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.
