Capsule Review: What to Wear, by Jenny Bornholdt

Jenny Bornholdt’s thirteenth poetry collection, WHAT TO WEAR, observes themes such as grief, ageing, and mortality. Bornholdt, one of New Zealand's most beloved poets (and poet laureate from 2005 to 2007) uses the lens of ordinary moments she experiences, like deciding what to wear, riding public transport or taking a trip to the doctor’s office to bring forth these preoccupations. The simplicity and scarcity of her words leave a lasting impact on the reader, such as in ‘The Number 14’, where she describes how ‘Soon we will lose / the mothers / and their fine minds. / Great gorges of grief / are everywhere.’ 

While Bornholdt isn't afraid to touch on the deeper subjects of life, it is the gentler meditative moments that come to us in the midst of them that she shifts her focus to, such as in ‘Funeral’ where ‘At his funeral / a praying mantis scrambled across / the back of the man seated / in front of me.’ So she ‘gave thanks’ and carried it outside. A simple image used to show that life still goes on despite the grief that may feel all-encompassing.

Bornholdt's shorter poems are where we get to see her poetic skills shine best. Her talent for creating impact in as few words as necessary is no better on display than in the six line poem, ‘My Mother's Friend's Hair,’ where she recalls watching her mother's friend ‘wind and clip it up, / all life's disappointments / coiled there.’ The imagery stays with the reader long after turning the page to the next poem.

While Bornholdt has crafted mostly short form poems, there is the occasional experimental longer piece in ‘Poem with a hole in it’ and, my personal favourite, ‘Poetry’, which leaves the reader with a nostalgia for their own past. ‘Then, I held them / safe inside me, my body / shut tight as a clam,’ declares Bornholdt, remembering her own pregnancy as she looks upon newly pregnant women. From reflecting on Bornholdt’s childhood and then to her own children’s childhoods, the reader can’t help but do so too. I found myself looking back on my own motherhood journey, as short as it has been, with not only a fond nostalgia, but a sense of anxiety for what experiences (good and bad) are still to come for my child now they are no longer safely cushioned inside.

Flood

There’s a ghost in our house,

our house that I love. Sometimes

I just feel

that there’s someone else 

In the room. My cat,

I know she knows. No,

not looking over my shoulder, it’s not

like that. It’s just someone there

in the room. I’m not complaining 

though. Think of all the people 

who have lost their homes

in the floods. They don’t even have

a house, let alone one

with a ghost in it.