A breath of country air

You may or may not have noted that I haven’t been blogging. For no particular reason my heart hasn’t been in it. However, today I set off for Waipu and as I got further and further away from the city my breath expanded and ideas and poems started to filter into my mind. I stopped at a little cafe in Kaiwaka, I think it is called Cafe Bianca. It is a treasure chest of tea sets, silver, wool, junk, antique odds and sods as well as offering lovely food. it’s a bit like taking tea in the parlour as it is an old house.

Even though I have brought my knitting I couldn’t resist buying this little kit as I have a friend having a baby in November. Last time I was at the cafe I bought a little woolly hat from the same kit set maker, this time I have bought the little jumper and this will be my project while I’m up here.

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As I sat down to wait for my coffee and delicious homemade Florentine I browsed the books left for customers read. I picked up an older NZ poetry book and spent a delicious half hour reading it. I don’t think I have ever been to a cafe where there were poetry books. It is such a great idea as there isn’t time to read a novel or even a short story but poetry is the perfect pick and dip option.

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One of the poems was a James K Baxter that I hadn’t read before called

‘A Small Ode on Mixed Flatting’, by James K. Baxter

As I was brought up in Dunedin, and flatted there and my mother questioned my morality when I told her I was going “mixed flatting” it made me laugh.

Elicited by the decision of the Otago University authorities to forbid this practice among students

Dunedin nights are often cold
(I notice it as I grow old);
The south wind scourging from the Pole
Drives every rat to his own hole,
Lashing the drunks who wear thin shirts
And little girls in mini-skirts.
Leander, that Greek lad, was bold
To swim the Hellespont raging cold
To visit Hero in her tower
Just for an amorous half-hour.
And lay his wet brine-tangled head
Upon her pillow – Hush! The dead
Can get good housing – Thomas Bracken,
Smellie, McLeod, McColl, McCracken,
A thousand founding fathers lie
Well roofed against the howling sky
In mixed accommodation – Hush!
It is the living make us blush
Because the young have wicked hearts
And blood to swell their private parts.
To think of corpses pleases me;
They keep such perfect chastity.
O Dr Williams, you were right
To shove the lovers out of sight;
Now they can wander half the night
Through coffee house and street and park
And fidget in the dripping dark,
While we play Mozart and applaud
The angel with the flaming sword!
King Calvin in his grave will smile
To know we know that man is vile;
But Robert Burns, that sad old rip
From whom I got my Fellowship
Will grunt upon his rain-washed stone
Above the empty Octagon,
And say – ‘O that I had the strength
To slip yon lassie half a length!
Apollo! Venus! Bless my ballocks!
Where are the games, the hugs, the frolics?
Are all you bastards melancholics?
Have you forgotten that your city
Was founded well in bastardry
And half your elders (God be thankit)
Were born the wrong side of the blanket?
You scholars, throw away your books
And learn your songs from lasse’s looks
As I did once – ‘Ah, well; it’s grim;
But I will have to censor him.
He liked to call a spade a spade
And toss among the glum and staid
A poem like a hand grenade –
And I remember clearly how
(Truth is the only poet’s vow)
When my spare tyre was half this size,
With drumming veins and bloodshot eyes
I blundered through the rain and sleet
To dip my wick in Castle street.
Not on the footpath – no, in a flat,
With a sofa where I often sat,
Smoked, drank, cursed, in the company
Of a female student who unwisely
Did not mind but would pull the curtain
Over the window – And did a certain
Act occur? It did. It did.
As Byron wrote of Sennacherib –
‘The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold’ –
But now, at nearly forty-two,
An inmate of the social zoo,
Married, baptized, well heeled, well shod,
Almost on speaking terms with God,
I intend to save my moral bacon
By fencing the young from fornication!
Ah, Dr Williams, I agree
We need more walls at the Varsity;
The students who go double-flatting
With their she-catting and tom-catting
Won’t ever get a pass in Latin;
The moral mainstay of the nation
Is careful, private masturbation;
A vaseline jar or a candle
Will drive away the stink of scandal!
The Golden Age will come again –
Those tall asthenic bird-like men
With spectacles and lecture notes,
Those girls with wool around their throats
Studying till their eyes are yellow
A new corrupt text of Othello,
Vaguely agnostic, rationalist,
A green banana in each fist
To signify the purity
Of educational ecstasy –
And, if they marry, they will live
By the Cardinal Imperative:
A car, a fridge, a radiogram,
A clean well-fitted diaphragm,
Two-and-a-half children per
Family; to keep out thunder
Insurance policies for each;
A sad glad fortnight at the beach
Each year, when Mum and Dad will bitch
From some half-forgotten itch –
Turn on the lights! – or else the gas!
If I kneel down like a stone at Mass
And wake my good wife with bad dreams,
And scribble verse on sordid themes,
At least I know man was not made
On the style of a slot-machine arcade –
Almost, it seems, the other day,
When Francis threw his coat away
And stood under the palace light
Naked in the Bishop’s sight
To marry Lady Poverty
In folly and virginity,
The angels laughed – do they then weep
Tears of blood if two should sleep
Together and keep the cradle warm?
Each night of earth , though the wind storm
Black land behind, white sea in front,
Leander swims the Hellespont;
To Hero’s bed he enters cold;
And he will drown; and she grow old –
But what they tell each other there
You’ll not find in a book anywhere.

1967

James K. Baxter, ‘A Small Ode on Mixed Flatting’ in Collected Poems (ed. John Edward Weir; Wellington: Oxford University Press, 1979), 396–99.

As I drove over the Brynderwyns, the east coast came into view and the panoramic views were simply stunning. i am now ensconced in my little cabin up in the Waipu hills and this is the view I have as I type this.

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Unfortunately I am also simultaneously torturing myself with watching mad Trump and Clinton debate. My stomach formerly relaxed, is now clenched in a knot as I watch that bullying moron shouting over the other candidate.

Earlier I walked up the track to check on the chickens and to collect the rural mail. What a simple pleasure to admire the camellias, smell the woody scent of the bush and be so glad that I live in New Zealand.

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Listening to that pratt talking about nuclear weapons is chilling. “We got ’em why don’t we use ’em”, I feel very helpless listening to him. Is it possible that this moron could be running America??

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I cannot end my blog on this man.

So, I am doing another MOOC (Massive Open Online Course) at the University of Iowa and it is a joy. https://iwp.uiowa.edu/fiction-2016 There are literally thousands of people from all over the world participating, On that note I’m off to do my homework. FG

 

 

 

4 thoughts on “A breath of country air

  1. susan

    Hi Sue
    Envious of your sojourn to Waipu Cove – hey didn’t you just get back from holiday – MORE envy but also glad you’re enjoying the expanded breath.

    And really pleased to hear about the writing, there are over 8000 people on the Iowa MOOC, most of them loitering – and I’m still looking for your #1 assignment.
    xx
    S

    Reply

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