New Zealand

by

the cloak of shadows

a cloak is suspended
from a high ceiling
just inside the entrance
of a dimly-lit room

I cross the threshold
this cloak of chains
is dark and hard
and I swear the air turns cold

I read a date – 1860
the past confronts me
the pain is palpable
and I am silenced

shadows move between the links
invisible hands raised
to hold me at a distance
I’m barely breathing

there are voices
in the shadows
I move aside
and they begin to speak

 

© Claire Griffin 2016

image and information: http://www.pataka.org.nz/ngahina-hohaia/

“Te Kahu o te Karauna – This is why I won’t stand for the national anthem”
– a metal chain korowai (cloak) sculpture by Ngahina Hohaia,
from the exhibition “Tools of Oppression and Liberation”.
This piece refers to the oppression of the peaceful settlement at Parihaka.

 

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the visitor : myth, traditions and interpretation

With reference to the poem “the visitor”:

Myth:
In Māori mythology the fantail was responsible for the presence of death in the world. Maui, thinking he could eradicate death by successfully passing through the goddess of death, Hine-nui-te-po, tried to enter the goddess’s sleeping body through the pathway of birth. The fantail, warned by Maui to be quiet, began laughing and woke Hine-nui-te-po, who was so angry that she promptly killed Maui.

Tradition:
In some traditions, the fantail is regarded as “a harbinger of death when seen inside in a house”.
(Kelly Keane. ‘Ngā manu – birds – Birds associated with death’,
Te Ara – the Encyclopedia of New Zealand, updated 8-Sep-15)

Interpretation:
I remember that my own interpretation at the time I experienced this feathered visitor, was less that the presence of this little bird foretold a literal death, but more that it came as a confirmation of the end of a relationship and the changes that were to come. Still, it was a death of sorts.

When emotions were raw, when change was inevitable, this visitor from the natural world somehow seemed to be an acknowledgement, and a reassurance.

Visitors from the wild-world:
This little bird was not the only animal visitor I had during this time – the other was a possum.

I was living in a semi-rural area, near bush, but I had never in five years seen or heard a possum near the house. And then, one night, returning to what was still my home for the time-being, after spending time with friends who had offered me a room in their flat, I parked the car and walking to the gate, there on the lamp-post at eye level was a possum. It was looking straight at me. I was surprised, but I remember greeting it, asking “What are you doing here?” Of course, there was no answer beyond its silent presence. And I felt that was its purpose – to simply be there with me in that moment.

Days passed and I moved out to live in a flat in the centre of town. I carried on with life, putting on a brave face, and clinging to my misplaced hope that this might be temporary, that there might be a return to the way things were.

One night not that long after, coming home from a night out with friends, I parked the car and there on the lamp-post at eye level was a possum. Again surprised, again confronted. Here in the middle of the city I was face to face with a wild creature. (I even caught myself wondering if it could be the same one). And just as with the fantail, it felt as though my decision was being affirmed, that I had made the right decision, no matter how painful it was.

Each time, I was alone. Each time, I was reminded of my aloneness, but it felt as if I was being reminded that I had the strength to cope. There were so many days and nights when I felt as though my world was collapsing, had in fact collapsed. I felt alone, adrift, abandoned and the pain was palpable. Hearts do break, and there is no relief.

One of the few things that gave me strength was knowing that the wild world had crossed the threshold, had stepped in to my time and space to be present with me. Quite possibly it stopped me going completely off the rails over the following months.

© Claire Griffin 2016

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the visitor

fantail1-223

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/

 

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the earth shifts

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.

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fishy business

taking time to walk along the wharf
and noticing schools of tiny fish
swarming and turning

and into their midst comes
a stream-lined seabird – a cormorant?
going about its fishy business

finding plenty to eat
but each mouthful an effort
a challenge

the fish acting as one, protecting each other
often finding safety in numbers
as they mass together
then split apart

 

© photos and text: Claire Griffin 2016

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trees of the long white cloud : part II

the native evergreens
do not rest in winter

kahikitea, karaka, kauri, kowhai
pohutukawa, ngaio, rata, rimu, totara

season after season
they weave and re-weave
their cloak of green
they stay awake, alert
through summer’s drought
and winter’s flood and snow
seasons the least of their concerns
as their roots reach for each other
in the deep underground
and they wrap their long thin fingers around hidden rock
feeling for the slightest tremor, sensing the slightest shift

guardians of the earthmother
they draw life from her tears
from her breath and body
sentinels standing guard
aware, attentive, vigilant
calming her dreaming
holding tight in nightmares
as she shakes and trembles in her sleep
they cradle her head and breasts and hips as she turns
sometimes losing hold
and falling
as she shakes herself awake

 

© Claire Griffin 2016

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trees of the long white cloud : part I

these trees are immigrants
keeping true to their long histories
continuing the customs of their ancestors

sepia, folium
tyrian, madder
minium, cinnabar
carmine, cadmium
saffron, sienna, ochre, weld

these colours are deceiving
unlike flowers, they are not an invitation
rather, they are a sign of loss
and of a turning inward

as the trees begin withdrawing into themselves
conserving energy, preserving life-force
releasing all non-essential elements
leaves lose green and fall

to protect themselves
from winter’s chill
the trees hibernate above ground
they stand naked in the cold
heart kept warm deep in their centre
beating slowly, barely breathing

they stand quietly, patiently
winter – one long meditation
until the sun rings the zen-bell
and branch tips stretch, buds open
and the trees shake themselves awake

 

© Claire Griffin 2016

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what is black?

The colour of my culture… people often question why New Zealanders have such an attachment to black. It is commonplace in our casual day wear, and highly evident in fashion design. We wear a lot of black. There was even a book written about its significance in our culture (which I confess I’ve never read – really must do so one day). Black features in our art and sports and songs, among other things.

During the recent attempt to change our flag, black was seen as an acceptable option by many.
I was listening to people discussing this whole “what is it about black…?” thing way back in 2011, and wrote my feelings in response. Hearing the same questions raised again recently prompted me to share this.

In this land of the long white cloud
we walk in the colour of storms and shadows.

We walk in black
the colour of night,
of the space between the stars,
the lines of history
we read in books
and on our faces.

We see each other
in the black centre of our eyes.

We walk in the night
with our eyes closed
burning with an inner light
black light
by which we find our way.

We choose the dark.

Ruru call in the bush
Pekapeka hear echoes in the cave
Wheke write warnings in the sea

Black is not the colour of absence,
or loss,
or separation.

We wrap ourselves in shadows
and feel secure.
The colour of night holds us together
and we are solid and strong and safe.

Black is the colour of my heart,
of my people,
of my spirit.
It runs like dark bush water through my veins.

walking from dark to light
black fern
black stream

 

© Claire Griffin 2016

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tui

In relation to the previous poem “black diving”:

For anyone who does not know – and there may be many of you outside New Zealand – a tui is a bird about the size of a pigeon. On the day of this poem, from a short distance, the tui I saw stood out black against the mist.

But their beautiful dark glossy plumage, shines in the right light with the colours of a paua shell, greens, blues, and purple. White tufts at the throat, and white wisps around the neck.

They live in the bush reserve near my house, swooping and diving among the trees. They call invisibly among the branches, warbling and squawking and trilling.

Some have learnt to imitate sounds they hear in their environment, and can make calls like phones ringing, or kettles whistling, and occasionally even people.

IMG_0980 copy© Claire Griffin 2016