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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: TRACTOR RIDE TO CAPE KIDNAPPERSdots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: hanuman
    ASL Info:    3 score & 10 & some!
    Elite Ratio:    5.99 - 804/1015/239
    Words: 520
    Class/Type: Poetry/Serious
    Total Views: 611
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 3680



    Description:
       Cape Kidnappers in Hawkes Bay, New Zealand has a major gannet colony. The traditional way to get there is by tractor and trailer along the beach at low tide where you still have to drive over reefs and into the surf at times. The cliffs are a record of the violent geological past of New Zealand. Check out this URL: http://www.gannets.com/


    Make the font bigger!! Double Spacing Back to recent posts.

    dotsTRACTOR RIDE TO CAPE KIDNAPPERSdots
    -------------------------------------------


    White, yellow, blue and red.

    A stack of photo prints
    From my pre-digital, pre-computer life
    when the kids were young.
    Every emulsion developed shot
    of our microtomed day at the beach is there:
    out of focus, unframed, untrimmed,
    sun bleached, water foxed images
    beginning to adhere together,
    our papier-mâché yesteryear.

    Ice-cream white, lamb’s wool white, cloud white.
    Buttercup yellow, egg-yolk yellow, sun yellow.
    Forget-me-not blue, cornflower blue, sky blue.
    Post-box red, fire-engine red, tractor red.

    This was our Dinky toy, buzzy-bee, kiwi summer.
    This was our primary coloured,
    bright, acrylic trip to Cape Kidnappers.
    Our holiday snaps of our blonde-haired kids
    with their skinny brown legs
    sitting on the trailer behind the big red tractor
    are faded now by thirty five years of sun
    and the corneal clouding of our eyes.
    But still they laugh as the sea washes their bare legs
    and still they scamper madly up the steep path
    to the gannet colony
    with us just a few steps behind.

    The gannets then were just the same:
    eternally smelly, billing and necking,
    orange naped and white jacketed,
    soaring like angels
    and landing like a bomber with its undercarriage shot away -
    the glorious, archetypal gannets.

    This year we went again past the vineyards to the sea,
    to the end of the road at Clifton
    where the bright red tractors live.
    The paint on the sea and the sky and the sun
    is fresh again,
    at least for my granddaughter
    who laughs delightedly
    as we bump over the reef and careen through the surf.

    We stop by the stratified cliffs
    While the tractor drivers clear the landslip on the beach.
    We survey the cucumber, salami, tomato, club sandwich rocks,
    The strawberry, cream and chocolate layer cake
    of the stratified cliffs:
    A buried forest’s lignite logs,
    the sea’s ancient fossil skirts
    with scalloped edges,
    the ash from a super volcano
    in layers so thick
    the world was summerless for years.
    Each eruption in this waffle stack
    might have been a hundred thousand years apart,
    yet here they lie compressed
    in my milles-feuilles filo pastry cliffs.
    And tomorrow the next ash might fall
    and obliterate the international golf course on the bluffs above.
    In the mirror of geological time
    we humans on the beach with our tiny tractors
    are the most recent of ephemera
    though we bring our grandchildren here for generations.

    My grand-daughter scampers merrily
    up the steep track to the gannet colony
    on the high plateau, my daughter hard on her heels.
    I toil laboriously up the track,
    stopping to wheeze and catch my breath
    and on the way back down my knees are killing me.

    But the gannets are still the same:
    eternally smelly consorts of plesiosaurs,
    soaring like dragons,
    landing like hippopotamuses,
    Leaving their fledged chicks
    to fly unescorted across the Tasman,
    that widens millimetre by year,
    metre by millennium,
    until Australia crashes into India.

    On the drive back
    my grand-daughter falls asleep
    across the comfort of my lap
    and I daren’t move
    as we bump over the rocks and reefs
    although my back is crucifying me.




    Submitted on 2015-02-05 14:01:57     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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    ||| Comments |||
      Arthur,
    Glad to see you back! This as we are feeling the fist of our spring days was perfect. It makes me want to pull out the photo albums with my kids for laughs. They think the pictures are all horrible, but those are memories wouldn't take back. My favorite part of this is how the metaphor descriptions seem to whiz past like riding down the interstate on a Harley. Life does fly, but aren't you glad it was your daughter keeping up with the little one?
    Thanks for the smile today! I'll keep picturing hippo-landings for the rest of the evening.
    ~jan
    | Posted on 2015-02-10 00:00:00 | by jaycee | [ Reply to This ]
      This is a very colorful and lively poem.

    Three stanzas that struck me the most were the first three. It so happens that they set the story into motion, grabbing the reader's attention from the start.

    "White, yellow, blue and red."
    Intriguing!

    "A stack of photo prints
    From my pre-digital, pre-computer life
    when the kids were young.
    Every emulsion developed shot
    of our microtomed day at the beach is there:
    out of focus, unframed, untrimmed,
    sun bleached, water foxed images
    beginning to adhere together,
    our papier-mâché yesteryear."
    How candid life and moments captured were in the past. They were raw and real, not altered. And now it greatly saddens me how fake life can be. And I am sure I am not the only one who feels this way. We take pictures constantly of our life events and not truly living them. Then changing them. White, yellow, blue, and red are no longer their pure colors.

    Such a wonderful story you have created if your travel to the Cape Kidnappers with the gannet colony there. You'd think, there's nothing to it. But it must be such a pleasant experience with your loved ones...some kind of wonderful magic in simple down-to-earth life events.
    | Posted on 2015-02-09 00:00:00 | by wordsofmind | [ Reply to This ]


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