Confines
today I'm at South Brighton
walking along the foaming sand
watching escalator waves
rolling in
mechanically
I'm holding my camera tightly
as if you were contained
within its body
& you are
earlier
we were in the garden
& I was storing images
your rare smiles
frozen
for a single
microsecond
the flurry of movement
caught
indelibly
later
all I have is
a dozen blurred pictures
of your embarrased
shy smiles
trying to escape
the lens
Joanne Fisher
At Graeme's
the sun is here
but a cold wind blows
through the living room
windows
I stare out onto
a landscape
forever falling away
tiers of corrugated rooftops
& granite buildings
to a sawdust harbour
Dunedin sprawls
like a crumpled jersey
looking down or up
there is always something
to see...
soft jazz on the stereo
& you sit tapping away
on your laptop
about climbing rocks
I am living on muesli bars
& honey nut logs
we are filling our time
with lines on pages
waiting
Joanne Fisher
This was first published in the New Zealand Poetry Society Anthology Climbing the Flame Tree
Last Days
the only artist
that is truly
appreciated
is a dead one
for there is a finite
number of completed
canvasses stacked in dry
cellars for the art dealers
to handle
a live artist has too many
possibilities & versions
to try -
I have said this to Theo
*
I translate this world
landscapes, buildings &
people
with myself amongst it
see the shifting layers:
the cobalt blues, chromium yellows
emerald greens & vermilions
pressed into the canvas
the crooked churches, dark
cypresses, the sunflowers
I painted for Gauguin,
the pine trees in the asylum
*
every canvas is one less
variation, or piece of night sky
daubed with large white blots
of stars
I work in more & more of myself
until
I merge with the paints &
there is nothing left
*
Auvers is so real
the world is so real
but dull, unimaginative,
lacking understanding
I write to Theo: We can
only make our pictures speak
& I am risking my life for it
*
I'm painting this canvas
of yellow wheatfields &
black smudges of crows
only there are pathways
leading to nowhere, no way
to escape
the storm beckons
Joanne Fisher
It Rained in Nelson1
our caravan of tumblers,
jugglers, musicians, &
actors
roaming players searching
for an audience
I never believed in
the actual existence
of Nelson -
no one I knew
had ever made it
there
but after journeying
through Kaikoura &
Blenheim
there it was
2
there was an intensity
of sunlight caught
at the edge of black clouds
gulls wheeling
sky-dancing before
the oncoming storm
then it clouded over
raining all day & night
just after our performance
there was sheet lightning
that lit up the entire sky
like a blue neon light
looking more like some
bad stage effect
than the real thing
even the thunder
was unconvincing -
sounding more like
Thunder Sound Effect No.5
3
what if the weather
had been better?
maybe we could have
stumbled over the
land rises to find
the sea or some
empty field
a bonfire lit in the
remains of the night
someone strumming
everyone's favourites &
a joint being passed
from hand to hand
with a hazy head
I would have looked up
at a dark sky littered
with swollen stars
the wheeling cosmos
dancing in slow-time
with our voices
Joanne Fisher
The High Castle
now the world is silent
once a bird sang
in the branches of that dying tree
it had a name
they all had names
these days
I forget them all
the older I get the less sure I am of anything
all I see is the world falling into darkness
stomping around the empty halls
with a festering wound that will not heal
I wish I could die
seriously
I wish I could die
*
the world has seen
alpha & omega
life still clings to this rock
let go
let go let go let go let go let go let go
before it all
happens again
*
long ago I saw a vision -
a golden chalice
healing all the old wounds
of the broken earth
I do not know if it was meant for me
these days I sit beside the river
choked with dry weeds
watching the fading sun
the trees scratching the dead sky
with bony fingers
hoping one day to see
some stranger
holding aloft
a golden cup
until then, all I can do
is wait
(to
escape
the vortex
face the fury
& burn)
Joanne Fisher
This poem draws heavily on the Fisher-King myth and the idea of the Holy Grail bringing renewal to the earth. In this poem either one day the Grail comes and restores the world, or it doesn’t and the world continues in it’s slow decay for eternity….
The Road is Winding1
Kaikoura is a stop for coffee
& views of the ocean
receding away
forever
I accidentally startle
a tern which flaps away
straight into a moving car
it is last seen descending
rapidly down a bank
I feel guilty about it
for the rest of the journey
2
above are screeching gulls
shredding the cerulean sky
the sea casually mumbling
the world's secrets
if we knew this language
of rocks and saltwater
kelp and shifting sands
what could we learn?
the road hugging the coast
along narrow shoulders
of rock, past beaches
& promontories,
through tunnels
scooped out
by the tide's restless fingers
the reach of the ocean
3
once darkness has overcome us
we are still driving into
geographies of our ignorance
the headlights illuminating our way
the stars revolving in silence above
we have left the coast behind
who knows where the hell we are
these roads have no ending
they just go on & on
effortlessly moving us into
uncharted territory
we are lost sailors
on a sea of black roads
leading to forever
searching for the paths
that climb to the sky -
follow the stars
follow the moon
Joanne Fisher
How Is It Done?
It's like there are these words
swimming around the inside
of my skull
& all I have to do
is be quick enough
to catch them before
they slip away beyond
dark swift waters
swirling cascading words -
catching rainbow trout
with a net
Joanne Fisher
Drought Rhythms
what is this falling
from a tumultuous sky?
it must be angel's tears
only they could be this pure
but
if they are crying...
we work hard here
this land does not
forgive easily, yet
deep in our hearts we know
God left us a long time ago
& now the angels are crying
*
our arms, legs, faces
under the furnace
gnarled & knotted
the bark of bent malignant trees
saplings in this stony valley
grow into the most twisted
stunted things
nothing seems to grow right here
only the land remains unchanged
the old moon
rising above the mountains
jagged teeth
*
they left
& we never saw
them again
out over the mountains
searching for rumours
of the cities
I no longer believe in them
*
howling storms
that only appear
in this basin
splinter our shelter
& rip everything
out of the ground
you shrug &
start again
*
sometimes it is the land
teaching us
sometimes there is nothing
except dusty earth
beneath our feet
sometimes our footsteps
falter
*
I will leave less substantial
imprints -
I walk between earth & fire
fire & shadow
the world must be so light
balancing in the ether
our short life
such short life
show me
the point
on this tinder earth
where
the angels
drift
to heaven
Joanne Fisher
First published in Catalyst 3
When I was still at school I remember reading a short story set in the Australian Outback where there had been a drought for so long in the area that kids living there had never seen rain before. In the story one of the kids in the farm wakes up one morning to find it is raining and doesn’t know what it is… A few years later I found myself dwelling on this story and wondering what someone would think rain is if they had never previously seen it. This poem is set in the future where the remnants of humanity are trying to survive in an isolated valley. Any sort of faith has long since become a shamanistic worship of the land they try to survive on, though there are vestiges of others…
The Stars Above
I'm gobsmacked by creation -
go outside on a clear night
constellations litter
the black sky
other suns burning
billions of miles away
other suns with planets
orbiting in the universe's
eternal clockwork
& maybe
there are people like us
gazing into the dark
wondering if they're alone
we could all be
looking up into the light
years of void between us
watching each other
Joanne Fisher
First published in Takahe 55
I do believe there are other civilisations out there. There are around 100-400 billion stars in our galaxy alone, and our galaxy is just one in a countless number of galaxies in our immense universe. Due to the distances involved, however, I think it unlikely we could ever come into contact with them.
Holy Orders
at first I did not see the way
they moved their mouths
during mass, as though
they didn't know the words
their vulgar tongues
unable to grapple the
language
as if behind the prayers & chants
there was worship of something
other
*
sent here to these northern wastes
the vineyards & cypresses
giving way to tall angular trees
& snow
when I saw the church
they were there -
the old gods
grinning down
*
I see them process
out of the village
to worship one of their
wild-wood demons
they beckon to follow
I stay in my church
lose myself
in Holy Scripture
*
I imagine them
copulating over
some profane altar
the word of God
is not strong enough
here
Lord lead them from the Abyss!
*
a pounding comes at the church doors
until they explode
& a dark bestial god
enters my saviour's house
I grasp the brass cross
but the image of my dear lord
does not offer sanctuary
the dark one comes for me...
I awake pouring with sweat
the wind whistling
through the walls
I put on my woolen robes & pray
until the dawn
*
I'm sailing toward
an unknown
the edge of the world
drifts
Joanne Fisher
This poem was first published in JAAM 22
In my first year at University I remember seeing a slideshow of northern European architecture. The lecturer commented that the gargoyles on top of the churches were actually totems of the older gods who were there just in case this new one didn’t work out. Indeed the further north you went into Europe during the Middle Ages (and even later) the more Christianity seemed a thin veneer over the older faiths. This poem explores this. The narrator is a young priest sent north…
In the Middle Ages the Mass would have been in Latin. Most of the congregation would not have understood it, especially in northern Europe. This changed after the Reformation.
joanne the geek 