Winter Solstice. Aevitas.
Not you again.
Violet Clement's birthday.
Pagan angel, and a borrowed grave.
Just like
The woman who invented it doesn't want it
The woman who bought it doesn't need it
The woman who needs it doesn't know it!
My grandmother all the same,
Removed from me by three years in the grave.
Her birthday; her preserverance day.
In mid-February I remembered her in amongst the Poplar, Sal
The German prisoners of war,
The nuns of another kind of captivity,
And the Doonites of yesteryear immortalized in Greek mythology.
On other days, the mid summer dress up that was her birthday.
In other parts; the skywell that was still in the making.
I wonder what she thinks; her memories being trickled down to me, my sister through vantage points?
The pained. The stubborn. The intelligent. The cook, my, the cook!
The racism that she bore the brunt of leading her back to the shadows?
The Indian dairy owner who took stones as money? And yet was he Indian?
The 'Maoris' who continue to run the country ragged and dry.
The Indian 'giver' no doubt?
The malodorous food that lines their stomachs; plastic in entity, plastic in flavour.
The food that shouts the doubt in their lives.
Yann Martel tells me he will be honest:
'It is not atheists who get stuck in my craw, but agnostics. Doubt is useful for a while. We must all pass through the garden of Gethsemane. If Christ played with doubt, so must we.......But we must move on. To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation.'
Better said than my personal indulgent philosophy;
Food to eat, food to think is food to chew.
That was the night encapsulated.
Shades of chilli; all Indonesian, all subtle, all vastly aromatic; all perfect.
All dotted like a chilly Wellington sky.
All man made.
Food to think was lustful lovemaking.
An anomaly. An oxymoron, perhaps a paradox too?
But it struck me down.
Happiness is security is pleasure?
And yet, the more my head thinks these things the drier my fingers become.
This is drip dry.
And, yet I wonder what she thinks;
Pagan angel, and borrowed life.
My grandmother that I never met.
Not you again.
Violet Clement's birthday.
Pagan angel, and a borrowed grave.
Just like
The woman who invented it doesn't want it
The woman who bought it doesn't need it
The woman who needs it doesn't know it!
My grandmother all the same,
Removed from me by three years in the grave.
Her birthday; her preserverance day.
In mid-February I remembered her in amongst the Poplar, Sal
The German prisoners of war,
The nuns of another kind of captivity,
And the Doonites of yesteryear immortalized in Greek mythology.
On other days, the mid summer dress up that was her birthday.
In other parts; the skywell that was still in the making.
I wonder what she thinks; her memories being trickled down to me, my sister through vantage points?
The pained. The stubborn. The intelligent. The cook, my, the cook!
The racism that she bore the brunt of leading her back to the shadows?
The Indian dairy owner who took stones as money? And yet was he Indian?
The 'Maoris' who continue to run the country ragged and dry.
The Indian 'giver' no doubt?
The malodorous food that lines their stomachs; plastic in entity, plastic in flavour.
The food that shouts the doubt in their lives.
Yann Martel tells me he will be honest:
'It is not atheists who get stuck in my craw, but agnostics. Doubt is useful for a while. We must all pass through the garden of Gethsemane. If Christ played with doubt, so must we.......But we must move on. To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation.'
Better said than my personal indulgent philosophy;
Food to eat, food to think is food to chew.
That was the night encapsulated.
Shades of chilli; all Indonesian, all subtle, all vastly aromatic; all perfect.
All dotted like a chilly Wellington sky.
All man made.
Food to think was lustful lovemaking.
An anomaly. An oxymoron, perhaps a paradox too?
But it struck me down.
Happiness is security is pleasure?
And yet, the more my head thinks these things the drier my fingers become.
This is drip dry.
And, yet I wonder what she thinks;
Pagan angel, and borrowed life.
My grandmother that I never met.
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