THE LAYERS
I have walked through many lives,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
with my will intact to go
and every stone on the road
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
I am not done with my changes.
Stanley Kunitz
litter |ˈlitər|noun1 trash, such as paper, cans, and bottles, that is left lying in an open or public place: fines for dropping litter
• [ in sing. ] an untidy collection of things lying about: a litter of sleeping bags on the floor.2 the group of young animals born to an animal at one time: a litter of five kittens.3 material forming a surface-covering layer, in particular:• (also cat litter )granular absorbent material lining a tray where a cat can urinate and defecate when indoors.• straw or other plant matter used as bedding for animals.• (also leaf litter )decomposing but recognizable leaves and other debris forming a layer on top of the soil, esp. in forests.4 historical a vehicle containing a bed or seat enclosed by curtains and carried on men's shoulders or by animals.• a stretcher, for transporting the sick and wounded.
Over on the Tuesday Poem hub, Mary McCallum (Curator of TP and this week's editor) features well known NZ poet, C. K. Stead with The Gift.
Oh, for lines as fine as these ---
' . . . The tuis
still quote you
and even cicadas
manage a phrase
that sounds like yours.
Storms too in wooden
houses sometimes
creak of you. . .'
In her dazzling background commentary, Mary writes ". . . Contrary to the impressive solidity of such achievements, The Gift skips into its subject with its thirteen-syllabled tercets - the delight and sense of mischief, palpable. And it takes them off, the two poets - both geniuses of a kind - to the place of 'touch-and-go tides', in a way that makes me think of the marvellous poem by Bill Manhire, Opoutere, an elegy to friend and fellow writer Michael King who died suddenly, leaving behind another place of tides and fish. These sorts of insights into the lives of prominent NZ writers and their work - our writing history, if you like - I find fascinating. But it's also a lyrical poem about two blokes who hung out in the way blokes in this country do. . . "