November Poetry Dump
Wednesday is about books and writing. (And reading). Once a month or so I share the latest poems I’ve written. Here’s October's…
I seem to have started this thing where at the start of a month I share the previous month’s batch of poems. I’m writing them when and where I can, sharing most of them on this site here, although not often emailing them out to you directly, so instead I gather them all in a ‘dump’ here at the start of each month. Here’s last month’s:
Follow that link back to look at previous months also. But for now, here’s all the poems I wrote across November. Some of them you saw, some of them you didn’t. Here’s the full range. As always, let me know what you think. Or don’t. That’s fine either way…It was a busy month, given I also launched a new book. And gave a reading in support of that as a guest at the monthly open mic, and of course a launch for the book too:
BIBLIOPHILE:
We make a fearless moral inventory
of ourselves. We place our lives
upon the shelves. We write the books
we’ll never read, we write the books
we are sure we need
LATE SCOURGE:
The golden idealism is coming for us all,
it’s the gold watch we feel we’re owed.
One day we’ll step up to claim it, step
up to shame whoever might seem to be
standing in our way. This is the ugliness
of today. Be hopeful for enough awareness,
be sure it’s not you and your idealism, let
the golden hues settle on anyone else.
HOW ALL OF FLEETWOOD MAC WAS WILD:
There’s a Halloween photo of Christine,
Lindsey, and Stevie — in costume.
And Christine McVie is in blackface —
the comments are mostly horny fans,
pointing out that Lindsey made a very
hot priest; they’d love to confess sins
to him. John McVie collects Nazi
memorabilia, and Mick was on two
big bottles of bourbon a day. It’s not
just the soap opera of Stevie and Lindsey.
That’s just second hand news. All of
the band members carried strange blues.
ON ‘TIME’:
The greatest lyric Roger Waters has written
is the one about time — it’s also the greatest
song in the Pink Floyd canon; the one best
allowing for every single component
to shine. Crazy diamonds, all. Not many
think of Nick Mason as one of the greats
but his playing here — compositional
and wise — sets up the feel and the flow.
Keyboard textures, and a proud bass line
also features — and then there’s the way
David Gilmour’s liquid-tone of 400 guitars
marches like an army across that blazing
sun of a solo. But it’s all bright stars, all
profound poetry — lyrics about just hanging
on because the passage of time is a
necessary thing. And a band driving their
spaceship to another planet, via the song.
Nobody was ever better than this.
HOW I MET PATRICK BATEMAN:
Here’s something. When I was 15,
I wanted to read American Psycho;
banned book, shrink wrapped
available only with ID that proved
you were 20. I asked my mum,
she said get in the car. She drove
me to town. We took the book
to the counter, and the person there
asked my mum who it was for.
Mum told her to mind her own
business. Then we left the store.
And I was carrying the book.
MARINE PARADE:
I reminded my brother of the time
we were on the bumper boats, and we
ignored the bell, kept circling ourselves
and splashing about. Then the guy trying
to call us in so he could close up for the day,
started driving towards us in a boat —
shouting and waving. We took a side each
and rammed him and splashed him; working
as a team for one of the only times I can
remember. I often laugh to think of this
moment — a real life cartoon contained
in the single panel of our lives so far.
But I could see it trigered no memory
at all for him. He laughed but didn’t
mean it. He’s got far bigger fish to fry.
I WAS LISTENING TO DJ SHADOW WHEN I THOUGHT I SAW A GHOST:
alone, late at night, in a room by myself.
Footsteps brushed through the carpet.
I am not a believer — in much, besides
optimism, which, technically, is everything.
Sat quietly and watched the footsteps
brush back out of the room. I had the right
music on, alone in that room. At least one
of us thougth so. And both of us were safe.
THE LIGHT SIDE OF NEURODIVERGENCE:
Listening to Dark Side of the Moon for
the flight home, and I tell my son
“I’m timing it so the screams in the song
‘Breathe’ — the first track proper — will
kick in as the wheels fold up, as we
lift from the tarmac”. He leans over,
whispers, “Autism” as a reply, then we
watch the count — together. He holds
my hand as the numbers drop down
from 30 to 1 — long we’ll fly, and
the song has just (perfectly) begun.
We share a laugh, and hold tight.
THE COLOURS YOU LIKE:
We say “special interests” because
not everyone has them. Some people
are bots; the non-playable characters.
You cannot fathom, in the clothing malls
lined with outlet stores, that there are
people who do not buy books.
I try not to think about it too often,
because words and hugs are about all
we have if we are looking to prove
what separates us. I love that you think
everyone buys books and listens to music,
everyone researches filmmakers and
watches widely; everyone makes something
in the mess of this life. There are gaps
in the way we have raised you, but there
is such huge spirit in your fight. You are
filled with a passionate intensity, and don’t
lack conviction. And one day you’ll
work out that Yates had it wrong. Please
keep choosing the colours you like
to fill up the vase of your life.
MANA MOTUHAKE:
This nation has ways been divided.
But when given the chance to offer
any sort of olive branch, there’s this
ACT of further division, from a puppet
of derision. It would be nice to see more
thought going in, but this Government
only cares about taking things out.
They’re gonna take us all out,
because the business captain
who knows way more than us all,
couldn’t say no to the sideshow car
of clowns, with their 6% pass-rate
in popularity. And their very strange
idea of what they believe is somehow fair.
THE GATES OF DAWN:
The first Pink Floyd album should
be renamed as Syd Barrett solo —
they never had that kind of chaos
ever again. There were new highs,
but nothing comes close to Barrett’s
way with words or the tone
of his guitar. I think “Crazy Diamond”
unfairly belittles him. In today’s world,
his mental health would not
be weaponised against him; his
unique Overdrive was its own thing,
and it blew my teenaged mind.
SELF-APPRAISAL:
When I moved to Wellington, I went
softly mad. I had no routine anymore,
I could do what I wanted, which also
meant being able to do nothing. I’ve
spent the last quarter-century atoning
to myself for five lost years. Building
a new routine, finding the things and
people to fight for. Hoping the score
card gets a pass mark in the end.
MUSIC:
The ghost in my life never frightened me
unless I wanted it to — the constant
shadow never caught me by surprise,
I always knew it was there — perhaps
I should have spent more of my time
reading about anything else, or trying
to commit other facts to memory,
something more job-related?
But the hooks got right in, and sat
under my skin. I’ve been held in its
sway for all of my life. Could not imagine
it — nor would I want to — any other way.
WAITING FOR A BUS IN A ROOM FULL OF PEOPLE:
The academic approached me
at the morning tea, said she appreciated
the playlists I added in the hope
of making the staff newsletter more interesting.
Instead of standing in front of me,
she stood right beside. And we both
looked up at the blank wall ahead,
a sea of other people may or may not
have been right there in front of us.
But that didn’t matter. They weren’t
exactly going to join in on this — they were
probably more excited about
the Xmas Mince Pies (blergh!)
Anyway, we talked about mixtapes,
and she told me she still hangs on
to a tape her first boyfriend made her.
“Don’t have anything to play it on,
but that’s not the point, I still know
everything on there — Led Zeppelin, etc”
And I said something about the emotion
that goes into a mixtape, and how careful
you must be around first and last songs
in particular. How every track had a history,
and all the tape hiss and needle drops
that made it onto the finished version;
such imperfections only helped to make it
perfect. Since eye contact is for job interviews,
and lovers, and fools — and maybe it’s all
just a Venn diagram anyway — we kept our
eyes front and centre, at the wall. And talked
for 15 minutes or more about playlists
and mixtapes. And then we both decided
that enough was enough, and made the same
excuse about work. And left. No conversation
was going to be better than that one. Connection
is not the same thing for everyone every time.
MONOTROPIC SPLIT:
Let’s keep driving in tunnels —
no chance of a burnout there.
Put the Kraftwerk on, let energy
flow. Make molehills from mountains
and just keep driving. Autopilot
is not your friend, but could be
you saviour. Worlds are weird,
and we can never choose them.
So just kept your foot down.
I guess that’s your heads up.
THE DAY OF THE BOOK LAUNCH:
My parents are here, and so relieved
they’re not in it this time, they’ve already
read this book.
I’ll write a speech — but first a playlist,
there’s an awkward few minutes to fill
at the start, will two hours of music
be enough? My mother in law is making
sandwiches. Emily messaged and asked
me to remove the dead rat from her room
so she could finish her speech that will
launch the book. Symbolic. Oscar has
asked for money to go to town,
he’ll meet us at the launch later. Apparently.
Katy still sleeping. It’s been a tough week.
For the world. Donald Trump is a cunt.
R.I.P. Janey Godley
And here’s the reading I gave when my book was released:
So that’ll more than do it for November. Was a big month in the old poetry game for me. The book is out in the world you can buy it here or ask for it in any bookstore near where you live and they’ll get it for you. Or send me a message directly if you’d like a signed copy for you or someone you know for Christmas.
Happy reading. Hope there’s something here you liked, or felt some interest towards. As always, let me know. Or don’t.