Auckland Poetry.com

I didn’t want to work in a factory and get my hands dirty,
be locked inside grey walls six days a week, as everyone
else in my street was, so I got a job selling books from
house to house; only I was so terrible shy.

The first doorbell I rang was also my last, the woman who
opened the door was kind enough but she didn’t want to
buy anything, I nearly cried, and didn’t have the courage
to press my finger on another doorbell.

Selling pictures of farms, taken from a helicopter, was
my next job, out all day taking the bus to the countryside
only the day I got there it was raining I had no umbrella
and the first farm I came to was also my last.

I took a course training to be a waiter, in white jacket
and golden epaulet I looked handsome, so my sister said.
I did well at the course and got a job at a posh restaurant;
but my hands shook I dropped plates and was fired

Finally I got a job on a tank-ship, in her galley hidden from
view, washing pots and pan, and hid from the world for
thirty years. Now, I write poetry about a sea I hardly saw
stuck inside a ship’s casing seven days a week.

“You’ve failed the writing” – you were told,
And you gave up. You quit.
I saw one more young talent fold,
And they just laughed at it.

If you are told life’s hard to play,
Your breath will still not cease.
How one should breathe, one cannot say,
As well as what to breathe.

You generated thoughts in rhymes,
The crowds wanted prose.
You know, they get harsh at times
From “truthful overdose”.

You proved yourself a zero, too -
A zero with a core.
And though your words are so damn true,
You’re nothing. Nothing more.

Senryu

An Agnostic’s nightmare
Wakes him up every night
He dreams of God.

At day so warm
and very full of life
at night so still
an eerie cold delight.

A confined condition
to feed your emotional state
in chained restrictions
insanity breathes your fate.
Obsessions with isolation,
on an invisbile probation,
where space creates friendships
with me, myself and I.
Limited to the necessities
a bed, a chair, a draw
trapped in mental obscenity
crying on the wooden floor.

Cut off my head and
squeeze and grind upon my seeds,
use me up for opium
to numb your veins and
I will stand here, just stalk remaining
and grow again – just in case your
syringe gets empty.

Grow strong from my
gift that pumps your heart and
oozes out my jagged edges,
grow big watching my red petals fade so you
don’t feel so grey.

Chop me down some more-
there might be something left.

Don’t hurt your neck.

Copyright Emily Starr 2008
http://sayyesquickly.wordpress.com

Shenaragh’s plight rewrite

Gidday how are you?
Imagine being unable to say that,
Shenaragh would like to say it too,
Denied by funding & bureaucrats,

By thinking of yourself in her place,
Help us fuel this little rocket,
And bring a smile to her face,
By digging deep in the pockets,

A Mytobii is what she needs,
It’s worth forty grand,
It’s made by the Swedes,
Come on give us a hand!

Lost under the moon tales
of rain over that valley a dozen
prayers to the city

overland

seek that partner for crimes
of commitment

Worship the future their
clean rides through panic

distant when torn from
the top

that list with
segregated seasons

variable vision corrected
by a lens dust corrupted
and peering through this murky
cloud gently laid down
by the Gods, never cruel
but their laughter poured out
as they sailed on by

this insanity forged
in the pits of the disfigured
a new disease to replace the old
that vanished back to the rising
arch, harsh fear over lands
muddled by decree

My psychiatrist is the radio.

Today he is a horrible morning talkback
Show. with each line a new
Repetition. makes his test scores
Perfection. is obtainable with
Time. allows him to verge further into the
Radio. signals crackle as I mention
Wylie Coyote. really should have beaten RoadRunner at least
Once. the radio turns off the room still is not in
Silence. lurks in the air because he does not
Believe. in the words that I am
Saying.

Next is the midday
News. travels fast especially
Scandal. and rumour surrounds his disappearance from my everyday
World. class psychiatrists are hard to come by these
Days. drift and the radio becomes more and more
Unreliable. I cannot hear
The psychiatrist. cannot hear
The radio. cannot hear
Me.

Years pass and finally a Sunday sermon
Plays. and children slip back into my
Life. is more habitual
Now. I can remember the order of the letters in my middle
Name. the three objects in front of
The psychiatrist. is no longer in the
Radio. still fills my
House. with husband and kids I am
Reliable. I can hear
The radio. can hear
The psychiatrist. can hear
Me.

But he’s still not listening.

the glass delicacy slender muscled thigh
and animal they revere emits light
and stumbles into the city
its hoofs clip the stone
fingers tug at harp strings
slowly release the vibration
in a ritual of expression
and the crystal horse
absorbs all taking
the towns thoughts
as children sleep

Senryu

As the night thickens
And darkness tranquilises life
Dawn is welcomed.

Senryu

Banality of greed
To shop for the sake of buying
Not for what you need

Senryu

Fear not the dead
They are only a copy
Of your future self

Senryu

Those who work long hours
Feel holly and virtuous
But get arthritis

From Teheran with Love.

Side by side the beaus stood, hooded and
silent, they no longer heard charivari chants as
prayers on pale, shivering lips abruptly ended.

They had been warned, their love was banned
by the law of the land and by straight people’s
norm, and now forsaken even by their families.

They had tried to conform, but their bond was
too strong. Two Iranian men twist in the wind,
will their mothers, when alone, pray for them?

Just a minute while I turn