Poetry Magazine, Christina Conrad, May 2000

Christina Conrad

NEW ZEALAND

Born in New Zealand (12/18/42) ... Conrad is an internationally acclaimed poet, playwright and "outsider" artist. She is the author of three books. Her poems have appeared in numerous journals and magazines in Australia, New Zealand, Canada and the U.K. They have also been widely anthologized (The Oxford Book of Modern New Zealand Poetry, Kiwi and Emu, and The Penguin Book of Contemporary New Zealand Verse).

Conrad's first book – this fig tree has thorns – is considered a modern-day classic. A French translation, published by Infrablu Press in Paris in 1996, sold out within two weeks. She is also represented in the Bloomsbury Book of Women Writers (U.K.) and has been the subject of several documentary films, including one that is now in progress. Conrad’s paintings and clay icons have been exhibited in major galleries in the United States, Australia, New Zealand, and Europe.

biography

i was born on the edge of a new zealand summer before
the cicadas shrieked – twas not until i was 27 that i
started to paint obsessively –
twas fear of myself i abstained for so long – i was
afraid of my shadow

in the silence of my 27th summer, vision came to me – 
a blue flame leapt between my eyes – tables sprang
across the room – great bursting teapots howled – my
knees spun like mandalas – everything was created out
of little particles of light – i forgot the self that
haunted everything i did – the paint sang on my brush

gradually it began to sicken me – my ego flailed like
a snake –  each day, heavy with child, i crept to my
studio – room of wind & darkness – the trees walked up
from the black creek and walked around me like pale
tombstones – windows of blood-red –  i gave birth
midst twisted paint tubes

not long after this i discovered clay –  taking it in
my hands, the masks of many lives came to me –  great
pots like beached ships leapt out of the clay –  with
red women racing round and round – amazed at
themselves–  their eyes shooting sparks – their
vaginas, dark caves – for one year i made only red
women – at the end of the year i made – one penis –
shooting up the centre of the pot –  one weeping eye –
most of these objects were blown up in a brick kiln,
like a sealed coffin –

you ask about my painting – this curse – this sweet
bitterness –
i have lost everything for this obsession: lovers –
husbands – sons – daughters – houses – money – 
reputation –

i start without rules or knowledge – i must expose
life in her galling duality – i care for nothing else
– my studio becomes a bloody stage –  the leading
actor clad in sack apron, appears at the edge of a
precipice

ah! Paint!  its life – its blood – i love it – i hate
it
the bristling prudery of brushes inhibits –
using my fingers, i pass through secret barriers – 
crossing milky & maddened seas –
i know the hazardous unreality of life –

i hid my paintings in cupboards instead of food – I
fingered them blindly on long, dark nights, seeking
the heart – 
I called up the serpent – 
one look back and I would fall – 
the lid was torn off the top of my head –
I painted for my life –
the paint smeared and clotted, scarring the naked
shroud of my canvas –

I did not shew my paintings until my 42nd year – 
in my 57th year I bow –

my eyes marbles – on a collapsible stage…

doom prepares to give birth

a bird twitters of cruelty
eternal delay
ah, 
how cold

doom prepares to give birth
to love
licking up the sperm of artifice
wheedling the stick
smashing the skull of justice

ah, beloved
do you recognize 
the flower
the flower
concealed in a dry rasp?
do you remember
the honey
we slurped

ah, let me wrap you in the weathered quilt
stuffed with the fine feathers of
a dead goose
i shalt not harm or possess you
i shalt not fix my eye
there shalt be no burning
the body hollow
for the white flame to leap

a letter to miro

there was a storm here
it was as if a revengeful spirit entered
his black cloak flung across stars
the moon
dead
in a broken basket

in the old blue house
we sought shelter
in the iron teeth of a bed
groaning on its haunches
red velvet flapping
around a ghostly sliver

through night's dark howl
great trees cracked
split
fell in ancient patterns
encasing
the anguished cry 
of 
life's warp
bloody stems
bark falling from flesh

in mirror's cruel oval
no proof glimmered
of life's cause
horror moving close
to sentimentality's plush
night's wail locked
as light shot
across darkness

we rose

a white morn
took us

the high walled tomb

i dreamed i was floating
in my mother's high walled tomb
the silver cord lay coiled
on the eve of life

i dreamed i crouched within a circle
of stones
i dreamed the sun fell
into the circle of stones
i dreamed the sun took me

i dreamed i was floating 
in my mother's high walled tomb
the silver cord lay coiled
on the eve of life

i dreamed the moon entered me
i dreamed i was lying 
in a black coffin
its high carved back
the helm of a ship

a blood red wave covered the coffin

white tower

ah, how dark in the labyrinth!
i have lost my way

where
where are the great trees
the 3 azure lakes

ah, 
the white tower shoots
erects itself
ah 
ah, does it possess a bone?
a weeping eye?

have you
have you
tasted
the crimson jube
under its cursed hood?

have you tasted the darkness?

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