Nomad. New Zealand Poetry Cycle.

These cover the four days I spent in Wellington, NZ, at the very end of my trip abroad. I worked really hard on these. You can see the original work here; as you may notice, the two bear very little resemblance to each other. This is how I revise. It's hard. It takes a long time. But other writers may find the process interesting!




Nomad



One.

On this first day we spend
a long time sitting under the warm
gray skies that are New Zealand's
way of edging into summer,
watching Tonga boys leaping
body-arced into the canal
that links bay to river; and Victoria
is being held back surreptitiously
by her boy, but I’ve noticed,
and I know the circus in her
is pushing her towards the edge,
whispering that she too
should fling herself out,
into the empty air.



Two.

We talked love when the boy left the room.
Like me she is half-helpless with it, glowing,
her smile huge; she is so happy here with him.
My heart lifts, but it twists with missing Sarah.

Like me, she is half-helpless, with it glowing
underneath her breastbone. Love heats you,
lifts your heart. Mine twists, missing Sarah.
I feel third-wheeled, and edgy. Wistful, maybe.

Underneath our breastbones, love. We are heated
by the warmth from the casual touch of our hands.
She eases the edgy wistfulness of a third wheel;
Victoria knows I've been a long time loving from afar.

Warmth comes from casual touch. Her hands,
her solidity thumping into me when the plane landed...
Victoria knows. She understands loving from afar.
She says, It's not easy to leave your heart abroad, is it?

Her solidity thumped into me when my plane landed,
and the smile she gave me was huge. I'm so happy with him,
she says. It hasn't been easy on my heart with him abroad.
So we talked love. But only when the boy left the room.



Three.

There's a Ukrainian tied up in the boot,
said the car's owner, grinning, as Victoria and I
tumbled over each other and my luggage, too big

for the backseat, screaming at the speed, seatbealts
forgotten in favor of feeling each curve with our bodies;
and it will not be the last such ride, there is still

the hill between Wainui and Wellington where we'll
hitch a ride with Ralph and Harry because the bus is late
and I have to catch a train and can't you drive faster? it's

going to leave without me if you don't hurry! Of course
the train was nowhere near the station when I got there,
because when it comes to public transport I am jinxed;

with me it runs perennially late. They left me, and I laughed,
and waved goodbye. Then I sat, and wrote, and waited.
I have found a kind of peace in hectic travel.



Four.

My mouth is full of fish and chips
when it hits me: I could stay.
This country has been
so kind to me that for one moment
I think tomorrow I’ll sleep in
and let the ferry go…
But my loneliness always gets stronger
when night falls, and it’s dark
now, and even though
I am not lonely here, not yet, I know
that soon my heart will pull me
and I will turn my head
towards home and things familiar.



Five.

One book for three hundred twelve kilometers,
nothing to eat, six hours to Woodend from Picton
five passengers to watch from my eye’s corners.
It’ll be a long drive home, and by noon we’re gone –

and as we leave the weather turns towards cold.

One stop in six hours. A town near the ocean,
so close I hear the waves hiss. The stop is quick
and though I’m starving I still feel the bus’s motion
rocking me roughly; I find I’m feeling vaguely sick.

Ginger biscuits soothe me as we leave the sea behind.

One more kilometer until I’m dropped off in the pouring rain,
in the middle of nowhere for my cousin to find and bring home.
I’m the last to get off; I wait, feet on bag. Then there’s my lane.
There’s Henry waiting. I’m done. Let someone else go roam.

I leave the bus in Woodend. I can see my breath.