Res Publica, Book One, Canto the Third
The narrator recalls how, ready to set sail to his island, he parked his car outside the home he grew up in – a recollection which evokes painful memories of his parents . . .
Mount Rangitoto, North Shore, Auckland
Memory, in a Jaguar, gleaming,
burnished by the rain, propels
me down a North Shore lane which smells
of paint-soaked lawns and asphalt steaming,
soggy trees and burning wood,
the heady scents of childhood.
Robotically, and intersecting
– kwoosh, then slurp – to make an ‘M’,
two sweeping arms are each collecting
Ua’s ante: dazzling gems.94
A day of rain and blazing sun,
and cars agleam with all they’ve won.
An autumn scene, all gold and garish;
the kind of day I used to cherish.
178.
Round the bay we drive. A distant
cloudburst slowly starts to spread
on Rangitoto’s cloven head
– as if it were the mount’s assistant –
a silver cloak of satin thread.
A plastic playground, washed-out red
with yellow slide; a toddler swinging
over grass so green and bright
that surely those are emeralds clinging
to each sheeny blade. The light
gives all the houses veins –
the casement joints, the rooftop drains,
the frames of windowpanes defining
lifeless blocks with blood that’s shining.
179.
One house, however – fence-bound, shaded,
armed for ancient savageries
with bristling, mace-like cabbage trees –
appears to cower, a fort degraded,
its power humbled, mana lost.
A gloomy place. Let’s steer across
the street, dear Memory, my faithful
driver.
‘Right here,’ I say . . .
* * *
. . . I’d packed
the boat that morning – seven case-fulls
of Waikato Draught, and neatly stacked,
a crate of Speights, and five Monteith’s
with rows of Lion Red beneath;95
(I daren’t mention the Sauvignon Blanc or
Kiwi mates might call me ‘Plonker’).
'...culinary / canned delights (of Watties’ ilk)...'
And water, of course – a lot of water.
Twelve two-hundred liter tanks,
to be my island’s hydro-bank
so I could live long years a squatter;
(These giant, dirt-green plastic drums
required help from swarthy chums
to load onto my wobbling ferry);
cases, too, of powdered milk,
Weet-Bix boxes, culinary
canned delights (of Watties’ ilk),96
dried fruits as well, and mixed diffuse
with berries of the Chinese Goose,97
and shriveled apples, sun-baked peaches,
(pits removed for cleaner beaches);
181.
And meat? No meat. I’d thought of hauling
goats along – and sheep whose shanks
can well assuage a stomach’s angst.
I don’t find carnivores appalling,
but rather – why should beasts be forced
to live with someone so divorced
from life? They’d die of thirst, starvation,
disease while I sat idly by,
absorbed in selfish contemplation,
blind to outside stimuli;
their sorry state, each wretched bleat
I’d meet with eyes and ears effete.
For living life devoid of feeling
was what, to me, made life appealing.
182.
And books. A ton of reading matter
gave greater ballast to the hull –
sweet fruits to fill a hungry skull.
Linguistic cakes of sundry batter,
some bound soft and others hard,
from Stephen King to Cherry-Garrard
to Baudelaire, Dumas and Horace,
Byron, Poe and Kerouac,
the O.E.D., Roget’s Thesaurus,
an Atlas and an Almanac
– and, too, just as my ‘hydro-bank’
and food obliged an extra tank
to store my body’s foul expiries,
I also packed some pens and diaries.
Apsley George Benet Cherry-Garrard (1886–1959), author of The Worst Journey in the World
For what are brains but great intestines?
And what are thoughts but bits of fat
absorbed or by a Blogger shat?
How lucky, reader, what’s expressed in
common writing lacks the smell
of other waste that we expel!
How loose the public’s peristalsis!
A steady stream of stench each day.
The TV’s high cholesterol is
crapped at every street café
. . . in magazines . . . at dull soirees . . .
but never mind . . .
* * *
. . . ‘Right here,’ I say
to Memory.
The car grows quiet.
For it has keys to pacify it.
If only hearts had such devices!
94 Ua is a Maori god of rain.
95 Waikato Draught, Speights, Monteith’s, Lion Red – all popular brands of beer in New Zealand (also see footnote 40).
96 Watties has been manufacturing canned and frozen food products which, since 1934 ‘have been enjoyed by generations of families across New Zealand’, according to the company.
97 Kiwifruit is a popular brand name for the Chinese gooseberry.
__________
Zireaux’s comments on these stanzas
A good choice, Cherry-Garrard. To which I’d add Edward O. Wilson. Shakespeare. John Livingston Lowes, the blossoms of Harold Bloom — for I’m thinking of a kind of nosegay here, a bouquet of books, with the pink heather petals of Proust, a burgundy-hued Boyle (T.C.), the baby’s breath of Burgess. Or maybe just a single boutonnière — Joyce in full Bloom?
And you? Which books would you take to your island, reader?
Perhaps you’ll find some inspiration in the latest selections from the Tuesday Poets?
Read from the beginning of Res Publica | Listen to the audio version (read by Stuart Devenie) | Buy a signed copy of the book
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