Avian Loop Issue 4

Published Winter 2021

*&*

21 . 4 . 21

                                                                                    Borders open NZ/ Aus

                                                                                    19 . 4 . 21

                                                                                    still open

West Melton Domain

shelter-belts, deeply green,

a fresh crisp shave fifteen metres high

creates the walls

barricades, against the Nor’wester, the Southerly and the Easterly

success so far

their precious keep, the rugby grounds, are green, almost soft

while in Bishopdale city park, Totara have given in

to cracked clay

seems there were no friends to save these Tane offspring

Their only hope; a deluge

The four horsemen ride on

there is no barricade that can halt their pace

and Death, though the quickest

rides fast and last, picking up the pieces

a polo player on the winning team

We walk and Zephyr fossicks in the pine lanes

John Campbell is interviewing Bill Manhire

a Smart Talk podcast

They read Woodwork

“Children are building their teacher a coffin”

Campbell is overcome,

we hear his wide grin

his leaning forward in awe.

Manhire knows The Southern Man

words measured    

                              the monosyllable, a gracious gift

emotions measured

                                     rarely perceived, not for taking

relationships measured

                                           scaled as the students are instructed

  in Manhire’s Woodwork

More poems are spoken and read

And now all four horsemen ride past us

the pace is furious and we see a flash

white sweat down the black loins of the horses

straight Hotere lines, fierce beauty

We are about to get into the car

A question from the floor directly to Manhire

“your friendship with Ralph Hotere?”

I stop

fresh for me, is the shiny mantle

Ralph Hotere: Ātete (to resist)  at Te Puna o Waiwhetū.

Manhire breathes in and we wait in time

the space, an unforgiven shadow

They were to do a tour together

Manhire wrote the words

Hotere did not have the banners ready

the show went ahead with “some slides Ralph made”

measured and scaled

It seems the riders are always with him

Postscript

2 hours later at the Spiritualist Church mediums are

demonstrating mediumship

grandmother and mother make joyous contact

There are four others, they are men

they want to apologise,

talk about

their earthly harshness

alcoholism and lack of understanding.

the last one is so distressed that the medium, also a man

cannot continue due to his tears

and we break and have a cup of tea

https://granta.com/four-poems-manhire/

https://www.rnz.co.nz/national/programmes/smart_talk/audio/2018790595/leading-poet-bill-manhire-talks-to-john-campbell-at-word-christchurch-2020

Dido, after Purcell  

When I am laid, am laid in earth

        Now I face the sea, but

        These waters are calm

        The salt the wind carries up the hill

        Is not tainted with smoke or blood

        Boats on the water, in full sail

        Floating, not fleeing

May my wrongs create, no trouble, no trouble in thy breast

        My name means beloved

        Beloved of a first husband, murdered by my brother

        For power, wealth, and infamy

        Beloved of a second

        Who abandoned me for legend, legacy, and Rome

        It’s hard to compete with an empire

        [Is losing both misfortune or carelessness?]

When I am laid, am laid in earth

        Released from the selfish and insistent demands of the body, by sword and fire

        No longer bound groundward by gravitational pull

        Within the earth, of it

        A molecular marriage, a humus husband

But not tied down or affixed        

May my wrongs create, no trouble, no trouble in thy breast

        My name means wanderer

        Dante condemns me because I was consumed by lust—wandering hands and eyes

        Virgil says: furious, livid, ghastly

If a woman had written my story would they have said betrayed, manipulated, devastated?

        And also, leader, strategist, goddess, queen

        Even the gods didn’t know what I had planned when I built that pyre

        [Why did he leave his sword behind if he didn’t intend me to use it?]

Remember me

        To die unavenged

        Is to be

        Twice dead        

Remember me

        Despite Mussolini

Naming Roman streets after everyone

But me

Remember me

In a dissenter’s grave

        Outside Carthage

I face the sea

But ah! Forget my fate

        There is only now

        The barest smudge of a past

        Ease, comfort, and no space for regret

A BATH, A LOAF, A SONG

Lately, the impossibility of things has started to endear me to the impossibility of things

in little ways, like climbing into a bath shivering and easing into water that is so hot, my

skin can’t process the feeling of where the temperature is, like

Suddenly I’m that frog in a pot of boiling water and I want to jump straight out, except

my right calf has adjusted now so I’m not moving, I’m just suspended between in

and out

While appreciating precision, I’m starting to wonder more about approximation, and

how precious it is to someone like me, whose home is far across the water, and

Even when I’m there, I’m kind of not because the sounds from my mouth move

with difficulty, and people can tell, I haven’t been on the mountain for a long time

And yet the air knows me, and the water of the creek clings to my fingers, and

the taste of butter on Sunday bread returns me to my father’s arms

I heard today that Debussy composed La Mer , three symphonic sketches,

Only from pictures, without even seeing the ocean

Triangle droplets, brass foam, beating depths,

That was how he spoke to the sea

first: sensation

pin drop

traffic maps

accordian staircase

like vaudeville

bureaucracy

up town

uphills

check map

check map

turn turn

risk path

guttertrack or

student trapline

followsign

hollowmine

concrete moat

be briefed and

best behaved by

safety glass on

moaning rollers

see stuff

stuff scene

sponge glass

can tabs

high-tension

bohemian

power-lines

strung-up

smoked eels

in stoneware

silica and ash

suspension bridge

for correspondence

from park larks or

potters’ daughters

concrete digit in

hyperlink blue

can’t hear me

feeling for all

the industry

engine earring

for holy finger:

k drops

everything

to pick up

the phone

where they

left off

anotheroneagain

but

with you now

coldslurry

allovahyalegs

all-in-a-circle

i’m told

then leather

then biscuit

then glass

and mortar

k rings

k lists

k delegates

does k drive the scissor lift or choreograph it?

Kate Newby

YES TOMORROW

Adam Art Gallery

18.3.21

#&#&#&#&#&#&&#&#&#&&#&#&#&#&

There’s this narrative. It’s repulsive, I’m sinking into it. Zoning out, coming back in. My state of late,

movement images run between moments of physicality. The act of violence, looked down on, we partake. The image doesn’t sit; the confrontation convulsing a flick of the retina. Viewing distorted.

There’s this oil black, throughout, a result of the colour scheme. Blood, water, liquor, all liquids are thick and oozy. Most sickeningly, in the view of it smattered through the mottled creature’s feathers.

And the floors below me are grey, cool. I start to meld and mend, both in body and cognition. Palms, face each other, sliding over top of one another. Dragging forearm, elbow, shoulder, pulling at the socket slightly.

There's this image; a flash of brightly pale skin, their face is an orb. Less angelic, glinting with stress sweat and salt whips. Hair knotted, open pores black with grit,

my head is a ball, rotating. Forehead catching on the tacky floor, the skin along the back of my neck pulls taut. There’s relief with this release. Body folding organically, back into the floor. Subconscious as I follow the face,

before the image skirts back into darkness. I’m more present with this space, a moment of energy, my torso whips up. Weight drawn upwards for a moment,

I see the rock in its hold, the wall of water heaving. Dispersing into pixels of white, pressing into me through the screen. My body holds with it before,

a release, falling down now. My back is a platform, I engage from here as my chest concaves. My sacrum drifts over top. It’s quick. I have lost my integrity and my control, however. In this density, my chest inflates sharply. I follow through, however, extending legs, catching on toes, gliding along as I allow limbs to extend.

An ache remains in my diaphragm, that sense of fatigue and regret also.

I’m left with a scene, the one that followed the violence and sank into me more vividly. The rectangle sits as they stand back. Two beings framed, bodies oriented towards one another from a distance. There is a flatness, visually, but also in feeling. One figure breathless but both feel lifeless, facing one another as we face the scene. Complicit.

 >WVM<

Wanted: Reviewers for the new Christchurch Northern Corridor (CNC)

We, the people, are seeking reviewers to sample the new Christchurch Northern Corridor (CNC) for this esteemed publication, and for the benefit of those too afraid or unwilling to use it (yet). Reviews may take any form (e.g. stanza, visual art, oratorio), but must cover the ins and outs of travelling along the CNC. An evaluation of perambulation performance is key and reviewers must be willing to try more than one mode of transportation that the CNC caters for. Areas of particular focus may include, but are not limited to, the following:

Travel in different types of weather/seasons

Differences between daytime and nighttime travel

Views of/from the CNC

Design and landscaping

Perspectives of neighbouring residents/CNC commuters

Signage

Environmental impacts

To be successful, candidates must provide own transportation and must have either vast experience of being stuck in traffic at any point between Rangiora/Kaiapoi and Belfast/Mairehau/Shirley, or residential experience in the latter suburbs.

Prior knowledge or experience reviewing infrastructure projects is an advantage but not by much; an enthusiasm to clinically scrutinise the significance of this Roads of National Significance project for Canterbury’s society and culture will take priority when considering candidates.

Enquiries can be made in writing to the Avian Loop or call 0800 262 200 for further information. Candidates may submit their reviews to this venerable periodical at PO Box 22 351.

Colophon

Avian Loop , Issue 4

Published in May of 2021

Ōtautahi, Aotearoa

ISSN 2744-4740

©Avian Loop 2021        

Avian Loop is produced by the monthly art writing group first established by The Physics Room Contemporary Art Space in 2018.

Writers and editors for issue four include but are not limited to:

Georgy Tarren-Sweeney *&*

Naomi van den Broek

Keren Oertly

hamish petersen

Rogue Maris

Lauradunham

Designer:

Daniel Shaskey

Typefaces:

Avara is a collaborative font initiated by Raphaël Bastide and published by VelvetyneType Foundry. MT Grotesque is designed by Frank Hinman Pierpont.

Printer:

Angus Donaldson

Correspondence:

Avian Loop

PO Box 22 351

Otautahi, 8013