A Poem: Connect

arrival and departure

Arrival and Departure, photograph by Kirstie McKinnon

Connect

Walking up from the surf
a long surf
intentionally numb
closed edge of pain
a one-eyed dog runs towards me
I hustle him back
close his gate
he cocks his one eye at me
puzzled.

I grasp the surfboard trundler
to continue
but now a weasel
crosses the road
where the dog has just been.

She’s slow
a dead bird in her mouth
drags her down
I think bad thoughts
about rodents and native birds
I pick up a rock.

In a sunny stone wall
overflowed with salt flowers
she stashes her burden
no killed bird
her weasel baby
smoke grey coat and white chest
like hers, she hides it so
I don’t know if it’s 
alive or dead.

She turns to face me, I stop
green leaves and pink petals
nod above her head
I see tunnels
under tended plants
her ears fur-pricked attentive shells
legs firm muscled, feet gripped and sturdy
she watches me a long time
eyes abyss lit black and wide
I cannot read but I understand
the furrowed grey fur of her forehead
we are both mothers
then she jumps
and is gone.

From the stone wall 
because I am prone
to wishful thinking
I fancy I hear mewling.

I put down the rock
return to the trolley of surfboards
the handle rust familiar to my palm
weight to shoulder, step
out of numb
I smell dirt.

Across the road, diggers and pile drivers
in the former paddock
with great views.

~ poem by Kirstie McKinnon, first published in tākahe journal, no. 104, April 2022.

About this poem

I’ve been thinking about displacement since my last post, Moonlight and Gold — how we end up somewhere, but maybe not where we thought we’d be.

When I wrote the poem Connect I was struck by the slow revelation of each moment while I stood there with the weasel. The weasel was desperate, I could see that, a nocturnal creature in bright exposure. She ran across the road after I shifted the dog, maybe the dog had been a barrier? Then I got it. She ran across the road with her baby in her mouth in the broad light of day because her home had been destroyed. Maybe (definitely) I leapt to conclusions.

More slow revelations: my own judgement based on limited information; the idea that she and I were in some way the same — seeking refuge; the surprise of the sparkling something-like-entreaty, and curiosity in her eyes; the surprise of gratitude to myself for that moment of pause, that stay-a-little-see-a-little more which enabled me to put down the stone.

A dear and wise person once said to me: ‘A lot happens in the pauses.’

About the photograph

I’m often quite moved by simple things on the beach. The white nub of a shell, the marks of water — arrival and departure.

Event coming up

I’m thrilled to be reading with Dr Susan Wardell at the National Poetry Day event on Friday 23 August, 5.30pm-7.30pm, 4th Floor, Dunedin City Library, Moray Place.

Susan Wardell and I have written a series of poems about Ōtepoti Dunedin rivers. The work is called A Water Cycle, and follows the progress rain through the Lindsay | Puke Haukea, Ross Creek, and the Leith | Ōwheo to te Moana nui a Kiwa | the Pacific ocean. The performance involves movement, sung notes and words. We’re both excited about the work we’ve created together, and looking forward to sharing it.

Might see you there.

Posting schedule

I’m shifting my posting day to Friday, as this seems to naturally fit with my work/life schedule at the moment.

During the remainder of August and September, I’ve decided to experiment with a once a week post (Substack recommend this, so I’m going to give it a try). The four posts per month will be: three short poem posts, and one longer piece as usual. Feedback welcome.

Thank you as always for being alongside me on Substack. I hear from many of you during the week via email, Whatsapp, and here on the Substack page. I’m grateful for your responses and the ongoing conversation about art, writing, history and what-it-is to be kind. Thank you for your support.

Kirstie