Pictures at an Exhibition

Agreed, leave at 9.30am
Up, dressed, cats fed, breakfast.
We leave at 9.30am

A drive from Thames to Auckland
Major roads predictable, stress free.
GPS reduces the worry of ‘Where do I turn off?’
Destination is some obscure street in a half remembered Auckland.
Off ramp identified, negotiated, gleeful shout of relief.

“In 400 metres turn left into …”
400 metres is short, or quick,
Depending on how soon the satellite connection is made
Or how fast you’re going.
Now a desperate search for the street name
I can hear the heavy breathing of traffic held up behind me.

And what happens if I miss it
Will I be punished with a volley of right hand turns.
I am not as quick as I was

That familiar, “When possible, do a U turn.” One day will become
A calm, “When possible change driver.”

My co-driver / navigator on alert
Reading street signs
Spectacles straining.

A shout! The obscure street located
“Your destination is No. ‘xyz’ on the left.”
No. ‘xyz’ is embedded in this narrow, one way street’
A busy one way street bristling with hostile signs,
“NP,” “Not Here”, “Reserved for – – – Only”,
“Don’t even think about it!”

Cars committing cardinal sins get the “Tow Away”
!
Welcome to Auckland.

We cannot find the location, so a shrewd guess
Co-driver hops out
I continue driving through the Valley of Torment
Around a corner
Around a corner
I’m back!
“Here! You can park here!”
God bless the Co Driver
No. ‘xyz’ has been located.
The hallowed precinct of High Art
There is a park for us.
We bustle inside simmering with victory.
Tactfully point out to The Desk that the sign outside is very small
So wee and hard to see.

Nose aloof (remember the New Yorker cartoons?}
We are sniffily informed
“Oh, people know we’re here”
The pensioners, peasants from the provinces have been informed.
The embarrassment of asking for the loo
(travelling time and old age)
We exit the admin area
Exit daylight
Enter the Gallery.

One of us very eager to see this exhibition
The other of us, suspects yet more of what he’s seen before.
The Sombre and Obscure artfully displayed.
“Art lies in the eyes of the beholder”
A bit like taking a caterpillar to see a ballet.

Silence
A vast, cool space
We are alone

Paintings, one for example a hazy and mainly grey – is formless.
They are evenly spaced
With a printed text below
Enlightenment
I put on my grandpa glasses
I stoop
Wait for the shout
“Get away from that you peasant!”
Every painting, one after the other, with the same subtext
polymer on hahnemuhle paper
580 x 760 mm

Hahnemühle papers began life in 1850 and come from Saxony. They are made from selected fibres according to use blended with spring water and will last for over 100 years. (Even papers with plastic particles in them for digital / photographic use!)

A group of four, conversation hushed, enter the gallery.
They look about the room.
Quietly approach a painting.
Back away.
One of them turns to me
An enigmatic smile, and they’re and gone

There is a place to sit down
‘Helpful’ notes on these repeated drab, near colourless icons.
The artist has been painting for
Has mastered painterly expertise
Only to produce painting after painting this sad monologue of degradation and decay
Where is the joy, the sparkle, the fun, the mischief of being alive?
What is your problem buddy?

Is High Art?
Beyond the simpleton of small town New Zealand.
Give me the sparkle, the mischief and wit of being alive

The unshouted cry, “The Emperor has no clothes”
The Gallery is empty

Upstairs another gallery
I cling onto the handrail
Up, up
Getting older is a chuckle a minute.

And what a difference,
Daylight, colour,
Life

A flower
A flower poised above an upturned foot
Surreal, child-like nonsense?
Yes, nonsense and fun.
Breath of fresh air

Time to move
Lunch time

Outside midday traffic bustling, bullying
Cafés but nowhere to park
Co-driver exits to get a table at a nearby café
I drive for twenty minutes to park
No luck
Return
Collect co-driver with a hot, drooping, take-way sandwich

“Take the second …”
GPS navigates us to an on ramp
A familiar motorway

Six hours from leaving home we return
Mission accomplished.

Three Plates and a Pizza

Three Plates and a Pizza

Three grandpas on bikes, and a warm sunny day
Chatter and chuckles, like three kids at play
Rob wobbles, Bill weaves, we cycle all three
A good steady speed, we had batteries you see

Our very first ride, mild consternation
Rob’s back tyre was flat, it needed inflation
Thames Jolly Bikes, fixed it up fast
And then we’re off, on the walkway at last

Past the wharf, cross the bridge, the airfield slips by
Green fields, puffy clouds, brilliant blue sky
Bill’s eyes aren’t the best, he became involved in a drain
A few muttered words and he’s backed out again

And then for some reason, Rob disappears down a lane
So we stop, and we wait, ’till he comes back again
High up above, call of a bird
Contented cows gaze and graze in their herd

Forty five minutes, we then take our ease
Way out on the plains, where they make cheese
Coffee, then pizza, shared on three plates
What more to wish for, when you’re with mates

Aug 2023

Who Needs Sleep When . . .

2.00am and up he comes. Up the stairs, yelling his head off. He’ll be dripping wet. Loves the rain. Loves jumping on the bed beside me, wet as a sheep due for the spin cycle.

Wet cats do dry out quickly. Damp sheets need time.

All is forgiven. That soul warming vibration of a cat’s purr. Claws kneeding, piercing the sheets. True love.

Cats hear stuff we don’t. Tiniest whispie rustles in the grass. A small being conducting his quiet day, or night, under our couch. Best, when His Fluffkins, upstairs, is zonked out, not of this world, dreaming of the fridge door, while downstairs, soundlessly, I place a loaded cat dish on the floor.

And from upstairs Whoomph!

Just wondering, does he see me as adorable as I find him? He knows the sound of my car, From his ‘jungle’ of long grass he will emerge, calling with delight. To see me? Prospect of a treat? Then to plot the next 2.00am dripping and plodding over my bed. Who needs a decent night’s sleep when . . .

Anzac Day, 2023

~ and memories from a long time ago

I can remember I had started school. My mum, sister and I lived with our Nana and Pop in Herne Bay. Dad was away at the war. Pop would sit in front of the valve radio and a little man inside the radio told us about the weather, the latest news – always including progress on the war.
Hissing and crackling the BBC was rebroadcast on our local radio and we listened in our ‘sitting room’ – I can still hear Churchill’s oratory. My Pop would grunt and tell ‘This is BBC London’ what Churchill should do.

Today was a happy day. At last my Dad was to come home from the war. Nana was skipping and chirping about the house. My Mum was doing mother stuff – “Don’t you get your clean shirt . . .” – Pop had an all-day grin.
Today was a Happy Day.

“It’s here!”
An army lorry had pulled up at the bottom of the drive. Soldiers, now mates-for-life shouted farewells. Today was a happy day and Nana and my Mum were crying.

A strange man, a man I vaguely remembered from along time ago jumped off the lorry, caught his kit bag thrown over the side and walked up the drive. Hugs, chatter, more hugs –
Pop – “What are you doing outside you silly buggers? Cup of tea Jim?”
My Dad was christened Lewin Richard Hart, pronounced Jim. Don’t ask, it’s a family thing.

Memories of our first family Christmas Eve all together. Dad had that artistic flourish. A Christmas tree, decorations, lights, and of course checking Pop’s ‘chimbley’ for Santa to clamber down.
We now had the most vivid images of Santa and his sleigh.
Good childen got presents. On a recent visit to a ‘department store Santa’ I reassured the Old Guy with the beard I had been the ‘Goodest boy in the street.’  It is important to stress these things. Grown-ups can get it so wrong.

Christmas decorations done. It was past bed time. Nup, not going to bed. Gonna stay up all night . . . until

My Dad must have had very good hearing. “Listen”, Santa’s sleigh had landed on a nearby roof, “and children who are not in bed . . .”

Zoom! Clean teeth, pyjamas, squeeze eyes shut.

And eventually sleep.

Next morning – our poor parents. And grandparents. No doubt they were up late enjoying a Christmas Eve chat. Maybe even a tot o’ whatever – although I don’t remember alcohol being a part of our lives. Hellishly early next morning, before wake-oclock, excited children, out of bed bubbling, chattering, tumble into the room with the open fireplace and there it all was. Sooty footprints, presents! wrapping paper, shrieks, Santa’s drink scoffed.

Dressing gowns, brave smiles, our mother and father witnessing our first ever together family Christmas.

Damn the war.
Damn that I was denied my father for so long, in those important years.

Today, Anzac Day, and as I have been for the past few years, close to tears.

And Over the Bridge


Concentration. Wire matting can deflect,
Catch my front wheel.
Now I’m over the bridge.
Solitude, space and the soft crunch
Of tyres on gravel.

Nearby a slow and steady throbbing.
Now I see it, a tractor,
Towing some ungainly device,
But useful I’m sure
Only to be seen in a farm paddock

A dog barks.
Birdcalls – birdsounds come in flocks too.

Slow motion impressionism,
Cattle grazing in sunshine.
Cattle accustomed to cyclists.

Why do they bunch, sleep together?
And always the odd one out,
Munching, happily munching
Lost in bovine existential thoughts.

Scones

And in the beginning there were scones.

My Pop an early riser, lit the coal range for the day.  The kitchen warmed up. Then we kids got up.
Some hours later and moaning because of the indecent hour my Nana got up. Nana was a party girl. Stayed up late.

Nana was the scone maker.

Cup of tea, toast and bit by bit Nana lit up, started chatting, became nice to know.

Today, visitors. Cups of tea, best behaviour. And scones.

These days we follow, step by step, with scientific precision, the recipe in our Edmunds Cook book. (reprinted 2012)
My Nana however was quite chatty when making scones – a pinch of this, coupla cups of that, oooh I’ll add a bit more water . . .
And whup! into the coal range. In later years I found that the gauge on the door, when working, gave the temperature, not, as my Pop said, an indicator of how good we kids were the day before.

Nana’s chatter would continue, there was the best table cloth, polished cutlery, napkins, chatter, sugar bowl, chatter and
“Oooh! The scones!”
Some days just a bit over, other just right. The scones were always perfect. Because Nana made them.

In later years my sister asked Nana – scone maker supreme – if she could have the recipe.

Nana stopped, looked blank – what recipe? Scones happened. Like riding a bike. Maybe in the beginning . . .

We kids knew there were privileges in having scones at Nana’s place. The butter could be laid on just a bit more thickly. Our parents would look the other way.

At home the was a Proper Spread of Butter. Not that we could not afford a wee excess. It was Good Manners. When pressed my Mum would say, “Well, uhm, too much will make you ill, and, uhm, that’s all there is to it. So.”

Wonder

Albert is the guy
Cock ‘o the Roost
Macho
And uncontested in his domain

The girls
Well, chooks
Common garden chooks
Do chook things
In their rural lifestyle block way.
Laying eggs
Laying eggs in hard to find places
Hanging around the door making chook noises

Coupla times a day chook noises bring food
Sometimes a door is left open
They winkle their inside
Chockle their way past the cat
Hope, curiosity, patience plus
Unmentionable things on the floor

Albert knows nothing of daylight saving
Cocka doodle doos, “I’m here”
To cheer up the small community of farmlets
No flowers, chocolates or love poems
Lust is lust and on on a whimsy . . .

The sun shines
The sun sets
The planet turns
Eggs collected
And we, visitors,
Polite urban dwellers
Coo gratitude
Wonder

And the Windows Rattled

4.00am. I am half awake. A blinding flash immediately followed by massive roll of thunder. Both cats sit up, one leaps off the bed and disappears. I know I am to blame for this.
Sunday morning, breakfast, cat treats and all is forgiven.
Morning walk, a calm blue spring day, a smattering of cloud, I ride my E Bike to our local cheese factory passing cows snoozing in huddled groups.
The pasture now is rich and green ~ I ponder on a lunch. I’m hungry.

A Chirp of Thank You

Black, red beak and a beady eye
Almost hidden in the loquat tree
When I move so does he
Collecting crumbs left from morning tea

I built a bird feeder
Not left overs but healthy,
Expensive cat food.
Trust.

Yesterday into my living room.
Food? Looking for me?
Then ouldn’t find his way out.
I found him fluttering at the window.

He hopped down, walked about my feet
Back to the window
I shut doors and windows
Slowly, slowly

Wrapped my hands about him. No struggle.
Released from the balcony, a chirp of thank you.
Today hopping about my feet
Cat food, expensive, but. . .