Mary Magdalene, Mother of Mercies, what were the seven little
devils that were driven out of you like vintage cars? I confess
I have my own ideas. I think they could be things like fatigue
depression fear of spiders fear of eating too much chocolate
while writing fear of fear of the dark fear of stuffing up
and not even realising it until later
on the bus when a lightbulb the terrible flickering kind
goes on and you just go o no. Or maybe being
a bit broken. That’s supposed to be OK though
but sometimes you feel unhealable. Holy Mary!
Your emblem is an ointment jar, which I see you driving across the hills
like the Pope in his glass carriage
and just for a moment, the anxious ferns there are stilled
and then distilled somehow.
Listen to Sarah Scott read Driving Lessons
I’m growing so tired of the word weird.
Especially to describe poetry, which can never be
unweirdly. The word is a weed
in its kinfolk alternative wildflower way.
It’s like calling a fire a bit intense
or a horse a little fast or its heart simply a beater.
Anyway, we can never say things
weirdly enough to get them to really ride on past.
You may find this horse a little fast
but I can assure you a mean mane
flowereth from its heavy crest
making it a live nightmare in flame, a goldrush
that just overtook you.
Listen to Sarah Scott read Weird Tricks
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sarah Scott is a recent graduate of the MA in Creative Writing at the International Institute of Modern Letters. Some of her writing has appeared in Up Country and Art New Zealand. She lives in Wellington.