Tuesday, February 8, 2011


I am sitting at my computer and a memory of walking behind a waterfall  has appeared..I remembered we climbed up and in behind one when we went to the Angel falls in Venezuela.My spouting has micro trees in it and water is sheeting over the edge outside my studio window.The rain is lit in pieces as it falls by my lamp.
This rain has been relentless..days and days of it..The water table is rising ,I weeded today in a brief interlude of dry sky and pulled docks out of the ground with tap roots 20 and 30 cm long, intact.
As the rain started up again tonight and rain plopped through our tiles onto the carpet..Hones poem started up in my head.



I can hear you
making small holes
in the silence

If I were deaf
the pores of my skin
would open to you
and shut

And I
should know you
by the lick of you
if I were blind

the something
special smell of you
when the sun cakes
the ground

the steady
drum-roll sound
you make
when the wind drops

But if I
should not hear
smell or feel or see

you would still
define me
disperse me
wash over me

Hone Tuwhare 1922-2008

and I found this one by

Paula Green

Waitakere Rain

Ernest Hemingway found rain to be
made of knowledge, experience
wine oil salt vinegar quince
bed early mornings nights days the sea
men women dogs hill and rich valley
the appearance and disappearance of sense
or trains on curved and straight tracks, hence
love honour and dishonour, a scent of infinity.
In my city the rain you get
is made of massive kauri trees, the call of forest birds
howling dark oceans and mangroved creeks.
I taste constancy, memory and yet
there’s the watery departure of words
from the thunder-black sand at Te Henga Beach.

1 comment:

  1. Hi Kat thanks for your comment ands the introduction to Jon Foremans song, beautiful. Home is where the heart is, they also say home is where the hurt is, or did I make that up? When I was thinking of home I perhaps thought of the sense of it being something we carry inside us more than a space to live, also left out the ambivalence that it can sometimes raise, its not always a bed of roses to escape to.

    What a beautiful memery to come up when at the computer, being behind a waterfall. I have always wanted to do that. Ernest Hemingway found rain to be made of knowledge, that gives me goose pimples an amzing thought, keep in touch Annxxx


Hi I love to receive comments and will endevour to reply either on this page or your blog.Kat