Poem 438

Written in 1981, I was probably still twenty, my first year in Wellington … it’s not particularly about me – or maybe I just thought it wasn’t – I had a lot to feel shit about that year … just to be clear it’s not describing physical self harm, more the semi-hysteria of everything weighing in at once, storms of recrimination both inside and out …

( I like the woven web of internal rhyme alliteration and assonance, it feels very assured with the rhythm giving a strong sense of everything piling up … )

Ten Thousand Cuts

he's collecting all the sharp points
of his life
rummaging kitchen drawers
for blades both dull and bright
picking all the jaggeds
matching them to the holes
back and forth he lurches
bitter bundle all unrolled
as he searches on the lino
for serrated slights and hooks
all the festered hoards
of lies and lying looks
he knows
the honed edge of love
thousand slivers of lust
slow gnash of age
and sudden slash of trust
lost
all on the floor they go
and his body laid on top
his body white and soft
                                                  now 
all things cut to his touch
the he says so and so
she did such and such
you no longer hurt him
he hurts himself too much