the red room

The Comforter by Helen Lehndorf
Seraph Press, RRP $25

The Comforter is Helen Lehndorf’s debut collection of poetry. Lehndorf grew up in Taranaki and studied Creative Writing at Whitireia Polytechnic. She has published poetry for twenty years, so The Comforter is long overdue. Published by independent Wellington publisher Seraph Press, and with a cover by Sarah Laing, the collection looks good in the hand.

While Lehndorf explores familiar themes for a debut collection such as childhood and family life, the poems have an edge of domestic unrest. Relationships are loving but hard work; mothering is a mix of desperation and laughter. “Manawatu gothic”, as one poem states. When writing about her own childhood—her father at the freezing works, her mother sewing and gardening—Lehndorf talks about the skills she’s inherited from her parents. Stitching and gutting, it seems, and maybe a stoic outlook.

The Comforter is also a book about tending. While Lehndorf is obviously a keen gardener, the garden works as a metaphor for the growth (or shrivelling) of her emotional life. The act of gardening also talks to the responsibilities of adulthood. Lehndorf writes playfully about her own childhood, but the present seems more complicated. Many of the poems dwell on renewal: ‘I want a shiny, clean / version of myself. Closedown, / hibernate, restart’, she states in ‘Wabi-Sabi’.

The book is arranged into four sections, but would have been braver without them. It seems to be a New Zealand tick to create unnecessary structure (as Cy Matthews discusses in Landfall Review Online). Streamlining would also have allowed the few weaker poems to be put aside. Some poems do not seem to reach beyond a straight description of events, such as the adolescent trials poem, ‘Strummer summer’. The list poem ‘Alpha’ also felt a little flat. I wanted these poems, and a handful of others, to talk about broader ideas. Family and home are two of the best subjects for poetry, but by looking outward the poems could have provided an entry point for this reader. For example, the poem ‘Where thought goes’ manages to be both intimate and inclusive. In a yoga class (where the teacher is dying of cancer), Lehndorf explores the way thought and language can be used to manage our emotions:

she is not dead yet. She is right here, demonstrating the triangle pose.
My thoughts go west, go wayward. My thoughts are cul-de-sacs.
Dead-ends. I am a sick baby, a cut flower. I am not safe
around visual metaphor.

Although some poems don’t deliver, The Comforter is a sharply observed and funny collection. In ‘Domestic Violence’, a wonderful poem of domestic frustration, the poet watches river swimmers and thinks: “I hope you drown, you / beatific full-buttocked revellers”. In ‘Poem without the L word’, the poet compares her lover to the things that make life worthwhile:

My warm brown egg.
My coffee pot.
My mulch, my humus,
my thick layer of good rot …
You.
Every hour, on the hour
on 45, 33
and on imported, limited-release EP.

While the book blurb may have over-reached in promising “shocking honesty” (the only poem that comes close is ‘Before the Departure’, a brilliant poem about motherhood), the collection is heartfelt, relatable, and authentic. This may be due to Lehndorf’s lack of pretension. That is not to say the work is not serious: Lehndorf’s words are chosen carefully. Sound and rhythm are strengths of the collection, and it’s one to read out loud. There is an easiness to the way Lehndorf’s words flow: “Sparrow head, blackbird beak, thrush face / threaded on leather, fastened with wood” she chants in ‘Latest Project’. To steal jargon from wine tasters, the book has great mouth-feel.

Overall, The Comforter is a beautifully produced and well written collection of work that I enjoyed reading (especially on re-read). The final poem, ‘Garlic-planting time’, leaves us with the poet’s underlying optimism:

This is storing and healing. This is
planning and tending. With muddy fists,
you take possession of the year.

Making tea in the universe

Have a look in the pantry.
you’ll need to gather up everything

there is, every particle
of matter between you and me and the

edge of creation. Now squeeze it
into a dot so infinitesimally

compact that it has no
dimensions.

There is no apron to stand behind.
There is no space, no darkness

for this pregnant dot to wait in.
There is no past for it

to emerge from, no egg timer.
The tea leaves are in the pot,

put the kettle on, light the gas.
In the first second

the dot has space.
Magnets fall from the fridge

as you get the milk out.
In the first minute your universe

is a million billion miles across
and growing fast.

There are 10 billion degrees of heat.
The kettle is boiling by the third

minute and 98 per cent
of all the matter that is

or ever will be has been
created. Pour the tea to brew

while you wait
for life on earth.

I am a sucker for science poetry.  It’s a great way to talk about the commonalities between science and poetry. Personally I find the universe pretty hard to comprehend, and I enjoy the way Heath’s poem pairs the homely act of tea making with the creation of the universe. For me, it talks about one way we can relate to such a big idea. I know the universe is far too baggy to fit in my head, yet I still take it for granted. It’s as common as making tea. Of the poem, Helen says in Turbine 2011 (where the poem also appears):

‘Making tea in the universe’ is a partially found poem inspired by Bill Bryson’s description of the Big Bang in his Short History of Nearly Everything, (Black Swan, 2004) in which he describes the creation of the universe happening in the time it takes to make a sandwich. This poem won the inaugural ScienceTeller Poetry Award in 2011.

Helen blogs at helenheath.com and writes poetry and essays. Her poetry has been published in many journals in New Zealand, Australia and the USA. She completed an MA in Creative Writing at the IIML in 2009. Helen’s chap-book of poems called Watching for Smoke was published by Seraph Press in 2009. Her first full length book, Graft, will be published in 2012 by VUP.

For other Tuesday Poems check out the hub.

Twenty twelve, you’re looking a little chaotic. A book, a baby, and a PhD. It sounds like a bad movie title. For inspiration, I’ve been reading a few blogs where other writers talk about their intentions and fears for the new year. Usually I would make a sensible list of resolutions such as ‘run 40km a week’, or ‘write every day’, that I can aim for, half achieve, berate myself for, and then get over. Instead, this year, I’ve decided to take An Approach, which is something I learned while working in government. An Approach is a way of heading toward a goal without actually committing to the specifics of what will be achieved.

I know I want to work hard at my doctorate, and to keep on writing the book reviews and contract writing I enjoyed pre-Sam. But this year I’ll have to be careful with my time. I’ll also have to be okay with putting down tasks unfinished, at which I am terrible. I’m sure it’s genetic. Even now my father can’t leave the drive unswept to come in for dinner. With a baby I’ll also have to master typing one-handed which may be a valuable skill if I ever lose a hand in a zoo incident.

I’ve decided my approach for the next year is this: Have few expectations / do the best I can with the time I have / give a lot of love. Hooray!

Every year there are books I want to read, and every year I don’t read them. There are books on my shelf that I have been trying to read for years. I have resigned myself to the fact that some books (War and Peace, all of Dickens, the Odyssey) will never be read. But this year I’ve made myself a list of twenty books that I really, truly want to read. It’s a modest number, but then I have a baby, book review work, and a PhD to carry on with. Here’s the list.

Fiction

• The Cowboy Dog — Nigel Cox. How I have managed not to read this book is beyond me. It’s been on my shelf for at least a year after it was rescued from a friend’s pile of books off to Arty Bees.
• Solar — Ian McEwan. McEwan is my favourite fiction writer and this was released in 2010. Shame on me.
• Persuasion — Jane Austen. This year I read Pride and Prejudice. In 2012 I will read Persuasion. By the time my son is at school I might have managed all of Austen.
• A Visit from the Goon Squad — Jennifer Egan. People keep on talking about this book like it’s the second coming, so I’m going to read it.
• The Sense of an Ending — Julian Barnes. Man Booker winner in 2011, so it’s mandatory reading, ha.
• The Hut Builder — Laurence Fearnley. Also mandatory reading as it won the New Zealand Post 2011 award for best book. Mackenzie Country (the novel’s setting), is part of my own family’s mythology so I’m looking forward to it.

Fiction – Short Story Collections

• Legend of a Suicide — David Vann. He visited, people raved, I thought I better read his work.
• Lawrence Patchett’s debut collection of short stories, due out in 2012 from Victoria University Press. Patchett is a tremendously sharp writer and I can’t wait to read his collection.

Poetry

• The Comforter — Helen Lehndorf. Lehndorf’s debut collection of poetry is from Seraph Press. After reading Lehndorf’s work in various New Zealand journals I’m interested to see how her voice comes together in a collection.
• The Same As Yes — Joan Fleming. This is Fleming’s debut collection from VUP, and I was lucky enough to read early versions of the manuscript before it was accepted for publication. So reading the final collection will be an exercise in becoming.
• Turtle Island — Gary Snyder. Turtle Island won the Pulitzer Prize in, ah, (checks Google), 1975. Snyder has been one of the biggest influences on American environmental poetry, so I really should read some of his work.
• The Mirror of Simple Annihilated Souls — Kate Camp. Camp’s collection won the New Zealand Post 2011 award for best collection of poetry. It includes one of my favourite poems from 2011, so I have been meaning to read the entire collection.

Non Fiction

• A Sand County Almanac — Aldo Leopold. Published in 1949, it influenced the American conservation movement (including environmental poets). I’ve been meaning to read it for the last two years.
• Helping your baby to sleep : why gentle techniques work best — Anni Gethin. I’m a new mother. There had to be at least one sleep book on this list.
• The Exercise Book: Creative Writing Exercises from Victoria University’s Institute of Modern letters — edited by Ken Duncum, Bill Manhire, Chris Price, and Damien Wilkins. My clever husband gave me this book for Christmas. I am going to have a lot of fun with the exercises.
• Running Writing Robinson — edited by David Carnegie, Paul Millar, David Norton, and Harry Ricketts. Running and writing together? No brainer.
• Why We Run: A Story of Obsession — Robin Harvie. To be honest, I could easily make a list of twenty running books, and it was hard to limit the number on this list to two. Harvie’s book looks at ultra running and the rewards such madness brings.
• How to Live: A Life of Montaigne in One Question and Twenty Attempts at an Answer — Sarah Bakewell. Fellow poet Sam Searle suggested this book. I know nothing about it but presume it has something to do with essayist Montaigne.
• My Stroke of Insight — Dr. Jill Botle Taylor. Ever since seeing neuroanatomist Dr. Jill Botle Taylor’s TED talk about experiencing a stroke from the inside, I have wanted to read her book about the same event. That was in 2008.

And finally, one wild card for that book I can’t pass up. Hopefully it’s on the short side.

A nice story in the Dom about the gifts I make for Xmas (instead of buying), and how an experience is the best gift. The story says I was making crafts during winter, but to be fair this was because I was heavily pregnant and needed to keep busy. I think I’ll write a proper post with tips for gift making and giving in the new year.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Christmas is the perfect occasion for crafting. I spent most of the winter making gifts and decorations (being pregnant in cold weather lends itself to sewing). I did save a few projects for right before Christmas. The first was to make Sam a stocking. Stockings have always been a tradition in my family, and I remember as a kid, waking up on Christmas morning to a stocking at the end of my bed. My childhood stocking had “Sarah” stenciled on the foot (in biro, from memory). My mother finally put her foot down a few years ago and said I was too old to have a stocking. It was a sad day.

I found this delicious fabric and ribbon at Nancy’s embroidery shop. I am incapable of leaving that shop without at least a few metres of ribbon. The pattern was from a book of Scandinavian crafts, and is pretty simple. I am sure you could easily draw one free hand.

The cute terracotta star on top of our tree was a gift from my friend Meg last Christmas. We went to her house and had Christmas lunch with sparkly crackers, and everyone who came gave handmade gifts of decorations, soaps and food. I like handmade gifts the best. The tree I bought a few weeks ago from faf-fin. They are a New Zealand gang of designers living in London, and I like that the tree is made in NZ, environmentally friendly, and doesn’t involve me cutting down a pine each year. I do miss that pine smell, though.

This year I’ve been experimenting with stamps, and I wanted to make my own Christmas wrapping paper and stamp. I started off with the idea of holly, although this doesn’t look like a holly leaf. I chose to use blue ink (instead of green, red etc.) because I like non-traditional colours for Christmas. I am not religious, or a fan of Coke, so when wrapping I use colours I associate with a New Zealand Christmas, such as sea blue and grass green.

And one last great thing about this time of year: peonies!

“Vocal” appears in the latest issue of the 4th Floor Literary Journal, a selection of work written each year by students and tutors on the writing programme at Whitireia New Zealand. Bill is a stellar poet, and someone to watch out for in New Zealand poetry. He’s part of my writers group, so I’ve had the pleasure of seeing earlier versions of this poem. Reading it reminds me that writing truly is rewriting. I haven’t reproduced the poem here because my blog suffers hiccups with long lines. It also gives you the chance to read other parts of the journal (…Helen Heath, James Brown, Mary Cresswell, and more).

For other Tuesday poems check out the hub.

Rendezvous

Meet me at the corner
of Yearning and Lack
where the old red trams
rattled and clanked as they
took that last tight curve
where the line crests
the hill — you’ll remember
it well — we saw
the coast so far below
reaching for the horizon
almost successfully
and in front of us the track
crumbled to a stop in an
embarrassment of rust

“Rendezvous” appears in Trace Fossils, Cresswell’s most recent collection of poetry that was published by Steele Roberts in March, 2011 (the poem first appeared in Snorkel #9).

On the Snorkel website, Cresswell writes: “This poem started out as an exercise in word abuse, specifically of place names. It somehow ended up describing the railway line going north, one of my favourite views. I’m not sure how the trams got in — I never saw a Wellington tram myself and doubt they got to Pukerua Bay, even on the most effervescent of Friday nights — but they are quite welcome.” The image that grabs me is of the coast reaching for the horizon, almost successfully. I spent a good few minutes picturing the coast thinning out into a line, but not quite hitting the horizon. Beautiful.

For other Tuesday poems check out the hub.

I’ve made the difficult (while at the same time easy) decision to postpone going back to my PhD until April next year. While Sam is so little he needs me to be a full time mum and a part time writer, rather than try to do both full time. And how can I refuse baby blue eyes? I’ve put aside some time each week to write though, and am looking forward to those hours.

the lost baby poem

the time i dropped your almost body down
down to meet the waters under the city
and run one with the sewage to the sea
what did i know about waters rushing back
what did i know about drowning
or being drowned

you would have been born into winter
in the year of the disconnected gas
and no carxxxxwe would have made the thin
walk over genesee hill into the canada wind
to watch you slip like ice into strangers’ hands
you would have fallen naked as snow into winter
if you were here i could tell you these
and some other things

if i am ever less than a mountain
for your definite brothers and sisters
let the rivers pour over my head
let the sea take me for a spiller
of seasxxxxxlet black men call me stranger
alwaysxxxxxfor your never named sake

This poem by Lucille Clifton is from ‘good woman: poems and a memoir, 1969-1980′ (copyright © 1987 by Lucille Clifton). I found it on the poetryfoundation.org website where you can also find out information about Lucille Clifton (in short: award winning African American writer and educator with an unadorned, pared back style who wrote about urban family life, social upheaval, and womanhood).

I’ll admit it, I was looking for poems about babies. In a few weeks time I will be giving CPR to my PhD, and for the rest of the year I am going to concentrate on the creative part of my doctorate. Let’s face it, my baby addled brain has no chance of penetrating academic articles. Because I’ve spent the last few months working my new all-day-and-night job as mummy, I am sure that experience will come out in my poems. And I think it should.

What I’m afraid of is writing bad baby poetry. By that I mean sentimental, apple-of-my-eye poetry. I know I’m in danger. I wanted to see how other people managed to write about parenthood, and that is where I found Clifton’s poem. It reminded mw that parenthood encompasses a wide range of emotions and experiences, and is not only about love. For me, the calm and factual way Clifton talks about losing her baby is where the heartbreak hides. You can feel her grief, and her resolve for her future children.

Anyway, wish me luck. For other Tuesday Poems check out the hub.