Dear Couch Potato
Two thousand years sitting
at the right hand of God!
and before that, who knows
how long? From before
the Earth was formed you were
there at His right hand!
What about sending her back?
She was once the most real
most brutal of critics. She loved
with a tribal love, and doubted
with a collective dislike.
I was too quirky by far,
for her taste. But, as a curiosity,
I was an important friend.
Now I pour love and horror
at your boney feet and pinch
your gown between my roughened
fingers. Your blue eyes narrow.
Execution, courtesy of Television
Never mind. The murderer
must pay for his crimes.
Now is the hour, the moment
of execution, and final helplessness.
We search his face for panic.
How could he be so calm
Is he sedated? Can he feel
no apprehension? The button
is pushed. A gleam
of intelligence departs on queue.
Heat, steam and water
leave his body. Relatives
of his victim notice, satisfied,
that he has wet his pants.
A rigid shape is weeping
(watch his face, his hands)
weeping to let go -- to be
transported beyond dread.
It's disgusting. ... we
are all murderers.
The Goose Girl
Anything that distracts us
flicking the eye away from the central image --
a hair across a leaf,
a golden apple dropped
a rolling to a stop --
it is here I have
learnt to turn sorrow to advantage. Imbalance
or madness I've learned to love
as preparation for chaos.
A neat world can trap you
in the need for order.
Meg Campbell: I published my first book of poems in 1980 when I was 43, after many admissions to psychiatric care in a big mental hospital. Perhaps I received my most valuable education there. For the past 23 years I have lived happily in the everyday world, being now properly diagnosed and taking the correct medication.
Peter Olds Meg Campbell Kirin Cerise Simon Lewis Graham Bishop Mahinarangi Tocker
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