vi.
It would be better
if this bach
had a bathroom.
I think I can safely say that.
(It
wouldn’t exactly be
this bach, of course.)
Poem and reading by Rachel McAlpine CC BY 2.0. Photo by Tony Foster CC BY-ND 3.0
13 waves: vi.
Poems
Thirteen waves: v.
v.
Soon the baches will be flattened.
Fennel mashed to the roots
honks out to minahs
waddling on the road,
blackbirds straddle wanderings
of old pohutukawas.
Bread rises without any fuss.
So does the tide.
Poem and reading by Rachel McAlpine cc by 2.0, photo of New Zealand seaside baches by Stu Haigh, CC BYNC via Flickr.
Thirteen waves: iv
iv.
Not many people understand that
driftwood
curled up high by the tide
is the weather-front,
a rendez-vous of sticks and sand,
the aged lovers holding hands
as tight as a whelk in a shell,
and the embryo of a dune.
Look, you don’t just slap up
a concrete wall and call it
real estate.
Poem and reading by Rachel McAlpine cc by 2.0, photo by Dave Young CC BY 2.0 via Flickr.
Dave Young’s note:
Strong winds blow the black sand along the beaches of coastal Taranaki and expose the broken driftwood deposits of storms long past. This driftwood serves as a foundation for the dunes.
Thirteen waves: iii
iii.
The sea does not need me
to say nice things about it.
Love rubs bleak in a gale.
Sap leaks, wind seals, word fails,
wood heals white and shiny.
Poem and reading by Rachel McAlpine CC BY 2.0, photo of New Plymouth Harbour in Cyclone Bola 1988 from Archives NZ, CC BY 2.0.
Thirteen Waves: ii
ii.
Let wood spread
along a beach.
Under the moon-cloud
toetoe will be glowing.
Poem and recording by rachel mcalpine CC BY 4.0.
Toetoe growing in Kaikoura: photo Allan Harris, CC BY-ND 2.0
Thirteen Waves: i.
i
Sunlight throbbing among the yachts;
moonlight oozing.
Waltz of a green-lipped wizard,
hunch of a black-backed gull.
Sun makes punctual explosions
inside the meat of the heart.
Poem and reading by Rachel McAlpine CC BY 2.0, photo of pingao grass by Tomas Sobek CC BY 2.0.
This is the first poem in a sequence, Thirteen Waves, written when I was living in a flimsy little holiday bach (a simple holiday cottage) right beside the harbour of New Plymouth… almost in the harbour, or so it seemed. Day and night had a wholeness, a continuity, and clocks were irrelevant. The poems comprise one big love poem to the land, sea, and coastline of Taranaki. The glorious photographs accompanying them on this blog are by various photographers who have made their work available through Creative Commons licensing — thank you all!
Thirteen Waves was published by Homeprint in 1986 in a limited edition of 100. Handprinted and handbound by John and Allison Brebner, with linocuts by Michael Smither.
Waiting for meaning
Someday the meaning
the punch line, the shape.
And during the meanwhile
the anecdotes, the japes.
Pending the golden mean,
the picaresque, the picturesque
the bitsy bits
that make no sense.
Interim a simile
knowing more than you.
Interim the comical,
someday the true.
Meantime is time being
out of the prime,
tackling the particular
and tickling the sublime.
This poem, believe it or not, is about writing a poem, the process, half conscious, half plodding, half mysterious (I know, maths is not my strong suit). Photo shows one stage of writing the poem “Gone“. Pic and poem by rachel mcalpine cc by 2.0.
International Poetry Day
My International
Poetry Day
street survey:
‘Do you like poetry?’
‘Yes’ gets a postcard.
‘No’ a sob.
‘Love it’ a book
that is funny and free.
poem by rachel mcalpine CC BY 2.0 photo by Steve Way NC BY-NC-ND 2.0
Miss Cashier 1955
I had a holiday job
upstairs in a cubby hole
fielding metal capsules
reading every message
putting change
into cylinders
like vitamins
whacking that top lip
open,
feeding that hollow brass snake
with change
to be pooped
on a customer
two floors down.
I loved this job.
I was trusted with money
catching live grenades
counting pills
feeding the needy
and playing those tubes
like an organ.
Poem by Rachel McAlpine CC BY 2.0. Photo public domain.
World: just the words
For the first time, I’ve just recorded a poem for this blog, Poems in the Wild. But it’s not a poem, it’s a song, spoken, so it sounds kind of strange. This is one of the songs in Shaky Places, which will be performed on Saturday 12 November in Auckland by the Auckland Youth Choir. (Yay, by the way!) I can’t rightly record any of the other lyrics in Shaky Places, which is a suite of New Zealand poems set to music by Felicia Edgecombe — they’re wonderful, but not mine own. Luckily, World is what it’s all about.
Now, how do I do this…?
Recording of World, written and read by Rachel McAlpine
Oh, I did it. My iPhone SE, Griffin’s iTalk app, iTunes, and WordPress made that so easy, I may do it again some day. Better, I hope.
Poems in the wild—Rachel McAlpine 