All loss is about imagination,
or did I make that up? That
strands of grief, hung in a room
like streamers, are not so awful
in themselves but awful
because they are always there.
That sunny flat in Palmerston
North with the abundant grapefruit
tree and the men who would smoke
dope and play chess all day.
They were so gentle treading
around each other’s sadness
like it was a bluebottle. It was slow
but I was an urgent sort of person
and found even this thrilling.
I fell in love and from that man’s
bed only remember the sun
coming in at the oblique
angle of early morning. After
a while I didn’t know which
was real the staggering pace
of this place or the rest of my life
where actual things happened.
They taught me chords
and once for a full half hour
I had them before that too got lost.
A month or so ago I stayed at a bach in Raumati with twelve other poets. We brought our favourite poetry books, did exercises, and walked on the beach. We drank wine, ate watermelon, and took turns to read and talk about other people’s poems. The first poem I read to the group was ‘Meditation at Lagunitas’, which even after writing an entire and fraught thesis chapter about the poem, is still my favourite. It appears to be a favourite of others too, and Maria McMillan – a wonderful writer and social justice activist who has published two collections of poetry: The Rope Walk (Seraph Press, 2013) and Tree Space (VUP, 2014) – showed me her poem ‘Meditations’ which she’d written in response to Hass’s. The poem summarised the Raumati weekend for me, and the way writers inspire each other.
For more Tuesday Poems check out the hub.