In his tombstone hour she elevated him through
the radio, her fantail chirrups and twirbles.
All washed up he was, ready to check out
when an avian voice penetrated his fug. “This
is going out to everyone,” it sung; he
thought 'Does that mean me, too?' then put
down the gun, the can of petrol, the lighter
and ripped the note into a million pieces and
on his long-haul flight the soundtrack was Bic
(she kept the passengers blissful, quiet). In
France there was La Môme Piaf and here,
there was alchemy and a golden Bic and
from her wax eye did leak a platinum tear
and from her beak did pour a string of pearls.
Natasha Dennerstein was born in Melbourne of a family originating in Poland and Russia. She is currently living and studying in Wellington. She has been a psychiatric nurse for twenty years, which has given her an interesting perspective on the human condition and has been writing creatively most of her adult life.
Dennerstein says: “I have always admired the singer Bic Runga: chirpy and dark simultaneously. I was inspired to write a sonnet, not in praise of her, but celebrating her sound and her aesthetic. Any nature poetry or poems praising beauty that I write end up having a can of petrol in them, or the equivalent. I can’t help it: I am made that way.”