Martha Morseth

Martha Morseth was born in the US and came permanently to New Zealand in 1972. Her feature articles, essays and poems have been published in the NZ Listener, North and South, Landfall, Sport and other literary magazines. She has had three books published: a collection of poetry, "Staying Inside the Lines"; "Yeah!---short stories for teenagers"; and "Let¹s Hear It for the Winner", one act plays for high schools. She has recently completed a musical drama about New Zealand's first woman doctor. Martha is currently working on a second collection of poetry.

the cafe

I am the one who gets there first,

the one who always waits.

I avoid cracks but can do nothing

about the shadows.

You meet me at the Percolator

for coffee and something else.

I notice that their pot plants

need watering.  I say ‘yes’

to another coffee when you ask

if I have had enough of life alone.

I lust for cream, I admit, but

my slim conscience prevents such

luxuries and my thin soul warns

me against your extravagances.

I am able to forget the nightmares

but the dreams recur----double rooms,

double floor plans, duplications

of living spaces.

Should I live with you?  We are

unalike and soon would hate.  But that

is a solid relationship, you say.

Co-dependency can be forever.

The crocuses are pushing through

the ground, too early.  Don’t force it,

I tell them.  Take a lesson from me,

I never know when to leave a party,

I always arrive too soon.  The hostess

isn’t ready and her partner is still

in the shower.  She glowers but lets

me in.  I see that her plants want

watering.  Wealth can make you

careless.

What was it you said with your fingers

as you handed me the coffee?  I seem

to be slipping through the places

between the newly polyurethaned

floorboards.  They reflect the tables

nicely and the customers’ teeth as

they laugh.

The night is cold, the windows are

steamed.  The cafe is warm, the cream

is sweet.  I see your teeth.

sonnet for table seven

    

Impeccable as the white,

starched cloth, we sit at a table

too wide to talk across.  

You shout out pleasantries in slices,

take refuge in the wine,

watch my face

though candle light.

The evening slips past caution, 

your voice hunches closer,

your hands overcome my reach. 

You sip my secrets

with the imported coffee.

What else did I expect,

at a table so small?

flat white

Others, not like us, surround us.

They dress in opshop clothes,

army coats, combat jackets,

camouflage trousers, matted

jerseys, strips of twisted cloth

banding their heads, binding

strands of greasy hair and dreds.

Their ease uneases us. We chatter

like peahens, picking at our carrot

cakes. We are well-groomed,

people with purpose. We have

paid too much for our clothes.

Macbeth’s wife gives a posthumous press conference

It‘s a woman’s right to be aggressive.

Especially in these times

one needs to be proactive,

focus on long-term objectives.

Reliance on advisers is not wise,

they can’t be trusted

nor can crystals, stones and potions.

Speculative predictions are less than certain

being couched in language so equivocal.

I’ve always thought strategic planning

was the way to go.

It would have worked

if he hadn’t forced the issues,

lost his confidence,

trusted false consultants,

relied on apparitions.

In the end there was no other way,

our backs were to the wall,

all assets lost.

I had to fake insanity

and hope there were no hit men in the castle

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