NEW ZEALAND

grillostone@yahoo.com 

wrapped stoats
(for sam hunt)

a letter and a book of poems came from you
as i sat writing
naked in the winter sun
you said you would come over the water
to the sounds
ride through the early morning to see me
i thought of the old woman with the one eyed house
in a garden of cabbages
she dreamed you were riding on a rainbow
i read a poem you wrote my sister
i remembered when i came with my firstborn
to that little red house
by a bridge
where a thin creek ran
where the sea ran into it
it had two long rooms
the floor was concrete
it was here i met you
your eyes long
your feet wrapped stoats
i was dark   full of doom
i would sweep the house
polish the desk with it toffee legs
water the floor so the dust would not rise
do the washing in the old cracked sink
where the water ran out into the yard
and made a moat
when the sheets got dirty i threw them away
my hands were cracked
my fingernails turned black
i fed the gulls with my child
she chased them into the water and ate their bread
we made fires together
i read you my writing that the silverfish ate
you did not wish for a married woman
you liked a young virgin
i wanted my mother
i did not want a child or husband
i wished for death 
i watched the jagged rocks
where a black shag sat
we would go drinking at a pub
i would drink til i knew no more
i am collecting wood for the fire
its cold by the woodshed
the hills are dark 

"the struggle to birth an idea"
(for del & marilyn)

alone in the tall narrow house
i was the lighthouse keeper
the sea shone into my heart
seals played in the shadow of night
when moon
fell
into silver water

the great trees walked down from the hills

our lady of the waterfall
poured her juices
down
her dark cleft
of
stone
boulders – lunged
tore
at her
feet
thrown up by eruptions –
desirous –
her moss
trembled

at night i sat at a long table
made from the rudder of a ship
that caught fire at sea
beached
it lay on the shore for years
until the wood was washed white
the wounds and scars
remained black
burnt

alone, i sat writing
in the naked window
reflected in the arms of the olive tree
her olives
falling
hard - bitter
on the ground.

under a full moon
the sea 
ran in
ran out

in my 47th year
i sought
my shadow
falling
from ash 
to ecstasy
flames shot
from my head

on my knees
before a rose bush
weeping
over her thorns
i painted "the struggle to birth an idea"

i had been called 
to this place
to cast off the dross
crystallized
round the soul
the apocalyptic light
piercing the heart
in its rickety case
striking the mind
in its stagnant
pit –

night and day
i heard the howl of the world
Horror and Torment 
screamed through my veins
clashing with Logic 
looming 
in his white tower –
heart and mind
playing on an instrument
circular
in its intent

ships with white sails
forged through the sounds
anchored
in the bay

from the windows of my room
a pohutokawa tree
stood
at the edge of the sea
covered in red flowers

i painted for my life

one look back
i would
fall

i kept my eye
fixed 
on the present
hands blind
over hidden terrain
calling up the curse
tracing the hump
seeking the claw
draining the vase
of dead matter

watering the rose –
the secret of life

journeying in faith
wanting nothing –
howling for all
paying a bitter toll
for the price of materializing dreams –
seared by light
in a tomb
of ignorance
i wrote:
i am the bride of the spectre
my veil  -
rent
besmirched
in
paint -
blood of the soul

the spectre does not have a body
he uses mine

groping under Life’s hood
i birth dreams -
grappling
with desire
love - hate
life - death
i paint on illusion’s shroud
i am the bride of the spectre
i fall into life
in a lidless
coffin

one morning i awoke in fear
my companions – 
Lucidity and Logic -
had flown
Horror and his brother Torment
closely attended me
i could not call for help

no longer vigilant
quailing in
fumes of turpentine
lead paint insidiously seeping
into the heart
mad lead yellow
cobalt blue
blood red
azure
turquoise
white
black
black
tormenting the brain
multiplying heart’s tick

on cliff’s edge
i rode a bicycle
chopped wood with a sharp axe

spinning in a vortex
the eye saw through everything

climbing twenty stairs to my room
the kowhai tree pressed against the window
a blue pigeon stared

on the eve of life
the sea lapped
lapped

i must jump through seven hoops of white flame
i cowered
could not jump

i ran to the glass house to play with cucumbers
long –
verdant –
swelling on the vine
fat lettuces
rooted
in dark earth

i entered the doorway
tripping
lifting both hands 
as if about to be shot
pictures of my life appeared 
in a swelling bubble on my forehead
in slow motion
i fell
through a glass darkly
slashing my wrists
hands hanging by a thread
blood spurting

passing in a boat
the caretaker of waterfall bay
saw a fountain of blood
a figure running
screaming

taken to hospital
lying in a pool of blood
in the bottom of the boat
my life 
ebbing away
i could not remember who i was
flying out of my body
on a long silver cord 
i saw myself –
an empty glove

"ah sweet death – take me
take me"

the sea was
lapping
lapping
on the eve of life

i lay for weeks
watching a vine
climb up a tree
explode
into
a blood red flower

from a wild donkey
kicking – braying
at a closed door
i changed into a lamb
patiently chewing
eyes lifted
to the painted sky

a man in a boat
came
to take me away
cradling my wooden lute
i climbed into the boat
and 
the lute cried out
in one long note
and was silent

and the sea lapped 
over those scars and wounds
that might have opened

"seed rattle"
(for stoneking)

laid out under the shadow of a wicker hood
you bang your giant seed rattle
kick up your white perambulator legs

your face 
under scrutiny
is
subject
to
tides
floods

your eyes of a changeling
behind a wall of mist
nose
plunging
into
illusion
forehead
assuming
a
stone
egg
your mouth
a
volcano
behind
a
corruption
of
fur

© All Copyright, 2000, Christina Conrad.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.