Waters_pitch_

On Monday 15th of July I had the pleasure of reading my poem, Waters Pitch, at the Pecha Kucha Wellington Globalista session. The event was held at Downstage theatre in Wellington and was a sell out! How cool is that? I was speaking with a host of talented people, amongst them the the British, Chilean and Italian ambassadors. I was on about 9th and most presentations up until that point had been somewhat upbeat, and thus I was compelled to give a small disclaimer apologising for the brief, bleak tangent I was taking us all on. I'm glad I did as I think the forewarning served the poem well.

I am so overwhelmed at the feedback I've had from people about my performance. I've had emails, people stopping me in the street and so many people saying how moved they were - some even saying that I made them cry. As an artist, there is nothing more in the world you want than to affect people, and making them cry is, well, not my aim, but to illicit an emotional response of that level is so humbling and it is all I really want.

So here is the latest version of Waters Pitch.

Attached is also the PDF of the photography that was played whilst I read. These photos are mainly those of Michael Holmes and Miho Kajioka. Two very talented people. 

You can see more of Michael's images here

Information on Miho can be found here.

Photo image presentation.

{Waters Pitch}

In our freedom,

we stand,

the land stretching before us,

friends, jobs, pressure, rent and toil gone,

and as yet, unmet.

In this freedom, somewhere,

wave after wave, after wave collides

whilst we ride,

hair flailing,

bicycle swerving,

between our glowing new experiences.

Through the grey streets we careen,

the masses of wires,

with their Tokyo, faux Kyoto, style of ugly

that is actually quite handsome as it flashes,

by and by, and by,

blur beyond blur.

The spring chill in this dying winter’s morn is beautiful,

as we are free. 

Our new adventure,

our joyful cascade

dries,

the water drawn elsewhere for horrific things.

And in my head there is piano playing softly, sadly,

as the water surges,

wave after wave, after wave,

after brown setting sun molten dream

so rough and tough my heart is washed,

right out of me.

So I kneel,

quietly,

but there is nothing I can say

as I watch them, throb and bob,

caught in the relentless dark waters,

in that unending torrent,

the people of God,

the people of God,

oh, the people of God. 

The narrow streets simmer

and in the depths,

oh, so deep,

I cry

for how little I cry,

or how little I remember crying,

even on my knees,

wishing for dominion over every emotion,

under blue,

green,

now brown

watery desert.

And then in come tomorrow’s heroes

like the tide,

dripping,

every one of them,

floating among the flotsam of hell,

the jetsam of heaven,

wave after wave, after wave;

the people of God,

the people of God;

where are you?

I can’t help you.

I don’t speak the language. 

And,

distress rushes like a dark tide

within me (?),

rising higher and higher

as it pounds at me,

pounds,

and I’m so aghast my breathing ceases

landlocked,

above water,

landlocked

above water.

Where do we go from here?

Oh, swim me,

swim me back,

to the green pastures of the supposed future,

bicycle swerves,

endless possibilities

fraught amongst the drift, and blur,

the aftermath,

the brown avalanche receding,

wave after wave,

after brown wave of tears

and the tangle of debris in its wake. 

And as waterless as it is,

we return,

slightly quickly,

slightly secretly,

to fragmented Tokyo,

glowing green in the new dawn.

Shssssshh,

the cool irradiated breeze tickles my mind as we walk

empty streets at five in the morning.

“What’s in me, my boy? What’s in me?”

whispers the wind. (sshhh)

As does the water, (sshhh)

as does the spinach,

as does the milk,

as does the eggplant,

wave after wave,

their muzzles grinning, at me,

my uncertainty teased so,

I crudely pencil kanji on paper,

eared,

folded,

into the wallet for safety in the supermarket. 

But the dark water’s maw slides away,

and Spring folds his arms,

sleeves rolled up,

staring at the black – no, red –

tide line scarring the land.

“Bloody right,” he says,

“time for hope,

again,

pretty hope,

pretty pretty hope…

Flowers, if you will, please.”

And a sweeping arm gesture ignites a new flood;

wave after wave, after wave

of flowers screaming of faith

and we feel guilty for basking in their beauty,

staring up from the silt layered land,

among the grit covered debris,

the remnants of something furious.

Cancel the festivals,

cancel the fireworks.

Cancel all. 

And as silent escalators rest, black ravens watch

As do I, as it is some kind of something

studying the worried and affected masses

as they peel away the excess

and mark,

scratchy scratchy,

chalk on blackboard,

a question mark for a moment.

“Maybe, we are fallible,”

they say,

“maybe we are not God’s people.

Maybe we are excessive;

maybe I have no column of crystal within me,

after all –

just sand,

after all;

pre-metamorphosis,”

the murmurs recede,

wave after wave, after wave,

our murmurs of disquiet ebb, forgotten

into tomorrow’s brilliant morn.

And in that morn,

now,

dirt caked vehicles still lie

half buried from the floating lake that walked the land of the living one afternoon

and brought galaxies of heroes,

unsung,

unsung,

evermore.

The streets gleam,

renewed,

the unwashed walking with their own ghosts,

so gauntly,

while trees rustle apologies,

wave after wave;

“I love you.

I love you.

I love you

and I love…

but we are all so sorry.”

Rest people of God,

rest people of God,

rest.