New verse by Wellington writer Claudia Jardine.
The Vodka Rondeau
In the spare room there is a bed
below the mould and rusted red
of the top flat’s hot water tank,
which burst and made the room so rank
that you can’t sleep there clear-headed.
We are the deaded; few drinks bled
Into many, and, out of bread,
With empty stomachs, flank to flank,
Two fuck like cray above Left Bank
In the spare room.
Her lately dreams of kebabs fled!
As on the musty mattress spread
Out like the stains above, we thank
Immortal hank that leads to pank,
Though they’ve nabbed the only bed
In the spare room.
My father dreams of his father
My father dreams of his father
walking in the garden of the old family homestead
on Kawaha Point.
I have not been back since he passed away.
As decrepit dogs wander off under trees
to sniff out their final resting places,
elderly men wait in the wings
rehearsing exit lines.
I’m sure my grandfather never envied his dog more
than during those last days.
I’m sure, given the choice, he would have preferred
to slip away under the magnolias.
The garden is tended by different hands now.
My grandmother still walks by the lake,
her little dog in tow. The current man of the house
is more interested in the chasing of swans
than the cultivating of camellias. And every August
the growth yields to posterity
so that some of the garden
can be taken to Jim.
My father dreams of his father
walking in the garden of the old family homestead
on Kawaha Point.
I have not been back since he passed away.
Claudia Jardine, 2018
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