Tate Fountain
Q&A
If I had a time machine, I’d go back to seventeen.
(I’d give my best friend six dollars.)
[...]
Choosing nourishment (for the rest of your life) is difficult!
Do you pick what you love?
Do you pick what is good for you?
[ Who do you look for in a crowded room? ]
[ Do you remember the last promise you made?
Did you keep it? ]
[ Who are you attracted to? ]
[ What’s the worst thing you can do to a person? ]
I worry that I’m under-qualified to call myself a classicist.
/ said no man with a vague interest in Rome
Coffee at a meeting. Tea if I’m at home.
Love is to buy groceries in tandem, to ride together in a car.
[ Success or happiness?
Are they one and the same? ]
[ What’s the worst thing you can do to a—
Rob them of their agency.
Nectarine. (Or mangosteen!)
The Phantom Tollbooth.
Nothing, and then worse. He didn’t realise.
(I’d give my best friend six dollars and say,
in four years, you’ll be expecting this, but not from me,
and you won’t get it, but you will from me; you are owed it
by a boy I was dating once, but am not now; you are owed it
because he said he would contribute to the cost of a cake
that you organised for my birthday—as a surprise, you see—
and, though you will chase him up, he will not pay; and,
though I will have tried to, I will not love him; but I do love you,
and we have very little money and a great deal of disappointment
and therefore I must give you these six dollars, because when
I burst out in tears in four years it will be for your biscuits and
not for the boy; it will be because you care for me, and because
I care for you, and because miraculously, delightfully, we are
still here together, in our twenties, in a different town; because,
as I said, I love you, and we buy our own groceries now; so,
please take these six dollars, and invoice me for extra change;
and, also—time travel exists.)
[ Who are you attracted to? ]
[ Are you your mother’s favourite?
Does she make allowances for you that she shouldn’t? ]
I couldn’t sulk on the seaside or a battlefield,
though I would go to war for a woman—
only for you to die in my armour,
to die in my arma
to die in my arms
(what a cruel way to see the wish granted)
/ enough ancient tongue to write an accent pun
[ Who are you—
then it’s a shot to the foot:
the one place that won’t heel!
/ [so he] bites the dust (there’s another one)
[anassa]
[ Are you—
No.
Does she—
No, she doesn’t—
I’d go to war for a woman
—not for her hand
and not for her husband,
not for his child-killer brother,
not for my would-be father-in-law;
not if she’d only be
dragged back to
the man she’d left
ten years before; and not if
other women were, too—
[ Who—
I would only go to war for a woman.
[ ‘[…] Do you pick what you love?’ ]
[ ‘[…] Do you pick what is good for you?’ ]
[ Are they one and the same? ]
Tate Fountain is a poet, actor, and postgraduate student, who has most recently written for Starling, NZ Poetry Shelf and The Niche. She loves comedy, visual art, and the inarticulable nature of feelings. She’s also apparently a fan of listing things in groups of three.