It wasn't a good night.
I woke up stiff as a carcase
hanging by the hocks in the
freezing-works. The question was:
what to do with myself?
Well, why not offer myself
for use as a park bench,
my head and feet resting
on apple boxes? But be
careful to close my eyelids.
I don't want any sparrow pecking
out my eyes. Or why not use me
as a fence-post? But please dig
the hole deep enough, so that
when they strain the wires,
my feet won't suddenly jerk
out of the hole, scattering
dirt about. If I won't do
as a fence-post, why not stretch out
my arms on a crossbar, stuff straw
in my shirt and hat, and put me
to use as scarecrow. If that still
won't do, why not use me as
as a cross to which some criminal
may be tied, but please, please,
not the Son of God - by Jesus,
I couldn't bear the nails.
Are you dead,
or are you alive?
You will never read this poem,
nevertheless it's for you.
Who but you
could understand this poem?
Who but a woman
who doesn't read poems
could make sense of it?
It says nothing, and yet
it says everything,
and what it doesn't say
is what it means to say.
Only you could understand
what I'm trying not to say.
If you are still alive,
think of me as a poet
you could never know
and whose poems only you
could understand,
even though you will never
read a single poem of mine.
If you are dead
it doesn't matter anyway.
© Alistair Te Ariki Campbell