Aug 31, 2022 | Blog, Poems
Kia ora koutou,
Once upon a time a doctor said to me, ‘You have entered Tiger Country, Renée, and when you least expect them, the tigers will come out.’
So I wrote a poem about tigers.
We all have them, different tigers for different times. I have a few and sometimes they sleep and sometimes they wake up and snarl. You will know the experience. I don’t know what your tigers are and vice versa, but tigers are tigers, metaphorically speaking, so here’s the poem…
Tiger Country
You plunge off the cliff into Tiger Country
sleek and smiling tigers play hide and seek
slope around abandoned chairs, sad tables
silk cushions call encouragement from the sofa
an old painting turns its face to the wall.
Tigers lurk in old cards, beneath yours forever
snooze under Christmas lights that never worked
lope ahead to a destination only they know
signposts are suspect; there is no tunnel, no light
nobody pins a tail on these tigers.
Some nights after the sun has flamed
and seabirds search the pastures of the sea
tigers come out and lean gentle over your chair –
wrap you in a striped shawl of sturdy warmth
fold their paws and purr soft in the silent room.
This is the danger time. Stand up. Walk slow.
Their eyes are on the game and you’re it.
Renée
Jun 9, 2015 | Poems
She remembers him waving.
He fixed the lemon tree with salt,
carved his name on the wooden spoon
she used for mixing pikelets. She said
she’d wait. This was before.
Now the Band packs up her troubles…
The club went south to tramp.
One day the boys played bulrush.
She made scones and apple shortcake.
He whipped the cream, sneaked a lick
from the beater. This was before.
In her old kitbag…
The Lieutenant-Colonel sings,
the minister prays — reads a poem,
talks about sacrifice. She smells
mint, remembers the tomato sauce.
She’d sterilised the bottles.
Now there’s a Lucifer to light your fag…
It all got spilt, the spoon was broken,
the bottles, her arm. He got a warning
from the constable after he chopped down
the lemon tree, the frame on the photo
of him smiling. This was after.
And the band smiles and smiles and smiles…
This is after of course.
Renée
Jun 2, 2015 | Poems
The cop
tall, dark,
irksome
notes the bottle
the glass
Want a drink, officer?
Not drunk but affected
he tells his iPhone 6 plus
no record —
he’s disappointed.
A serious offence, Ma’am
setting fire to articles
in a drum
in this heat.
Need a statement.
Station tomorrow.
And go easy on that.
Okay.
No driving.
Okay.
He goes
Uneasy
I get the keys.
May 26, 2015 | Blog, Poems
Storm Leaves
She met someone else
Tried to fight it
Couldn’t.
Last night, she’s so sorry,
They went too far.
She’s very upset
She loves me really
She had to tell me
We agreed we’d be honest
right?
I don’t say don’t go
I don’t say let’s discuss this
I don’t say please
I’m a block of pounamu
In very deep water
Just go, I say. Now.
After
I put the sheets
crazy patchwork quilt
pilllows
track shoe
dirty socks
in the old drum
pour petrol
chuck a match
I find the Allen key
break up the bed
lug the remains
to the drum
the room is empty of her.
my mother
on my shoulder
I polish
scrub wipe
rub sweep
vacuum
wash
her out of here
I stand in the shower
for an hour
fuck the environment
new clothes
new shoes
new bottle
glass
I’m clean.
I’m okay.
I’m okay
I’m okay
May 19, 2015 | Blog, Poems
Gabriel
Maine Coon Cats are (allegedly) cuddly
but Gabriel missed that gene. He’s a
medium — size tiger in a cat’s body, sly,
cunning, thinks he’s smarter than me.
He’s right.
How he got to Levin is his secret
but while I’m sniffing that teal shirt
he ducks out from behind a shop
door and wiggles his ears in a way
that says, Gotcha.
I shout, ‘There’s a Maine Coon Cat
called Gabriel in your shop’. I charge
over to the window but — you’ve guessed it —
big shit Gabriel has scarpered. The woman says
now she’s heard everything.
‘Get back home Gabe,’ I yell. I feel a fool
Not unusual. To hell with him. I only look
for Gabe in the mornings. Clint is afternoons.
Gabe’s owner has offered a large reward
plus a good retainer. I’m broke.
Maine Coot Cats are large and friendly
the online site says but there’s a comment
from someone who says my Coon Cat
Caesar is snarly, bit my hand and ate my
canary. I showed him the door.
Enough. Bugger Caesar. Bugger Gabe.
Think of Clint. Where do you hide a body?
A river? The sea? Why does the shirt
smell of Little Sister’s perfume? Why
was it in the opshop?
Little Sister likes opshops. She likes
The opshops along the Coast. She never
buys new. She buys a dress or shirt
wears them for a few months then
recycles them.
Has she recycled Clint? Or simply
his shirt? Where the hell is Gabe? I need
the money. His owner says he can’t live
without Gabe. Gabe’s his life. Jaysus.
But beggars can’t be choosers.
Then —
something moves on the back seat…
Renée
Dec 2, 2014 | Poems
Ursula urges me to
become a Crone
to not bemoan
my declining hormones
to wear grey hair
catch a space ship
somewhere out there
so I can share
my wit, my wisdom
my years of fertility
raising children
(ensuring my humility)
so the fourth planet Altair
can learn about the human race
from a woman (once a virgin)
and now a Crone (on loan)
But I’m all for my inner space
and I won’t go grey
well, not yet, not today
there’s plenty of time
because I still want to play
to flaunt in the twilight
my age now my highlight
on the cusp of something
almost a Crone — not quite
ready for Ursula’s throne
but not afraid either
thumb out — hitching a ride
not looking back, nor
particularly forward
pausing as they say — oh,
but not for men
for me!
Maggie Rainey-Smith
(First published, New Sealand Book, Vol 17, Issue 78, Winter 2007)
