This time,
\nI am not catapulted into heroic mould,
\nmy mind clear as I run through
\nand then execute whatever task
\nneeds to be done next \u2014
\nmerely noting the geyser
\nthat erupts on the fenceline,
\nliquefaction flowing in its wake,
\nand nod, detached, when the flood peaks
\njust centimetres below our floorline,
\nmud and water ponding
\nalong two sides of the house.<\/p>\n
But this time, there is no calm. This time, my hands stay shaking, —<\/p>\n The first poem in what has turned into an Earthquake Poem sequence, titled A Canterbury Tale<\/em>,\u00a0 was actually written on June 13, between the 5.7 and 6.3 earthquakes that happened within an hour of each other. So it is perhaps fitting that one of the poems in the sequence is about June 13 itself and the aftermath of two such large earthquakes occurring so close together—especially after we had all begun to hope that the worst might be over.<\/p>\n Given there are now eight poems in the sequence I have decided to give them their own “Earthquake Poem”<\/a> category in the far right side bar, under the section heading “Categories”<\/strong>—and immediately preceding “Earthquake Reports”<\/a>, the prose account of my personal earthquake and aftermath experience.<\/p>\n —<\/p>\n
\nMy hands shake
\nas I work my way down
\nan identical checklist, fumbling
\nthe first few attempts
\nat every undertaking while outside
\nthe same grey slick
\noverruns the property again.
\nNot so badly as in February, perhaps,
\nbut I still turn away from neighbours,
\ngathering on the street, from
\ntheir variations on the theme
\nof “it’s happened again”<\/em>\u2014the mix
\nof bewilderment and attempts at humour
\nto paper over the cracks, the hollow,
\nfalling-away sensation in the gut
\nbecause it has<\/em> happened again.<\/p>\n
\nyet all I feel is numb.
\n.
\n\u00a9 Helen Lowe, 2011<\/p>\n