On the Whanganui River
I grasp the moment
the way I grasp this paddle
as lightly as I can,
knuckles still white.
The weight of time
is my ballast -
the ghost of a seal hunter
cutting through ice water.
No glacier melt here.
The river gorge is a leaking boat
letting in sunlight
to leave me soaking hot.
Even the river is sweating.
It smells of damp earth
and newly-minted oxygen.
On the stony sandbank
an installation of
driftwood sculptures
lies artfully abandoned.
Among the tree ferns
and rata vines
cicadas complain incessantly
about the heat.
A harrier hawk rises like a hymn
at the note of my paddle
and then is gone.
Helen Whittaker
Wednesday, 8 February 2006
A poem
I'd like to share a poem I've written, inspired by our river trip on Saturday. We'll be collecting the photos later on today, so we should be posting our trip report this evening or tomorrow morning.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
2 comments:
I am *so* tempted to mention the Vogons :p
I'm flattered, anonymous, that you're comparing my poem to only the THIRD worst poetry in the universe.
If you'd been tempted to mention Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings you might have hurt my feelings.
And for all you fans of Vogon poetry:
Oh freddled gruntbuggly,
Thy micturations are to me
As plurdled gabbleblotchits
On a lurgid bee.
Groop, I implore thee, my foonting turlingdromes
And hooptiously drangle me
with crinkly bindlewurdles,
Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon
See if I don't.
Captain Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz
Post a Comment