Monday, 17 October 2011

Dispatches from Book conf - day 3. A poem I wrote about the oil spill at home during one of the sessions...

he waiata tangi, he waiata aroha

this drifting isn’t swimming, isn’t flight:
these scales and feathers, gills, beaks and eyes
meant for water, salt and wind; not
the quiet surge and flow of thicker tides

when pressed under rock and time, oil
transubstantiates into diamonds, but
this is the wrong pressure, these are not enough years
an oozing has obscured your cut and sheen

sometimes stillness is a sign of gentle strength
the serene depth of quiet calm, but
there is no reflection on this liquid skin
breaths, mouths, even words are too shallow here

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