Had we shelf-space enough, and time,
This gluttony, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and read away
The afternoons of our love’s long day;
You, by the fickle muse’s side
Through Poetry stroll; I, in the tide
Of Comedians’ Biographies drift. We would
Build ourselves an ark of Fantasy, and flood
The kitchen-cum-dining room with dinosaurs.
With Hugh Fearnly Whittingstall we’d pause,
Let love of vegetarian dishes grow
Vaster than empires, if rather more slow.
We’d slip Romances from their covers
And teach them the true tongue of book lovers.
We’d turn the Histories on their heads
And use them to prop up our bed
As pages turn; now fast, now slow,
As night slips off its feathered coat.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
The creak of over-filled shelves, and fear
The wrath of books as yet unread,
Stacked by their fellows, like the dead
In a charnel house, organised by bone,
Not body. Love, when I’m alone
At night, methinks I hear them growl
Their displeasure, cover by jowl
By unbent, uncreased, unheld spine.
I know, my love. You’ve not had time.
The grave’s a quiet place indeed,
But probably too dark to read.

Now therefore, while the festive bunting
flutters from shops, while bargain-hunting
punters surge through every door,
I have a private treat in store.
Let us sport us while we may
With circular saw and drill, just say
The word, and pick the colour out.
We’ll measure and cut and sand and rout,
and fill the last empty vertical surface
with a bookcase built for just that purpose.
My lady, but tend to my need;
I’ll build the shelves, and we shall read.

For decent Tuesday Poems, visit: http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.com/.

It will be very nice when we finally stop having these shakes.

On the other hand, there’s nowhere on the planet better prepared to cope with them, sod it.

Kia kaha guys.

We did the Cathedral walkway last weekend – a friend who has already done it commented tat it was a bit like being told someone had died and then being shown the bed they’d died in, already remade. I know what she meant – the empty spaces are less distressing than the piles of rubble, or the buildings with tattered curtains flapping through broken windows. And I felt pretty calm and resigned to it all as we were walking around.

Until we got to the cathedral.

I’m not a Christian, and I’ve got no personal ties to the cathedral. Except the ones we all have – that it was the symbolic heart of the city, and something we regarded with affection. And seeing it like that had me in floods of tears before I even knew what was happening. It’s not like the Knox church, which is strangely beautiful in its bare bones. This is a stricken building. The remains of the rose window; the statues with grass growing around them; the scaffolding. I’ve never appreciated the Chalice quite so much before, but having it there, whole and straight, gave me something to look at when I couldn’t bare the sight of the cathedral any more. But then you look back again, and notice more – the broken stained glass. The little cupola, tucked away under the trees. And the naked sky behind, where there used to be buildings.

But then you move on – literally, as well as figuratively. As much as you can, anyway.

Looking back at this year, I’ve been a pretty busy woman. Only ten poems completed, but one of those was “Fare”, which must count for a couple of extras, surely! And I have drafts of the same number again in various stages of completeness, so that’s not too bad. I’ve judged three competitions; been a guest reader in Invercargill, Auckland, Dunedin, Greymouth, and even Christchurch (Hagley Park, plus Beat Street – thanks guys!). Reviewed two books for the NZPS (and you can read those reviews here and here) and a couple for myself; read a lot of other poetry, good and bad. Discovered Christopher Logue’s Homer, and dallied with Don Paterson Reading Shakespeare’s Sonnets (very interesting, and I’ll be blogging about it next year). Taught two classes in Christchurch, and ran two workshops out. Got my restricted license; buried both my grandmothers; got turned down by CNZ. And that’s without even considering the earthquakes, the snowstorms and the Rugby World Cup.

One hell of a year.

On the immediate horizon, I’ve got my minimum numbers for the two Summer Poetry classes. So the sign-up dates have now been extended to a week before each class. In other words, if your summer leaves you feeling restless and in need of some poetry focus, there is time yet for you to decide to join us.

A new Reading for Writing class will begin on March 10th, running for five weeks, Saturday mornings 10.30 am to 1.30 pm at the South Christchurch Library Learning Centre. It’s $45, and limited to 18 people, so if you want to sign up for that then sooner rather than later would be advisable. (Details and contact form here.)

And plans are afoot for an even more extravagant Guy Fawkes weekend in Greymouth – a poetry train! A group trip across the mountains on the TranzAlpine from Christchurch to Greymouth, possibly with a workshop on board as we go, and then a reading and workshop(s) over the weekend. And possibly a reciprocal tour by West Coast poets, making the journey in reverse the following weekend (or month, or …) and giving a reading in Christchurch. The frighteningly efficient Greg O’Connell is on the case, and I’ll post details when they come to hand. Mark the weekend of November 3rd and 4th 2012 in your diaries.

Congratulations to Helen Lowe, for being selected as the 2012 Ursula Bethell fellow – sharing the title with Dunedin poet, David Eggleton. I understand Helen is planning to use the time to work on #3 in the marvelous Wall of Night series. Hooray! Congratulations also to Marisa Cappetta, who has won this year’s Margaret Mahey award for the best 1st year folio at the Hagley Writers’ Institute. Hooray again!

So that’s it from me for another year. To keep you alternating between amused and horrified while I’m away, feel free to check out this list of the world’s 11 Most Unintentionally Creepy Christmas Ornaments, which serve to remind us all that Santa is an anagram of Satan. Auckland’s Santa made #1. You have been warned. Merry Christmas!

The book that triggered the post was Christopher Logue’s amazing War Music. It is mind-blowingly brilliant. Filmic, page-devouringly readable, and gloriously musical. It begins:

Picture the east Aegean sea by night,
And on a beach aslant its shimmering
Upwards of 50,000 men
Asleep like spoons beside their lethal Fleet.

It’s a retelling of three parts (books 1-4 and 16-19) of Homer’s The Iliad, the story of the Siege of Troy. Logue didn’t read Greek (ancient or modern), but was persuaded to make the initial attempt by someone who was a scholar of the relevant period, and who essentially provided him with crib sheets and other people’s translations. And from this, he constructed the most readable recap of this slice of ancient history you’re ever likely to read.

The first part he wrote was published as War Music: An Account of Books 16-19 of Homer’s “Iliad” in 1981. Then he leaped backwards in the story and came up with Kings: An Account of Books 1 and 2 of Homer’s “Iliad”, and then The Husbands: An Account of Books 3 and 4  of Homer’s “Iliad”, published in 1991 and 1995 respectively. My volume collects the three in chronological (rather than publication) order, which certainly made it easy to follow the story. How good were they? Well I stayed up all night reading because I couldn’t put them down until I was finished. And as soon as I did finish, I went online to track down and order the next two –  All Day Permanent Red and  Cold Calls . (Yes, still in the wee small hours!)

He was working on what was to be the final installment of the sequence (series? Epic?) when he died. Drat him! Why couldn’t he have held on a little longer, and waited until at least a complete draft was finished? How inconsiderate!

Seriously though, get your hands on a copy of War Music. It’s available in plenty of libraries (check World Cat for a copy near you). Even if you’ve never read Homer, or thought that the Trojan War was a battle between condom manufacturers, this book will still blow you away. (Possibly not the best choice of phrase, in retrospect.) Hell, even if you’re  history buff who doesn’t read poetry, read this!

– Trumbull Stickney
(1874 – 1904)

I love good metaphor poems. I remember reading this many years ago, and a garbled version of it has stuck in my head ever since without being attached to an actual poet. So it was quite pleasing to come across it again in my trusty Oxford Book of Short Poems, and attach it properly.

Trumbull Stickney was an odd figure, apparently one of the ”Harvard Pessimists”, all of whom died young. (What is it about poets and early death? Why does it seem almost normal to end a poet’s biography with some variation of the phrase and died tragically young?)

What I love most about this poem is how unexpected the image is, and how exactly right. Green and climbing eyesight is spot on – can’t you just see the cat slinking up the tree, along the branch? Can’t you see its shoulder blades way up above its back, the way the movement slows and gets even quieter with the sounds of that last line – the shift from ee and ie and t in the third line to the lower, softer aw and er and m and d in the last? And couching it in someone else’s voice is clever too – those first two lines suggest someone not at all literary (but why? hmm …), which makes the accuracy of the image all the more surprising and pleasing. A good reminder that poetry is all around us, on the lips of anyone. We just have to wait, and listen.