A Piece of Fabric, Tell it to the birds & lying in long grass - for my parents
I wrote A Piece of Fabric for my father, Anthony Frederick Taylor 2 January 1937 – 24 April 2009.
I read A Piece of Fabric at the memorial service, held at St. Matthew-in-the-City, Auckland, 29 April 2009. The service went over four hours. Raymond Boyce spoke, Roger Hall remonstrated, Paul Barrett read Chinchilla's brilliant speech from Robert David MacDonald's play of that name, Lloyd Scott spoke, Johnathan Densem sang, Dad's oldest friend, Don Hutchings, my godfather and there when Mum and Dad first met, spoke, my daughter Milly and partner Jo sang.
304 lines from his unpublished novel, Eric and Friends (or, as the agent, although not able to find a publisher, requested another title, A Mouthful of Air) appear in italics.
A Piece of Fabric
They would raise their arms
they would shout his name
The bodies and faces
whispering and
falling over
What a waste.
Knocking on bedroom doors
He tidied all the papers
stored and stacked it all
and he was happy
The man kept waving
A piece of fabric flapping
nearly to his nipples
frantic messages:
he didn’t know what it was
that the man wanted him to do
What a waste
And the knot was not untied
for all the pulling at it
straining at it
pulled it tighter
The word was not
negligent, neglectful,
or ignorant, thankless
or uncaring
The word was broken
from our heart to our voice
even to the ear that bends to listen:
He hit him again and again
the water that dribbled.
He smelt the smell.
He heard the laughter
broken
Clean hands over the white pages
Laughter sustained by sheer technique
Dribbled down the clean white paper
The writing is fractured
the heart is
The thorn burning
The narrow beams of light are
where we walk in silhouette
Mascaraed eyes
delicate hands
small escapes
Worm and time
the cruel rot
drawn in to her left breast
The day hasn’t exactly gone like it could.
My son threw up
when he heard the priest
and I kissed the spot
on Dad’s forehead
where the oil was thumbed.
It tasted rancid.
Oh Christ, Tony.
Their haloed hats at all angles
His light cotton trousers
Knelt, crawled and bled
Soldiers in the square
in the chalky white street
Face, hand, gown
Thin flesh
Fine stones
Salt veins
Fine lines
pulsed and crawled
The ways were myriad
The destination was always the same
Theatre was the life.
You couldn’t turn it around
You couldn’t for example
make a smaller plate from the pieces
of a broken plate
It was the word.
It wasn’t shameless.
In a mist of sun
in the same haze of sun
A sequence of gestures
The scratch of a match
The breath expelled
The key in the door
The flick of a card
that takes the trick
Oblong bleached shutter
Window pane, the tasseled edge
of one rug, a hint of glimmer
from a cornice, a lazy swirl
of marble
Dream of circling doves
Too soon
the eye of the camera
the dark vee of hair
You only add the years up
when you know it’s over.
From off
I broke it
A long, telling moment
To the shutter, to the haze
of sun and dream of circling doves
excited circles
into the cross-fade
What a waste
they were shameless
and treated you shamefully
is shameful more
or less than shameless?
Not like an artist, not even a man
power undiminished
passive
It was night
The barely moving water
Pressing the young man back
into the rich, buttoned leather
of the banquette
Their mouths were insolent
Cut
enormously pissed
sucking off her face
with nothing but silence, silence
he stares in a puddle impassively
Who is he?
on the edge of the berm at the roadside
A cipher?
useless, animal, useless
A bloody awful party
Black letters
Marooned
Marooned
The small agony
Quite alone
visual non sequitur, sexual
numbed and dumbed
green isolation
if the state of a nation’s soul was shown
in the health and number of its theatres
in the sunshine of amateur enthusiasm
in the novelty of unplanned ‘do it yourself’
Each day they would stop at eleven a.m.
Twanged in the fence
and hung there
We have a right to celebrate
the tragic knowledge
Her drink down his back
that it doesn’t get easier
that it never has been
that it never was
One thousand years of incense
Walnut
He was far too thin
How could they do that to him?
It looked, just for a moment
strange and out of place
A bad thing
It stood, prick-eared
Hoping
It was the end
A piece of fabric winding in a screw
They held their hands to their mouths
And what are you going to do for us?
Said the director.
Pause.
Oh. No, they all said
I’m an observer
Listen: I have a story to tell you
Jars and fat, brown urns filled with dry grasses,
toi toi and splitting, fluffing rods of bull rushes
Little peanut
I am alone
What a waste
and the knot was never untied
all the picking at it
only pulled it tighter
Cigarettes
Teeth and nails
Teeth and nails
None of the spelling was right
but that’s what it said.
Panting and sweating
crossing and re-crossing
over and over
rocking and crying
rocking and crying
desperate
desperately
What if not larger than life
was theatre
after all?
One by one
they could not understand
Silence
A dog
Lines of light and shade cut
Bars of sun and dark shade
Eyes in shadow
Tears in sunlight
To end
For ages
The little boys have expensive old skin
they smell like rubbish in the fields
for he is with me
You don’t take anything, he said,
I give it.
Wire cages
Bare bulbs
Bloody animal
Wet whisper
To find contact
as if he’d been buried
The repressed expiration of smoke.
We had a special time
stones cast long shadows
as if paint spots running
on the pavement
the best light rose from the ground
came in
under the low branches
like a mist
not even a man
many friends
It shouldn’t be here
Words
Lifted arm by arm
Leg by leg
from the wreckage
Struggle for breath
shreds
It appeared it was a very serious situation
A piece of fabric tightening
We stay open until the last person has gone
Wiping and blowing and banging and tipping,
overcome by something he didn’t understand,
and without speaking again
With his arms
and his love.
He said near the end beyond his means
how could he compete as he had lived
with last words?
He said he was.
He is.
He is the present
refused for reasons of economy.
She kept going.
It’s something that can never be explained.
What a waste.
a notice
a fence
a card
a shop window
a cat
a _____
a waste
alone.
And the knot was not untied
We talk to each other
in our solitude
What do you talk about?
Oh, mainly recipes.
A duet of broken lines
because I have broken into
my father’s room
and stolen from his writing.
What have they done?
What have they done to him?
Nothing.
What do you hear?
Nothing.
What do you see?
Nothing.
What do you smell?
Nothing.
And what do you taste?
Nothing.
What do you feel?
Nothing.
Are you all right?
How are you?
What
are you?
Nothing.
Alone.
An arrow here, a shaft of light there,
maybe a broken spear or some tongues of fire.
Teeth and breath
Cut and pieces
The flesh.
A piece of his fabric in the wind
What a waste.
To say no to the gift
when you are it
the gift
the present
He thought back to a time
when his body hadn’t mattered,
when he dragged it around with his soul,
waiting and praying to be granted just one act
of creation.
When you comprehend it
without understanding
refusing communication
Red
Black
Yellow
The writing fractured
because the heart is
and the thorn aflame
the fire races
Dark
Decay
Alone
in the dry
lungs
I wish I had a chisel for your hearts
you men of stone
we know what a king does with nothing
deriving nothing from it
not a grey man
What’s a fool to do?
stand before you
with an embarrassment of empty pockets
This is what a fool does with nothing
in my motley
Another nail in the coffin of theatre.
Ghastly.
What wealth will we bury?
too much
even this
where less
is more
nothing else.
Isolation.
The land that was fat got thinner
even then, it was still the land of our fathers
in many cases it was not
The language we spoke was the same
even our voices
were mistaken for each other’s
belonging by not
belonging
stood together
one flesh
one selvage
Doors were ever open
chairs pushed up to the windows
looking out
Soul not for sale
the fire was out of reach
in many cases
it was not
That’s where I’ve come from, he said.
And look. There is no trace.
Where I walked has disappeared.
Each footprint, every sign of passage,
just fills up behind me.
What have they done?
Nobody would believe me.
That’s where I’m going, he said.
It never gets any closer.
And I can’t see it
and I don’t know what it is.
Repetition, repetition.
Reach for another tissue.
Take turns
carrying.
Gentle tissue
Soft fabric
Sweet selvage
We have to go now.
But they couldn’t get out.
It wasn’t the best of days
fumbling
pressing
gobbling
picking
greed
arched
unseen
in the grease, the wire, the coils
Devoured
Absorbed
the dark brooding of the hills and the dunes,
grey promontories
and the rolling seas around them
and figures like paper doll cutest
hardly visible in the tumbling
monochromatic vision
of an overwhelming nature.
Large and clear cut
marched the letters of his life
I knew it.
I knew it all the time.
a shadow in the shadows,
just waiting until he too
could pass into total darkness.
NO!
Once, I had many friends.
It wasn’t much, he knew.
But it was all that he had to say.
His trousers
rolled
trailing a cigarette from his hand,
walked out
over the sand.
I wrote Tell it to the birds, as an answering piece, in 2010.
Tell it to the birds
I.
My shadow is a black
fold of earth
a sudden downpour
a pylon made
from shining rings of steel
dulls
there’s a wedding underground
dressed
below the dirt.
dressing is
so much
of an occasion.
blocked pores
a finger curls
to insert a wad
of cotton wool
The road has trees on either side
it looks more like a bridge
than a road.
from the cemetery
hawks rose from roadsides
all the way home
a blackbird was in the shop
we heard
when we returned
the world is pregnant
with him again.
II.
I’ve come to say it to the birds.
cancel appointments, see diagramme.
death that
keeps life visible,
making it
absent.
the beginning is not.
Crushed in advance
the embryo doesn’t function
A bizarre clattering sound
not heard before.
unmade with quills
and feathers,
seeing for the first time
through a small window
at the top of a tall tower
his son
falling
a deadfall, beauty
on his face
in his hands
in my impatience to talk to you
he bleeds
in his small cell
Sorrow.
Seagull.
Saturday.
III.
and I still,
I.
I will celebrate
in the usual way
at a cost
and where is the blood
coming from?
A year with the birds
without pills of any kind
hollow bones
air flutes
heavy bones
earth folds.
It is unlikely even for an instant
that we flew at all
Absent presence
eyes
unborn
voiceless
speak.
abjection can only provide
a particular proof
no suffering is exemplary
Angles of sun
on the clouds
How much shadow?
The swallows come back
a blackbird was in the forest
a blackbird was in the forest
even if it is not true
A third angle opens
I went with grief in my heart
Feet running.
the skin swells
the limb drops
sing.
cultivate exotic states of mind
We would laugh at the smell
in the house,
Rain at night.
IV.
I still I
How sing for the dead
not to shame them
further?
The weather clears.
A white dove watches
from a building opposite
the funeral director’s.
No more play,
No more pain,
for an instant
a precarious form …
flies to fate.
sons are born with news
of the earth,
a wedding underground.
Perhaps it is my mistakes
setting my words apart
that mark them as mine.
He laughs. We look.
Writing is stammering.
writing
that finds justice in its own
writing.
a thrush is singing close by
Don’t tell the words
where we are going,
No sense telling them,
The door is open.
A sparrow is in the house.
letters that stir
the fire
I went to help.
It disappeared
before I could.
Coughs
I was drunk
I was so relieved
there were common names
for everything
because there’s nobody left
who can correct them.
I opened my phone
and found nothing.
V.
I will say it to the birds
in the forest
Where they never ever go.
Kahu stuck
to the road
in guts
threads of rubber
or skin
eye onyx
the jewel
of death
on a ring.
cicadas singing
in the gardens
I’ve never felt any different.
I will never feel different.
in sharp, sudden focus
the edges
private and true
the unknown life
inconcinnities
you cannot control
A cold, original pleasure
It’s the only time I’ve been
reasonable.
You tell me
whether I have broken
the impasse
to bring news
of the earth, that’s why
sons are born
You couldn’t
do what he did now
You couldn’t
do what he did
in his lifetime,
even in his lifetime.
I’ve so much to say
shall I escape on foot?
sunk into time and
emerging into timelessness
He folds himself
As close as possible
an absence,
I held him
I held nothing
because he was my father.
You’re no longer in a life
where you can change
the slightest thing.
VI.
So much to say
I will say it still
a year
among the birds.
a thrush is singing
on the white rail
of the deck.
What you are looking for
is not there
Stand. Lower your voice.
Nobody knows enough about
where we have come from
and what we really want.
I can smell cigarettes
The scent
warmed
inside your shirt.
Funny he died.
I feel funny.
Piercingly
Lead ribbons
are so flat
with no visible means
of support
we would laugh at everything.
to lie in his bed with him
to be a captive bird
a drop or two of water
dripped on its beak.
I am alone among equals
pigeons
and sparrows
flew into my eyes
until my eyes
saw
nothing
but
WITH A KNIFE AND SHIT
WITH A SPADE AND
each time you reach
conception
clogging clay
we had not counted on being wet
VII.
love will end
I know about birds,
she said.
black seed
white skin,
beloved,
how will we be
in touch?
Now,
remove
possibility,
the word.
I mean it
different kinds of time.
The fantail’s gone.
High cloud.
Rain at night.
so much
Last night I turned
to stone.
I thought,
How will I make love?
Be good I mean it
Kiss my lips
In death we say
there’s a wedding underground.
To live,
live the life
of the dead.
come to nothing.
I wrote lying in long grass for my mother two years later, Ianthe Victoria Taylor 27 January 1939 – 15 February 2012.
The service was held at the little church in Kaukapakapa near where my parents are buried, 21 February 2012, I read the piece and Jo and Milly sang, The Rose, for Dad, this time, for Mum, Bridge Over Troubled Water. Robert and Anita Bremer from Waverley were there.
lying in long grass
your father and I have decided
we don’t believe there’s anything
after death
you don’t
go
anywhere
there are no beautiful fields
or singing angels
there’s nothing
you just stop
given over two years ago
with no room for argument
this was a pronouncement
typical of my parents
because the opposite
could be said
to be equally true
your father and I
believe absolutely
in life after death
we are looking forward
to meeting in a beautiful field
with singing angels
who will pluck their lyres
or harps
for us
there is an eternity
heaven exists
and you live forever
the lies are mere contingency
the truth is out of reach
the lies are mere contingency
because the truth is out of reach
like trying to open a letter
when half is in the mirror
you follow the trail with your eyes
while birds eat the remaining crumbs
the picture changes
the page turns
the two are not connected
you know what you said about the unexpected
expect it
oma was always unusual
my heart has streamers on it
so we may see it
drop
down a deep black hole
so that between the fiction
and fact
falls
delay
anton chekhov knew
exactly who
my mother was
a seagull
landed
on her head
in the front seat
of the punt
screaming
on the avon
what is left unsaid is this
better to stamp your golden curls
lie with sticks
the wrong end of the book
what did they see
the dykes at the fish and chip shop
what did they say
that made her think
they wanted to pick her up
more breast
while I’m leaning over
birds
she hated birds
soar
in a reflected sky
you can write about us
when we’re both dead
a story
half-buried in heavy sand
it has escaped the ravages
of truth
it has escaped exposure
to the light of secrets
that are told at parties
it has escaped
wrapped in dresses
small and simple
small and simple
like a twin
gives each
a double gravity
like a thing which
has been wrapped
in dresses in layers
for centuries
and unlike a thing
that has been handled regularly
it is not worn smooth
it is sharp
it catches
a claw
a talon
on the silk and lace
of every piece of fabric
they must have known
their lives would be loud
for the rocks
in its course
but for that
exceptional
monika
she said she got fat
on school dinners
in the fifties
she said
stop writing poetry
in your head
look at the road
she also said
wait till your father
gets home
how do you feel
I don’t feel well
why not
I don’t know
where is the pain
I don’t know
silence an ocean
secrecy a din
night suddenly falls
the choir roars sleeps
by turns
the ship of the world
spins and fires
the land offends
because it floats not
noise drowns
in music
look at that
the last drops of the mixture
you shake the bottle pink
unscrew the lid white
plastic
you take out the wand
you put your lips together
blow
a bubble pops
without a sound
it would be right
and wrong
to say
she passed away
she didn’t pass
she would not pass
and if anyone had been there
to remind her she was passing
she’d have said
no I’m not
each small perversion of the facts
doesn’t add up to one big lie
it speaks
a frail truth
how fragile
is the human heart
a model of negativity
a practical fiction
the road ends in darkness
as if darkness were only
a colour
I’m barking at shadows at the gate
bright sun
as if everywhere
a sign
angels
a waterspout
a flood
a black beetle
a breakdown
a slow blink
the night of the night
a week hard with happening
each day
a child
a light
each day
tauter
this morning a slanting blade
and movement at the gate
the shape of it under the skin
of these events
a stranger outside
or one of us who has left
who has just left
who hesitates at the gate
no room in a world with too much sense
to account for any life
so what was mum’s about
dad and us
but put her in a theatre or a school
and she was shockingly
capable
she only had to set foot on a playground
to organise some small child
who wouldn’t quake but connect
as if mum had access
to a special switchboard
and she only had to step
into a classroom
to calculate its average
intelligence
as well as range
and modes
who the bright kids
and where the slow ones were
and where the trouble-makers
to each she would give
her full attention
which is exactly what she did
at any party
even family gatherings
it was quite wearing
for friends to pass her IQ test
but she never had to disarm a guest
grab the knife
kick him in the balls
at home
as she had at work
shockingly capable
discriminating
in the application
of force
she hated housework
it was lonely
loved food and wine
and company
she pulled party food
platters of petits-fours
pâté and crackers
olives and cheeses
artichoke hearts
dolmades
and whole meals together
out of the best ingredients
the credo of the good
hostess
true until two weeks ago
I like a full cupboard
her mother put her off poetry
because granny
was the last victorian
insisted on recitation
by heart and banned comics
and grandpa never spared
the rod
first year college
he asked me if I was
a fag
I misunderstood
mum rebelled and all her life
put herself against
if not above
convention
probably why kids made
the connection
one look at dad
a dirty mick in a duffelcoat
wearing a goatee
was enough for her parents
then one look at dad
under the clock
at charing cross station
was enough
for mum
they didn’t live to enjoy a
happy old age together
but when they both had something to do
they were brilliant
they were brilliant at living
that’s not long
she told the specialist
when given only months
but you have surprised us
he said
so far
so
who can say
and once said
who can be sure
months passed
and on wednesday night
within the standard length
of a play
two to
two and a half hours
she not so much left us
as went without leaving
but she did do one last
extraordinary thing
as if to acknowledge us
but also and equally possibly
to graciously acknowledge
a grateful audience
to say
this is
all I am
she lowered her eyelids
raised them
a small drop
of moisture
ran from her eye
I didn’t see it
but it was there
a tear brought out
by the quietest time and also
the greatest noise in the world
applause
mum wasn’t supposed to die
right now or
at
all
and she was expected to fight
to the end
she slipped away
as if she’d secretly rehearsed
lying at night
in the hospital bed in her room
she called her
coffin
the terrible years are gone
and the years
we laughed more
than we could have believed
possible
I only have to look at you
to know where they are gone
they flit like shadows
on your face
they move like breath
they lift like mist
drop like rain
they pool in your eyes
they hide in pockets
look away
you will
miss them
when they’re
there
lying in long grass
the simple sky above
a still lake
every feature of the landscape
perfectly reflected
feeling the earth turn
and the way
time folds one
thing against the other
like the sky and the lake
