Sometimes I long for creation
by slow, repetitive accretion:
Stalactites and stalagmites,
Brick on brick to make a building.
A journey of countless paces.
Knitting.
The satisfaction and surprise of completion.
It is creation without knowing it.
It just happens.
Like ageing.
*
Thee are no stone steps sunk in the middle
worn into basins by years of sandalled feet.
Our steps are flat; Health and Safety require it.
There are crazed, painted lines on some roads
These can look like ancient mosaics or runes
But they are instructions for cars to read.
Even our shape is new. Our iconic volcanic Rangitoto
The pert young breast of our city,
Wasn’t there 600 years ago.
The Art Deco building down the road
Vanished, overnight ,to be replaced
By the Inner City Rail Link, we think.
We don’t look in the rear vision mirror.
While we drive Time’s winged chariot
Up the Southern motorway.
In the congealed jam of the Waterview tunnel
We sip instant breakfast through a straw
and scroll into the future.
The trick is always to go forward here
On this ancient lava motherlode
Which waits, patient, it’s moment to explode.
On Auckland’s summer streets I seek the shady side
Under chattering clattering palms.
I tread on crisp puka leaves
That shatter like toast.
How long have those old people been slumped
On rattan chairs on that verandah
Under black karaka trees speckled with orange berries?
Those young fluoro people with flossy floppy hair,
How can they leap about, batting yellow tennis balls
Into the damp white duvet air?
It is a long way between driveways –
Like a swim up river – to pick up a child from kindy
Who will want to walk home bare foot,
Even though the pavement burns.
Once upon a time, naked and abandoned Mars, –
left out in the sun and the blackest night,
Her blanket ripped from its ridged backbone –
complained about her neighbour whose churning parties,
frequent change of dress, teasing clouds,
and palette of all the blues taunted her.
The next moment all the lights next door went out.
Mars settled to sleep on the solar system’s sloping breast,
Grateful the universe had evicted the party goers at last.
*
It’s over. Christmas shopping and over -eating.
Ham, and cake and chocolate. All gone.
But where was the baby, gift-wrapped in hay,
Watched by shepherds and sheep? Gone.
Why did the kings from the East
Become a red man from the North,
And the manger become a sleigh?
Boxing Day kerbside; rubbish bins gape,
Like seagull beaks above us shrieking More! More!
Sun-softened plastic bags slump, streth ,and split
Spewing polystyrene avalanches, almost snow.
Flies gather, gorging on glut.
Insects, birds: will anyone ever clean this up?
Anyone? No. We still crave the glory of glut.
Days later. What day is it? No one knows.
Sweep round comatose Uncle Jack. Mind his drink.
The lawn cracks. No time to water.
Shops are no longer shut.
Join the brawl at the mall.
Sales! Credit! Bargains galore!
Glut and glory. More. Caw! What for?
Back at home the-parched lawns crack.
Stained deck chairs are slack, the courtyard a mess.
The pohutukawa’s red shedding its Christmas dress
Or is it bleeding out,
Showing us its bruised distress?
*
On Auckland’s summer streets I seek the shady side
Under chattering clattering palms.
I tread on crisp puka leaves
That shatter like toast.
How long have those old people been slumped
On rattan chairs on that verandah
Under black karaka trees speckled with orange berries?
Those young fluoro people with flossy floppy hair,
How can they leap about, batting yellow tennis balls
Into the damp white duvet air?
It is a long way between driveways –
Like a swim up river – to pick up a child from kindy
Who will want to walk home bare foot,
Even though the pavement burns.
*
*
Auckland Summer
On a concrete step in the shade
In my nightdress I sip tea.
It is 7 am. There is no wind.
The birds are singing.
Bees bulldoze the borage.
To my right shine chillies, basil, tomatoes,
To my left one red plastic dump truck
With a yellow tip tray,
And a silver pedal car which is full of sand.
Soon the day will begin.
But right now it’s just me and the birds,
Ad there’s the neighbour, two doors down,
Having a noisy shower
With his small giggling daughter
In a bathroom with all the windows open.
*
When he feels, on his hunched shoulders, the first clasp of cold
The squirrel becomes acquisitive rather than inquisitive.
He must aggregate, accumulate, hoard then hide his gold.
He will eat it later but now he shivers and collects.
The rich fear the cold hatred from the poor at the door.
They fear hard times must come. They acquire rather than inquire.
They aggregate, accumulate, hoard and hide their wealth
In storage lockers in freeports, in Geneva or Singapore –
Exquisite art painted to display life and defy death,
Shelved in darkness, appreciating but unappreciated.
The dead painters weep , feeling cold creep to the core.
I see a damp hut,
The only light a coal fire.
A coal miner comes in, with a dog,
A faint star shine falls through the doorway,
And a draught turns the coal fire smokey.
See the coal miner,’s black eyelids
and red-veined eyeballs misty with cataracts
Bulge and overflow with grey tears.
See him stamp slush off his boots
And peer at what he found near here
When walking his dog who chased a squirrel
One cold evening up on to a rubbish heap
And together they dug up this fine picture
That no one else had cared for at all.
Because I am following you, a 6 year old, up the hill
We don’t travel on roads or gravel tracks.|
We grasp at roots and clumps of grass
And haul ourselves up the steepest slopes
Leaving no trace.
After our passing the trail is covered over
By swaying purple seed heads taller than you.
We don’t know where we have been
But know that we have stared into the faces
Of lions, tigers snakes leopards and cheetahs
In many a secret place.
Climbing up and up we touch Earth lightly.
Our movement history is a mystery to others.
But like a flicking fish or the narwhal drilling,
Or the submarine -shaped whale shark,
Keeping a steady pace
We travel with grace.
The best old folk know what it was like
To slide between trees without moving a leaf,
Run barefoot over gravel, camp in a cave,
Be travellers, messengers, scouts,
Moving, unnoticed from place to place
With unrecognised face.
When you are older, Tane,
An owner operator of the world,
And I no longer stumble behind you
Wondering which way you will go,
Still travel with grace,
From place to place
And leave no trace.
But for now let us both touch Earth lightly and with love,
As a blind child caresses her mother.
And, as we are clumsy, slow humans,
Let us, when we reach the mountain top,
Sing a hymn to Earth, there at the crater’s rim
Using carefully chosen words of thanks.
*
Like a wet swimsuit the cold day clung.
Outside the library, under the porch cover
An Asian teenage boy at an old upright piano
Gifted into the air endlessly chuckling Chopin
And everyone was smiling.
I followed the drifting notes across the road
Over the traffic’s wet hiss and horn,
Up rain-slick steps beside the Art Gallery.
A CD player and speaker, on the paving,
And eight formal couples dancing tango.
The mens’ legs between the women’s,
The women’s spines like spoon handles.
The couples’ eyes following their joined hands,
A boat prow through concrete seas.
Everyone walked past more seriously,
Thinking of their relationships.
The sun shone on glowing grass and paua puddles.
The Moreton Bay figs, wide apart feet in polished shoes,
Danced with raised arms joined together.
And then, across Albert Park in the university quad
Another upright piano , under a plexiglass awning.
A Polynesian woman smiled at the keys,
Repeated a phrase, all concentration,
Added more notes, then tossing her head back,
Smiled at her guy draped over her shoulder.
Raindrops beading the awning hung long.
Just me watching and listening this time,
Full to the brim with music, a jug about to pour.
With lightened heart and in celebration
I turned Symonds Street into a dance floor
And boogied my library books to the bus stop.
This is how people really are,I thought.
This is how they are.
With a finger flourished like a baton
I turned off my world news notifications.
*
I am on my knees on the bathmat
Scrubbing the toilet bowl
With Jif, “with microparticles.
For maximum cleaning and minimum scrubbing.”
Modest Jif, my labour- saving maid,
Standing in her stiff long dress.
I pay for her with cash,
And probably with all of living nature.
She can be a flirtatious lover
Playing the mixed message game:
“Unique creamy ingredients,” as well as
“If swallowed, remove from mouth.”
Then again her motherly low expectations
Protect me from exhaustion and perfectionism:
“Avoid prolonged rubbing on a single spot.”
Jif , my guru, is cleverer than I.
She “solves really tough cleaning problems.”
Was there ever a woman who solved problems
While kneeling, scrubbing the toilet bowl?
My problem today is the missing sock –
Tiny, black, with skeletons on it,
Rather than the Pacific gyre,
Microparticles in albatross chicks,
Or the volcano’s increasing fire.
Oh Jif, with your teasing language
So full of possibility and care,
Responsive to the gentlest squeeze,
Solve all my problems.
Think for me, please.
Original Nature Photojournalism
Art, books, nature, food, and the good things in life
Mark and Abbie Jury
