Madness, Madness
Didn't you know eccentric women
Repeat the pattern of madness?
Didn't they tell you that we comb our hair
Then stare into darkness?
I'll tell you then. I'm the eccentric woman of
hermitage
Who talks to the rain that falls
And ask my plants why they don't grow
Into strong little boys and girls
I'll tell you then, I'm the quaint woman of yesteryear
Quintessentially mad to the masses
But to the legion that guards my brain
I'm not insane
Didn't you know eccentric women
Repeat the pattern of madness?
Shamed by our Condition
My wrists were small
but the cuffs were smaller
as they bit at my skin
Shoved into the car head first
my body contorted to fit
in a space not fit for small children or wildlife
CLANK went the door of the holding cell
Piss scented air engulfed me as I sat
alone and cold on the hard metal bench
(chipping paint and artful profanity)
Cries of women
echoed through the corridor
and out the window
falling on merciless ears
I would not cry
for anger caressed my lips
He took away everything I had
He took away my freedom
He was used to the cage
but prison is no place for a woman
We were round up
an assortment of motley women
chained together by circumstance
I was not a criminal
just a woman and a mother
who would not submit to the will
of another
We were led out like dogs pulling a sled
Heads down and shamed by our condition
My cellmate was a crack addict
though she preferred the term "diabetic"
Her long, crack-eaten body draped over the entire
bench
I studied her features
(emaciated)
There was no doubt she took her insulin through a
pipe.
Elizabeth Kelso is a native New Yorker who has been writing poetry for 17 years. She won 2nd prize in the 2000 "No Experience Required: A Literary Magazine Contest for her poem "She Fed Me Kimchi". Her work can be seen at zuzu.com.
Coral Hull Spike Rotundo Sandy Jeffs Michael Furs Mike Katzberg Elizabeth Kelso Lori Williams Danny P. Barbare
Saturday, March 01, 2003
Lori Williams
Crazy is a Place
Crazy is a mean place to be -
piranhas swim through saliva, teeth
pressure your tongue to tell a son
you wish he were never born, that your eggs
should have caught fire, burned black
like the ones he tries to make, ruining all the skillets,
before that drunken cum staggered its way
into your fucked-up Easter basket.
There is so much blood in the daydreams.
His and yours run together, a dysfunctional river
that covers baby pictures making cowlicks glisten,
making his Sesame Street romper orange.
In the night dreams, you cry.
How you've neglected the knife set!
The one from four Christmas' ago - they've dulled
like your hair, your eyes. Flat. Matte like the shadows
you wear as disguise. People don't look into them now,
and you know the men you'll never have.
Things like making toast and manicures become projects,
make you think of slots that pop out what you are so hungry for,
and fingernails small as sprinkles, so you drop the bread
to the floor, leave the polish open to dry.
With dead eyes it all seems funny.
Crazy is an interesting place to be, if someone notices.
Then there are pink and blue pills that you line up
on the counter like pairs of eyes winking all is well,
and doctors you picture naked with hairy balls,
which makes you laugh, and laughter is
the best medicine. If someone notices,
maybe sons will see the error of their ways,
become priests or even love you again, hold your hand.
But crazy is usually alone, going to six stores to find
the Schick straight razors dad used to use. Then you see
him shaving at the sink, nicking his cheek, sticking a piece
of tissue on it. Oh, how you fretted! The worst worry
in your life was his wound. You wonder why
he doesn't answer your prayers.
Crazy is a place where the doves never come home.
Breaking Down, Making Soup
A pockmarked life, ugly and filled
with flimsy notions of altered states
is reason enough to shed skin dead
a while, since the year full of holes.
Hung on bone (tired), teasing
like a tongue that circles pouting lips
and misses the point.
Fifteen thousand three hundred thirty
mistakes atoned for - promises, deals,
firstborn son. Like a pot of soup they simmer
until the whole schmear becomes something
with a name. Carrot shavings
and chicken feet are nothing on their own.
Sometimes he listens and forgives
but we pay with our sanity,
going crazy as we slurp poison
that does not quite reach the heart.
Lori Williams: Just your typical depressed poet from New York. I think I've had some sort of depression for most of my adult life, maybe even since childhood. People were always telling me "snap out of it", " you're so moody" and the worst one..."smile!". At age 43, I have finally put a name to it, stopped thinking I was just a miserable person. My poetry has been published in over 30 print and web zines and journals, including The Melic Review, Niederngasse, The Dakota House Journal, BlueFifth Review and is upcoming in Wicked Alice and Unlikely Stories. I've used poetry as my therapy for many years, but it's not quite enough anymore.
Coral Hull Spike Rotundo Sandy Jeffs Michael Furs Mike Katzberg Elizabeth Kelso Lori Williams Danny P. Barbare
Crazy is a mean place to be -
piranhas swim through saliva, teeth
pressure your tongue to tell a son
you wish he were never born, that your eggs
should have caught fire, burned black
like the ones he tries to make, ruining all the skillets,
before that drunken cum staggered its way
into your fucked-up Easter basket.
There is so much blood in the daydreams.
His and yours run together, a dysfunctional river
that covers baby pictures making cowlicks glisten,
making his Sesame Street romper orange.
In the night dreams, you cry.
How you've neglected the knife set!
The one from four Christmas' ago - they've dulled
like your hair, your eyes. Flat. Matte like the shadows
you wear as disguise. People don't look into them now,
and you know the men you'll never have.
Things like making toast and manicures become projects,
make you think of slots that pop out what you are so hungry for,
and fingernails small as sprinkles, so you drop the bread
to the floor, leave the polish open to dry.
With dead eyes it all seems funny.
Crazy is an interesting place to be, if someone notices.
Then there are pink and blue pills that you line up
on the counter like pairs of eyes winking all is well,
and doctors you picture naked with hairy balls,
which makes you laugh, and laughter is
the best medicine. If someone notices,
maybe sons will see the error of their ways,
become priests or even love you again, hold your hand.
But crazy is usually alone, going to six stores to find
the Schick straight razors dad used to use. Then you see
him shaving at the sink, nicking his cheek, sticking a piece
of tissue on it. Oh, how you fretted! The worst worry
in your life was his wound. You wonder why
he doesn't answer your prayers.
Crazy is a place where the doves never come home.
Breaking Down, Making Soup
A pockmarked life, ugly and filled
with flimsy notions of altered states
is reason enough to shed skin dead
a while, since the year full of holes.
Hung on bone (tired), teasing
like a tongue that circles pouting lips
and misses the point.
Fifteen thousand three hundred thirty
mistakes atoned for - promises, deals,
firstborn son. Like a pot of soup they simmer
until the whole schmear becomes something
with a name. Carrot shavings
and chicken feet are nothing on their own.
Sometimes he listens and forgives
but we pay with our sanity,
going crazy as we slurp poison
that does not quite reach the heart.
Lori Williams: Just your typical depressed poet from New York. I think I've had some sort of depression for most of my adult life, maybe even since childhood. People were always telling me "snap out of it", " you're so moody" and the worst one..."smile!". At age 43, I have finally put a name to it, stopped thinking I was just a miserable person. My poetry has been published in over 30 print and web zines and journals, including The Melic Review, Niederngasse, The Dakota House Journal, BlueFifth Review and is upcoming in Wicked Alice and Unlikely Stories. I've used poetry as my therapy for many years, but it's not quite enough anymore.
Coral Hull Spike Rotundo Sandy Jeffs Michael Furs Mike Katzberg Elizabeth Kelso Lori Williams Danny P. Barbare
Danny P. Barbare
Stormy Night
Drops of rain
Glisten on the wooden steps.
The wind blows
And the field answers
As everything else listens.
Sleep
At the edge of the pond
It is like that dip and then tug
Into the darkness.
The line runs with that shiny scaled dream
That can never be fiction.
Danny P. Barbare's poetry has appeared in Pittsburgh Quarterly, Writing Ulster, Santa Barbara Review, California Quarterly, and many other publications and journals. He has struggle with manic-depression since his early teens. He started writing at the age of 20 and has written a poem everyday for the past 20 years. He works as a custodian and attends Greenville Technical College when able. He has a deep Southern accent, having travelled very little from the area where he was born.
Coral Hull Spike Rotundo Sandy Jeffs Michael Furs Mike Katzberg Elizabeth Kelso Lori Williams Danny P. Barbare
Drops of rain
Glisten on the wooden steps.
The wind blows
And the field answers
As everything else listens.
Sleep
At the edge of the pond
It is like that dip and then tug
Into the darkness.
The line runs with that shiny scaled dream
That can never be fiction.
Danny P. Barbare's poetry has appeared in Pittsburgh Quarterly, Writing Ulster, Santa Barbara Review, California Quarterly, and many other publications and journals. He has struggle with manic-depression since his early teens. He started writing at the age of 20 and has written a poem everyday for the past 20 years. He works as a custodian and attends Greenville Technical College when able. He has a deep Southern accent, having travelled very little from the area where he was born.
Coral Hull Spike Rotundo Sandy Jeffs Michael Furs Mike Katzberg Elizabeth Kelso Lori Williams Danny P. Barbare
Tuesday, October 01, 2002
Issue 9
Special New Zealand Issue
"Pacific Fish"
Copyright © 2002 by Pauline Johns of Pablos Art Studio
Peter Olds
Meg Campbell
Kirin Cerise
Simon Lewis
Graham Bishop
Mahinarangi Tocker
We would like to thank the following for making this special issue possible: Graham Bishop, Lyndsay Brock and Kirin Cerise, Meg Campbell, Janet Charman, Andrew Ferguson, Paula Harris of Street Women's Press, Pauline Johns and Fiona Elwood of Pablos Art Studio, Julie Leibrich, Simon Lewis, Peter Olds, Mark Pirie, Trevor Reeves, Mahinarangi Tocker; and, Julie T. Chan for editorial assistance.
Peter Olds
The Party
(with broken guitar)
At first you don't notice it among
the furnishings & potplants half hidden
in a darker part of the room
the broken guitar
its neck bent
strings curled round its head
almost shameful in an otherwise cheerful room
people drinking beer
watching TV
taking little notice of arrivals and departures
clinking glasses on teeth for sound effect
& in the hallway a small stereo tapping quietly
by a bedroom door
no one paying attention to the broken guitar
At first you don't notice the urge to smash glass
the floor crowded with spinning bottles
the coffee-table slippery with wet light
the walls sucked in like toothless mouths
flopped in a beanchair
the lights switched off
a candlestub spluttering for effect
it suddenly hits you like something you can't
find words for
& you reach for the guitar & start strumming
& singing
like mad
A Poetry Reading at Kaka Point
1
We went for a walk
on the dark beach
ship's lights like crab's fires
far off
under low cloud
embers as big as ships
2
In the waxlit cafe
a poetry reading is taking place
a local bard is spouting
salt water
flying fish poems
wind poems
mellow explanations between humming poems
(a thin woman presses her
oyster eyes
to a fisherman's lips)
plates of asparagus
as big as flaxblades
3
We went for a walk
on the dark beach
& looked back at the watery window
of the cafe
a seal moved like a window dresser
arranging feathers
for visiting penguins
the roar of the sea drowned
all words but those of the sea
4
Peeing is not allowed
near water
I found a spot in shingle
behind the surf club & let go
a car's headlights
caught a drunk body
turning over in wet sand
no one to talk to
no one to talk to
5
We walked back to the cafe & helped ourselves
to asparagus rolls
the poetry reading had ended
people were smoking & drifting about
a penguin was running its feathers
through the window dresser's hair
two people were dancing to a 60s tune
without bumping
their bodies like bottles
their tongues like corks
the host was pouring wine like water
laughing & wheezing
words dripping through the ceiling
6
We drive home in silence
wrapped in feathery embers
away from the gathering water
headlights on flaxblades
as big as asparagus rolls
Lunch outside the Therapy Room
It's hard to think properly
when people are talking loudly
outside the therapy room
& cars are revving up & down
the street, their drivers
(I imagine) passionately
looking for something (or someone?) --
or maybe they're envious of the lunchers
on the hospital lawn cramming whole
meat sandwiches down
their gullets & guzzling coke
in the midday sun
browning their arms & legs & looking
smart in white shirts & ties
wiggling toes on sockless feet...
It's hard to think clearly
when thinking of money
& what I would do or
not do if I ever got
my paws on enough of it. Maybe
I envy those grim folk with
their perfect hairdos & controlled
lives bouncing up & down
the tree-lined street
in their shiny new
unattached motorcars,
never having to tell their secrets
to anyone
never having to get out of their cars
to clean their windshields,
gloveboxes full of dark glasses & money.
Elephant
a circus comes to town
on the back of a train
of hot ash & red paint,
& soon the big paddock
is full of poles greasy
pigs & generators
shouting caged men
running up & down ropes
nimbly tugging at canvas flaps
the smell of fresh grass
trampled ground sweet smelly
dung mixed with hay steaming
out of a body looking
like something
someone would eat,
buckets of water
& a chain around a leg
attached to a thick steel peg
belted into the ground
with hand clapping
& thunder clapping
& pink faces looking up
into a meshed sun
following a bale of hay
into a large mouth
hanging on the end
of a lump of thick rope --
& now
the head takes a bow,
after ten buckets of water &
two bales of hay (relying
on memory & improvisation)
& with a pointed stick
up its arse the elephant
is down on one knee &
then the other
there's a gasp, will he roll
over in the sawdust &
crush the woman in the pink
tights
flat?
will he stand on one leg &
go round like sycamore seed?
will he spray water over
his hairy back & into
the dark bank of faces
just for a laugh?
the pinhole eyes
look frantic
(almost mad)
someone wants something fast
over there,
the body lumbers in the direction
of the pointed stick
mounts a small star painted
box till all its feet
cover the skimpy top
& its arse pokes out
like a giant fig
& the skin wrinkles till it can't
wrinkle anymore, like a
pile of ash in a harsh light
or a long red train
on a hot night
Peter Olds was born in 1944 in Christchurch, New Zealand. Had a play Loose Boards & Seagulls produced by Patric Carey at the Globe Theatre, Dunedin, 1967; was a patient at Cherry Farm Mental Hospital, 1968-9; followed James K Baxter to Jerusalem, 1970; read The Narrow Road to the Deep North, by Basho, and took up meditation. His publications include Beethoven's Guitar (Caveman Press, 1980), After Looking for Broadway (One Eyed Press, 1985), and Music Therapy (Earl of Seacliff, 2001). He was Robert Burns Fellow at Otago University, 1978. Currently working on Selected Poems (1972-1986). He lives in Dunedin.
Peter Olds Meg Campbell Kirin Cerise Simon Lewis Graham Bishop Mahinarangi Tocker
(with broken guitar)
At first you don't notice it among
the furnishings & potplants half hidden
in a darker part of the room
the broken guitar
its neck bent
strings curled round its head
almost shameful in an otherwise cheerful room
people drinking beer
watching TV
taking little notice of arrivals and departures
clinking glasses on teeth for sound effect
& in the hallway a small stereo tapping quietly
by a bedroom door
no one paying attention to the broken guitar
At first you don't notice the urge to smash glass
the floor crowded with spinning bottles
the coffee-table slippery with wet light
the walls sucked in like toothless mouths
flopped in a beanchair
the lights switched off
a candlestub spluttering for effect
it suddenly hits you like something you can't
find words for
& you reach for the guitar & start strumming
& singing
like mad
A Poetry Reading at Kaka Point
1
We went for a walk
on the dark beach
ship's lights like crab's fires
far off
under low cloud
embers as big as ships
2
In the waxlit cafe
a poetry reading is taking place
a local bard is spouting
salt water
flying fish poems
wind poems
mellow explanations between humming poems
(a thin woman presses her
oyster eyes
to a fisherman's lips)
plates of asparagus
as big as flaxblades
3
We went for a walk
on the dark beach
& looked back at the watery window
of the cafe
a seal moved like a window dresser
arranging feathers
for visiting penguins
the roar of the sea drowned
all words but those of the sea
4
Peeing is not allowed
near water
I found a spot in shingle
behind the surf club & let go
a car's headlights
caught a drunk body
turning over in wet sand
no one to talk to
no one to talk to
5
We walked back to the cafe & helped ourselves
to asparagus rolls
the poetry reading had ended
people were smoking & drifting about
a penguin was running its feathers
through the window dresser's hair
two people were dancing to a 60s tune
without bumping
their bodies like bottles
their tongues like corks
the host was pouring wine like water
laughing & wheezing
words dripping through the ceiling
6
We drive home in silence
wrapped in feathery embers
away from the gathering water
headlights on flaxblades
as big as asparagus rolls
Lunch outside the Therapy Room
It's hard to think properly
when people are talking loudly
outside the therapy room
& cars are revving up & down
the street, their drivers
(I imagine) passionately
looking for something (or someone?) --
or maybe they're envious of the lunchers
on the hospital lawn cramming whole
meat sandwiches down
their gullets & guzzling coke
in the midday sun
browning their arms & legs & looking
smart in white shirts & ties
wiggling toes on sockless feet...
It's hard to think clearly
when thinking of money
& what I would do or
not do if I ever got
my paws on enough of it. Maybe
I envy those grim folk with
their perfect hairdos & controlled
lives bouncing up & down
the tree-lined street
in their shiny new
unattached motorcars,
never having to tell their secrets
to anyone
never having to get out of their cars
to clean their windshields,
gloveboxes full of dark glasses & money.
Elephant
a circus comes to town
on the back of a train
of hot ash & red paint,
& soon the big paddock
is full of poles greasy
pigs & generators
shouting caged men
running up & down ropes
nimbly tugging at canvas flaps
the smell of fresh grass
trampled ground sweet smelly
dung mixed with hay steaming
out of a body looking
like something
someone would eat,
buckets of water
& a chain around a leg
attached to a thick steel peg
belted into the ground
with hand clapping
& thunder clapping
& pink faces looking up
into a meshed sun
following a bale of hay
into a large mouth
hanging on the end
of a lump of thick rope --
& now
the head takes a bow,
after ten buckets of water &
two bales of hay (relying
on memory & improvisation)
& with a pointed stick
up its arse the elephant
is down on one knee &
then the other
there's a gasp, will he roll
over in the sawdust &
crush the woman in the pink
tights
flat?
will he stand on one leg &
go round like sycamore seed?
will he spray water over
his hairy back & into
the dark bank of faces
just for a laugh?
the pinhole eyes
look frantic
(almost mad)
someone wants something fast
over there,
the body lumbers in the direction
of the pointed stick
mounts a small star painted
box till all its feet
cover the skimpy top
& its arse pokes out
like a giant fig
& the skin wrinkles till it can't
wrinkle anymore, like a
pile of ash in a harsh light
or a long red train
on a hot night
Peter Olds was born in 1944 in Christchurch, New Zealand. Had a play Loose Boards & Seagulls produced by Patric Carey at the Globe Theatre, Dunedin, 1967; was a patient at Cherry Farm Mental Hospital, 1968-9; followed James K Baxter to Jerusalem, 1970; read The Narrow Road to the Deep North, by Basho, and took up meditation. His publications include Beethoven's Guitar (Caveman Press, 1980), After Looking for Broadway (One Eyed Press, 1985), and Music Therapy (Earl of Seacliff, 2001). He was Robert Burns Fellow at Otago University, 1978. Currently working on Selected Poems (1972-1986). He lives in Dunedin.
Peter Olds Meg Campbell Kirin Cerise Simon Lewis Graham Bishop Mahinarangi Tocker
Meg Campbell
Dear Couch Potato
Two thousand years sitting
at the right hand of God!
and before that, who knows
how long? From before
the Earth was formed you were
there at His right hand!
What about sending her back?
She was once the most real
most brutal of critics. She loved
with a tribal love, and doubted
with a collective dislike.
I was too quirky by far,
for her taste. But, as a curiosity,
I was an important friend.
Now I pour love and horror
at your boney feet and pinch
your gown between my roughened
fingers. Your blue eyes narrow.
Execution, courtesy of Television
Never mind. The murderer
must pay for his crimes.
Now is the hour, the moment
of execution, and final helplessness.
We search his face for panic.
How could he be so calm
Is he sedated? Can he feel
no apprehension? The button
is pushed. A gleam
of intelligence departs on queue.
Heat, steam and water
leave his body. Relatives
of his victim notice, satisfied,
that he has wet his pants.
A rigid shape is weeping
(watch his face, his hands)
weeping to let go -- to be
transported beyond dread.
It's disgusting. ... we
are all murderers.
The Goose Girl
Anything that distracts us
flicking the eye away from the central image --
a hair across a leaf,
a golden apple dropped
a rolling to a stop --
it is here I have
learnt to turn sorrow to advantage. Imbalance
or madness I've learned to love
as preparation for chaos.
A neat world can trap you
in the need for order.
Meg Campbell: I published my first book of poems in 1980 when I was 43, after many admissions to psychiatric care in a big mental hospital. Perhaps I received my most valuable education there. For the past 23 years I have lived happily in the everyday world, being now properly diagnosed and taking the correct medication.
Peter Olds Meg Campbell Kirin Cerise Simon Lewis Graham Bishop Mahinarangi Tocker
Two thousand years sitting
at the right hand of God!
and before that, who knows
how long? From before
the Earth was formed you were
there at His right hand!
What about sending her back?
She was once the most real
most brutal of critics. She loved
with a tribal love, and doubted
with a collective dislike.
I was too quirky by far,
for her taste. But, as a curiosity,
I was an important friend.
Now I pour love and horror
at your boney feet and pinch
your gown between my roughened
fingers. Your blue eyes narrow.
Execution, courtesy of Television
Never mind. The murderer
must pay for his crimes.
Now is the hour, the moment
of execution, and final helplessness.
We search his face for panic.
How could he be so calm
Is he sedated? Can he feel
no apprehension? The button
is pushed. A gleam
of intelligence departs on queue.
Heat, steam and water
leave his body. Relatives
of his victim notice, satisfied,
that he has wet his pants.
A rigid shape is weeping
(watch his face, his hands)
weeping to let go -- to be
transported beyond dread.
It's disgusting. ... we
are all murderers.
The Goose Girl
Anything that distracts us
flicking the eye away from the central image --
a hair across a leaf,
a golden apple dropped
a rolling to a stop --
it is here I have
learnt to turn sorrow to advantage. Imbalance
or madness I've learned to love
as preparation for chaos.
A neat world can trap you
in the need for order.
Meg Campbell: I published my first book of poems in 1980 when I was 43, after many admissions to psychiatric care in a big mental hospital. Perhaps I received my most valuable education there. For the past 23 years I have lived happily in the everyday world, being now properly diagnosed and taking the correct medication.
Peter Olds Meg Campbell Kirin Cerise Simon Lewis Graham Bishop Mahinarangi Tocker
Kirin Cerise
genius II
let loose the
sound of
eccentricity
watch his face
as he curls it
up into
a smile
again
watch his ruffled
hair
watch him ride
his bike around
the house
watch him
explain in intricate
detail the
possibility of the
probable curve that the
pot lid
will take
when he
wings it across
the yard
chasing his
science
like a bird
after the
sun...
Bird
a ripple of bird
flushed
from the wallpaper
in this room...
your arm
relaxing behind me
the trunk of a tree
I hug with such
vehemence
look
look
what I have found
a jewel
a bright stone
a hand forever
entwining with mine.
Kirin Cerise died in October 2000 at the age of 32. She suffered from bi-polar disorder. She held degrees in literature and design, and spoke 5 languages. Her passion for poetry and art had led to a desire for involvement in the field of art therapy. Her greatest ambition though was for the simplest things. She just wanted someone to love, a home, and time to write and paint. Most of all, she wanted to be well.
Peter Olds Meg Campbell Kirin Cerise Simon Lewis Graham Bishop Mahinarangi Tocker
let loose the
sound of
eccentricity
watch his face
as he curls it
up into
a smile
again
watch his ruffled
hair
watch him ride
his bike around
the house
watch him
explain in intricate
detail the
possibility of the
probable curve that the
pot lid
will take
when he
wings it across
the yard
chasing his
science
like a bird
after the
sun...
Bird
a ripple of bird
flushed
from the wallpaper
in this room...
your arm
relaxing behind me
the trunk of a tree
I hug with such
vehemence
look
look
what I have found
a jewel
a bright stone
a hand forever
entwining with mine.
Kirin Cerise died in October 2000 at the age of 32. She suffered from bi-polar disorder. She held degrees in literature and design, and spoke 5 languages. Her passion for poetry and art had led to a desire for involvement in the field of art therapy. Her greatest ambition though was for the simplest things. She just wanted someone to love, a home, and time to write and paint. Most of all, she wanted to be well.
Peter Olds Meg Campbell Kirin Cerise Simon Lewis Graham Bishop Mahinarangi Tocker
Simon Lewis
Our Emotions
Fortunately
things haven't been so great since then.
I was literally at your feet,
from each end of the bed
we regarded each other.
After intimacy, what privacy,
we can last this long.
Rolf Harris Was Here
Australia is a country. Australia is a country
of waterholes and visions. The Kiwi bludges
a cigarette off two aboriginal men
in the winter night train. Which way is it
travelling? Australia's different enough.
In a paddock, a horse snorts and stops.
The Kiwi can see a city across the harbour.
This is a land, after all, of spaces,
filling him in. He flies from the Powerhouse
along the city streets, Pitt, George, stands
to gaze up at the clouds dancing.
The heat here on the turf.
The Kiwi sleeps beside a wall, beside
a suburb as wealthy as Heaven.
But he doesn't stop there, he glides
along a street of gas stations.
He sleeps, dreams, under a power pole.
The George River runs past the artillery range,
a helicopter or two buzzes the old farmhouse.
It is either fire or water, here.
The man in the desert dreams
of the man in Antarctica.
A Little Play
It was all intent
as if a cat stalking a bird.
The poem would fly away--surely not.
The poem wanted to get caught
that time.
for Patsy Nevill
Simon Lewis is 49 and has been publishing since 1976. Once upon a time a Statistics NZ clerk, he lives in a Mental Health halfway house in Auckland, New Zealand.
Peter Olds Meg Campbell Kirin Cerise Simon Lewis Graham Bishop Mahinarangi Tocker
Fortunately
things haven't been so great since then.
I was literally at your feet,
from each end of the bed
we regarded each other.
After intimacy, what privacy,
we can last this long.
Rolf Harris Was Here
Australia is a country. Australia is a country
of waterholes and visions. The Kiwi bludges
a cigarette off two aboriginal men
in the winter night train. Which way is it
travelling? Australia's different enough.
In a paddock, a horse snorts and stops.
The Kiwi can see a city across the harbour.
This is a land, after all, of spaces,
filling him in. He flies from the Powerhouse
along the city streets, Pitt, George, stands
to gaze up at the clouds dancing.
The heat here on the turf.
The Kiwi sleeps beside a wall, beside
a suburb as wealthy as Heaven.
But he doesn't stop there, he glides
along a street of gas stations.
He sleeps, dreams, under a power pole.
The George River runs past the artillery range,
a helicopter or two buzzes the old farmhouse.
It is either fire or water, here.
The man in the desert dreams
of the man in Antarctica.
A Little Play
It was all intent
as if a cat stalking a bird.
The poem would fly away--surely not.
The poem wanted to get caught
that time.
for Patsy Nevill
Simon Lewis is 49 and has been publishing since 1976. Once upon a time a Statistics NZ clerk, he lives in a Mental Health halfway house in Auckland, New Zealand.
Peter Olds Meg Campbell Kirin Cerise Simon Lewis Graham Bishop Mahinarangi Tocker
Graham Bishop
The Last Moa (Dinornis nomoris)
Dedicated to Dr Bruce Spittle, the last of the Moahunters
The first time that we met the bird
we were camping by a secret lake
when at midnight came the most dreadful cry
I ever heard
In the morning tracks there were in the sand
We took our photos but stilled our tongues
lest they thought us mad
and it's nice to have some mysteries left in life
At Arcadia, in the shadow of Red Mountain
we heard the fearsome cry once more
to find next day that our beer was gone
and the primus fuel was drunk
as happened in the Dredgeburn
the year before
We saw the bird next morning
standing underneath a waterfall
Big feet, brown hairy legs, plumage blue top and lower
and grey on top, with whiskers around it's beak
more like an aging kiwi than a moa
It carried a young one upside down
as a backward possum might,
but certainly looked sharp enough to read and write
We put it in my backpack
but its feet and neck stuck out and it soon escaped
to be decapitated by the chopper coming in to land
In its death throes the giant bird let forth an egg
which shattered into a thousand pieces
We laid it reverently to rest alongside its mighty mother,
in a swamp near a pyramid-shaped hill
where one day a fossicker will dig
and in time the bird will stand, tallest in the land
proudly under the summer sky
in the City of the Plains
Stand tall,
Apteryx spittlei
Dinornis nomoris
Role Play
We were wondering
who enjoyed it most
the sly taste of slipping together
and could we swap sides to share the other role
I wouldn't swap it for anything
you said
But now you have exchanged it for nothing
[On receipt of yet another "I am sorry" letter]
The Editor Regrets
Thankyou for submitting your poem
Unfortunately I cannot use it at this time
or any other time
so douse that glimmer of hope
It is unclear how I acquired
my right of divine decision
It is safer to be standfast than new
and push rising bubbles back into the murky depths
Excuse me
I find pulling the wings off flies
sharpens my judgment
Graham Bishop was a leading mountaineer and geologist. He has now retired and divides his time between walking, writing and wondering. His fourth book, Poles Apart is an autobiographical assemblage of poetry and prose. He is currently working on a biography of Alexander Mckay (1841-1917), another geologist who wrote poetry.
Peter Olds Meg Campbell Kirin Cerise Simon Lewis Graham Bishop Mahinarangi Tocker
Dedicated to Dr Bruce Spittle, the last of the Moahunters
The first time that we met the bird
we were camping by a secret lake
when at midnight came the most dreadful cry
I ever heard
In the morning tracks there were in the sand
We took our photos but stilled our tongues
lest they thought us mad
and it's nice to have some mysteries left in life
At Arcadia, in the shadow of Red Mountain
we heard the fearsome cry once more
to find next day that our beer was gone
and the primus fuel was drunk
as happened in the Dredgeburn
the year before
We saw the bird next morning
standing underneath a waterfall
Big feet, brown hairy legs, plumage blue top and lower
and grey on top, with whiskers around it's beak
more like an aging kiwi than a moa
It carried a young one upside down
as a backward possum might,
but certainly looked sharp enough to read and write
We put it in my backpack
but its feet and neck stuck out and it soon escaped
to be decapitated by the chopper coming in to land
In its death throes the giant bird let forth an egg
which shattered into a thousand pieces
We laid it reverently to rest alongside its mighty mother,
in a swamp near a pyramid-shaped hill
where one day a fossicker will dig
and in time the bird will stand, tallest in the land
proudly under the summer sky
in the City of the Plains
Stand tall,
Apteryx spittlei
Dinornis nomoris
Role Play
We were wondering
who enjoyed it most
the sly taste of slipping together
and could we swap sides to share the other role
I wouldn't swap it for anything
you said
But now you have exchanged it for nothing
[On receipt of yet another "I am sorry" letter]
The Editor Regrets
Thankyou for submitting your poem
Unfortunately I cannot use it at this time
or any other time
so douse that glimmer of hope
It is unclear how I acquired
my right of divine decision
It is safer to be standfast than new
and push rising bubbles back into the murky depths
Excuse me
I find pulling the wings off flies
sharpens my judgment
Graham Bishop was a leading mountaineer and geologist. He has now retired and divides his time between walking, writing and wondering. His fourth book, Poles Apart is an autobiographical assemblage of poetry and prose. He is currently working on a biography of Alexander Mckay (1841-1917), another geologist who wrote poetry.
Peter Olds Meg Campbell Kirin Cerise Simon Lewis Graham Bishop Mahinarangi Tocker
Mahinarangi Tocker
Supper with Irena
'do you want another?
'cos I don't want to go yet
I think there's a coat in the car
if you're cold.'
it's cool summer
in ponsonby cafes
we are tabled on stones
where walk the couples
men with men
in talks that look tight
and walk that smoothes
the footpath
crack
early january
late night
wine and coffee
to whet the tummy grumble
cake and cream
to guilt the thought fumble
i like you
i love you
she shares with me
her smile
and for a second
there is no one here
but us
Dedicated to Richard T
February 3rd
Tamaki Makaurau
take my eyes patterned
against your blue
i watch you dance the strings
so, dance the strings like you do
to
break a heart
but take it
to a new sound
kind man of Celtic breath
the soul
is rested
Saturday evening
Auckland autumn calling
play another & sing one more
we're listening
laugh some more & talk us
into believing
you take those parts
that have ached me cold
where ice sticks
and sing them into summer
a friend for a day
a memory for a lifetime
A Poem For You
i'm sitting here in this loud bird
this bird with no song
this bird-like waka
in this
this rumble of strangers
going to a sameness
where only our hearts are different
until i am landed
and i see more changes
and walk a different fear
and see a different colour
and breathe a different voice
my tears fall further
than she who watches amused
i know she wants to ask
but i won't tell
i cannot
i have nothing to say
even to myself
what is there left between right and wrong
fear and desire
when everything untouched screams to be held
i walk beneath a sun
but i am burnt in a darkness
i have not planned to understand
nor should i
and so i never shall
i will miss you without yelling
i will miss you without talking
i will miss you without you even knowing
*waka - a traditional Maori canoe
Mahinarangi Tocker is an acclaimed singer-songwriter. She was the first Maori woman invited to perform at the Vancouver Folk Festival, and has worked with international artists such as Dame Kiri Te Kanawa, Clannad, Tracy Chapman, Shawn Colvin, and Richard Thompson. Her first book of poetry, Lyrics without melody, published by Street Women's Press was released in March 2001. She is one of the several artists who took part in the destigmatisation of mental illness in a television ad campaign in New Zealand called Like Minds, Like Mine.She is completing a collection of short stories.
Peter Olds Meg Campbell Kirin Cerise Simon Lewis Graham Bishop Mahinarangi Tocker
'do you want another?
'cos I don't want to go yet
I think there's a coat in the car
if you're cold.'
it's cool summer
in ponsonby cafes
we are tabled on stones
where walk the couples
men with men
in talks that look tight
and walk that smoothes
the footpath
crack
early january
late night
wine and coffee
to whet the tummy grumble
cake and cream
to guilt the thought fumble
i like you
i love you
she shares with me
her smile
and for a second
there is no one here
but us
Dedicated to Richard T
February 3rd
Tamaki Makaurau
take my eyes patterned
against your blue
i watch you dance the strings
so, dance the strings like you do
to
break a heart
but take it
to a new sound
kind man of Celtic breath
the soul
is rested
Saturday evening
Auckland autumn calling
play another & sing one more
we're listening
laugh some more & talk us
into believing
you take those parts
that have ached me cold
where ice sticks
and sing them into summer
a friend for a day
a memory for a lifetime
A Poem For You
i'm sitting here in this loud bird
this bird with no song
this bird-like waka
in this
this rumble of strangers
going to a sameness
where only our hearts are different
until i am landed
and i see more changes
and walk a different fear
and see a different colour
and breathe a different voice
my tears fall further
than she who watches amused
i know she wants to ask
but i won't tell
i cannot
i have nothing to say
even to myself
what is there left between right and wrong
fear and desire
when everything untouched screams to be held
i walk beneath a sun
but i am burnt in a darkness
i have not planned to understand
nor should i
and so i never shall
i will miss you without yelling
i will miss you without talking
i will miss you without you even knowing
*waka - a traditional Maori canoe
Mahinarangi Tocker is an acclaimed singer-songwriter. She was the first Maori woman invited to perform at the Vancouver Folk Festival, and has worked with international artists such as Dame Kiri Te Kanawa, Clannad, Tracy Chapman, Shawn Colvin, and Richard Thompson. Her first book of poetry, Lyrics without melody, published by Street Women's Press was released in March 2001. She is one of the several artists who took part in the destigmatisation of mental illness in a television ad campaign in New Zealand called Like Minds, Like Mine.She is completing a collection of short stories.
Peter Olds Meg Campbell Kirin Cerise Simon Lewis Graham Bishop Mahinarangi Tocker