{"id":102,"date":"2024-08-25T08:43:12","date_gmt":"2024-08-25T08:43:12","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/conradxposure.com\/wordpress\/?page_id=102"},"modified":"2024-08-31T06:39:25","modified_gmt":"2024-08-31T06:39:25","slug":"poems","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/conradxposure.com\/wordpress\/?page_id=102","title":{"rendered":"Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

VOICE OF A POET<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

An appreciation by Billy Marshall Stoneking <\/strong><\/pre>\n\n\n\n
Christina Conrad has always been considered something of a phenomenon. That she was born and raised in New Zealand, let alone lived there for nearly fifty years, seems the ultimate aberration. Where New Zealand is prim and conservative, Conrad is outlandish and eccentric; where New Zealanders veer towards what is respectably \u201chip\u201d (i.e.: ‘art that comes from somewhere else besides New Zealand’), or rush headlong towards the \u201ctried-and-true\u201d, Conrad studiously disdains fashion and safety, and their consequent mediocrity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Poet, painter, filmmaker, playwright, designer, performer & poet, Conrad underscores the esoteric wisdom that art \u2013 if it be art at all – is is both sacred and profane – at once occult and universal, and always spiritual. Her poetry, like her paintings and clay sculptures, is highly emotional and deeply philosophical – a curious combination in an age where poetry has been objectified or de-constructed by academia into a precious intellectualism devoid of almost everything but irrelevance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Conrad\u2019s poetry is outlaw poetry. It eschews all rules, habits, and conventions. And for this, it has been laregly ignored or under-valued. You can almost see the hairs rising on the necks of those irate academic poets who believe they are accomplishing something important by taking up arms against Conrad\u2019s use of one-word lines and her lack of punctuation. As if these were issues that hadn\u2019t already been put to rest years ago by the likes of cummings and others.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Instead of \u201ccorrect\u201d formalisms, one finds in Conrad\u2019s poetry nuances of an old tribal feeling. Something which cannot be taught in Creative Writing 101, or prodded from mediocre minds intent on furthering their poetic ambitions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Poet and Director of New Zealand\u2019s Museum of Modern Art, Ian Wedde, has written:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
“Conrad’s art is never secular; it always conveys a deep tone of mystical or spiritual importance \u2013 (and) of the fundamental, factual, logical nature of such experience. Her art reaches back to a medieval, or Gothic, iconography\u2026it returns the recent legacy of Modernist primitivism to a remote European history..(and) enters that visual language in a medieval drama in which no aspect of life, however domestic, was merely secular — in which objects of domestic life were imbued with malevolent or benign powers, in which banal characters could be seen as satanic or saintly, in which sexual and religious forces ran back together toward some suppressed, pagan source.”<\/p>\n\n\n
\n
\"\"<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n
\u201cGroping in darkness,\u201d she writes, \u201cI erect MY BELOVED at the center of my creative life. Around this sticky mandala, I spin\u2026 the heart screaming in its rickety cage… It\u2019s the idea behind the idea behind the idea that I so winsomely suckle.\u201d Her\u2019s is a poetry that in its written and oral form finds universal force in its careful attention to personal details. She knows intuitively what Charles Simic once said, that \u201cpoets are catchers not pitchers\u201d.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
For Conrad, the art of poetry, like the art of painting, resides in the ability to prise open the lid of the unconscious. And yet it is also more of a leaving-alone than an interfering-with. She – like every poet worthy of the title – is a listener, a channel, the vehicle through which the unheard is heard and the unseen is seen – a medium for wraiths. What bubbles up is the raw material of poetry\u2026 quite literally, the voices of the unconscious. \u201cThey well up out of the throat\u2026 the throat, an ancient instrument,” she says. “A powerful chakra – a very sexual organ.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Those who have been fortunate enough to hear Conrad read her poetry realize very quickly that they are in the presence of something quite special. Her voice and energy are deep, ancient, bardic; like the voice of a Dreamtime singer. In reading her poetry, or listening to her perform it, the de-tribalised mind cannot help but hear familiar echoes of that dim, almost forgotten tribal past that binds us to one another and to the Earth. At other times, one is reminded of Blake or Yeats – and yet,  this is a woman\u2019s voice, something not usually associated with the image of “the bard”. Where are the great bardic voices of English-speaking women poets in this century? I can think of only one: Conrad\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Performing with Conrad can be a life-altering experience. The flow of words, like tidal waves, sweep across the room, picking up and depositing all before them on some shore foreign to the ken of those who haunt public readings. Even her so-called ordinary conversation is rich in metaphor and musical patterns. A woman in the audience at one of Conrad\u2019s readings was heard whispering to her partner, \u201cMy god! It\u2019s so damned emotional!\u201d But then that is what poetry is for. A transcendental experience fashioned out of breath and sound and meaning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Just as one does not expect the voice of a bard from the throat of a woman, so too are Conrad\u2019s images and grammatical dislocations unexpected and often unnerving. Critic, Douglas Barbour, writes: “Christina Conrad is a painter as well as a poet, and her strange little poems tend to deploy words and phrases the way her paintings deploy colours; her deliberate use of a single wrong and awkward word in every poem also throws each of them out of kilter in a most intriguing way…”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
i cannot paint this woman
with your penis rising out of her head
her finger nails are black
this fig tree has thorns
there is none light
there is none light
this fig tree has thorns
i cannot paint this woman<\/em>

(Yellow Pencils, 88)<\/em><\/pre>\n\n\n\n
Conrad\u2019s own ideas about the nature of poetry and its expression are worth noting. She writes:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cPoetry is a very natural thing… it seeps out of the unconscious. To bring a lot of academic laws & rules down upon it – the hierarchical shape of education down upon it – is like bringing an expensive frost to a harvest… when i write i try to remain empty\u2026 there is always a struggle as the ego wants to tip one over the edge… the ego is cunning, clever, well-schooled… it is harnessed to the bloody vehicle and intends to take it over, to drive it. i work like a medium, secretly blind yet sharp as a hunter. locked in the slippery narrow tomb, i lurk, waiting to birth an idea. it’s as if i am giving birth to myself each time, and in giving birth to myself i give birth to the world, this diseased and fascinating egg that never hatches. we’re all dancing around it. it’s like a mad opal shining in the unconscious, uneatable, indigestible… it’s through the cracks of this egg we peer. one never knows what’s going to spill out… in this way i often look to myself like a terrible fool… to create, one must relinquish all knowledge… i never seemed to have any to begin with… knowledge is the poison…”<\/p>\n\n\n\n
What one finds in Conrad\u2019s poetry is not knowledge but inspiration. It is in what she leaves unsaid, what she deftly alludes to but seldom expresses and never explains, that her poetry and art are most clearly perceived. But the perception that is there is made by the reader\/listener\/viewer of Conrad\u2019s work, and in the way she fashions her verse, so that it continually invites the reader\/audience to participate in the act of creation.<\/p>\n\n\n
\n
\"\"<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n
Those who find Conrad\u2019s work dark and morbid or humorous and surreal, have themselves to blame. They are Conrad\u2019s unwitting co-conspirators by virtue of what they bring to their perception of her vision and because she allows space for them to find in her poems what already resonates deep with themselves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
On the question of one-word lines in Conrad\u2019s verse \u2013 something which she has been criticised for \u2013 she responds:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cthis is a crazy thing to have to answer… being one of the ignorant, one of the lawless, i do whatever i like. i strike out suddenly. a sense of elation comes over me. i can only see that word, laid bare, and all the time i am thinking of speaking it…\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Conrad\u2019s vision is unique, however it is not unlike the poetic vision one finds in every great artist. For those fearless few, one comes away from an encounter with Conrad’s poetry and art, confident in the belief that the source from which she draws is the same source which all true poets draw. She encourages us to attend to the hidden facts of life, not to prove anything or even to explain or make meaningful this mystery we call life, but because she, herself, has made a lover of the unknown and takes obsessive pleasure in that love.

All works of art are works of love. They are at their base, profoundly religious. Not in the conventional sense of religion, but in what they encourage us to acknowledge and to doubt, as well as what they illuminate concerning the essential mysteries of the human soul. That such mysteries can be found in the ordinary events and objects of human existence is shown over and over again in all of Conrad’s work. \u201ci am very diligent,\u201d she writes. \u201cthis is probably why i was obsessed with Atlas when i was a child. he was on the door of my mother’s oven, and the thing that really excited me, even more than his burden, was the red dial that raced up an arc-shaped translucent fixture… if i put my finger in it the red stuff shot up the translucent arc, and fell back down again. all this was done with great secrecy. and all the while, Atlas crouched, holding the world. there was something terribly dark and fiendish about it. Not counting the fact that a butcher had once owned this stove. there were two deep cuts in the top which my mother lamented over and wiped continuously with a dish cloth.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Read Conrad’s interview for MadHatter’s Press – <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
“The Stolen Wig of a Million Judges”<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
Gene Tanta interviews Christina Conrad<\/strong> <\/p>\n\n\n\n
http:\/\/www.madhattersreview.com\/issue12\/interview.shtml<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n
Some Conrad poems<\/h2>\n\n\n\n
\n
<\/div>\n\n\n\n
<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
\n
for River & the wet butterflys<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
ah River we long for love
Love  Love
eternally hidden 
in our terrible  longing to possessLove we lounge
in Loves shadowoffering velvet veneer hearts 
in our fervid desire to possess Love we gnaw on Loves hard biscuits whimpering spilling crumbs   harping on an ancient lament  hanging on Illusion’s flapping wings we clutch at his gigantic cod piece  bathing our suppurating wounds in his glorious sperm   <\/p>\n\n\n\n
ah    
the eternal song of Love unheardin the clambering,to suckle on Lovespinkedy pink  tit  
ah Love 
    Love in a craven jungle nearer nearer than a blue antelope  amongst the great grey boulders
of hearts discontentin torture chambers of minds shrink 
ah ah Loves Loves  comely bread brooch doth tickle doth prick 
hearts velvet veneer 
ahLoves Loves
hermaphrodidic shadowdoth darkly shimmer 
high up in Lament valley
ah Love Lovein a forge of servitude the harrowed ones’
long shadows fling sorrow at the feet of great trees 
ah Love Lovein  sight of a raging thirstshoals of intemperate tongues drown in the deep River<\/p>\n\n\n\n
lapping water<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n
(for jeannine) <\/span>
<\/span><\/p>\n
lapping water<\/span><\/p>\n
agate eye in caves crack<\/span><\/p>\n
red snake<\/span><\/p>\n
white fire flickering<\/span><\/p>\n
lapping water<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
you call from new mexico<\/span><\/p>\n
whispering of death<\/span><\/p>\n
love<\/span><\/p>\n
lapping water<\/span><\/p>\n
your mothers adobe house<\/span><\/p>\n
yours now<\/span><\/p>\n
high walls<\/span><\/p>\n
hidden door<\/span><\/p>\n
lapping water<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
before a wall of mirrors<\/span><\/p>\n
you stand<\/span><\/p>\n
naked in her pearl necklace<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
foetal on her high carved bed<\/span><\/p>\n
you stroke<\/span><\/p>\n
her long black <\/span><\/p>\n
 furs\u00a0<\/span><\/span><\/pre>\n\n\n\n
rolling melons<\/strong><\/span><\/pre>\n
in my family
<\/span><\/pre>\n
no one possessed 
<\/span><\/pre>\n
large bosoms
<\/span><\/pre>\n
mine were small & hard
<\/span><\/pre>\n
later they grew
<\/span><\/pre>\n
from an ardent wish
<\/span><\/pre>\n
to possess melons

<\/span><\/pre>\n
they rolled
<\/span><\/pre>\n
on my mother\u2019s
<\/span><\/pre>\n
oak table
<\/span><\/pre>\n
shocking her
<\/span><\/pre>\n
into removing
<\/span><\/pre>\n
bread & butter
<\/span><\/pre>\n
demanding to know
<\/span><\/pre>\n
if i was pregnant at 48
<\/span><\/pre>\n
i who had given birth
<\/span><\/pre>\n
to so many

<\/span><\/pre>\n
nurturing each child
<\/span><\/pre>\n
to the age of 7

<\/span><\/pre>\n
sorrow & guilt
<\/span><\/pre>\n
accumulated
<\/span><\/pre>\n
blowing up
<\/span><\/pre>\n
wickedness
<\/span><\/pre>\n
until she was
<\/span><\/pre>\n
disproportionate<\/span><\/pre>\n\n\n\n
antique swords
<\/span><\/strong>(for julius)<\/span>
<\/span>
when i was 18
<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n
i met a virgin
<\/span><\/p>\n
she collected
<\/span><\/p>\n
antique
<\/span><\/p>\n
swords
<\/span><\/p>\n
kept them
<\/span><\/p>\n
in
<\/span><\/p>\n
a
<\/span><\/p>\n
blood red
<\/span><\/p>\n
tower<\/p>\n
<\/span><\/p>\n
when a
<\/span><\/p>\n
train
<\/span><\/p>\n
shot by
<\/span><\/p>\n
the tower shook
<\/span><\/p>\n
the swords rattled<\/p>\n
<\/span><\/p>\n
she lost
<\/span><\/p>\n
her virginity
<\/span><\/p>\n
sold
<\/span><\/p>\n
her swords
<\/span><\/p>\n
gave birth
<\/span><\/p>\n
to twins<\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n
white coral cunt\u00a0<\/span><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n
when we were homeless<\/span><\/p>\n
every house we looked at<\/span><\/p>\n
you desired<\/span><\/p>\n
as if<\/span><\/p>\n
a woman\u00a0 offered<\/span><\/p>\n
her rooms<\/span><\/p>\n
spread out<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
i am just<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0a figurehead<\/span><\/p>\n
in borrowed rooms<\/span><\/p>\n
my flesh<\/span><\/p>\n
has grown<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
i cut up cloth<\/span><\/p>\n
with blunt scissors<\/span><\/p>\n
thread rusty needles<\/span><\/p>\n
with blind eyes<\/span><\/p>\n
conduct fear<\/span><\/p>\n
as i slice the collar<\/span><\/p>\n
off a dying tiger coat<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
yesterday in a rag pickers\u00a0 market<\/span><\/p>\n
midst black bowler hats<\/span><\/p>\n
mens suits<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0on wire coat hangers<\/span><\/p>\n
i saw a white coral cunt<\/span><\/p>\n
on a plastic dish<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
i asked you for five dollars<\/span><\/p>\n
to buy it<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
too expensive<\/span><\/p>\n
you said<\/span><\/p>\n
ive seen lots of these before<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
alone on a remorseless couch<\/span><\/p>\n
i fondle<\/span><\/p>\n
the white coral cunt<\/span><\/p>\n
put it in<\/span><\/p>\n
my glow mesh<\/span><\/p>\n
bag<\/span><\/p>\n
put it in<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
my long pink<\/span><\/p>\n
bag<\/span><\/p>\n
put it in<\/span><\/p>\n
my black<\/span><\/p>\n
antique<\/span><\/p>\n
box<\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n
doom prepares to give birth<\/span><\/b><\/span><\/p>\n
(for stoneking)<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
a bird twitters of cruelty<\/span><\/p>\n
eternal delay<\/span><\/p>\n
ah,<\/span><\/p>\n
how cold<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
Doom prepares to give birth<\/span><\/p>\n
to Love<\/span><\/p>\n
licking up the sperm of artifice<\/span><\/p>\n
wheedling the stick<\/span><\/p>\n
smashing the skull of justice<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
ah, beloved<\/span><\/p>\n
do you recognize<\/span><\/p>\n
the flower<\/span><\/p>\n
the flower<\/span><\/p>\n
concealed in a dry rasp?<\/span><\/p>\n
do you remember<\/span><\/p>\n
the honey<\/span><\/p>\n
we slurped<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
ah, let me wrap you in this weathered quilt<\/span><\/p>\n
stuffed with the fine feathers of<\/span><\/p>\n
a dead goose<\/span><\/p>\n
i shalt not harm or possess you<\/span><\/p>\n
i shalt not fix my eye<\/span><\/p>\n
there shalt be no burning<\/span><\/p>\n
the body hollow<\/span><\/p>\n
for the white flame to leap<\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n
last song<\/span><\/b><\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
you come<\/span><\/p>\n
you and your claustrophobia
<\/span><\/p>\n
to drop in my lap<\/span><\/p>\n
you never thought<\/span><\/p>\n
I could have changed
<\/span><\/p>\n
from a wooden martyr
<\/span><\/p>\n
in a bath of your blood
<\/span><\/p>\n
my feet
<\/span><\/p>\n
thorns<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
your moon is not in the same place as mine
<\/span><\/p>\n
the river flows fast
<\/span><\/p>\n
over smooth rock<\/span><\/p>\n
where you lie
<\/span><\/p>\n
that red fish you catch with your hands
<\/span><\/p>\n
gapes from a bowl of rock<\/span><\/p>\n
I never saw the snakes
<\/span><\/p>\n
that glide round you
<\/span><\/p>\n
your letter comes from a summer far away
<\/span><\/p>\n
you cannot feel the winter
<\/span><\/p>\n
that has come down on me<\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n
fox glove poem<\/b><\/span><\/p>\n
it was last year
<\/span><\/p>\n
same time
<\/span><\/p>\n
same time as this
<\/span><\/p>\n
the sweet peas were black
<\/span><\/p>\n
by the side of the road
<\/span><\/p>\n
I did not know the fox gloves then<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
last year
<\/span><\/p>\n
same time
<\/span><\/p>\n
same time as this
<\/span><\/p>\n
I was hidden\u00a0\u00a0 hidden by the walls
<\/span><\/p>\n
dark red<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
a long road\u00a0
<\/span><\/p>\n
lay between us
<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
the hills were burnt black
<\/span><\/p>\n
black the manuka trees
<\/span><\/p>\n
black black the sweet peas
<\/span><\/p>\n
by the side of the road<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
I did not know the fox gloves then<\/span><\/p>\n
the throats of the fox gloves
<\/span><\/p>\n
are spotted\u00a0\u00a0 spotted inside
<\/span><\/p>\n
the black storm has passed
<\/span><\/p>\n
leaving the river yellow & swollen
<\/span><\/p>\n
at the foot of the house<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
the leaves of the fox gloves
<\/span><\/p>\n
are pale fur
<\/span><\/p>\n
between the hills<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
I shall never know the river
<\/span><\/p>\n
yet I bathe my head in its waters
<\/span><\/p>\n
walk on its smooth stones<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
I shall never know the trees
<\/span><\/p>\n
that stand on the other side
<\/span><\/p>\n
I know only the fox gloves
<\/span><\/p>\n
the fox gloves<\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n\n\n\n
\n
to Stoneking 1993<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
in my 50th year<\/p>\n\n\n\n
my teeth are still sharp<\/p>\n\n\n\n
i slowly devour<\/p>\n\n\n\n
the flesh<\/p>\n\n\n\n
of my heart<\/p>\n\n\n\n
i was ill when i only ate pasta<\/p>\n\n\n\n
it was so<\/p>\n\n\n\n
white<\/p>\n\n\n\n
under the hood<\/p>\n\n\n\n
of <\/p>\n\n\n\n
a black dish<\/p>\n\n\n\n
i<\/p>\n\n\n\n
dreamed<\/p>\n\n\n\n
all my teeth fell out

<\/p>\n\n\n\n
brush of thorns<\/span><\/strong><\/span><\/span><\/pre>\n
(a song for stoneking) <\/span><\/pre>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/pre>\n
who braids your hair<\/span><\/pre>\n
who braids your hair<\/span><\/pre>\n
not your lover<\/span><\/pre>\n
not your lover<\/span><\/pre>\n
why vanity braids my silver hair<\/span><\/pre>\n
with toothless comb<\/span><\/pre>\n
brush of thorns<\/span><\/pre>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/pre>\n
when i look in the mirror<\/span><\/pre>\n
i see<\/span><\/pre>\n
death straddling life<\/span><\/pre>\n
i see drowned ones<\/span><\/pre>\n
clutching<\/span><\/pre>\n
my silver hair<\/span><\/pre>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/pre>\n
a headless man<\/span><\/pre>\n
in a horsehair coat<\/span><\/pre>\n
drags the pond<\/span><\/pre>\n
with a blood red net<\/span><\/pre>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/pre>\n
who braids your hair<\/span><\/pre>\n
who braids your hair<\/span><\/pre>\n
not your lover<\/span><\/pre>\n
not your lover<\/span><\/pre>\n
why vanity braids my silver hair<\/span><\/pre>\n
with toothless comb<\/span><\/pre>\n
brush of thorns<\/span><\/pre>\n\n\n\n
love<\/strong><\/span><\/pre>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/pre>\n
each day<\/span><\/pre>\n
i wash<\/span><\/pre>\n
\u00a0your clothes<\/span><\/pre>\n
your hard<\/span><\/pre>\n
black socks<\/span><\/pre>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/pre>\n
your white linen<\/span><\/pre>\n
shirts<\/span><\/pre>\n
slide<\/span><\/pre>\n
through my<\/span><\/pre>\n
hands<\/span><\/pre>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/pre>\n
your\u00a0 under pants<\/span><\/pre>\n
are<\/span><\/pre>\n
still <\/span><\/pre>\n
blown up<\/span><\/pre>\n
with<\/span><\/pre>\n
your<\/span><\/pre>\n
shape<\/span><\/pre>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/pre>\n
each day<\/span><\/pre>\n
i<\/span><\/pre>\n
stand<\/span><\/pre>\n
cold<\/span><\/pre>\n
before spurting<\/span><\/pre>\n
taps <\/span><\/pre>\n\n\n\n
letter to miro<\/strong><\/span><\/pre>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/pre>\n
there was a storm here<\/span><\/pre>\n
a revengeful spirit entered<\/span><\/pre>\n
black cloak flung across stars<\/span><\/pre>\n
moon dead in a broken basket<\/span><\/pre>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/pre>\n
in the old blue house<\/span><\/pre>\n
we sought shelter<\/span><\/pre>\n
in the iron teeth of a bed<\/span><\/pre>\n
groaning on its haunches<\/span><\/pre>\n
red velvet flapping<\/span><\/pre>\n
round a ghostly sliver<\/span><\/pre>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/pre>\n
through night\u2019s dark howl<\/span><\/pre>\n
great trees cracked<\/span><\/pre>\n
split<\/span><\/pre>\n
fell in ancient patterns<\/span><\/pre>\n
the cry of life\u2019s warp<\/span><\/pre>\n
bloody stems<\/span><\/pre>\n
bark falling from flesh<\/span><\/pre>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/pre>\n
in mirror\u2019s cruel oval<\/span><\/pre>\n
no proof glimmered<\/span><\/pre>\n
of life\u2019s cause<\/span><\/pre>\n
horror moving close<\/span><\/pre>\n
to sentimentality\u2019s plush<\/span><\/pre>\n
night\u2019s wail locked<\/span><\/pre>\n
as light shot<\/span><\/pre>\n
across darkness<\/span><\/pre>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/pre>\n
we rose <\/span><\/pre>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/pre>\n
a white morn<\/span><\/pre>\n
took us<\/span><\/pre>\n\n\n\n
eskimo baby<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n
(to my first born \u2013 miro)<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
your room is a theatre<\/span><\/p>\n
your bed \u2013 a collapsible stage<\/span><\/p>\n
the siren sings<\/span><\/p>\n
you wake<\/span><\/p>\n
rising above crowds<\/span><\/p>\n
in your satin underwear<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
your face is lit like a golden eskimo<\/span><\/p>\n
those golden eskimo babies<\/span><\/p>\n
made out of sugary stuff<\/span><\/p>\n
in secret, white paper bags<\/span><\/p>\n
one devoured them slowly<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
lollies hung like dreams<\/span><\/p>\n
silver balls one could never crunch<\/span><\/p>\n
people said they were made out of mercury<\/span><\/p>\n
they tore around in one\u2019s mouth<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
even at an early age desire was considered<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
those all-day suckers one longed to possess<\/span><\/p>\n
one licked though never tasted <\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
chocolate bears<\/span><\/p>\n
were satisfactory lovers \u2013<\/span><\/p>\n
their paper auras<\/span><\/p>\n
rustling<\/span><\/p>\n\n\n\n
A poem for my ancient friend,<\/span><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n
Lisa<\/span><\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n
(balmain 1993) <\/span>
<\/span><\/p>\n
blue\u2026 blue<\/span><\/p>\n
blue bird<\/span><\/p>\n
blue angel<\/span><\/p>\n
blue Madonna<\/span><\/p>\n
blue monster<\/span><\/p>\n
ancient beloved<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
first time I saw you<\/span><\/p>\n
i thought you was a big child<\/span><\/p>\n
sitting on dark stairs<\/span><\/p>\n
in the old Greek house by the sea<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
that day I rented a studio <\/span><\/p>\n
from the old Greek woman<\/span><\/p>\n
in the old Greek house<\/span><\/p>\n
where you lived upstairs<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
each week I paid two hundred dollars<\/span><\/p>\n
to the old Greek woman<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
on mad hot days <\/span><\/p>\n
drowning in paint<\/span><\/p>\n
i heard you walking above me<\/span><\/p>\n
in cloistered rooms<\/span><\/p>\n
you wore a white bathing suit<\/span><\/p>\n
staring through high salt-sprayed windows<\/span><\/p>\n
at the sea<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
sometimes <\/span><\/p>\n
you descended the stairs<\/span><\/p>\n
in a big white dress<\/span><\/p>\n
i thought you was<\/span><\/p>\n
a child bride<\/span><\/p>\n
wings of your white dress<\/span><\/p>\n
touching my black door<\/span><\/p>\n
before you passed<\/span><\/p>\n
into blinding light<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
in my studio<\/span><\/p>\n
standing before the naked shroud of my canvas<\/span><\/p>\n
i could hear you and your lover fighting<\/span><\/p>\n
the high white ceiling<\/span><\/p>\n
with little plaster roses<\/span><\/p>\n
trembled<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
later<\/span><\/p>\n
a perfumed envelop<\/span><\/p>\n
slid under my door<\/span><\/p>\n
a letter from you<\/span><\/p>\n
inviting me to be your friend<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
your golden daughter tamika<\/span><\/p>\n
with the long silent hair<\/span><\/p>\n
glided into my room<\/span><\/p>\n
i fed her <\/span><\/p>\n
with sardines<\/span><\/p>\n
squeezed together in a tin<\/span><\/p>\n
she opened it with a silver key<\/span><\/p>\n
we purchased lollies<\/span><\/p>\n
from a shop<\/span><\/p>\n
in the street that led down to the sea<\/span><\/p>\n
in the park there<\/span><\/p>\n
we swung high on screaming swings<\/span><\/p>\n
under a starry sky<\/span><\/p>\n
the moon fell<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
i needed money for paint<\/span><\/p>\n
i was hungry<\/span><\/p>\n
clots of paint fell into my mouth<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
you were the blue madonna<\/span><\/p>\n
you said<\/span><\/p>\n
make pies<\/span><\/p>\n
lentil<\/span><\/p>\n
pumpkin<\/span><\/p>\n
little pear muffins<\/span><\/p>\n
breasts of angels<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
you came with a big willow basket<\/span><\/p>\n
a white linen cloth to cover<\/span><\/p>\n
madonna\u2019s eyes<\/span><\/p>\n
same colour as the sea<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
each week you came to my studio<\/span><\/p>\n
with money for paint<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
at dusk we walked together<\/span><\/p>\n
wheeling the baby tantu<\/span><\/p>\n
i called her the white chinese<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
leaning against the sea wall<\/span><\/p>\n
we sucked paddle pops<\/span><\/p>\n
united in longing<\/span><\/p>\n
in the light of the evening star<\/span><\/p>\n
the white chinese<\/span><\/p>\n
reached out<\/span><\/p>\n
for your holy nipple<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
blue\u2026blue<\/span><\/p>\n
blue bird<\/span><\/p>\n
blue\u00a0 angel<\/span><\/p>\n
blue Madonna<\/span><\/p>\n
blue Madonna<\/span><\/p>\n
ancient beloved<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
i think of you<\/span><\/p>\n
our meeting in this life<\/span><\/p>\n
in many lives<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
blinded by sorrows \u2013<\/span><\/p>\n
joys<\/span><\/p>\n
we reached out to touch<\/span><\/p>\n
the transparent skin<\/span><\/p>\n
of the dream<\/span><\/p>\n
\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
laughing \u2013<\/span><\/p>\n
crying \u2013<\/span><\/p>\n
we separated<\/span><\/p>\n
came together<\/span><\/p>\n
our tears in the old Greek house<\/span><\/p>\n
salt spray<\/span><\/p>\n
on the great silent windows<\/span><\/p>\n
 Sydney, December 2009<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n
\u00a0<\/h4>\n
More Poems By Conrad<\/strong><\/a><\/h4>\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
VOICE OF A POET An appreciation by Billy Marshall Stoneking  Christina Conrad has always been considered something of a phenomenon. That she was born and raised in New Zealand, let alone lived there for nearly fifty years, seems the ultimate aberration. Where New Zealand is prim and conservative, Conrad is outlandish and eccentric; where New Zealanders… Continue reading Poems<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-102","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry","entry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/conradxposure.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/102","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/conradxposure.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/conradxposure.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/conradxposure.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/conradxposure.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=102"}],"version-history":[{"count":10,"href":"https:\/\/conradxposure.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/102\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":623,"href":"https:\/\/conradxposure.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/102\/revisions\/623"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/conradxposure.com\/wordpress\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=102"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}