
- perhaps mine.
A tear rolled from your eye,
a ball of black blood from your mouth.
Dad trying to close
your eyes,
me wanting them open.
Us all trying to sleep later,
me in your room
at the foot of the bed,
laid out flat,
eyes open.
Reading topographic maps
i. Eastern Hutt
Farmers’ burn-off ash washed
down to this gully
– top soil for:
Mulembeccia, Coprosma rotundifolia
Horopito.
A sense of trespass pervades here
like we’ve snuck into our
elderly neighbours’ backyard.
The sound of the creek
makes me want to pee.
None of this can be seen
from my old backyard
a mile away.
From there the hills are
angry parents leaning
over the valley,
the bush and gorse – a fleece
spread over them.
We are a pair of
ticks, with our teeth in the skin
of the land.
ii. Western Hutt
Riverside, predictably,
looked down
over the Hutt river.
Family legend tells of five
toilets in graduated sizes,
a tennis court, large grounds
– all gone.
My father stumbled across
the grass-roller once,
while out bush-whacking.
Just a glimpse of a tall tree
from the motorway now.
Lost money, lost house.
But still proof of status
we should have had.
We were not just
grubby, wild kids.
This edge defined by a
strike-slip fault –
old hard greywacke
bedrock pushed up to the
crest of Belmont Hill.
iii. Paekakariki
They seem close enough
to touch out the window
and impossibly steep.
It’s bad luck to see one magpie.
He lives opposite the railway,
glides down sometimes,
perches on a phone pole with
a taunting ‘quardle ardle’.
The northerly brings down
sheep bleats,
even when they are smaller
than a Beatrix Potter picture.
Trace the contours
with a finger,
smooth the folds.
Search the shaded areas,
the grid references.
This gully, this ridge,
this scree slope.
Something is missing.
Turn the map over.
February 2, 2006
Revisions
off a chair into our deep
blue carpet in Brisbane, being
my brother’s mirror. Look,
a photo of me on the front lawn
wearing a nurse’s uniform
made by my mother.Up the hill from the port at Vathy,
wild oregano fresh from rain,
tiny wild iris flowers
the size of your smallest fingernail,
the goats bleating: maa.
Their bells, the sky opening
wider and wider.Next to the bed all night,
Dad stroking your hair.
Someone’s leg jiggling
- perhaps mine.
A tear rolled from your eye,
a ball of black blood from your mouth.
Dad trying to close your eyes,
me wanting them open.
Us all trying to sleep later,
me in your room
at the foot of the bed,
laid out flat, eyes open.
Reading topographic maps
i. Eastern Hutt
Farmers’ burn-off ash washed
down to this gully
– top soil for:
Mulembeccia, coprosma rotundifolia
Horopito.
A sense of trespass pervades here
like we’ve snuck into our
elderly neighbours’ backyard.
The sound of the creek
makes me want to pee.
None of this can be seen
from my old backyard
a mile away.
From there the hills are
angry parents leaning
over the valley,
the bush and gorse – a fleece
spread over them.
We are a pair of
ticks, with our teeth in the skin
of the land.
ii. Western Hutt
Riverside, predictably,
looked down
over the Hutt river.
Family legend tells of five
toilets in graduated sizes;
a tennis court; large grounds
– all gone.
My father stumbled across
the grass-roller once,
while out bush-whacking.
Just a glimpse of a tall tree
from the motorway now.
Lost money, lost house.
But still proof of status
we should have had.
We were not just
grubby, wild kids.
This edge defined by a
strike-slip fault –
old hard greywacke
bedrock pushed up to the
crest of Belmont Hill.
iii. Paekakariki
They seem close enough
to touch out the window
and impossibly steep.
It’s bad luck to see one magpie.
He lives opposite the railway,
glides down sometimes,
perches on a phone pole with
a taunting ‘quardle ardle’.
The northerly brings down
sheep bleats,
even when they are smaller
than a Beatrix Potter picture.
You trace the contours
with your finger,
smoothing the folds.
Searching the shaded areas,
the grid references.
This gully, this ridge,
this scree slope. Is it here?
Something is missing.
You turn the map over.
Helen Heath Feb 06
January 31, 2006
Still here
Dr Buller’s Birds at CircaWe’ve done monologues and a surrealist exercise, for which I did an exercise in poetic redundancy. “Queneau felt that the essence of Mallarmé’s sonnets was concentrated in the last words of each line; the rest was expendable. This seems to be born out by sonnets in English.”
Oulipo compendium
I mutated my previous sonnet. See what you think (the monologue comes first if you can’t tell):
empty at start but me full of tadpoles.
Tadpoles says to I: “fill hole now!”
I says to Tom: “Scurry-hurry”.Oh, give us speed over open spaces
to reach the door of the red brick house.
Let us find the door gives with a push
and reveal their have-haves to us.
laid out like they knew we was coming.
Tom cut the ham to feed tadpoles
but knives they bendy-bite him.
The fish too, we find, stuck to it’s dish
Sending Tom rage-raging, smash-smashing.
Ham, lobsters, pears and oranges: bash-bashed.
“What kind of mischief this?” - we sniffs.
Tadpoles says to I: “fill hole now!”
I says to Tom: “Scurry-hurry”.
We finds soft downy-down bed, shelf and
bitsy-pieces. Breathe-breathe for speedy home now.
Tadpoles says to I: “A bed for us now!”
I knows one more scurry-hurry we must.
The cradle we’s pushing into our hole when
Step-stepping we’s hear and feel boom, boom! Run!
We sleep in the haves-haves’ soft downy-down bed
and I has her good blue dress.
By hot heat and fuel we made a home
empty at start now cradle’s full of mouslings.
Helen Heath, Jan 06
The poetic redundancy of Gauss’ Law
A magnet
directed inward.
Our love-net
pulling toward
an exchange,
held together:
interchange.
Love’s tether
does exist,
show us
in our midst,
release us.
Extol
magnetic monopoles.
Helen Heath
Jan 06
January 19, 2006
Dressing your body
because you liked rimu.
I don’t remember the colour of the lining.
It might have been white.
I do remember you.
Dad chose the dress,
which you’d worn to Sonja’s wedding.
Craig; the earrings he’d given you.
The silk scarf I gave you for Christmas -
in your hands.
A letter from me -
tucked down the side,
between your dress and the lining.
They’d brushed your hair wrong
we tried to fix it
and your make-up, almost clownish.
Your tooth bucked against your lip.
We’d given them a photo.
Sometimes it’s just too hard
to get things right.
January 15, 2006
Week three: sonnet and workshop poem
I’ve tried to do a Shakespearean sonnet as it is supposed to suit mock-logic!
The rhyme scheme is abab/cdcd/efef/gg.
The poem is supposed to turn on line 9/10 and resolve in the final couplet.
I’ll let you decide if it works or not…
dipole? Me the south, directed inward,
you the north reaching outward. Our love – net
flux: exactly equal, pulling toward
each other, manifesting an exchange.
Atoms and molecules, held together
by this dominant force and interchange.
Everything depends on our love’s tether.
Yet, a tri-polar model does exist:
lightening strikes (the prime example) show us
how a third creates tension in our midst
and how an explosion can release us.
But, beware my love, Gauss’ law extols
that there are no magnetic monopoles.Helen Heath
Farmers’ burn-off ash washed
down to this gully
– top soil for:
Mulembeccia, coprosma rotundifolia
Horopito.
A sense of trespass pervades here
like we’ve snuck into our
elderly neighbours’ backyard.
The sound of the creek
makes me want to pee.
None of this can be seen
from my old backyard
a mile away.
From there the hills are
angry parents leaning
over the valley,
the bush and gorse – a fleece
spread over them.
We are a pair of
tics, with our teeth in the skin
of the land.
ii. Western Hutt
Riverside, predictably,
looked down
over the Hutt river.
Family legend tells of five
toilets in graduated sizes;
a tennis court; large grounds
– all gone.
My father stumbled across
the grass-roller once,
while out bush-whacking.
Just a glimpse of a tall tree
from the motorway now.
Lost money, lost house.
But still proof of status
we should have had.
We were not just
grubby, wild kids.
This edge defined by a
strike-slip fault –
old hard greywacke
bedrock pushed up to the
crest of Belmont Hill.
iii. Paekakariki
They seem close enough
to touch out the window
and impossibly steep
– a perfect lahar chute.
It’s bad luck to see one magpie.
He lives opposite the railway,
glides down sometimes,
perches on a phone pole with
a taunting ‘quardle ardle’.
The northerly brings down
sheep bleats,
even when they are smaller
than a Beatrix Potter picture.
Helen heath Dec 05
January 10, 2006
Week Two - Blank Verse exercise
along with our black cat; original
name of “Blackie”. O what a hunter he
has turned out to be. Ruthlessly gutting
the pretty native birds. We wonder if we
should tie a bell around his neck, would that
be kosher? Or does nature need to be
left to its own devices? Darwin said:
“Survival of the fittest”, but did he
anticipate Blackie? Somehow I think not.
January 6, 2006
Workshop poem
beside your bed,
a soft blue glow
emanates from the glass vial
of radium salts.
They transmit joy.
Down the hall
you spent your Nobel Prize
money on a modern bathroom
with a toilet.In the lab shed
it is so cold.
Holding your pen hurts,
your fingertips scarred hard
even pushing your glasses
up the bridge of your nose
is painful.
Notebooks multiply
the salts burn you
through the pocket of your smock.* *
the furniture has been replaced
with safe replicas.
On the desk
the last smock, journal, glasses and pen.
We take extra care crossing the road
at Pont Neuf and rue Dauphine.
The traffic is heavy
on our way back to the metro.
In the library of St Genivieve
we look out the window to the Pantheon
whispers of gamma, gamma, gamma
in our ears.
January 5, 2006
Iowa week one
We used this as a starting point for our own “I Remember” exercise, which was automatic writing for half an hour, which we then cut down to 3 stanzas to bring back to the next class. Mine resulted in this, which was not what I expected:
off a chair into our deep blue carpet in Brisbane,
watching my brother, being his mirror.
There is a photo of me on the front lawn
wearing a nurse’s uniform made by my grandmother.
I’m not sure now if I remember the photo being taken
or if I have just looked at the photo too many times.I remember walking up the hill from the port at Vathy,
smelling the wild Oregano fresh from rain.
I wrote home about tiny wild Iris flowers
the size of your smallest fingernail.
The goats on the hills bleating for their maaaa,
ring dinging their bells, the sky opening up and out,
wider and wider above me.I remember we sat next to the bed all night, Dad stroking your hair.
Someone’s leg was jig-jig-jiggling, up-down
- it might have been mine. Around 3 a tear rolled
from your eye and a ball of black blood from your mouth.
Dad trying to close your eyes, me wanting them open.
Us all trying to sleep later, me in your room
at the foot of the bed, laid out flat, eyes open.Helen Heath Jan 06
December 21, 2005
Fire Burns Clean
flesh from the bone.
The earrings we dressed you in
melting silver streams.
The fabric first to flame.Embalmer’s fluid
ignites easily,
smoke rises,
that part of you is gone.They use
a large tool to grind the bones,
which don’t just burn to dust.There’s too much for a
small box to contain;
wrapped in brown paper
with your name on it,
my father the postman
delivering you home.Helen Heath, June 2005
December 17, 2005
The Tupperware Goddess
is waiting
for her husband.
is waiting
for her party guests.
is filling her containers
with lentils, rice and cous cous.
She is storing supplies.
She will be ready.
is waiting
in her suburban tower.
The Tupperware Goddess
has latched her doors
she has turned the deadlock
she is ready.
Helen Heath, June 2005
The Physicist’s prayer
a small burst of heat
escaping.
December 17, 2005
Athena tidies her room
I was not of woman born
but rather had leapt
straight from my father’s brain,
the loyal daughter.My infallible father,
his large body filled with love
for me.
Our predictable orbit,
a slow dance.We set about
tidying the universe:
the books on their shelves,
the bees in their hives,
the clusters of stars.Every question had an answer
even in chaos.
Making tea in the universe
you’ll need to gather up everything
matter between you and me and the edge
it into a dot so infinitesimally
dimensions.
There is no space, no darkness for
this pregnant dot to wait in.
There is no past for it
to emerge from, no egg timer.
The tea bags are in the pot, put
the kettle on, light the gas.
In the first second
the dot has space.
Magnets fall from the fridge
as you get the milk out.
In the first minute your universe
is a million billion miles across
and growing fast.
There is 10 billion degrees of heat.
The kettle is boiling by the third
minute and 98 per cent
of all the matter there is
or ever will be has been
created. Pour the tea
while you wait for a Supernova
and life on earth.
Homing
They never understand us, of course,
how could they? With their boring lives,
holding us back from all that’s out there.
we lose friends to the lotus eaters and siren calls.
We fight off beasts of men, by Circe, all men are pigs.
The adventures mothers never know.
the line of her brow, her heavy lids.
those eyes
Know: you are home now and she will leave you.
December 16, 2005
Survival Sestina
long proboscis…their eggs, bright yellow and glassy’.
We watched a movie instead about Quakers.
I should have turned off the TV, or at least turned
over to watch Survivor for the last time,
but it was too hot and we’d had several earthquakes
that week. I was wondering, if
I baked, how much flour we’d need in a year and if glass
jars would be best to keep out weevils.Or if ladybugs are a better control for weevil
larvae, and what will control them in turn?
And how big is a weevil beside a blade of grass?
When the earthquake comes will we have time?
Will the bottled water be safe if
I store it in the cupboard with the earthquake-kit?The list in chalk on black board (if you give it a shake)
says: C batteries, tinned stew, weevil.
Hugh & Frances’ kitchen wall tells a story, if
you read it: ½, ¼, ⅔; we take our turn
to talk; fragments in felt-tip on melamine. Meantime
I have moved the wine glasses
is the main cause of injury in an earthquake,
and we probably wont have enough time
to dodge flying shards like some evil keweevil.
In a parallel universe, grinding plates slow the turn
of the earth and a day becomes ½ as long again, if
not ⅔s. But we’re still not sure if
we are just a grain of sand in an hourglass
and if these are the days of our lives that turn
into years before we have time to shake
our heads. Will I know how to keep the weevils
out in a new world? Will I have enough time?
The next time I am in the light from the glass
of a TV screen I wonder if a flood, not a quake
is the thing to fear. Will the weevils survive? And who do we turn to?
Hello - I am listening to Interpol loudly, drinking jasmine tea and enjoying your poems very much. I like your style.
How has your writing time gone this week?
I submitted to Sport (again) with little real faith that there is any point, but still, we persevere…
I came on here to see if there was a copy of ‘Boxes’ but I can’t see it - loved it on the cd - can you email it to me?
x Helen
Oh my goodness, yes that was from a 2005 collaboration with Hinemoana and some painter friends at Pataka, Porirua.
The old site is still up at http://kissed.juicy.co.nz/works.html
It’s a bit out of date but the poems remain the same
OK, as long as I was here, I figured I should check out all your other stuff, too…WOW. Your imagery is awesome and you are very talented (but I guess you know that!). I will DEFINITELY keep coming back…again, thank you so much for your open sharing.
sex milk and gods - not too much at all, it rings familiar bells, and I love that people still love us through those things.