Ave Maria

Ave Maria

Our Lady Queen of Peace, New Jersey

Sunday Morning

1969

She is dressed in flowing blue robe. I sweat in an itchy white nylon

communion frock, feeling like a fraud.

Even at age six, I knew there was something wrong

with coveting Our Lady’s rhinestone crown.

Oh! how I wanted it, I imagined the weight

of it, how it would sparkle when I turned this way and that.

I plotted ways I could sneak out of my grandparent’s house,

dodging behind hedge and tree. Running the half a block

to the little church where, dressed as a miniature bride I first

received the wafer. It tasted of cardboard and went instantly limp.

I had a moment of panic when it became lacquered 
to the roof of my mouth and I couldn’t prise it loose with my tongue.

There was nothing I could do except wait miserably for it to dissolve,

wishing I owned that crown,  pretty sure I was going to hell.

Kids told me that holding the host too long in the mouth was satanic.

I realized years later it was probably made of cornstarch.

New Poetry Website

Thanks to the creative team at Desolate Spectre Studios I have a new  poetry site. It was designed and made my Margaret Pickering, who listened closely to my brief and produced a site that I am delighted with.

There's a page about the poetry and me personally and a separate page with my bio that contains links to poems published online. Read excerpts of works in progress.

The site reflects my poetry visually and represents my personal interests. There are also clues to my family history in the graphics. All the objects pictured are from my vast collection of vintage paraphernalia and years of  beach combing and general magpie tendencies.

The site will be added to over time, with full versions of poems and more imagery. Enjoy MarisaCappetta.com

CPC Spring Season of Readings

We're in the middle of poetry season here in Christchurch. Last night was superb, the guest readers satisfied my need to hear well crafted poetry read in the poet's own voices. The open mike readers were of high calibre with the likes of James Norcliffe, Bernadette Hall, Kerrin P Sharpe, Helen Lowe and new voices that were a treat to hear.

I'm at the lecturn next week with Sean Joyce and our star poet, Louise Wallace. Looking forward to it!

Poem Poster

Phantom Billstickers made me a poem poster.

My Lover as Hat

I love you, my hat. 

I love the brim of you

pulled over my eyes. 

I love you thrown

in the air. I catch you.  

I love you crushed

under my foot.  

I love you, my hat,

feathered, ribboned or flowered. 

I love you abandoned

on a chair. 

Worn in the rain

at a funeral, in church  

where the parson

compliments you. 

I love you, my hat. 

I have worn you so long

you are sweat stained.

Blackmail Press #32 is Live

Blackmail Press #32 is live. You can read my poems here.

One Handed Woman is a character I made that reflects some of the questions I have about being a woman with feminism as my birth right. How did it shape me? Advantages, disadvantages, even disabilities? The poem is part of an ongoing dialogue I have with my contemporaries.

Emissary to a Neighbouring Kingdom, The Parson Falls in Love and Goes Mad and One Left for a Hero, came from a paper I read sometime last year on the disconnection men feel from traditional archetypes. These poems are my reflections on this sociological phenomenon, the characters are the king, the cleric and the hero respectively.  I am continuing to write in this series, several more are included in my manuscript, A Machine of Herbs and Flowers

The Water Gleaners is a retelling of the story of Oberon, Titania and the fairy Mustard Seed from A Midsummer Nights Dream. It’s a story built around my concerns for the politicizing and future distribution of potable water.

Enjoy Blackmail Press #32, there are some wonderful poets included. It’s a great read.

Published Poems

A few folk have asked me where they can read my poems. Some are here on my blog  of course. Here's a summary of poems published elsewhere.

E-zines
Snorkel, the literary journal of the University of Sydney, you can read Turning the Seasons with the Dead here

International Literary Quarterly published Biological Name for Moth and Coracle here

Turbine, Literary Magazine of the Victoria University, Wellington NZ published Found Farther and Farther Out here

Shot Glass Journal published Nude on a Staircase here

I've been a Tuesday poet on Catherine Fitchett's blog, with Young Woman Marries the Farmer's Son here

Samuel Peralta featured Drawing Grasses in Okains Bay New Zealand on his blog The Semaphore Anthology

Print Media
In addition I have been published several times in Takahe, which you can subscribe to here. Numerous times in The Press. Voiceprints #3, which is available to purchase through the Canterbury Poets Collective. Also Enamel and Crest to Crest Anthology of Canterbury Poetry and Prose.

Winning the 2011 Margaret Mahy Prize.

“Ok, so you’re pretty prolific, get 100 poems together and let’s see if there’s a book amongst them.”  Thus began the relationship with my Hagley Writers Institute supervisor, John Dickson.

OOOkay… I gulped and got to work and lo, I pulled it off. I narrowed it down to 47, submitted the manuscript for my final folio and it was short listed in the top seven. From these Anne Rogers, editor at Random House chose the winners of the Margaret Mahy Award. I thought I hadn’t heard correctly when my name was called. I stumbled up to receive the award, and then spent the rest of the evening in a grinning daze. Always remember to prepare a winners face, as well as a losers. I have learned by experience now! Pictures of graduation here.

The manuscript is called, A Machine of Herbs and Flowers. It’s my first collection of poetry. Hagley are now sending it to Auckland University Press and one other publisher yet to be decided to be considered for publishing.

2011 was tough, with some 9,500 aftershocks and quakes in Christchurch and the death of one of my best friends. Hagley held me together and gave me purpose and hope. There’s a lot to look forward to and work towards in 2012. I’m returning to Hagley for year two. This year my tutor is the brilliant Frankie Mcmillan who I know will be able to polish my short fiction writing skills.

Review of apple strudel

Thank you to Emmett Wheatfall for his review of 'apple strudel'. It's always a pleasure to be reviewed by a peer. His review can be read here http://emmettwheatfall.tumblr.com/ .

apple strudel

My mum and aunties stretch it with their fists. They coax it thinner and thinner stretch it until it covers the whole laminex kitchen table and I can see the check of the cloth through the membrane of pastry. Stretch out their pride in their children stretch out their cackles of laughter at the stupidity of their husbands stretch out their tears for the sister who died young. At 15 they let me have a go, I try to mimic their hand over hand and rip a big hole in it they laugh at my clumsiness and shoo me away. When I’m 20 they laugh at my university-learned hochdeutsch even though I can stretch the dough as good as them “ooo la di da” they screech taunts at my posh accent and it thins the pastry a little more. Taunts add tartness to the apples they scatter. They add the finely chopped bitter rind of  long standing family feuds, a sprinkle of spicy sugar gossip and roll the whole thing up using the cloth, lifting it so that fold upon fold of pastry swaddles the apples and all the ancient history.

Stubborn as Stone

I sent my love a naked lithotint,

gold print on stone. 

He says I’m a kind of rock

plants grow on,

a stone swallower,

rock borer,

fossilized fruit,

a concretion in his veins.

I assert that

for my fire I have flint,

to furrow the rows of my garden

I have a small stone adze;

live and worship in a stone circle.  

A stone that falls to earth I become

phosphorescent when heated.

reasons for silence

so the wheel barrow
full of star frequencies
can speak

so the energy wave
that is body
may be seen

a table cloth may
embroider itself
with grub roses

soliloquy
of the sewing box
may be heard

thunder of rust developing
on the hollow legs
of picnic tables
rattle the trees

the harmonic of frost chimes
resonant in the lacunae
within the leaves
of felicia amelloides
calls the followers to prayer

so that a rush
of seedlings heaves
the clay aside and terrifies

so the crackle
of thin bible pages
is delicious

so that as you
breathe out
and I breathe in
we synchronize

fuse at the sternum
with a seam of gold
in the ore of our bodies
the sound
of silent lightening

My Wedding Shoes

The cobbler couldn’t squeeze my foot
into the standard last size no matter
how much sweat beaded  his forehead.

So he went back to the drawing board.
He made a new shoe last.
He cut a new pattern;
cumulonimbus for the upper,
plumes of pampas grass for the sole,
and a wedge of utopia for a heel.

The shoes reach for my feet.
First the broken left one,
the shoe strokes my scars with its dainty
leather straps calming the angry
swelling before buckling
with the sound of lips on lips.

The right shoe is more teasing,
pretends coyness before
it invites my foot to tango
giggling when I tickle the buckle.

My wedding shoes are wrapped
in delicate linen and boxed.
I stumble across them when
I put away the winter woolens,

open the box, nudge aside the fabric.
My shoes glow with a wake up
smile and hold out their hands to me.

child's play

as snake
beautiful but blue

as snow
remembered but black

as human
innocent but almost
born inside
a monster
a child
a bird
a cry of wings

waiting for a lover on Rabbit Island

This poem was published in The Press, Christchurch, 24 December 2010

love knuckles up
in knots of bulbing young cones
on pine branches beyond
yearn and reach

the sea hurls  shells
at the roots I collect
them my flaw is patience
I bury and wait

my flaw is dauntless and
alone in the thick scented
pine forest perfectly
still salt water covers my
feet shells bob nudge
and whimper for embrace

Gap Filler

Following the September 4 earthquake, we have gaps in our city scape. For me some of these places were special. 'Through the Keyhole', on Colombo St was one. The entrance had the original cobblestone paving, the weatherboard stables intact. It was once a staging post on the arduous journey over the Port Hills to Lyttleton. A piece of our heritage.  TTKspecialised in antique and vintage salvage.   I spent many blissfully happy hours rummaging in the back rooms for keys, pressed metal, un-identifiable objects and shapes that spoke to me and might use one day use in mixed media jewelry. The building is gone now, the site leveled, no trace remains. It was heartbreaking to see.

Gap Filler is livening up some of  these sites with film, poetry readings, music, food and more. I'm happy to be a part of it as a reader and urge all those in Christchurch to go and have a good time. Celebrate life, our beautiful city, the vibrancy of the arts.  The site is 832/834 Colombo Street, previously South of the Border restaurant and Denis Moore Auto Electrician. Enjoy summer at Gap Filler.

love letter #1

I felt the lack of simple things today,
of animating when I tell them aloud to you.

It was a breezy sunny spring afternoon and the poets
told this day like an abacus bead,

I buried my face in sun-clean towels
the day captured in the cotton.

Poetry News September 2010

September has been an exciting month. Two more poems have been accepted for a forthcoming issue of Takahe, I'm a Tuesday Poet on Mariana Isara's blog, Type What You See and published in Shot Glass Journal #2 .

Takahe #70 is out and it's been a very good read. It showcases the work of established and emerging writers. It's excellent value, you can download a form from the website and subscribe to Takahe.

Shot Glass Journal #2 features New Zealand poets. The journal is dedicated to short poetry, great if you need a quick fix. Short poetry is tricky, how do you capture and convey an idea in under 16 lines? There are some admirable poems in this issue. Three poets in particular caught my attention. Sean Joyce, his piece warmly humorous and nostalgic. Mariana Isara, masterful in her brevity. Reilly Smethhurst, each line potent with image and rhythm, the poems unsettling, I find myself coming back to them and reading again.

courtesan

This poem was published in Takahē 69, 2010

the cold fireplace
saw her play it coy

she threw her
boots in and

tried to blind it
he sprinkled them

with soot
and lit a match

a fist of flames
pushed out

years of
silk shawls

lace undies and
fans stuffed up

the chimney
the roar

a throat open
with confession

shadow puppets

a man falls through
dressed in a paper suit,

he folds himself into
a crane and scatters
with a rattle of paper wings,

alights on her palm, unfolds
and says, "in a reflective way
I cry for...I don't know why,
you do that, you know."

his hands ache.
she oils them, warms them.