Laurie Duggan


the nathan papers: 7


dawn
amber lights of Hataitai

pissing into the landscape




I am fifty-six years old
       (almost fifty-seven)
what have I done to deserve this?




the rumble of small aircraft. a semicircle of sky, mountains lower right, a flagpole left. cloud at medium altitude.

thorns squeak against the window. the sun disappears behind Mt Victoria.




rain        (I don’t mind)
thin cloud        selecting the landscape
light boxes hang on the slopes
                                                                        quake country

gradations
the tall windows
a rainbow down the valley

fog
out over the airport




that every other country’s money looks like play money reveals that all money is really just play money. it’s only ourselves who are deceived.




a day in the Gallery where no-one is allowed to wear black




squally

everything cold and slightly damp to the touch
(my wallet)

on the sill little cups with Malevitch designs

(waipapa hum mow mow)

still the odd light up the rise, 9.30 am




characteristic square gables
large rectangles of glass

rain as steam
crossing rooftops

sundecks for
what sun?




black shoes, black jeans, black shirt, black jumper,
red socks




invisible hills




south wind up the steps from the University
the museum full of outmoded toys, dated technology





the grey curtain parts
a baroque sky appears




amber lights
no stars yet
refractions from
raindrops
the scraping of
a rose bush
a hemisphere
of panes
black space
a tree in the yard
books in various piles

The Winds of Wellington               (a documentary)




high pitched birds
trees bent double

a strange blueness




cloud surf round Taranaki

the west coast        blue metal
basalt edge        black current

gradual removal of clothing between Wellington & Brisbane

this landscape needs to be seen in panels

a cheap bottle of gin
an ocean of small sadnesses





In the departure lounge:
‘Are you flying?’

‘I’m not catching a bus’
(they don’t get it)

mud banks

peaks that shelve off to the sea
at Piha Beach

(an endless circular conversation:
‘yiss . . . yiss . . . yiss’)

‘expect delays’





 
 
 
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