A collection

'reply to biska's "w/hole"'


to be kissed and loved and made whole: this is our lot on this earth for us to discover; whether some of us may reject this due to previous circumstance, or embrace this with vigour and joie de vivre, are our choices. myself, i waver between the two incessantly, sometimes feeling as if that wavelength i am on has become lost in the void, in translation, so to speak, totally devoted to the idea that we are here to experience, and come what may, that is the only certainty. so, do we search for it or let it flow to us, or do both, in the hopes of mathematical probability giving us the idea that there is a one in a kajillion-infinite-times-032321211.3333 squared chance it may happen? for all of forever, beyond graves and lives lived in turmoil, beyond a simple exclamation of "i love you, but this will never work beyond our wildest dreams", each and every one is a fickle certainty. or so i believe.

there is hurt in this, a very real hurt that is at once universal yet personal, a mix of intellect and emotion, and events beyond our very human and error-prone control. to not know the highs and crushing lows: i'm sure some people have never known this, instead opting to hallucinate themselves with popular fashion and culture, a zombiefied existence which only mcdonalds, mtv and endless advertising could perhaps assuage... with some small feeling that there is a way of life here, a shared call.

there is vibrancy in desolation, if only because one has to rise like a phoenix and do it all over again, experience all of it in varying shades and extremities.
would you agree?
nods.
 

 

 

'blue lotus'

here, tomorrow
a bleached whale
bone your pendant}

neck engraved in
flightless sorrow--
manaia, mana, home

{heart in hills, sinew
and wave: siren,
sing for me

 

 

 

'scraping nails'


there's always much unsaid
in what i deem forbidden love,
one i would scrape my nails along
in search of the magdalene.

history tells me i should find solace in words
and not in eyes and lips shrouded by nostalgia.
that i should see beyond the ethereal and grasp
at conversations at dusk. finding what lies beyond
this path we walk, giggling and promising nothing.

why, as you say, would we promise anything when comfort
is a whisper amidst a gale? why, in this exodus to find
a better life, one of gentle harps riding salt waves, do we gaze
upon endless horizons? every bridge i've had the pleasure of
jumping off shows me there is depth i'll never find footing upon.
every cliff looking out over sailors, encompassed in a world
of masts and rope, gives me silent confidence. that i should find
my own currents in another city. that i should welcome the stench
of misery. if only to combat my own, here, on this street.
here, upon reading endless verse.

much unsaid when the timing is not quite right.
much to deliver when past misfortunes come to the light.

 

 

 

'chartreuse'


i guess you'd tell me of sunflowers
if you ever caught one behind your ear:
a lone empress finding a kindred home.

to speak of soil and roots and rain
drenching fingers and flames: to sing
each pungent note and remember.

here, where life is simply spent,
i hoard herbs in my winter pantry:
basil for warmth, rosemary for company.

 

 

 

'Lockets'


Wild words.

They seem a troubled memory
of old socks and shoes thrown away
last winter. Along with coffee granules
heaped upon our struggling city garden.
Amongst the tired lemons squeezed
of their zing.

I've followed the contours
of grass and gravel, came to know
each like a neighbour: slightly aloof
yet friendly, a reserved smile and nod
in helpless orbit.

We are stars, you said to me.

Nights ago,
when every song sang of coming light,
of mercurial storms bringing puddles
to stomp on. Splash, and the ensuing solace
of laughter. Growth, a diadem for your brow
and a kiss on your nose.
We are bones, I say to you.
Perfumed bones
in a locket.

It's October now

and I've swept
the kitchen clean. Each sauce-stain
and oily residue the fruit of so many
living so closely. All of us, in our rooms,
with our own philosophies. A piano plays
next door, upstairs a communion
of hurried noise.

In November, I'll be twenty-seven.
In December, this year will turn
into another poem. 

 

 

'scarves'


nights in sepia,
these fingers, lips
harried children,
bruised umber
and fleeting
silver.

each
ragged shoe
with another
similar. but
separate.
defined:
a conversation
in silk
with undertones
of

honey.
molasses.
a secret.
a scarf
left to flutter
and tell me
there is sunrise
here.

only here
with you.
and i
with
juniper
eyes.

 

 

 

'Overture'


Passion, and how to nullify this with gracious words
meant to claw temptation into a box. Sprinkle with

sage, rosemary and a dash of paprika into its loins.
Baste with sweaty fingers, with eyes which refuse

to water, eyes which slip their way into yet another
book. So the world can fade all around, all around

so you may forget what it means to hold onto hope.
Drag it beneath you. Toss dirt over its see-through

corpse. This, the art of unity, as you tear your limbs
and pray for night to envelop you in song.   
 

 

 

'slip'



rising, rising:
fresh bread
sunday morning.
coffee. honey.
birds saying
i am slightly
in tune, beautiful
of sorts, a slipstream
of forgottenness
tasting
what it means
to close my eyes
and worry
over you.

 

 

'bug'


to fly to london,
read books by kafka
and voltaire
and argue over
the insubstantial mess
of what justifies love and life--
under cherry blossoms in osaka
and wattle trees in darwin
we'll take shade under
hopeful
and utterly
free.

no-one waits for strangers at bus-stops.
vultures will steal your bags before this comes to pass.
the apocalypse is stained with belief and rhetoric
i've seen on the pavement--
beneath bulldozed fields raised to ceres and isis
and forgotten earth mothers with different names,
beyond shells and beads made of amber and citrine:
hematite for the blood, diamonds for clarity,
turquoise for endless sea
rising up.

i carve words. you sing. i dance.
you walk circles and call it a journey for squares.
i cartwheel on sand, sink fingers under
to be bitten by crabs. you hold a tambourine
and threaten to ring
the silliness away.
of ocean and banshees.
horns and goatskin drums.
the scent of chalky cliffs in dover
i'll never see.

where are the floods i've seen?
wash over me.  

 

 

'The Weight of Denying'


This sky, a fortress to take shadows from.
These flies, diseased messengers of summer
in thrall to the smell of limpid flesh. Of sweat
and the denial of mischief found ninety kilometres
off the coast. This was two weeks ago, and yet
you still ponder over an old world. A world
of fables and connections. A plateau of
promises to reclaim and share between friends.
The subtle aroma of clothes left out to dry
as you swim naked under the eyes of moonlight.

Two nights ago we discussed living from the land.
Escaping routine, escaping gossip and bills and endless
comfort. What need for anything but food and shelter?
What need to be so immured in complications?
Arising from the self, this call to own the latest trinket,
this ache to overachieve and overwork and settle
for nothing less than eternal fame. Give this up.
Destroy this vision. Run away and follow this trail
you've yet to define. If but slowly, you'll find
peace in time. Gossamer, my words left for you.

 

 

 

'evergreen'


he would for you, quite easily, give up
this summer and press leaves into the arch of winter.
    a boy. he'll scrape sticks slivered with moss,
tie the blossoms back with string found in his pocket,
shoulder the sun with a goodbye wink
and smile.

 

 

 

 

'a + b = arse. the square root of a is go f**k yourself'


be sunrise and mocha and tourmaline for me
this eve. i try to catch butterflies and moonshadows
and flit by empty, as always; as always, i taste of
woodworked veneer, crisp polish, of cuneiform
stencilled into wet clay. my daily routine
consists of a rubik's cube of salty hellos
and latent goodbyes. give me sun just this once.
give me a bouncing ball aimed between these posts.
i'll dodge to one side, if only to let you
see the light. if only to let you taste this night.

i wish for spinning discs of mirrors,
of hallways fixed upon a vignette of a girl
in a park: a scraped dress, worn taffeta,
a seaward sparkle of oysters and paua in her eyes.
give this to me: give this upon my raise and call
and slinky bluff. i only have three of a kind;
is that enough? is that the sound of
moreporks, tuis and fantails
brushing this night?

spin, spin, give this to me.

 

 

 

'yin (sugar)'


echoes of attachment. sentiment. prosperity
in red paper birds slipped into a stream.


i don't miss how this page curls in response, how
breath is wind and shadow and steam
to close your fingers from.

from. to. a beginning. a bugle note. empty dancers swirling
for another night. another dream. a stone to shatter
beneath both thumbs.


a skylight.
no response.
 

 

 

'yang (salt)'


closure.
stunned days spent
fishing for forgiveness:

stay awhile.
harvest plums with me.

proximity:
these nights
stick together

and steal shadows,
steal you

away.

 

 

 

'volta'


i should've been
many more things to you
when i sold my secrets;
at the least, a flurry of fingers
and wild hair waiting
for the next
storm.  

blend this world into circles, into pastel notes:
this is what you would have me believe,
with what makes sense
when alone
and sleeping
fitfully.

grace, and how to destroy this with foolish patience.
honesty: how to grind this with mortar and pestle.
the scent of green, and why i always end up with purple.
a violin, when all i wanted was a flute.

speak plainly, for i only know of riddles.
dissect and learn, yet bury the answers
soon.

 

 

 

'the urge of colour'


out of dust, chimerical
you weave mandalas: blue drumskins
and green bandannas to tie hair and hands together.
an earthy union. a pyre of footsteps in black sand.
the traipse of eve shadows our lips.

where to next tuesday and every tuesday after?
where to when i would be blown south and home
like i always do?

falter, slip, and dream. shimmy, awake, and free
to curve back beyond ourselves, into gliding sorrow.
through moss and peat and silent swallows
diving outside my fingers, a cathedral
of pages and words in unison.

breathe sundays for me.
of wine and picnics in the waitakeres.
beside lakes and dams holding it all in.

burst.
and stretch these nights
to a forever-green
i can taste with my toes.
a ritual of stars embedded in candles.
the whir of clocks crushed into meaningless angles.
a toast to castles and concertos in europe.

i cannot afford to burst. but i will.
this tuesday and every tuesday
thereafter.

 

 

 

'williamson ave, saturday night'


asha, you're a believer of revolution. myself,
i waver between the fundamentals of reason
telling me there's no use in change, that what we do
is ropey silence, smeared brie on wholemeal
quickly shared and messily eaten.

there, we fused hips, joined and seasoned with cloves
and unspoken sin. your eyes spoke of light and firm desire
which i had no answer for. not right then.
not when others dared to intrude
upon our tranquil strife.

i looked up at the moon that night, saw mars within
its penumbra: a smaller twin, hovering near its belly.
that's the only revolution i'll truly believe:
that of constant spinning, that of the push and pull
of planets and moons in cyclic fusion.

tell me i'm another fool looking to the heavens for guidance.
tell me i don't need to be told this over and under again.
and later, i walked back, up ariki road and along great north.
down potatau and left onto home. i felt cloudy and oppressed.
i felt i had to drown in uncaring city noise.

at 3 a.m. there's no relief when awake and needing ocean.
the pavement calls. i walk. i dream and mutter poems.
 

 

 

 

* I have no idea how many I've just put together. Way too many? Yep. Why? Because the thought of posting them separately overwhelms me. So there you go. Tell me if there are any particular ones you enjoy and why, if any. Ta.

Holy crap. 17 pieces, I think. Sorry. To put you through this.

Really.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[mick weller]

too much too much he cries...
some nice lines in this - though plenty more...

'a + b = arse. the square root of a is go f**k yourself ( 'a' )?
'be sunrise and mocha and tourmaline for me'
(glad you use this line - opening with 'be' - it will be - it'll be - 'll be - hmm, yes (see my Prologue to SurferM... though this is poetry and not prose... this is me thinking, so take no notice...)
'closure.
stunned days spent
fishing for forgiveness:'
(crystal clear here)
yes, it's all just out of reach... out of control... and you convey it well
it's difficult to take it all in, but in 'bundling' it all out you convey a sense of completeness here somehow...
needs a few visits methinks
cheers

[Emily B]

So lovely to find words like these again

[J]

Hello there haha 🎶

[Hedra Helix]

dammnit you are f*****g brilliant, you never never never let me down, just when I think this place is a desert,

here, where life is simply spent,
i hoard herbs in my winter pantry:
basil for warmth, rosemary for company.



'Lockets'


Wild words.

They seem a troubled memory
of old socks and shoes thrown away
last winter. Along with coffee granules
heaped upon our struggling city garden.
Amongst the tired lemons squeezed
of their zing.

I've followed the contours
of grass and gravel, came to know
each like a neighbour: slightly aloof
yet friendly, a reserved smile and nod
in helpless orbit.

We are stars, you said to me.

Nights ago,
when every song sang of coming light,
of mercurial storms bringing puddles
to stomp on. Splash, and the ensuing solace
of laughter. Growth, a diadem for your brow
and a kiss on your nose.
We are bones, I say to you.
Perfumed bones
in a locket.

It's October now

and I've swept
the kitchen clean. Each sauce-stain
and oily residue the fruit of so many
living so closely. All of us, in our rooms,
with our own philosophies. A piano plays
next door, upstairs a communion
of hurried noise.

In November, I'll be twenty-seven.
In December, this year will turn
into another poem.


'scarves'


nights in sepia,
these fingers, lips
harried children,
bruised umber
and fleeting
silver.

each
ragged shoe
with another
similar. but
separate.
defined:
a conversation
in silk
with undertones
of

honey.
molasses.
a secret.
a scarf
left to flutter
and tell me
there is sunrise
here.

only here
with you.
and i
with
juniper
eyes.


those are the faves, though theres more, those are the ones that to this mind sing.

you b*****d, I want your brain!

[Red Brick Keshner]

Ha, good to see the anthologising alive and well. I envision a selection of your poems on coffee table poetry books - just debating whether or not they should have images. But them being in a coffee table format - there should be some visual art (photography and whatnot, tasteful and complementing rather than clashing and over riding).

[Lori]

I like them all, but my favorite is "Chartreuse", because it just sings. It has wonderful off-rhymes and alliteration, and -- like all of your poems -- a sense of freedom as well as control. I like how the "yin" and "yang" poems work together. There's a sense of opening in the first and a closure in the latter.In the stanza:

from. to. a beginning. a bugle note. empty dancers swirling
for another night. another dream. a stone to shatter
beneath both thumbs.

I really like how you provide a rhythm with the periods in the first line. It doens't slow down the pace, but instead gives it a staccato rhythm, like a dance with quick movements. It isn't smooth and the reader has the literary equivalent of stepping on toes there, and that really works with the theme.

Another favorite is the last poem "williamson ave..." You really do get a sense of the wandering -- both physically and in the mind.

[Emily B]

When, when, when are you going to publish a volume of your works? In cases such as yours it cannot be called vanity. The worth of the words is too great to leave them lying about. Your words want to lie in print so that we can flip pages lazily as we lie under the covers and read to the ones we love. They really do, I'm sure of it.

I like them all. Some speak to me a little louder than others. Some just seem to drift on a quiet wave. I am amazed at the words that jump out at me. The words that have been buzzing around my ears for a week, even before I came to read. Words like orbit and giggling and kindred. A little thing that seems like something bigger to my amazed ear.