Saturday, 15 October 2016

POEM - TOM

Tom's Future?




















Tom’s thinking about the family coming later today,
what needs to be done before then, how much his
grandson will have grown, as he confidently moves
forward to change the oil in the car, fully expecting
his automatic mind to kick in and follow through.

But there’s only a blank!

He can’t remember how to do it – confused
caught off balance, a time of panic, before
the memory’s returned and he can proceed.

Tom doesn’t realise how easy it’s become
to transfer repetitive, physical actions over to
the mechanical mind – no need to stop and think
where to reach for the salt, the bedside clock, the
breakfast bowls, the oven cloth; no need to think
of the correct sequence of tying a Windsor knot,
 he’s done it all so often before.

As he takes a shower, he’ll think of the shopping list. 
As he cleans his teeth, he’ll think of his credit card.
As he washes the car, he’ll think about his, then the
neighbour’s garden - which will make him think
of how he likes spring, which leads onto his thinking 
about the summer coming, which leads onto…

on and on it goes, the wandering unfocused thinking 
which travels easily over well-worn paths…
with a start of surprise he finds he’s mowed the lawn!

Unused, the active creative mind, tuned to play
waits to be charged, fired up by something/anything; 
be scared, be brave, adapt to the unknown - now
reduced, it has gone into a holding pattern, bored,
loop-taping memories when life was new and raw

for Tom’s mechanical mind is gaining, more and more
power and ever-efficient it drops into a growing
archive any automatic activities Tom’s not used
for a while. When a “blank” happens, it will take 
longer and longer before he’ll remember again.

He’ll worry. Believe it’s the first signs of Alzheimer’s 
affecting his brain. As his confidence weakens, his 
activity will slow. He’ll rationalise it’s easier to shop
at the local village than drive further afield – like a
self-locking washer the mechanical mind clicks,
clicks again, into a tighter and tighter circle


locking his mind until Tom, like his father before him, 
will feel more secure staying at home. He’ll buy what 
he needs via the phone. Fall asleep in front of t. v.

Copyright: lois.e.hunter

Friday, 14 October 2016

FIRST BOOK MANGAWHAI HEADS NEW ZEALAND ~ a personal impression



                                 
        
Daughter Anita's drawing
 Mangawahai Heads.

published 1988

After some years of small farming at Kaukapakapa, the children and I shifted to live at this coastal village and we lived there for a year. I was no stranger to this place as I had started coming here for holidays as a child and after the land was subdivided by my Uncle Ralph, we shifted into our new bach.


Look what the daughter's found in the sand
The original family bach


                               --------------------------------------------------------------
                                              
                                                 One of the poems from this book

                                                  Clothes lines spinning empty.
                                                  Windows tight and faceless.
                                                  Grass inching nice and easy
                                                                                              over paths
                                                  up shut gates
                                                  climbing trees.
                                                  Quiet, quiet, coast
                                                  ghost town.

                                                 A pulse starts
                                                                      the sun brightens,
                                                 the word 'holiday' hovers.
                                                 On Friday, they start drifting in
                                                 the first outriders
                                                                            to evening caravan
                                                 of cars, cars, boats, trailers
                                                 people, people, people.
                                                                                     By Saturday
                                                 every house bursting
                                                 every motor mower churning,
                                                 motor bikes, motor boats
                                                 children, dogs, radios overflowing.
                                                 The pulse, now a full throat beat,
                                                 vibrates, pours forth, jambs two weeks
                                                                                                              then stops.
                                                 The grass inching nice and easy.

                                                                                                                       Copyright: lois.e.hunter
  
         













PREVIEW OF BOOKS I HAVE PUBLISHED FROM 1988 - 2015



I was trying to put these in the header below my name,but obviously there is a trick to it that I haven't found after a couple of days of attempts. I shall do more comprehensive post in the next couple of days after I have re-done the cover photographs,  but in the meanwhile:

I:   MANGAWHAI HEADS  NEW ZEALAND - Not available now.
2:  STOP  STEP OFF -  available
3:  THE LITTLE RED DRAGON - Not available now
4:  DAISY HILL  Home is where the hat is. -  Available New Zealand National Libraries.
5:  WORDS OVER THE WATER  -  Available New Zealand National Libraries.
6:  WORDS AND WORDS AND KAWAU ISLAND  -  Available New Zealand National Libraries
7:  WHEN WE WERE OLD  -  Available New Zealand National Libraries

Monday, 11 July 2016

July

It is now winter in New Zealand. I wrote this poem a few years back ('stop, step off' ') when I built a house on a block of land that had never had been built on before. Ever.

July

Throughout England
though many hills look barren
or empty
there is a constant shuffle
and murmur: yeasting up
from the sediment under the feet,
misting the air moulding over the skin
-Ancestor whispers;
confirming the promise
that each life has a cycle
of a beginning, a middle, an end
and will start over again.
It is a land where
each man, while alive, is King on the earth
as were the succession of Kings
before him.
I left England five generations ago
-woke upside down in New Zealand.
No millions, or even thousands of ancestors
impregnate my land.
No Kings before me were born
to laugh, to cry, die
into the raw earth under my feet, under my home.
I am the first attempt
to imprint a human culture
onto this hill.
The eternal of the bush crowds in
-trees are the rulers here.
I feel my feet becoming roots,
my fingers, leaves.
The pulse slows, the sap drops.
I cannot resist their edict – hibernation is near.
I’m to rest. Then will come Spring.
I’m turning into seasons – amoral/immortal
in a Garden of Eden.
copyright lois e.hunter