Six Poems by James Brown
Tagging
I caught monarch butterflies in my net.
Then carefully held open their wings
and folded a small white sticker over
the leading edge. I’d written JB on it.
I’d wanted to put more—an address,
a date—but that was all that would fit.
It didn’t seem to affect the butterflies.
Released, they flapped erratically away
over backyard science and the fence
carrying my data into the literature.
What You’re Told When You Get a New Zealand Driver Licence
You have been specially chosen.
You are the only vehicle on the road.
The others are holograms
to make our country look busy.
You are the only vehicle on the road.
It’s like everyone’s wearing VR goggles
to make our country look busy.
It’s complicated, like The Matrix.
It’s like everyone’s wearing VR goggles,
or some drivers are, or just you.
It’s complicated, like The Matrix.
Don’t overthink it. You’re real,
or some drivers are, or just you.
The others are holograms.
Don’t overthink it. You’re real.
You have been specially chosen.
Operation Lester
He was at the Radome (the Golfball
in Brown’s non-poem ‘The Tip Track’)
looking back along the ridge road
from where he had an unimpeded
view of the events. Two men were
training an Alsatian. One held it by a van
while the other, wearing overalls,
walked a few hundred metres up
the road and scrambled down
the steep, scrub-covered bank.
The dog was then released with an
arm wave and ‘Seek Lester’. Off it went
and almost immediately found the spot
where overalls man had gone off-road.
It bounded down and—‘Seize Lester’—
grabbed him by the padded arm he
raised and swung until ‘Cease Lester’.
Then ‘Choice Lester’ as the pair returned
to the road and van and did it all again.
Like much of life, it was briefly fascinating.
The enduring mystery, your Honour, is
was Lester the Alsatian or the man we’re
calling overalls man, a man who clearly
represents the criminal fraternity, a man
on the run, who scrambles through scrub
and raises a futile arm against the rough
and ever-hungry jaws of justice?
Spiders
My life has four walls and a window.
I look out of it as if through smeary glasses,
their lenses plastic and cheap.
Spiders pollinate the ceiling.
We tolerate each other.
If they come within reach, I might cup them in my hands
and send them outside.
If I come within reach, a web might brush my hair.
The room is a cryptic crossword.
The walls tick. The skirting comes and goes
behind the bed, the wardrobe.
There is something going on
inside the sarking.
The spiders are quiet on this.
Their galaxies show the past
and the future. ‘Nina,’ I say,
‘is that why you have
eaten Frederik?’
Outside Broadcast
I didn’t mind carrying the gear. Whatever
was being recorded or broadcast, I wanted to
hear it. Steve Reich, Mel Tormé, a brass band
—count me in. And, okay, I liked climbing
inside the roofs of the MFC, Town Hall,
St James and Opera House.
Planks snaked across the spars and struts that
held the period ceilings over auditoriums
like wafers over desserts.
Stay on the planks, I was told.
Scrawled on a beam: Safe ↓ Oblivion ↓
both arrows pointing down.
At various points, holes had been made
through which cables could be lowered.
My task was to raise or lower the mic
during rehearsal while the sound engineer
found the right level. ‘Don’t drop the mic.
It costs an arm and a leg. Yours.’
Through the mouseholes came the warm glow
of seats and stage far below, the muffled world
of people who attend concerts and the theatre.
The Town Hall had a large round hole like a well
where there had once been an ornate grill.
The mic went into it like a wish.
Asked to lower further, I couldn’t undo my knot.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ blurted my radio.
‘I’m sorry. It’s really tangled.’
I’d been warned to be careful near the hole
and, peering through, a dizziness took hold
urging me towards its swirl and glow.
I could hear crying. I knew who it was, I was sure who it was.
I leaned in closer and edged my hand over.
I would make the world better. But it’s not
easy to let go when all your life you’ve been taught to
hold on. I caught myself and sat back on my plank
and waited to be called.
The Crisis Meeting
I completely agree with everything you are saying
but we also need to be mindful that
outside of this
tiny room
almost no one else
on the face of the big blue Earth
gives a fat fuck what we decide to do.
These poems are from James Brown’s new poetry collection Leadership Material (Te Herenga Waka University Press, 2024). His Selected Poems appeared in 2020 and The Tip Shop appeared in 2022.