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Paula Greenonline works |
Yellow syllable by syllable she decorates herself rhymed with seagrass or saffron fuelled by the jumble of paper honey semolina the walls a sticky trap so close so complete warm yellow the whole year round routines arrange this place the worn carpet the pungent connections between art and artifact she carries tokens of her existence scouring verse culinary herbs yellow ochre the pattern of work on a new scale she is the heart of this occasion a bleached book holds her daily life Monday washes Tuesday a little cabinet yellow with thought yellow with complication keeps her devotion shining obsessive a cup for the indoor wisdom set in the language of housekeeping she lays out the history of the mantelpiece a retreat describing magic or monotony a juxtaposition so perfectly freighted she contemplates terrible words her true existence variety itself her beloved china stained with ritual indoors and away from that thick sun a reprise expands the cupboards and paint rich as endurance she walks through prose here are the heirlooms the kinship beyond words here are the remedies the tribute to constant love in this room with its faculty for provision the decay sufficient the deterioration fuses questions discomfort and she learns that her heart bleeds like burnt butter she is cooking a supper for herself observing her back her face her written life in the eloquent grain of a kitchen table this is the woman who will infuse ordinary messages with a leaf of shadow or decoration or distance with the paint still wet still fluid she likes to think of disobedience between things a reunion silence a parable as though the gift of feeling can shape a house an island for irrevocable mediation where the door the mysterious interval between here and there is subtle cadenced associated with years ‘let me rub your back my darling’ she lives among episodes endings a yellow blot squeezed dry where is she? how will I recognise our mutual links? when we meet my curiosity my slim bag includes records of family travel pencil portraits dreams in history voices born at the same time where is she? warmed by marigolds she will tell the story of actual rooms smoothing the sheets and blankets deeply moved she is everything to me describing the loss the distant part that nourishes heart the writing following even further to the edge as if housekeeping and storytelling dominate as if she flees from home until dusk we share skeletons recipes grief the dark underside of peace hidden in her house ‘I need the trees at least some kind of shelter’ the kauri nikau rimu that I have known spell out a continuity an antidote a foreignness snug in memory my repositories of life and death ‘I was born at dawn with high winds’ her story a jewel-like intimation of young eyes waging war against uncertainty humility she still harbours the gestures of sacrifice jaundiced this woman this appearance fending off my old wounds my tight arrival nuances create a longed-for place in her silence different rooms describing the previous summers the heavy footsteps part of an indoor rhythm a house-bound moment how the tap drips the fridge hums ‘I loved the view from my bedroom window’ we could climb the hill together I believe we could I am homesick for the ocean cicadas the native bush but marooned in her community in no mood for light I touch the mantelpiece her solid clock reading the perfectly carved story domestic detail ecstasy rebellious events an older generation knitting stout threads all I see are the yellow sunflowers flawed with a charge of defiance in each sweet petal a confirmation of my own peculiar reservations she painted portraits of herself half-dressed without signalling the barest diversion without interrogating the disturbing echoes now she speculates endlessly about the lost homes sitting amidst scraps of material the magazines the china plates printed with buttercups I visit her to tune her guitar to comb matted hair or remove a cigarette she is reading from The Golden Notebook her half-dead weight rests upon my contemplation squeezes my lungs until I scarcely breathe grips my wrists until fingers fall limp forces sameness old pain down my throat my voice dulled separate I need a front window beside the desk an enlarged view to mend my scarred body this morning she laughed peeling Kerikeri oranges squeezing the juice buttering toast ‘I couldn’t sleep a wink I don’t know where to be’ her navigation through a homely grid smashes doors castles sanctuaries all the houses have blurred into one she projects floors openings closures knowing her need of repetition anchors the home in rhythmic colour yellow as elms willows the local kowhai yet with satisfaction she lived in foreign cities where the art of change perhaps chance dismissed symmetry a braided home a life claiming madness a life wedded to disaster ‘I will speak of bones and plates’ but out of love her voice recites street names I am recognising the signs at the centre of the house the woman distorts the past sick of rituals her own true self thrown to the wolves cast in exile as though the window eclipses any hope of sun the light layers of a summer afternoon recall her birthright so delicious so distant ‘I lived jammed against a Wellington fault line’ ‘I lived beneath the rumble of cable cars’ her captive face the bloody aftermath tenderly I bind her hair with ribbon out of love her voice stuns me she packs away the Poole china our interwoven lives a matter of hard imagery beginning in the house I sweep and dust ‘I remember at last the city was over the rim of the hill’ she walked through the Botanical Gardens disguising her body and spirit she herself propelled by secrecy the wind in the trees alluring ‘here I belong I don’t belong here’ her whole body dreaming of flight the squealing paintings so fragrant my bare warm feet on a Wellington pavement just as I had dreamed a million yards of thread leading me to her she walked in the woods restored to life is she stretched and dried? the history of her women reviving me she is asleep her sofa my invention her death my inability to eat or breathe wreathed in travelling clothes or the hue of pregnancy the woman playing blues on a piano the woman consuming cakes and pleasure writing festive sentences in a strange language the soft part of my story comforts her syllable by syllable I decorate myself rhymed with grapefruit or saffron fuelled by the clutter of paper honey open wounds the walls are home to artworks audible noise the whole year round routines that dwell in our place the bare wood the connections between art and artifact splendid I carry tokens of my existence buttery verse culinary herbs cadmium yellow the lightness of work on a new scale lungs or bone or blood or water © Paula Green |
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