Poetry by Rae Pater
Poetry by Rae Pater
| Word
Pattern. I sit at home and play with my words. Like paper cut-out doilies they move together take shape, make a pattern then break apart. Reform kaleidoscopically. I wonder if my patterns have a meaning, imbued in them by me, or if they will shift again, change and reform, when read by another. Filtered through a different unconscious - will they stir a distant memory, instigate a tear bubble up a laugh ripple a pool of silence? Will they make a pattern in someone else that links them to me?
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| Rosy
Dawn. Dawn breaks, like the day. Hangs the wash stifles a yawn, changes a nappy speaks to a child. Runs fingers through soil dark fragrant thoughts crumble and fall, looks beyond the horizon waves distant curling on faraway shores. Draws pictures in pastels vibrant shapes shifting, scenes. Sleeps curled like a cat and dreams, of dreams.
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| Cyberchild The screen is his window on the world streams down sleek lines of fibre optic keyed instructions prompt his thought supple fingers mould him autonomy a distant throbbing dream to finger his own keys and dream ram dreams sleep in cyberspace cable free.
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| The
Dreaming I dreamed I wove the night from day in silk of gold for you. A sea of pain in black and blue a field of jealous green. A sickle sun of lemon sour, growing darker hour on hour. A dragon black with ruby eyes flaming fire to light the skies. A moon of dull and ashen hue, within the night I wove for you. A maiden laid upon a bed, her beauty sleeping death. A dagger deeply in her heart did steal away her breath.
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| Love's
Refrain. Like strains of music we wind together, the bud of a rose you sing me to bloom. I am scent of jasmine riding your breeze, foam of the wave froth on your seas. Follow the rhythm swiftly it grows build to crescendo then let it go. You are the beat I am the melody, sweetly we sing perfections harmony.
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| Birds
Sing at Night. I used to think birds sang by day when the sun was high and the sky was brave. Their dancing voices fell from trees ‘sweet the sky’ and ‘green the leaves.’ But now I know they sing at night soft and low in hard starlight. Sing of when the world was born, of how the land and seas were formed. Secret songs from the dawn of time of doom and omens, things divine.
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| Sweet
Young Thing. Plunging in to the pond of youth trembling lips ice fresh on my skin the hesitation of initiation builds in me an intoxication. Heady perfume of fresh cut grass in springs first rain on fertile soil while gentle fingers stumble over slender youthful curves and angles geometric geographic slide into familiar patterns in silks and satins tumble flatten rise and fall held in thrall sweet youthful pool and here am I drunken fool.
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| Atrophy Slowly as the years went by her words grew less and less. Skin joined lips, words trapped inside brewed bitterness maggots spawned daggers drawn a silent war of wills commenced.
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| Truth
and Lies. Evil intent carves her face and as she speaks spiders fall from her lips hang on silken strands weave cobwebs through paper tissue lies that tantalise an audience of gullibility. Earwigs, crunchy crowded drop from clothing folds into laps onto hands that frantic flap rejection of reality, and boring, mundane truth. Welcome in with open arms evil woman's cobweb charms in sticky web become enmeshed the fantasy of fear is best. Bloody words that splash on lives decaying flesh that falls from eyes, a muddied pool of sucking pus she pours for us.
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| Post
Mortem. Hand cups hand, that cups breast legs within legs chest against chest. Breathing in the inkwell of night drawn together flames ignite burn to ashes funeral pyre, all that remains carnal desire.
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| Humanity. Flowing ever on. I cling always at edges now above skimming the top caught in swirls and eddy's now below mud scunged bottom scraper buried in sludge thrust away like brown frothed scum from swift flowing fish filled middle.
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| Before
Memory. The way is close confining pink, blue, grey, silk slime pushes back pushing out, bodysurfing amniotic fluid, universal experience unremembered. Only once in a dream, nightmare, each sucking breath confirming reality.
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| Invitro
Prayer Place
in me this precious seed
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| The
Rain Moment. The sky darkens air thickens with honey scent of flowers cooler, slower, temperature lowers bellyful clouds swell to burst. A final nestle, rustle, digging in, of creatures. Then pat - pat - tat - tat - splop, plop, juicy drop of luscious rain on slurping earth life to birth.
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| A Blue
Note He rides a sea of flesh that moves, ripples and waves, under him, the skin of another enfolds and surrounds. Melded together, they twist and writhe, air heats and thickens a small capsule of buzzing energy builds to flashpoint and dissipates in sudden spectacular explosion filling the air with floating fragments. Filled and fulfilled complete and replete, destiny accomplished destination reached. Spent physicality squandered emotion small moans and panting rebound off walls and collide shattering until deflated and spent they drop to the floor.
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| Terminal. I'm watching you go feeling you fade clutching tight with both fists still you slip through my fingers like afternoon sunlight.
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| Surfing
Relationships "I love you," he said, toes hanging out there on the edge of the board riding the tube of fear white water curled around him too fast for the eye to see so that it appeared motionless, "There's a good movie on at the Rialto," she said, not an eyelash flickered, as white curl of water fell in on him crystal all around board lost in a liquid cauldron of surf.
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| The
Maker. As you kiss your sleeping son goodnight, glance down upon his baby hands and see the hand of God. There in the moth web of lashes pink kiss of mouth moon curve cheek the unmistakable mark of craftmanship.
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| Understanding. curtain draws back crystal edges envisioned within begin to emerge picture lightens focus sharpens thought occurs knowledge like Aphrodite rising from the waves.
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| Winter
Garden Star spangled crystal droplet spider web world. Crunching down the frozen lawn little girls twirled. Far away motor cars hum down from the trees little birds come. Mother is sleeping warm in her bed. Sudden freedom has gone to our heads. All of the garden is chilly and bright, bathed in a wintery blue white light. Soft smokey haze drifts in the air, black spikey trees naked and queer, two little trails in sugary white down to the playhouse, delicious delight.
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| Picture
Perfect Black and white bobby calves painted fresh on bright green grass and wallpaper, in the irrigation ditch beside the road clotted raspberry cane slows the flow, bright red berries like fallen flesh dotted through the leaves enmeshed and wallpaper peels, custard yellow sun colludes with blue china sky and cappucino froth. Black wallpaper skin peels down the faceless child, charred lopsided grin runs down the road screaming, "God, God, let me in."
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| Conversations
With My Father
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| Hinepukohurangi For Laura Peaceful aura lightly lays on a mist of silver grey. Watching shining water play over weather wearied clay. Darkened eyes and feathered hair, gentle spirit biding there. Misty sprite of long ago wears an ethereal glow. Lives in dreams of other lives where gentleness and kindness thrive. Opal droplet fingers wind into lights pearlescent spray. Queen of slight, not quite, and vague she wavers, hovers, almost there, but reach to touch her … disappears.
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| You Don't Ask You never ask me if I love you,
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| Wet I am mer-witch
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| Nothing’s
Perfect Of course I know there’s no real perfection. Ever since that cock-up in the Garden of Eden it’s all just a crap game. You roll the dice and hope for a pair at the very least an even number. Slowly learn not to bet all your chips on one throw. Snake eyes keep coming up till you’re lost in the wilderness surrounded by thistles, clutching the hand of some naked chick who swears you got married in Vegas but all you can remember is snake eyes crossed on greenest green. You’re a good sport so you set up house anyway have a bunch of kids two cars and a blender, and before you can say banana smoothie you’re buried in debt, living life by rote reaching for amusement at the end of a bottle syringe/stray cunt/whatever anything to kick up a little dust in the eyes of the bastard that started it all and your kids are out there killing each other. One day you go to work and just keep on driving. Drive until the concrete subsides the boxes trail off and you see a little green a float of blue and you take the first big belly breath you have in years beside a marquisette lake as the climax of the day melts confetti colours over the sky pouring down across black arrows of pine
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| The Envy of
Elizabeth R My Lady slides quietly through the rooms of her life taking pleasure in sips of smallness like silk against skin she makes love with breath held where ears can listen and I, Prince of England envy her dustless footsteps as mine have been etched in iron and stamped with the Great Seal of an era long passed my womb stretches, a barren cave of longing, to bear a son as she has done, as any mortal woman might whose might is not required to service duty I yearn to wander, as she, woman of simple complexity amidst the silver trees weightless words free falling leaflike into the heart of the forest and dream of Anne Sexton, gender weary, riding the night with Lawrence of Arabia over shadowed sand on a crescent necked steed leaving a scentless trail the glissade of a sylph through written tomes we step the page with precious measure I think My Lady will make her mark as I have done. Our quiet women’s voices speaking words that permeate dreams and cells like beads of light.
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| ~ journey around my
love ~ your name hovers on my closed eyelids always a dark candle jewel you are my polished sculpture black arrows of hair green leaves and orange blossom falling from your starfilled mouth could I climb inside mill around turn in a creamy cap of tooth cavort naked on your tongue soak in whispered promises roll out across a brown glazed cheek down your chest the beating rhythm of my life that holds my breath in curled embrace beneath the swarthy angel of your face I place my fingers flat upon the smooth cave of your center and lower encircle the pulse of your desire. mylovemylovemylove with every sweet and juicy tendril of you pressed into me my fingers seeking entrance to your back your lips god, your lips opening doors all across me sowing seeds of downfall here and here and yes here, yes.
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| ~ a kind of station where people
pause ~ i Red spark fountains shoot up against a panther sky, drum edges a crumbled glow beneath wool, leather, and dirt mittened hands that call comfort from it. Voices circle low around then woosh skyward with ruby firebugs. ii Iron crazing patterns sky, white and dark overhead. Cubing daylight in a sub sidewalk cube of space. Once bright, now grey blankets snake the floor, mist odour dawdles aimlessly transient shadow people. iii Gulls wing shriek-eyed overhead across rock pools, slipway, stinking paua shells and dry docked hulks. Under an upturned boat a flattened nest in grass. Discarded empty décor zig-zag papers, coke bottles phone numbers. iv A place on the moon that looks like a face shadow, nose, lips perhaps resemble the face of the sphinx. Souls who wander night's black glass canyons rest eyes there and wonder.
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| Little Princess Bright satin lily pads in circles of pink, sapphire, cream and gold on grass at the center of each a flower girlchild. Egyptian princess, fairy queen, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella in childhood’s fluid dream-trance a coloured wheel spins painting in light dance with a prince your feet in glass till midnight strikes you to ashes again sprout wings and fly to your father the king in his castle that appears in the hour before dawn sleep in beauty lying on your back eyes shut waiting for a kiss float in a Nile blue dream of veils and kohl-rimmed eyes a shimmering haze of power presses on your skin dispersed by movement as you reach for it wake surprised each morning to the alarm clock needle jab lips unkissed as dream evaporates into day it leaves a salt-crust residue on your cheeks that erodes a rusty path stings and burns in wind that ruffles your wallflower dress as you wait, feet in glass for the prince to ask you to dance wings dried brittle in the glow of the prom queens sun-gold hair as she drifts past on her royal barge Prince Charming doesn’t even glance your way.
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| Communicating with
a Dove Mail: I opened my letterbox today and found a pearlescent globe. Purple irises and white orchids float curled against its surface. I carried it inside watching the colours breathe against my palm, it cracked open like an egg to reveal a beautiful girl nestled inside. Rita emerged wearing her straw hat with the daisies on it, her hands full of smoky charms. In her eyes the Mississippi slipped a slow glass glide beneath a paddleboat wheel. Nesting: Rita talks to me with the voice of the South. I am a million miles away in a different South. Lying on my bed on a green jewel imbued with the scent of tree fern, where the only flaming cross is the accidental confusion of driftwood on a beach bonfire; but I am hearing her voice soft as Mississippi mud. She likes me I can tell. I have invited her to stay. Call of a Dove: Rita calls me from my white box bedroom to sit with her while the canary sings. Sit in her yard and imagine for an hour, oriental tutus that dance disappointment cause we never got to Paris. Her slender fingers send me notes on graceful cards. Private messages I hold to my loneliness; a small candle glow to warm my palms. Her words are rose damask on a silk coverlet. I pull it over my face, watch how it diffuses the light. Repentance: My halo of gold hair doesn’t save me, just hides the nylon fabrication underneath; a meshed root system like a white mattress infrastructure. Rita has been kind to me. Not given a line by line dissection of worthiness, but started with a gentle rhythmic waltz in memories. My words grow like flowers, sorrowful lilies abound. How much better we could have shared if I had found the words earlier, and if she could have heard them when first uttered. We plant forget-me-nots prolific and blue, though I never liked the shade. Weeds keep popping up suffocating the new plants. Forgiveness is a holy thing but God has been scarce of late. The sun and rain are set on automatic, but where is the gentle angel song to raise a heart’s bloom. Lesson One Rita is teaching me. A thing about lazy, a thing about care, and I am listening. A half-note on a mandolin string stretched through my teeth, the universe roars, a long endless train, carriage carriage baggage car sub-atomic engine; curled in a half-walnut shell behind a frontal lobe. Poetry, said my professor, is a beautiful thing. And I thought he would cry, and I, together, the grey dove tears of poets, silent and dark across his remarkable terrain, and my shallow grave where innocence is buried. We pluck the mandolin together with the petal of an iridescent blue flower, the discord is stunning. Rita is proud, she smiles. The Writing: I reach to brush the tips of my fingers against the sky, gather sparkles of sunlight to sprinkle down the page. Welcome you to my cavern where the sea whispers and rushes in dark waves of teal silk. I want you to open up like a waterlily and feel the imprint of my embrace, long after I leave. Rae Pater written in response to Thomas and Beulah by Rita Dove
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All poems © Rae Pater, 2004. Please do not copy without permission.