a little magic in king street...

“(What makes this world so hard to see clearly is not its strangeness but its usualness).
Familiarity can blind you too.” (Robert M Persig)

 

 

i.

 

I'm just looking

for a girl that don't mind

that I don't dance so good /

 

Who am I

to promise her the moon?

 

I've stopped looking

for someone on this crowded dancefloor

who will

 

let me lead.

 

Scientists & doctors

are injecting stars

into my failed

second-hand cornea

 

while I pretend to sleep.

 

And for the briefest of moments,

I can see strangers at bus stops

in broad daylight;

 

offering each other

familiarity and a little magic

 

in the middle of King Street,

under painted Martin Luther

dream & moon.

 

Who am I

to offer you the moon?

 

Mere moments

or a lifetime;

Amongst the chaos & bustle,

we talk like old friends...

 

Finding salmon pink,

art-making

and memories of Mt. Victoria bus tunnels

in a distant, shaky Capital

at the bottom of the world.

 

I too

left more than a little of my heart

in that tunnel.

 

Not once,

 but twice.

 

 (perhaps even three times)

 

Who am I to offer you the moon?

Instead, I offer you

a tiny jar of Nutella.

 

You offer me tobacco,

I decline.

 

I am enchanted.

 

I close my eyes after you have gone,

picture your last dance

at the doors of a big, blue bus

that came at just the right

 

magic moment.

 

Or perhaps, too soon?

 

Leaving me with a painted

Martin Luther

dream & moon.

 

Words tumble in my head.

I think of

lemon stained words blazing

on ignited paper.

 

Art can be smelt & tasted, too.

Perfect for this legally blind artist

to appreciate.

 

Go!!

Go out there

 

Gem Girl,

Girl of Light & Magic!!!

 

Make your

(no longer of this plane) Nan

& white-furred feline friend

 

proud!!

 

Armed with

only your art & words

and tobacco

 

(and damn fine smile)

 

set this earth on fire!!

 

 

ii.

 

Yes.

 

I too

have left more than a little

of this fierce,

fire-filled,

fast beating

 

artist's heart

 

in dark

Mt. Victoria bus tunnels.

 

I even spent my last

three years in Wellington

living in a tiny bedsit

in Scarborough Terrace...

 

...just two minutes walk away

from that very same tunnel.

 

For a brief moment,

two artists danced

with words and hearts and heads.

 

And just for the record,

 

just before you leapt up

to catch your bus,

I was just about

to lean over

 

and whisper in your ear:

 

"When you talk about your art,

   my dear,

 

   I can smell and taste

   your

   beautiful & pure

 

   white-light soul..."

 

 

 

iii.

 

I have just survived

a long, twelve hour train-trip

home...

 

It is morning now.

I am somewhat sleep deprived.

 

The lightbulb that blew

in my lounge room

the morning I departed for Sydney

is just as I left it.

 

Yes, the lounge is dark.

But my kitchen

 

is bathed in pure light!!

 

I sit here

in my tiny,

sun-drenched kitchen,

 

birdsong and Autumn whispering

through the

open back door.

 

I am practising that

beautiful ritual we discussed

of the

 

first coffee

of the morning...

 

The mug

warms my fingertips.

 

I think of you /

 

somewhere in the big-ness of Sydneytown,

starting your day,

 

and your

magical morning ritual

of coffee too.

 

I look at the tiny

sample jar of Nutella

on my kitchen table

 

and I smile.

 

And I begin to ponder,

to wonder

where (and whom)

I've left

in this world

 

my well-worn & read copy of:

 

"Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance".

 

 

(-for Paloma)

 

 

(c) Brent M Harpur, 13 May, 2013.

 

"Artist! You are a magician: Art is the great miracle!!" (Peladan)

 

“We’re in such a hurry most of the time we never get much chance to talk. The result is a kind of endless day-to-day shallowness, a monotony that leaves a person wondering years later where all the time went and sorry that it’s all gone.”

(Robert M Pirsig)