Volume VIII - Book II

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Dunedin 

Late Autumn: A Series Of Poetic Sequences

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N.K.Tointon

1994

Dunedin - Late Autumn: A Series Of Poetic Sequences

	...all intentionality, whether in thought or in practice, is poured into the metaphorical bottles of old genre. In this process a rhetorically appropriate genre, or mix of genres, is adopted and then adapted to the task to hand. With this middle path between non-originality and originality in view I see the role of the poet to merely continue, and add to, the poetic conversation already in progress. In this light we must regard any poetic endeavour as having no absolute beginning nor an absolute end. Moreover, from this transcendental, trans-historical point of view, even the very lines of the poem itself can be considered in the same fashion. With this perspective in mind, therefore, I perceive this series of poems as a `series of sequences' without fracturing the integrity of either this series as a whole or the apparent unity, or part, of each poem contained therein. Lastly, I would like to note that although these entities may not appear sonorous enough to the ear it is my hope that to the eye they may yet reveal some hidden depths and in the process re-produce some small degree of poetic pleasure...

       Noël Tointon, 1.5.94/Re-edited 1.12.01.

1.	...must the poet withdraw 
in order to be present... 
...is evocation
nothing but pure nostalgia 
in disguise..?
...an unrecognised recognition...
...self deceiving self...
...one future 
made contemporary 
with its past..?

...walked that same street...
...saw the old house...
...where I lived for 
twenty long years...
...without going in...
...the front lawn now
a vegetable patch...
...trading roses for cabbages….

2.	...a three-sided sports field
is called the Oval...
...in the distant mist 
the cars seem 
to glide above 
an inclined, lifted 
road of grass...
...a speeding highway 
halfway between 
heaven and earth... 
...or hell..?
...a fiery burst of sunlight splits
into ten thousand beams
burning the leaves
upon these golden trees…
…flickering with occasional sparks...
...gilded funeral notices…
…announcements signed
with a falling hand…
await a last, final gasp 
of breathy air...
...then to set sail…
…spiral downwards...
...the damp body 
of the patient soil
remains waiting…
…waiting below.…
…beyond the confines
of a wooden coffin….

3.	...O beautiful bush...
...melodious in its every corner...
...but... alas... the early settlers
saw in thee a three dimensional monster...
...a veritable dragon that 'had to be slain'...
...a desperate obstruction
in a quest for more land...
...they only knew how 
to handle and manage
those miles of mindless pasture...
...the east coast of the Southern Isle
devastated...
...the west coast of the Northern Isle
ravaged...
...sadly.…proud swords were turned
into ploughshares... a long time ago...
...remnant bell-birds 
in the Town-Belt reminding me
of the sweet sounds heard in my youth...
...have pity on thee...
...O sinful St. George...
...for this thy worst sin...!

4.	...under the dark, 
over hanging branches 
of native trees 
in the Town Belt
the damp leaves... 
...newly fallen...
...change from gold
to dazzling silver...
...in the alchemy
of the morning sunlight... 
...ah..!

...reminds me... 
...of the removal 
of dull varnish
from the surface of 
an old painting...
...in restoration…
…a brilliant masterpiece…
…as if freshly painted again
by that wonderful artist -
Rembrandt...
...ah..!

...a painter's palette
already on the canvass
of the ground...
...long after the dawn...
still wet with fresh dew...
...an oriental carpet
studded with miniature
multi-coloured mushrooms 
of every hue...
...like jewels clasped between 
bent blades of grass...
...ah…!

5.	...natives re-encroach
upon the reserve...
...mixing but not 
completely merging
with those trees and shrubs
from a more northern clime...
...floral beds replaced
with tussock ensembles...
...around basaltic rocks
covered in ancient lichens
from an era before 
these later passengers
settled in... and then moved on….

6.	...the local newspaper tells me
the trout have re-remembered 
the waters of the Leith...
...its rocky course given back 
its mountain washed gravels…
…needed for spawning...
...a craggy passage
still embraced 
in golden ponds
between rock-filled rapids 
that turn a shiny silver...
...but let the fish 
drink this frothy brew...
...remember...this trace 
of a river races through 
an urban village…
…into a shallow harbour
still far from the purity 
of a choppy sea...
...the windswept Pacific Ocean...
…one raging whirlpool
of a washing machine…
…looking spotless…and clean…
...despite all the fish...
...and all the cities 
that likewise...
still piss in thee...!

7.	...all last week
it rained...on…and off…
…on…and off...
...so much so that 
one must now stick 
to the indicated paths...
...that wind through parks...
...that architects have drawn 
on fancy paper...

...only later, metal fences...
...reinforced with beds 
of flowers and shrubs...
...were erected...
...to stop all this wet ink 
from running.…

8.	...there is hope
on the faces of the young...
...who wonder out aloud
why native bush is not 
allowed to grow back... 
...along the edges 
of their streets...
...in their patch of garden...
...beside the tall,
lonely cabbage tree...
...for some reason overlooked...
...still left behind.…

9.	...do the tourists sense 
the coming of winter...
...fleeing northwards in buses... 
...like the grey clouds...
…beneath Mt Cargill
and Mt Flagstaff…
...turning black and blue...
...storming up and over
the motorway…
…left suspended…
…in between...?

10.	...stunted pines going north...
...surrendering to the southerlies...
...jagged... abruptly twisting...
…along the edges of the golf course...
...flagging branches 
like the death defying antlers 
of straggling flocks
of old stags...
...bearded stubble 
studded with warty cones...
...a few feathery tufts
of flying pine needles...
...perfumed droppings…
…worn out accretions 
scenting the soil...
...even in the midst 
of this bitter breeze
can freely smell
a cleansing
of the earth beneath me...
... and nestled among the same...
...between these drunken trees...
...native broadleaves...
...standing upright and sturdy...
...survive without effort...
...looking unperturbed...
…yet feeling frustrated…
…impatient…
…waiting to reclaim
these sandy dunes…
…dull painted a grey green…
….re-frosted… 
…with grit-speckled glass….

11.	...just off the main beaches
rises a small isle 
called White Island
that pales before the waves
that break up beside her...
...but the Maoris had 
a more keen eye for detail...
...and called these distant rocks
Moana Rua... two islands...
...for the emergence 
of a daughter rock...
...half submerged beneath...
...better named these windswept tips...
...a last port of call 
for those prevailing gales...
...before their arrival
in the Southern latitudes
of a South America...
...halfway around the world...
…a spinning globe…
…listening to the same song….

12. 	...the main street
is dressed in a succession 
of overcoats...
...a few young men defy
the shifts in seasonal weather
wearing football shorts...
...walking a little
bit more quickly 
than they did yesterday...
...chilled by distant, 
inland mountain tops 
not yet given over 
to a thick mantle of ice... 
...and snow....

13.	...on this basaltic jewel 
of a levelled hill
First Church juts 
above the shops...
...its bevelled cluster of spires
and rooves re-inventing 
the once sacred outline
of its foundations....

14.	...loved the ducks in the Gardens...
...always fed them stale bread...
...remembered the turtles in the glasshouse pond...
...and the monkeys... and one day saw 
that shy kiwi in its Maori hut...
...the cages now long gone...
...replaced by a small swamp with irises...
...and the more pleasant smells
of a well stocked herb garden...
...at this time of year the roses
are the worst for wear...
...like the busy students hurrying past...
...taking short cuts 
through their short university year...

15.	...`return to antiquity'...
...`know your roots,' they say...
...but how can I return to a past 
now demolished... and long gone…
...the late house and gardens
of my late philosophy teacher 
now informs a row of dumb motels...
...his dusty tomes now entombed
in the bowels of that nearby 
university library...
...mostly out of sight... quite unloved... 
...unread... uncared for...
...but ... I take a spiritual comfort
from the fact that in the rambling
ministrations of my mind 
this kind minister 
can still be visited...
...fondly remembered...
...entering one more world 
in `the very best of all 
possible worlds'.…

16.	...with what forethought
the earliest settlers
trampled through the mud..?
...many pubs once lining 
the commencement
of those bullock trails...

...later... from gold rush monies...
...came the first flush of style...
...a dash of colour...
...main-street became paved
with planned intentions...
...buildings took root
with some architectural
pretensions...

...then... the railways...
...followed by the trams 
and cable-cars… 
…superseded by trolley buses...
...the spread of suburbs...
...a democratic dispersal
of former wealth...
...larger mansions of the wealthy
beset by smaller houses
of the middle-middle classes...
...the age of dwellings
reflected in the growth and density 
of their surrounding trees...
...the homes of the poor...
...just around the corner...
...or up on the coldest of hills...
...looking… looking down 
on all forms of lower life.…

...now... the car yards displace 
even the diesel buses...
...and the price of petrol
displaces those 
who have lost their jobs 
even before they had one.…

17.	...once beside each other...
...near the Exchange... stood
two ornate, Grecian banks... 
perfectly carved columns...
...temples to finance...
...the one survivor 
has now beside itself... imposed... 
...one drab, modern building...
...without style... without foundations...
...exactly the same size... but... 
...without that inner dimension...
...and each time I pass 
still remember
such pointless vandalism...

18.	...one proud, `Victorian' Townhall
with its old, tall clock-tower 
re-erected... the central Octagon
re-designed... pavilions to protect
the pedestrians from the weather...
...two abstract waterfalls...
...and a busy market on Fridays...
...now replace one donated musical fountain...
...that collected only leaves...
...and small copper coins...
...likewise forgotten...
...two rows of wet footed pigeons 
and wayward gulls
beg for crumbs instead...
...the booming bells now signal 
that the hour is twelve...
...time for lunch 
under the shadows 
of a half-hearted sun 
half hiding behind
a veil of puffy white,
sugar-coated cloud....

19.	...the sunroom 
is a warm place to be 
on a cold afternoon... 
...and there I find 
the sleeping cat... 
...in residence...
...temporarily forgetting me... 
...and the heater...
...in the other room.…

20.	...the mysterious mansions... 
...on the lower parts of High Street...
...and on the other streets nearby...
...wearing pointed hats... 
...and turrets... and finials...
...glowing in the dark 
through stained glass windows.…

21.	...nature's inherent symmetries
still unbroken by the hand of man…
...the triangular end-profile 
of Saddle Hill no longer quarried...
…the rounded flattened dome of Flagstaff...
...the Bactrian camel humps on Mt. Cargill...
...all wrapped and hidden
behind an unfolded, thick blanket 
of rolling, white cloud
ruffled around the edges… with ermine…

...act one... a curtain
above the city lifts to reveal
the first fragile snow...

...act two... the distant range 
hovering above the airport
glistens for the rest 
of the next morning...

...act three... a few days later
the wooden fence...
... in its turn...
...on one side...
...is painted a patchy white...
...from a liberal sprinkling
of a dry, dusted powder...
...collecting in drifts...
...gently laid down...
...throughout the night...

...for a few short hours
the forms of the world
are underlined...
...capturing the essential nature 
of each moulded shape...
...be it rock or tree… 
…house, hill or mountain.…

22.	...a windswept peninsula...
...its grass and macrocarpas
seemingly untouched by the seasons...
...in my childhood rambles remember
the lonely seals… the penguins… 
…and the albatrosses…
that flocks of tourists 
now must pay for…
…alas.…

23.	...the waving of the tussock...
...the movement of the flax
heavy in thick, black seed...
...dishevelled coiffures...
...first impressions undermined...
...by the flushed, pink faces 
of the passersby....

24.	...they gossip
huddled in shop doorways…
…in the lower Octagon...
...in circles… chattering...
…noisy leaves...

...seasonal guests
are the only customers now
as they... unseen... 
enter premises 
that welcome you....

...the flurry of sleet signals 
falling snow on nearby hills...
...time to hurry home for supper...
...keeping warm...watching television…
…in bed...