1. |
Rain HT
04:47
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RAIN
I can hear you
making small holes
in the silence
rain
If I were deaf
the pores of my skin
would open to you
and shut
And I
should know you
by the lick of you
if I were blind
the something
special smell of you
when the sun cakes
the ground
the steady
drum-roll sound
you make
when the wind drops
But if I
should not hear
smell or feel or see
you
you would still
define me
disperse me
wash over me
rain
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2. |
Haiku (1) HT
01:17
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HAIKU (1)
Stop
your snivelling
creek-bed
come rain hail
and flood-water
laugh again
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3. |
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A FALL OF RAIN AT MITI-MITI
Drifting on the wind, and through
the broken window of the long house
here you lie, incantatory chant
of surf breaking, and the Mass
and the mountain talking.
At your feet two candles puff the
stained faces of the whanau, the vigil
of the bright Madonna. See, sand-whipped
the toy church does not flinch.
E moe, e te whaea: wahine rangimarie
Mountain, why do you loom over us like
that, hands on massive hips ? Simply
by hooking your finger to the sea,
rain-squalls swoop like a hawk, suddenly.
Illuminated speeches darken, fade to metallic
drum-taps on the roof.
Aanei nga roimata o Rangipapa
Flat, incomprehensible faces: lips moving
only to oratorical rhythms of the rain:
quiet please, I can't hear the words.
And the rain steadying: black sky leaning
against the long house. Sand, wind-sifted
eddying lazily along the beach.
And to a dark song lullaby: et te whaea, sleep.
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4. |
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Small signs & impressions
(Te Araroa, later part of 1979)
Hey, you, Tangaroa, ocean. YOU, with
the blubbery, soft-thwacking gums
working. What big message do you
beat out with them, today? ... Ay?
Speak louder. Whetumatarae scratches
a bushy head. Does your message
have teeth? ... Ay? Is there
a threat from the South, today?
A threat hidden behind the headland
to the North? Speak.
In Judea, the bible is the grenade,
is the sword, is the gun, the bear
and the eagle droppeth, like dung.
And who impose a common tongue on the
sister and brother voices of Babel, pray?
Wave and river-action are the rock-built hillocks;
the river flat-lands brooding, and YOU, out
there, kaumatua, chest heaving, floating on
your back utterly pierced and sun-rayed: yes,
and what about the good news, then ?
The old old tree, wide as the world, many-rooted,
is leaning back, bad thoughts amputated, waiting
for his own special pataka. Hah! They're trying
to pension me off for chrissake! How arrogant!
The rain falling: there's a rising murmur from
the playing field, and war of another kind with
a taua from the North. And whose is the lasting
victory, Tangaroa?
On one side of the tree only, leaves stir to a fickle
wind, passing.
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5. |
Roads HT
01:42
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ROADS
I turn away from roads,
sign-posted hot macadams:
roads on smooth roads curving
looping under, up and yonder
going leading nowhere.
I dream of roads
but seek instead a tumble
stumble-footed course I know
will earn me sad wounds
cutting deep to bone.
I have learned to love
too much perhaps
rough tracks hard of going
poorly lit by stars.
Night-long voyagings
have found no easy path
to the silent gate
that is the dawn -
the truth beyond
that is the banished city.
Hearing only the night-birds
booming ancient blasphemies:
moon-dark ease reflection
in the knocking stones
the river chortling.
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6. |
Time and the child HT
02:27
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TIME AND THE CHILD
Tree earth and sky
reel to the noontide beat
of sun and the old man
hobbling down the road.
Cadence -
of sun-drowned cicada
in a child's voice shrilling:
... are you going man ?
Where are going man where
The old man is deaf
to the child.
His stick makes deep
holes in the ground.
His eyes burn to a distant point
where all roads converge ...
The child has left his toys
and hobbles after the old
man calling: funny man funny man
funny old man funny
Overhead the sun paces
and buds pop and flare.
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7. |
Keep moving SB
01:56
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KEEP MOVING
I lumbar over the land, knees swollen
and knotted like giant kumara roots.
Who is that child so far down below
who reaches out to me? I can barely hear
his cry, he is simply too far away. I trudge
through drying braided rivers, I step
over tussocks brown hills. What do you say,
you small people waving your hands at me
from beside the lake? You think I should stop,
you want to help, the child needs me?
Huh. No, no, the heat is its own desperate cure,
the creaking legs need to keep moving,
the dry earth knows all about me. The child?
Oh yes, I can see him still, I think he's
getting smaller - isn't that strange ? Maybe
he'll disappear - meanwhile, I have my eye
on that razor pass through the mountains.
I think I may have been there before.
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8. |
Rain-talk and fever HT
01:12
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RAIN-TALK AND FEVER
Menacingly, and above your thrumming
that strange melody sidewise squirming;
surfacing, to make a sharp stir.
And you rain, raining there, outside,
incessantly,
(O, and with such a long night to appease.)
At last, the fever's arched back snapping;
peace with a cool hand sitting on the bed;
beautiful. And suddenly
you were no longer there. Your sooth-sayer
voice in commiseration had vanished.
But how timely and reassuring to hear
the clock jangling the sure hour before
dawn. Ah rain, I can barely remember
the coiled and stubborn malady you helped
to float to a high dry place.
Quietened now, and like a derelict cat
cleaning itself.
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9. |
Holding the line SB
01:46
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HOLDING THE LINE
when I feel feverish
I take the full moon
and place it on my brow
like a flannel
it is so cool because it has just
been swimming in the sea
when I feel that my heart
is clapping out of time
I take it out and throw it
up among the stars
who know all there is to know
about holding the line
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10. |
Flood HT
02:28
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Flood
In the back country
hard rain
is bucketing
Here
in the narrowing light
the river bellows
fatly
From high ground
I mark
twin rows of willow
dishevelled arms
clutching drunk roots
hoarding
bits of old bridge-planking
the body of a beast
puff-bellied
hind feet sticking out
I ask:
when will the waters clear
the eels breathe easy again?
Shall I be able to ford
the river soon: visit
a lean Aunt?
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11. |
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OLD MAN CHANTING IN THE DARK
Where are the men of mettle?
are there old scores
left to settle?
when will the canoes leap
to the stab and kick
the sea-wet flourish
of pointed paddles?
will the sun play again
to the skip of muscles
on curved backs bared
to the rain's lash
the sea's punch?
to War! To War!
where are the proud lands
to subdue - and women?
where are the slaves
to gather wood for the fires
stones for the oven?
who shall reap
the succulent children whimpering
on the terraced hill-top?
no more alas no more
no raw memory left
of these
nor bloody trophies:
only the fantail's flip
to cheeky war-like postures
and on the sand-hill
wry wind fluting
the bleached bones marrowless
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12. |
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WHAT THE WIND DOES
it hunts through the forest of mangrove roots
and what else does the wind do?
it tosses flecks of foam along the sand
and what else does the wind do?
it licks my bald head with a cold tongue
and what else does the wind do?
it lunges and whines under the overturned dinghy
and what else does the wind do?
it shows me how much air is in the world
and what else does the wind do?
it ruffles the chest feathers of the strutting gull
and what else does the wind do?
it whips around my face and tells me not to die
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Andrew Macann Auckland, New Zealand
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