Jaw storage?
I've been obsessing about this photo, which Skyler took during our recent visit to Pureora Forest Park. We found the sturdy wooden container, which has a hinged lid, close to the Department of Conservation headquarters in the north of the park. Am I just showing my towny ignorance by puzzling over the function of the object? Does somebody at Pureora really collect deer jaws? What for? Is this an image out of a Richard Taylor poem, mysteriously inserted into the real world? Answers, please...
posted by maps at 3/07/2008 11:12:00 am
4 Comments:
I wish poetry had such power. I am going through everything here and am working toward eventually a new and long post (posts) on EYELIGHT and hope to do more of my own art for the images as well as photos
The link to my poem-project is here on Maps Blog - it is based on my conceptual work The Infinite Poem which came into being partly with assistance and enthusiasm of Maps (although its inception) slightly preceded our first meeting!) himself in the heady SALT days...but EYELGHT was conceived prior to my (or Maps) owning a computer and was meant for a book - I started by studying book about NZ by Bishop and noting various facts (historical natural and historical natural) etc....anything unusual such as Deer Jaws I wanted to incorporate (potentially) [but itmaqy have wandered from my huge ice cream-shaped brain to become an incorporate reality in Pureora??!! No???! Hmm... ] ..I was interested in the local but I would want to get further afield than where I am - I have concentrated on the "local" as that is where I have been more lately so to speak...
Becasue EYELIGHT is "me-dependent" (so far) it tends to modulate tew various moods so I could potentially print something by Adolf Hilter one day and something by (something or someone nice warm and fuzzy) the next day etc
I "take" political positions not so much by logic as by my feelings...
So - "demoralised" CP element" describes only one Richard but it has its validity (and Roger's minor acerbity and intelligent wit) but I'm not sure if I was ever a "moralised" element of anything...or what I am...or was...
But it would be great if poetry could so empower one - Smithyman found reality intersecting with his poem - or at least he found a strong reaction to his poem ("The Last Moriori") that it pleased him - even strong negative reaction is great...it means someone is interested enough to critique...
I found a poem amongst my manuscripts and (it seemed as if I had been analysing it or it was an exercise I had been doing in metrics and form and it was in a near sonnet form or something...I read it expecting it to be bad...found it was great stuff...then I thought I must write that up...but then I thought, as I was puzzled, something was amiss... ("I cant recognise this, it is a wonderful poem - this is a great poem - but am not that great") -this poem rings a bell it was "Night Piece" - I thought it was something by Cila McQueen /then I looked through a NZ poetry anthology -there was a poem of that name by Smithyman -but that wasn't it - then I trawled through Yeats and then Dylan Thomas...then I thought Auden! - No dice - then back to Thomas (I was hoping I had written it) - then I remembered - it was just like a Mary Stanely poem -and I had her book "starveling year" and it was in there!
So husband and wife perhaps wrote a poem each of the same title and - perhaps it was a kind of "game"...or an exercise shared.
It is a great poem by great poet...
In fact if I was to choose a poet -considering that she only published one book (and I believe suffered a very constricting illness for much of her life which probably restricted her poetic output) - of great lyric and poetic stature whose work I always respond intensely to - it would be Mary Stanley.
She is one example of a poet - where the cliche that poetry can bring even psychic sustenance and hope etc is so true.
Here is the poem -lineation might suffer on this comment space
Night Piece
Turning from sleep 1 seek the final word of love, the world that weighs my lids and binds
my tongue to silence, while the darkness winds
its spool of hours and in my side the sword
peels off the flesh, lays bare the bone.
We heard a voice over the northern sea, and hinds
in the enchanted wood.
The fable blinds
the beggar princes cages his golden bird.
Not here, in any angel, lyre or rose
I find the touchstone phrase but in the kiss
that knocks along the blood and, wordless, knows
its way of tears and holds dumb hands to bless.
by Mary Stanley
29
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