when he sings

when he sings

the neighbour’s figs

tremble

even the tui trembles

+

The Queen is hunkering down

Philip is high in his helicopter

Candy goes yap yap yap

The ice rink is covered in corpses

The Queen is really quite feisty

Candy goes yap yap yap

Philip is high in his helicopter

Candy goes yap yap yap

The ice rink is covered in corpses 45

+

Hospitals and schools, beds and desks

all that courage

all those corridors

+

Blue

for the blue Pacific

an angel gave me this crayon

I think I glimpsed

his wing

+

till one day maybe nothing is left,

just a boat out on the horizon …

still searching for Icarus

foolish boy who went within

two metres of the sun

+

all the love, all the whatnot

+

& now not even the tail

46

Mean Neptune

About 60 per cent of my son sits under the sea.

He is still able to talk back to me

but he cannot run away from home.

No, he cannot roam.

I sit him on my knee

and listen to him groan.

His hair is made of foam.

His brain is scenery.

Mountains are on his mind

but always ill-defined.

They fail to shine –

excessive wilding pine.

Excessive everything!

Too much this and that!

The surface of the sea goes stormy,

when it should be flat.

+

no more snarling

no more of that my darling

+

As for my disobedient daughter,

she must stay entirely underwater.

47

To Be Concluded

I used to love folk music

though I didn’t know any folk.

You can’t escape the political air,

not much oxygen to spare

not much oxygen to spare.

Eventually the songs wore out their welcome,

they never stopped winking at me.

This is how I came to prefer

the steady gaze of silence. Yes

I was sick of the troublemaking world,

I wanted life to be useful

like a piece of furniture that accurately

describes itself. I had this thought, you see,

and I wanted to write it down.

48

Earthquake Practice

I was thinking about the tsunami hīkoi

and how I would have to puff my way uphill

later in the afternoon

when this phone call came through from a lady

who thought I was the local cattery.

She didn’t give her name, just launched

right in. I tried to explain her mistake to her

but she talked right over me. I want

Coleslaw back at once, she said,

or I tell you there’ll be trouble.

I miss my little vegetarian!

Then she was gone. I thought:

That has to be the weirdest conversation

I’ve had for a long time,

and not really even a conversation

given I never got so much as a word in.

49

Conference Dinner

After the usual range of ill-attended papers,

and after the outings to disappointing lakes,

we all got together and ate

the last meal that Wordsworth ate.

Boiled mutton was at the heart of it.