Sunday 29 March 2015

0107.


Sea fever. John Masefield. 1902.

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

Saturday 28 March 2015

Untitled.


Ivor Cutler. To Giorgio Morandi. 1973.

A chair,
And a table,
A man sits,
elbows on the table.
An eye in his head.
In the wall,
a window,
He sees
through the window.
His foot,
in a shoe,
rests on the floor.
A bird flits by.
The white wall
is matt.
Its texture
irritates the man
as he tries
in vain
to empty his head
to let a fresh thought
fill it.
As his teeth meet
they make a soft click,
like pebbles
in the water.

Thursday 26 March 2015

Costal Walk.

No bay this but a long narrow line of sand, the spiky dunes holding back the breeze,

To make the walk away from the crowd uncomfortably hot, below medusa sun.

Zig zag to find firm footing on unmapped sands, above the wash of the waves.

Pale sand with white shells, pearl sky and sea tone, parched seaweed.

Small heroic seabirds pit and run on ahead to lure the predator from the nest.

A creek cuts the beach and pours invisibly into the ocean, forcing up sand to form the waves,

Far on, in solitude, a calm stretch of sea tones to purple; strip off, run in and swim.

Salty fizz and cool bliss turns to low fear as the rip tide pulls away from home land.

A visitor in this now cold and fearful element, dumped cargo in the current,

Fear burns to fatigue, slow and steady, to find footing and foolishly naked, wade ashore.

And sit down and be slapped by the shore break and laugh repentantly

At the close call and briny baptism.


0115.


The King.

The king tides occur when the Earth, Moon and Sun are aligned at perigee and perihelion.

Twilight.


Trick Of The Light.

To the West, the Sun had dropped into the sea, making an aquarium of the waves,
The giddy reality of the earths' turn lost in the lubbers' daily solipsism.
To the East, where a gentle breeze brings the smell of woodsmoke and cooking,
The Moon has risen huge against the treed and volcanic ridge line.
To rise and diminish in comparison with the infinite.

0713


Low Tide.

I'd walked out to the point and the tide was still dropping, so I decided to go on around the corner.
I navigated between the mussel beds, not wanting to crush the shells and dodging the little waves that were keen to fill my boots with the winters chill.
The cliffs were key holed with small bays, revealed by the low water, each with a crescent of treasure.
Wood, naturally, and pieces of boat, plastic, glass, weed, live creatures feasting upon the dead.
I slipped on a large flat rock, newly exposed and greasy, I fell hard, hard enough to stun and wind and worse.
I was a long way around and my leg wouldn't cooperate and I realised how solitude can turn to isolation in the time between heartbeats.
It wasn't until I was home that I noticed my watch was missing, the steel bracelet weak against the forces of gravity and stone.
That was a good watch, old and scratched but it kept precise time, the second hand would reach the hour in time with the pips.
And I still look for it when we get around the corner among the mussel beds.

Sunday 22 March 2015

Elysian.


Et in Arcadia Ego.



I had chased an absconding swarm of bees through the bush

Past the ancient puriri tree up onto the ridge.

They were nowhere to be seen or heard.


Returning home I was surprised to see Stafford sprawled under the pohutakawa

Lazily resting in the shade in the heat of the day, we talked.

A month later Stafford lay sprawled dead, from a fall, not far from the same spot,


He too had been in the land of joy and beauty.

Arcadian.


In Hydro.

Going in, the deep humid smell of the swimming pool

And the timeless, ringing echo of childish shriek and splash,

Can't compete with the changing room stink of piss and perfume.

No hero here. No high dive,

Or kilometres of freestyle before breakfast.

A mid afternoon interlude of convalescence in hydro.

The physiotherapist, siren like, encourages from the shore

The already wrecked bodies trapped in the shallows.

Wednesday 18 March 2015

Paku.


Tairua.

We met Tu’ this morning, on the beach, surrounded by yellow freesias.

We picked some of the vivid blooms and put them in an old milk bottle from the batch.


We were lured up the mountain by the promise of the unknown and were caught by the view.

The sea to the south looked solid and dark, islands lay flat and fixed.

To the north the the air danced with light and the land shivered and bulged and glared.


We went back to the foot of Paku and watched the sun set and the tides drain.

Monday 16 March 2015

En Plein Air Abstraction.


Entanglement.

IS THIS ABSTRACT ENOUGH FOR YOU.?

Is the opposite of abstraction, realism, or truth or  something more concrete?

Does abstraction have an opposite or is its antonym a false equivalence?

Can there be partial abstraction, like being a little bit dead or slightly fucked?

If abstraction can exist on a continuum is it to one end or is it in the middle?

Can abstraction exist without reference to cats in boxes or trees in forests?

Is there a place for the sacred on this continuum?

Because anything and everything is sacred unless it is profane.

Is the opposite of abstraction, profane or is it sacred ?

Is the notion of the sacred implicated in belief and superstition?

Or are all of these notions just tools of the trade, like the chisel and the brush

And the pulpit and the word?


Sunday 15 March 2015

Reef II.


False Flag.

I used to believe that Hone Heke saw out his days here and I imagined his spirit paddling in the same warm, shallow water as us.

Saturday 14 March 2015

Anawhata 2012.

We sat up here together waiting for the green flash*. Dushko broke out the slivovitz to toast the event.

The wind dropped to a gentle current as we watched the sun accelerate to the horizon.*


Some of us are pretty sure we saw the green flash, the others were not so convinced.


* The ‘green flash’ at sunset is an established fact, a similar effect to ‘mirage’.

** The sun is entirely below the horizon when it sets, its posthumous visibility is an optical effect caused by refraction.

Anawhata III


Anawhata.

Anawhata.

Between the clattering flax,
Above the papakianga,
The wind blows fiercely, so
That sticks dance on the beach.

Binney, in the form of shag, flies low to see my painting, and says that;

“I must try harder”

I reply; “at least I’m alive and not a bird.”


Friday 13 March 2015

Smoke.


Smoke.



Industrial and

Diesel from double deckers.

Woodbine single, from a jar.

Coal fire, thick and crusted, lit with a spill.

Leaving the smoking chimneys of old Europe.


No smoking on the aeroplane.


Woodburner with a window (fume with a view).

The Buddha  smoke of unenlightenment followed

Turkish tobacco.

Gorse fire to set wet willow,

Acetylene ploughs plumes from iron,

Propane burns a green genie from bronze.


And now the bellows billow smoke from sackcloth to

Work the bees and

Make ash and honey.


0301.


Muriwai.


Te Pa Takapu; Muriwai.


It was inevitable that I would pick up the empty bottle from under the flax bush.

I rubbed a film of dry clay from the old glass to reveal the word, ‘Fino’.

Colin sat in front of me, his beanpole legs drawn up under his chin, his long, bony fingers clasping his knees, his feet pointing neatly down.

‘What do you want’ he asked laconically.

I said ‘I want to paint as well as you did.’

‘You had better speak to Don over there’ he replied, grimly pointing at a small black and white bird with a ridiculous orange beak.

I said. ‘That’s not Don Binney, that’s an oystercatcher’

‘I must be more drunk than I realised’ said Colin.

We sat in companiable silence for a little while until I asked if I could have my other two wishes.

Colin said that ‘it didn’t work like that anymore.’






Karanga-a-hape.


Flight of the Takapu.

Karangahape. (Cornwallis).

Takapu skims low and fast
To pull up hard and plunge,
With a vain certainty
For fish.
To fuel her beautiful flight.


Thursday 12 March 2015

Inlet.


Kakamatua.

We bush bashed down to the tide line and saw kahu, the hawk,

 kiting on a strong offshore breeze and fishing in the low surf.


"That's not usual" I said to Lil', the small brown dog.

"Nah, something's up with that" she replied.



Mill Bay. Autumn 2014.


Dark Moon Tide


Before the tide came was an ugly time of
Reef and bones and truth,
But the approaches were visible
So the only real way to beach or wreck
Was judgement, or luck,


At Kiwa's mercy.
Where you would sit and wait
For a fish or a bird or small delight,
To provide relief
From the simple fact of the situation.


A dark moon has pulled the tide up
As far as the trees that line the parade.
Incandescence lights the faces of the congregation,
Who's beery cheer and shriek,
Cut the warm night.

Tuesday 10 March 2015

Anapala Reef.


Text for sculpture exhibition catalogue.



To Do.


Must tidy the workshop.
Grind spatter off steel bench and wipe down with WD40.
Change the blade on the hacksaw and grease the runners.
Sharpen the twist drills on the linisher.

Sweep the floor.
Order grinding disks.
Find all of the little pieces of chalk
And put them in one place.

Get in the truck and go to the galvanisers,
Talk to the galvanisers about the truck
Instead of the rugby because I know less
about the rugby than the truck.

"What is it mate?"
"Oh it's a sculpture for .............,"
"What does it do?"
"Oh it's about the stars and the universe and existence"
"Ah bullshit mate"

Must put more petrol in the truck,
And replace the burnt out brushes on the big drill,
And ah, fuck it, the torque wrench is imperial;
In a metric world.

Tropical Overcast.