Brian Turner: Three Poems

Beyond Dead Horse Pinch and Red Cutting

I came through the Pigroot

in the early evening,

clouds pouring off the Kakanuis

as I crested the The Brothers

and then, beyond Red Cutting,

emerged into bright

blaring sunshine.

At such times it feels like

every uplift’s a blessing,

inspiriting, as when

you almost believe

going somewhere

gets us somewhere.

By the roadsides

the bushiest snow tussock

bent and swayed in the wind

and over 30 miles away

the highest hills shimmered,

were the faintest of blues,

their colour suffused by interior light.

And it would have seemed

absurd to sing of having

Carolina on ones mind,

or to rail about the greed

of the grasping worst,

or our Overseas Investment

Commission’s treasonable

omissions. Or to ask what

we’re in contact with, and why

it, and we, keep breaking up.

When I got home

the shadows were long,

and the dusk

we’re more familiar with,

in that time when nature

both disguises and consoles,

deepened.

                 I went outside—

no mobile, no tele anything—and lent

an ear, having made the time

to absorb and reflect

and enjoy looking and listening

without distraction, and

to try to ensure

that I wasn’t missing

realities which really matter,

and was hoping to keep in touch,

and be touched.

Brian Turner

Fawn

I gave my frail and elderly mother

an aquatint of a resting fawn

in the hope it might remind her

of a vanished innocence, of her

youthful beauty and quiet assurance,

and of the security and unstinting love,

care and security she gave her children …

and also in the hope that it might bring back

memories of good times in a distant time,

memories vivid and indistinct in days

before one begins to think of what eternity

means, days before we face the prospect

of vanishing into whatever envelops

every facet of what we are and have been.

Maybe

 There’ll come the day

when people stop

wanting to be cool

and individuals

are more credible,

more sought-after

than brands.

     Brian Turner