Giuseppe Hoof, on his deathbed, remembers his childhood. From the first night he was big enough to climb down the stone stairs his mother would rouse him at three and load his arms with baskets of  hot sweetbreads. 'Run to the wharf,' she'd say, 'before your grandfather's ship disappears.' He'd clamber down the seven flights and run through the whistling streets, under the chilly lamps whose light leaped and dived, past the blue hedges whose vines reached and writhed, to the big black harbour that sucked and sighed. His grandfather waited at the plank's end to scoop him up and tuck him under his beard, and he'd rest there in the warmth while his grandfather ate. Then Grandfather would load Giuseppe's arms with the empty baskets and tumble him back down the plank, just as a finger of grey touched the sky and the ship slipped its ropes from the wharf.

Giuseppe Hoof's deathbed is soft, warm and dark. The nurse has gone away because he would not let her change the sheets. There's the smell of the spattered oils; and winter is here; the floorboards whistle and the weatherboards groan....

piazzola's a trapdoor. a couple stumble in off the street. they're drunk, they disrupt the line of dance. what they've seen through a window - temple to warm cheek - looks like oblivion, looks like something familiar. javier and helen mark time behind them as they sway on the spot. pedro leads sumiko to the inside, making a new lane. sumiko opens her eyes. 

Time to tip up god's bottle - the old bod, the dribbling pot, the cottle. Time to slough the pits & blots, the kindly cloth & soft wattle. What mettle stays the moth? What battle? None. Not love, nor heat nor wrath. Form flickers. Gone. 

N.Z.R.

over a deep blue night whiteness drifts, like the loose beard of one so old the hair is mist, wisps schoaling. and you, you're a man in a fog with a train around you. you're leaning close to the window, craning at the sky, where the image of the letters in this vessel worked in coloured glass are thrown upon the cloud, all their perfect ornament thrown, their neat compression held. peacock and ruby cuts in solid air spell the sign of the abbreviated tale. woodville to dannevirke, woodville to dannevirke. there was darkness, and then we had rail. if only eusebius....  but you once walked the long way yourself. once, a hundred times, and through the ruahines, and to the coasts. once at the side of pregnant elizabeth, and on alone.

Yesterday morning I was dreaming I was with George Simcox and was considering how to get away in time to ring the bells here which as porter I had to ring, but 'Loveless circumstance' means the full impress of mechanarchy, functionalism, routine: friendship may have encouraged Stevie to introduce an element of non-naturalistic farce, as when Captain Maulay, announced by a loud crash, bounds into the room with a paper bag full of cream buns, or a German officer, his plane shot down, is fished out of the lake. Those jettisoned bodies / gazing comet-struck into / the god void / aboard the Momship - by day this is embarrassing, by night it is terrifying. Elsewhere, a woman leans over her waka, fish in one hand, breasts drooping realistically over her canoe. He seems to have become very engaged, being led astray by the ripened seed-capsule, which gapes wide on drying, to expel the dust-like seeds. He thinks it important that the specimens he sends retain their Maori customary names, whereas Hooker swiftly undresses them. He is hoping to play peekaboo with someone who comes along. More language for journeys. A crossing, a cut. The word for arrival at a destination. Suitable for all on-snow activities, and procedures to rotate the fields of language, accompanied by a certain lasciviousness - the phantasy, I mean, of intra-uterine existence. Apparitions and ghosts represent that ambiguity. That's what I want, / Said the Devil, / And threw one at him. It seems more relevant now than it did in his lifetime - a fern-green thing / from a spirit world. He had observed in old Maori culture that nearly everything was to a degree animate and full of spirits. This deepened his gloom, from the ground through a graceful swerve below (I think) the spring of the branches up to the tops of the timber. All possible voices were united, and then only through the 'thisness' of each object. He and the other novices had just come before the novice-master again to ask for 'little leaves' to keep such things as a watch, razor, pocket knife or scissors. The power of such absence is the chill it casts. It can only be read as something not yet made. But the whole of a man's movable property is his own, which includes his house and fences, as well as all his smaller goods, so New Zealanders prefer to live in a type of self-imposed anaesthesia. Lucky lucky. Listen! Listen! As if the tongue told & tolled. This further alludes to the nose - the proboscis - and its homophone “knows.” I had nothing in mind. The struggles of babies. TB. Sophie -> 0482 066077- Nipple pain -Feed/sleep signals - Pumping - when? How can you be hungry while I live in this city? I cannot endure this. The smaller the quantity of dead wood in your fence, the less does it hurt the sight. This pressure of cultural selection probably explains the second branching of the tree, where clues are present, but serve no real function. There too, perched in the tree or tied to the battleground by white tendrils of memory, are all the memorialists and decorators of the primal myth. 

Gerald Manley Hopkins, The Major Works 199
Robert Graves, Poetic Craft and Principle 125
Simon Schama, Landscape and Memory
Frances Spalding, Stevie Smith: A Critical Biography 173
Wanda Coleman, Bath Water Wine 165
Landfall 229 49, 38
Leicester Kyle, Koroneho 110
Peter Wells, The Hungry Heart: Journeys with William Colenso 365
Two journals
Aldi catalogue
Little Duck Finger Puppet Book
Michael Nardone, "Listen! Listen! Listen!: Jackson Mac Low's Phonopoetics
https://www.academia.edu/12050628/Listen_Listen_Listen_Jackson_Mac_Lows_Phonopoetics
Julia Kristeva, Strangers to Ourselves 185
Michael King, The Penguin History of New Zealand 230
The Arabian Nights, tr Husain Haddawy 349
John Barrell, The Idea of Landscape and the Sense of Place: An Approach to the Poetry of John Clare 1730-1840 83
Franco Moretti,  Graphs, Maps, Trees 72
Rachel Loden, Kulchur Girl
Jack Ross, "Leicester Kyle" http://jacket2.org/content/leicester-kyle
Leicester Kyle, Heteropholis http://leicesterkyle1.blogspot.com.au/2011/02/heteropholis-1998.html
Leicester Kyle, Options
Paul Mariani, Gerard Manley Hopkins: A Life
https://books.google.com.au/books?id=HWNDAGOUN6QC&pg=PA86&lpg=PA86&dq=gerard+manley+hopkins+george+simcox&source=bl&ots=h-NFR-UYwq&sig=ws76gnYhr8c-KpapLrgbeZNCL78&hl=en&sa=X&ei=AZlUVbHNBovm8gWfi4G4Cw&ved=0CB4Q6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=gerard%20manley%20hopkins%20george%20simcox&f=false
Roopika Risam, "The Poetry of Unexecutable Code". http://jacket2.org/commentary/poetry-unexecutable-code
Peter Wells "Colenso: On how trees can save us and keep us sane"
http://www.colensostudy.id.au/Newsletters/newsletter%20June11.pdf
Wikipedia,  "Gerard Manley Hopkins"
The Victorian Web, "Gerard Manley Hopkins: A Brief Biography"
http://www.victorianweb.org/authors/hopkins/hopkins1.html
The Victorian Web, "Hopkins on Inscape and Instress"
http://www.victorianweb.org/authors/hopkins/hopkins1.html
The Poetry Foundation, "Gerard Manley Hopkins"
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/gerard-manley-hopkins
Facebook
William Colenso, "On the Maori Races of New Zealand"
http://rsnz.natlib.govt.nz/volume/rsnz_01/rsnz_01_00_002210.html
Annie Potts, Philip Armstrong, Deirdre Brown, A New Zealand Book of Beasts: Animals in our Culture, History and Everyday Life
https://books.google.com.au/books?id=vuhaAwAAQBAJ&pg=PA16&lpg=PA16&dq=%27the+maori+races+of+new+zealand%27+colenso&source=bl&ots=6kL8RbpJ0b&sig=fIbFnV4fXcWe6xv3-po0B4Hlte4&hl=en&sa=X&ei=OX9VVfnjBIPdmAXql4HwDQ&ved=0CEEQ6AEwBw#v=onepage&q='the%20maori%20races%20of%20new%20zealand'%20colenso&f=false
The New Yorker, Joan Didion, "Last Words" precis
http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1998/11/09/last-words-6
Adrienne LaFrance, "Why's this so good? No. 79. Joan Didion, Hemingway, and Mathematically Musical Writing. http://nieman.harvard.edu/stories/whys-this-so-good-no-79-joan-didion-hemingway-and-mathematically-musical-writing/

I'm not sure what that thing is when you meet someone whose spirit is being keelhauled. Like I gave him a lift, but turned around in the car to watch what he was doing with his hands. Or, when he came in for supervision I checked his visible skin for tracks. And when I saw them at last wondered who I should tell. I am a witness, who would like my report? This is the eighth unwritten notebook, and not yet the ugliest. Young boys in the corner of the public spa, huddled together over a plastic bag. Beggars who came home and stashed their signs in the kitchen, then went upstairs for the deal. A woman asleep face down under the feijoa tree. A woman six months pregnant with scarcely a bump. A woman with florid movements. A dropped note in the hall: They are watching me, be careful, they are watching you too. But I am a witness, who should I tell? Is there somewhere to hand in this note? 

We were out on what I suppose was a verandah, but the whole house was bamboo except for a set of hardwood stilts, so I don't know if the same word applies. The elephants were tied to the stilts, one for each house, but our elephant was not the angry one, so it wasn't going to pull at the stilts and tip up our house. Maybe they weren't called stilts. Maybe they weren't called houses. Anyway I couldn't actually see the other houses from that verandah, or the other elephants.  Just trees and vines coming from underneath and going up to cover the sky, like we were in a ball of trees and vines, floating on the brown bamboo. There were noodles for lunch, but I'm not sure it was lunchtime. It was food. The noodles were hard, they came out of a yellow packet, and then they went soft in boiling water, right there in the plate. They were called Myami, it was written on the packet. Like 'mummy' and like 'yummy'. That seemed like nothing and something together. Like random and a really big coincidence  and not a coincidence at all. Are different languages the same in some of their places but not in others? If you pay attention can you find the places? John gave us journals and we had to write in them. They were yellow. The writing on the cover looked like decoration curled back around floating commas. But I didn't know what to write. But we weren't going anywhere till the writing was done. But I didn't have anything to write. Well that was unbelievable. After everything that was just really unbelievable.