standing tall
arms heavy with flowers
you reach for the earth and greet the sky
This time of year – The trees are waking – stretching, rolling their shoulders. Their arms are laden with flowers, gifts to the warming air and the bees. Gifts given freely, part of the exchange between earth and sky.
waking slowly, you smile
and colour bursts across the hillsides,
fat, furry bees investigate your sleeves
The clocks went forward on the weekend here in NZ and now we live with the illusion that it takes longer for the darkness of night to settle over the land. Of course night and day come and go as they’ve always done – it’s just that we’ve adjusted our schedules to look at it differently.
And the land – she had started to wake – with trees opening their bright green hands, and blossoms everywhere – except now we’ve just had a dreaded cold snap.
I fear Spring is shivering in the rain and I wish I could wrap her in my arms and keep her warm.
filling the space,
every window shows your face,
your multitudes, your bright insistence
February calendar post at last!!
Why has it taken so long – no idea – beyond printer not working, going back to work after summer holiday, and putting my time into painting.
Anyway – here ‘tis. This is my world, my green view – this is what I see if I feel like a spot of daydreaming.
And now that the cicadas have come out in force at last, I wonder if a big shiny insect might have been a better image. Still – they need the trees and trust me – they are all over these.
I’m so grateful for the time someone spent with me this afternoon – so patient – listening to my story – suggesting – clarifying – helping me to write my mihi – and more deeply – to connect with and claim my mihi as my own.
I came home – and stopped in front of this kawakawa bush – I was thinking about it yesterday and I knew the best thing would be to make tea from its leaves and let the past settle while I waited for it to steep.
I sit now with my tongue tingling along with my heart.
©ClaireGriffin 2016
12.02am was a lesson in humility
who am I
to think the earth
could feel my pain
and make the heavens
weep with me
she is not a reflection of my emotions
she is her own sovereign being
and last night she tore herself apart
there is a fury
she has held in check
grief she has suppressed
pain she has denied
last night
all was unleashed
pent up energy released
her heart broken open
and spread before us
there is a madness in her rage
she rends her clothes
and tears her hair
she breaks her own body
and lays it at our feet
she has become a distorted, twisted thing
my beautiful country
you have torn yourself apart
what are you telling me?
we may be homeless
she is broken
we may be confused
she is broken
we may be distraught
she is broken
it may be her only way
to shake free from us
my beautiful country
you have torn yourself apart
what are you telling me?
she has called on her power
the wild pulse of life
to tear open her own skin
to bleed rivers enough
to flood the land
and lay bare the truth
she is not gentle
she is not kind
she is a wild thing
who tolerates us
she is more Lillith than Eve
she is Papatuanuku grieving still for Rangi
she is Persephone rising after slaughtering Hades
she is Mis raging in the wilderness
she is telling us
she owns her body
she owns her pain
and she can cast us off
in a heartbeat
©Claire Griffin 2016
And then came this… just when I was in the heady space of imagining the significance of a rare astronomical event… On 14 November a 7.8 earthquake hit.
I had to face my sentimental wishful thinking, my need to personify the earth as a beneficent mother. She is not a reflection of my emotions. She is her own sovereign being, and this morning she tore herself apart.
The previous poem was put on hold, and this seemed so much more appropriate.
the eye of the universe draws nearer
she turns towards us
watching side on
like a great white whale
surfacing, curious, yet wary
she brings a gift to us
her own body, her luminous skin
she has come from the depths of space
to show what it looks like to be whole
she has come to bring light to our dark night
she has come to bring hope
she has come …
Monday is the night
of the perigree full moon
a supermoon
our pain, our cries of disappointment
and anger have been heard
and we have woken the spirits of our world
©Claire Griffin 2016
I was working on this almost three weeks ago, and was planning to post on Monday 14 November, the night of the supermoon.
However, Sunday night, early Monday morning, New Zealand was hit by a major earthquake, and my notions of a benevolent moon seemed naïve and sentimental. I’ve been a bit distracted ever since.
I never really finished this – but it fits with a few pieces that have emerged from the events of the last few weeks.
12 November – revised 1 December 2016
it has rained for three days
rain and fog and mist for two
and yesterday – more rain in a day
than usual for the whole month
the land itself was grieving
for the ones who’ve left us
for voices silenced
for songs unsung
Te Ihorangi and Hinewai
are the gods of rain and mist
male and female together
holding us in their embrace
as mist lay heavy on the hills
cloaks woven of all the tears
we’ve shed these last few days
these last few months
crying with us
until we are ready
to stand and turn our faces
to the sun
©Claire Griffin 2016
In this land, rain is often interpreted as a sign of grief, as if the land itself is crying in recognition of the passing of a great leader. This is an extract from the lament, ‘E pā tō hau’, for Te Wano of the Ngāti Apakura tribe:
E ua e te ua e taheke
Koe i runga rā
Ko au ki raro nei riringi ai
Te ua i aku kamo.
http://www.teara.govt.nz/en/tawhirimatea-the-weather/page-4
the decision had recently been made to leave
but the heart was torn apart, and still struggling to accept it
standing alone in the centre of the square kitchen
the inside light was subdued and everything quiet and hushed
bright afternoon sun shone outside, the back door stood wide open
a fantail entered
flew silently around the room
and then calmly back out the door
it felt as though time had slowed to a standstill
barely breathing I turned following the bird as it circled the room
feeling both highly aware and slightly stunned
recalling the meaning given to visitations like these
but still, welcoming it, feeling chosen
aware of what I was seeing, how incongruous it was,
and what I was sensing
space and time expanding with every wingbeat
then contracting as the bird left
snapping back to the pace of a heartbeat and the blink of an eye
the wild world had crossed the threshold,
had stepped in to my time and space to be present with me
it was an affirmation, a reassurance
and ever since
I’ve kept the door open
the thin veil pulled aside
an open invitation
and ready for my own departure
© Claire Griffin 2016
photo by: D. Mudge
image sourced from : http://www.doc.govt.nz/
The earth shifts –
moving
she stirs to wake me.
This air I breathe –
is your breath.
This land I walk –
is your body.
All that time away,
the image of this land burned
on the back of my eyes.
I saw nothing –
but through the after-image
of mountain, lake, forest, river, sea.
Here now, whole again,
to read the map of my land
to walk my own path.
I would be one with you.
© Claire Griffin 2016
We had an earthquake last night –
and I remembered this poem,
written after the first earthquake I felt
after my return to NZ from the UK.
invisible necessity 
