THE ACCOUNT OF A REMARKABLE ENCOUNTER WITH THE SUN IN SUBURBAN CHRISTCHURCH
This is
the story you must believe.
Mirabile
dictu: one buttery morning,
rosy-fingered
dawn long since posthumous,
hungover,
I intent on the Satyagraha of those
unable to
do what is expected of them,
when
with a noise like a barely
restrained
planet-combusting plasma
plume,
a throat
politely cleared.
“Hello
sunshine,” I said.
“At least,”
replied
the burning luminary, “your address
is more
polite than Mayakovsky’s was, though less
obsequious
than O’Hara’s, not as chummy as Tuwhare’s.
After all,
I am a star.”
And lo,
Miracle of Fatima –
the
normally aloof sun descended, briefly pausing
to scratch
his vast flaming arse
- Vision of Jung –
on the
Cathedral spire,
and oozed
his bulk through my window
like a fat
man getting out of a small car,
his
blast-furnace breath setting off cicada pizzicato
and gorse
pods a-popping.
I opted
for an opening line,
“If I said
you had a celestial body, would you hold it against me?”
The sun
replied:
“Only if
you fancy life as a crisp.
Keep
vigilant for signs of burnout, though I
look good
for my age, the stress
of
energising this goldilocks planet of yours has taken
a couple
of aeons off my life,
and you
are not nearly as robust as I
who has
looked down on this world
(what do
you call it? Dirt? Oh, Earth. Really?)
since it
was barren rock.”
“You flatter,
Sir,” I flirted,
“but this
sort of contact is somewhat unusual.
What
brings you here?”
“You are
no poet, not like the others
I’ve
visited over the decades, even Oliver.
I don’t
shine out your bum,
but your
dedication to the art of the old school –
Keats was a close-bosomed friend,
you know –
pleases
me.
I’ve
neglected New Zealand, although
I see the
long islands, in their narrow latitudes, first each day.
I predate
everything, but maintain an interest
in
literary goings on, and have so since
the first
Egyptian composed a hymn to Ra, since I
was a
Phoebus Apollo, patron of poets
(they called me
‘He-who-slays-from-afar’
so Slip
Slop Slap)
I know
something about music too,
composing
the harmony of the spheres. Anyway,
I just
wanted to say that while
your
pastiches aren’t much good, positively amateurish in fact,
some poets
are misguided,
believing
they are writing poetry.”
“We can’t
all be that bad.” said I, still in awe
of the
chattiness of the daystar.
“You’re
writing in prose and snapping twigs,
rhetorically
lacklustre,
queering
the orthography – tone deaf for the most part,
afraid of
technique, of language, and complexity.
Honestly,
how exciting is all that shouting “boo!”
at the
squares. [He’s fussier than I am]
But I
shine on all things equally, there
is nothing
new under me say the Scriptures,
so I just
wanted to tell you
not to
worry about it. Keep on your bliss
for
private contemplation.
There’s
radiation, that’s for remembrance; pray,
Love,
remember: and there is protons. That’s for thoughts.
There’s
photons for you, and quarks: there’s hydrogen
for you;
and here’s some for me: we may call it
H’ o’
Bombs
though I
am the cleanest energy there is, I
am still nuclear:
O you must
wear your hydrogen with
a
difference. There’s some UV: I would give you
some you
neutrinos, but I seem to be missing some.
Keep on
truckin’.
Now make
me a cup of coffee,
Ta –
instant’s fine.”
First published Takahē, Autumn 2007
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