ISSN: 1941-4137
POETRY THAT ENACTS THE ARTISTIC AND CREATIVE PURITY OF GLASS
POETRY THAT ENACTS THE ARTISTIC AND CREATIVE PURITY OF GLASS
Paula Harris lives in Aotearoa/New Zealand, where she writes poems and sleeps in a lot, because that’s what depression makes you do. She won the 2018 Janet B. McCabe Poetry Prize and the 2017 Lilian Ida Smith Award. Her writing has been published in various journals, including Berfrois, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, The Rialto, Barren, SWWIM, Diode, Glass, Aotearotica, The Spinoff and Landfall. She is extremely fond of dark chocolate, shoes and hoarding fabric.
Also by Paula Harris:
how to cook cheesecake on a bbq
I only allow those who I deem worthy to share in my favourite chocolate; your heart is still being weighed
the life expectancy of a cloud
Previously in Glass: A Journal of Poetry:
after the deaths, bees will collect pollen from the flowers
Your doctor, your mentor, your lecturer, your flatmate, those two guys you kinda knew at your friend’s party, the guy who came around to fix your computer when it picked up some malware, your uncle, the police officer you asked for help because you really needed help, your dentist, your ex-boyfriend, the guy who lives over the road who has a friendly cat, the author whose book you’ve read seven times, your electrician, your best friend, your psychiatrist, your boss, the bouncer at that bar you like, the guy behind the counter at your favourite café, your Tinder date, a politician, a lawyer, the businessman you chatted with at an After Five function, the taxi driver who took you from the airport to your house, your cousin, your best friend’s brother, your best friend’s cousin, your husband, the waiter at that restaurant that serves really amazing desserts, your dad, your personal trainer
Genghis Khan caused the death of 10% of the world’s population, leading to forest regeneration and increased carbon absorption; I struggle to get out of bed in the morning but still recycle and in summer try to water my garden with grey water from the washing machine
we don’t have fireflies in New Zealand, but the idea has always intrigued me
we fly alongside the Californian sunrise
and the guy seated across the aisle from me
rotates his forearm slowly back and forth,
ulna and radius spiralling around each other,
watching the colour of the sunlight
like light hitting a tall copper cup
wash over his hands
I watch him watching his hands
watch the sunlight on his hands
want to hack his hands off at the wrists,
separate ulna and radius from
scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum and pisiform,
place his hands inside a large jar
and screw the lid on
keeping the light for the days
when I can’t go outside
In May 2018 I flew to New York, living in Brooklyn for a few weeks of spring. Having experienced winter twice in New York, I'd always wanted to be there for spring. And so when some super cheap flights came up — NZ$1060 for return flights from my city to New York! — it seemed like the thing to do. My hospital psychologist thought that it might be a kind of relocation therapy — seeing if a change of scene could help jolt things and improve my severe depression.
As my flight was heading along the California coast towards LAX — most other passengers still asleep – I got caught in the way that the sun moved through the cabin as the plane changed direction. The light ended up resting on the hand of the man on the opposite side of the aisle to me, and he'd noticed and was turning his hand and forearm, to watch how the light shifted. It was mesmerising, for both of us. Watching his hand moving in the light, I had this sense of wonder and joy that I hadn't felt in such a long time, and I wanted to bottle that moment and that feeling, so that I could maybe feel something good during a bad day.
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.
All contents © the author.
