Hats off to whoever decided to combine whisky with poetry, what a fantastic idea! Judging by the crowded seats of the Last Word I wasn't the only one to think so. Perfect for a brisk winter afternoon.
Sarah Jane Barnett kicked off the session by reading from a longer poem about coping with the devastation of your childhood home, something I'm sure many can relate to here in Christchurch:
She points to questions she has highlighted in bold yellow. “You need to answer these too.” She smiles. Her hand rests lightly. “Should I read them out?” she asks, as if lightness is a face she often wears. I say, I have good English, I’m a translator. But she reads to me, pointing and smiling.
David Howard read some opaque poetry:
If you want love to stay, shut up our house, covering the furniture with dirty sheets. When the moon was full, he could see it in the pond. Still, if he pulled the shutters there would be no colour, just the memory that is language. Bad language.
Steven Toussaint explored the influence of Dante:
Voluptuous, the resultant species, yes, but not itself the base whereby all voices balance. If the subjects meet before the finial seat is crossed, the gaze is lost in the ardour of all others.
And then luckily we returned to poetry I could understand with the moving, sometimes alarming words of Emma Neale:
and it's the moment walking past
an unlit downtown doorway
when footsteps start their time-bomb tick
stay calm, she thinks,
no sudden moves.
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