Auckland Poetry Edition 7 - The Summer Haze

Tanka

Hazy Sunday dawn
A man on a rimfrost field
Has shot five hares
He has tied them to his belt
Blood drips on his trousers’ legs

Haiku

What! The almond tree
A beautiful bride in pink?
Yes, in Mars I think

The Last Farewell.

When I worked as an orderly at a clinic in New York,
(now shut) that used to look after celebs of the music
and theatre world, I met Marilyn for the very last time.
Dressed in a fur coat – and nothing else, hair untidy on
her breath the lingering smell of alcohol; behind her
a gelatinous, howling mob of reporters that wouldn’t
let go of their wounded prey they wanted to absorb
every little detail of her immense suffering, I showed
Marilyn to the lift, held my arm around her to shield
her from the cameras; pressed the button, it seemed to
take forever before its door opened, when it did and
she entered, I whispered: “I will always love you.”
She turned, and as the door closed, smiled and she was
beautiful again, just for me.

Haiku

Languid winter came
Kissed my brow till I froze
Indoors now, I stay.

Haiku

Overcast, dull summer
Where are life, love and laughter?
Rain streaks my window.

Senryu

In an empty house
Silence is a sad prisoner
That sighs in the night.

Tanka

How lamentable it is
This broil to keep the belly
Inside the belt
Not swelling over as a dough
The baker forgot to knead.

The Misfits.

Snow, powdered glass thawed became slush and
dejected rain fell, bored children sat in sheds hitting
the smaller ones over the head with wooden spoons.
No snowman with coal eyes and carrot nose was
made that year as dirty paws on clean kitchen floors
became a top issue; the ministry of health exiled dogs
and, mysteriously, also ducks, from suburban homes.
Then it was summer, a dry one, yellow lawns, dead
frogs, and dust on rubber plants.

Olga, the mother, took to drink kept her bottle of gin
under the sink, sobbed every day into her dry rubber
plant, it thrived and sprouted gum. Her neglected man
looked as a tramp till a mermaid took pity taught him
to swim, when they make love it takes time cause he
has to surface every so often. The mermaid doesn’t
mind at last she has found a man who’s not in a hurry
to watch sport on the TV. Of Olga’s two children one
became a diver and the other, an alcoholic petty thief.

Alms

Sunday evening sermon and as the parishioners
leave this up-market church, some are in a good
mood and feel generous towards the beggars at
the door and give coins, others, of moral frugal
hearts are busy reading a leaflet- handed out in
the church- and thus didn’t see the supplicants.

Had a fifty centimes coin in my pocket, which
I intended to the man with the Labrador hound,
as I did so the dog followed the transaction with
serious eyes, as far as the dog understood it, its
master was higher up on the human hierarchy
then me, after all I was the one doing the giving.

The Suit.

I had bought a suit at the sale it was striped and according to
the mirror in the hall I looked smart, as a successful business
man. At the newsagent’s the girl smiled and said my suit was
lovely, but as I turned to go out I sensed mockery in her grin,
and her suppressed laughter followed me down the street till
I turned a corner. Stopped at a big shop window looked hard
and honestly at myself and was shocked. I saw an elephant
trying to look as a zebra, worse, a doorman, at a seedy hotel;
a failed mobster who now procures girls for the guests.

Passersby were staring at me, some with a smile,
others with contempt, it was now I noticed the window displayed sexy
lingerie. Horrified, so they sought I was a pervert, pained I
took off my glasses and since faces were now indistinct it
didn’t matter so much what they thought, but I sensed their
hissing giggle. Found solitude in a park on a bench amongst
green bushes, falling leaves and birdsong I read my paper in
peace. Coming home my wife asked me where I had been,
since my suit was covered in bird droppings

Tuesday Rain.

The café facing the busy street has big windows
and I see umbrellas walking by, some of them
stop, fold wings, shake water off backs and enter.

I remember my childhood in black and grey when
umbrellas were stygian; a lady umbrella was a bit
smaller, had frilly silk borders, but was sable too.

Now they are of all colours but black, cheap and
cheerful a sharp breeze and they turn inside out
and that’s ok; it’s the cheery bit I like.

During world war two, the German air force
dropped a few grey bombs down into our town,
no big deal, pale flames warmed winter nights.

In colours everything tend to look good, poverty
too; the hungry wear colourful robes and falling
rockets look like fireworks a festive night.

Vengeance

The third mate went ashore an early afternoon,
with the sole purpose to go to the bar and steal
the cook’s girlfriend; the cook had to work till
eight, and when he finally came to the bar his
girlfriend had gone with the mate to a hotel.

How they mocked him next day, but the cook
smiled showing even, wolfish teeth, not his
natural once mind, but nevertheless very white.
It should have worried the crew, it’s no good to
tease a man who can spit into their soup.

Negligence

My neighbour doesn’t till the land anymore he has sold
it to developers, thought he had got rid of his animals,
I was shocked and dismayed when he led a mule out of
the stable where it had stood, in the dark, for two years

Standing there in the courtyard it was clear that it had
lost interest in life, the winter sun that shone into its
eyes met no reflection, blind and dumb it could hardly
stand on unshorn hooves.

There was a long silence no one looked at the beast till
the truck came to take it away, up the plank it walked
offered no resistance, a will so utterly broken that it
could never be repaired

I looked at my neighbour in the hope of seeing regrets
or shame in his face, there were none, and it struck me
that if humanity has no compassion for all life what
change have we got to find deliverance?

The Eraser

As I came to a low stonewall
on my daily walk
I saw before me a landscape painting,
Eighteen sheep and twelve lambs I counted;

as I thought who the painter might be,
there was a sudden blur in the air,
and when the picture cleared there
was a Jenny and its foal;

five wooly backs had disappeared;
and yes the painting looked better,
but I didn’t linger, I wouldn’t like the artist to
think I was a part of his picture

A Day of Reckoning

Forenoon, it had been raining during the night
the wizened winter landscape was now green
and amongst olive trees long legged sheep grazed;
their pastor and, on occasions, executioner, sat on
a boulder casting dreams into the future; man and
beast, rustic peace, pity I hadn’t a camera.

On my way to the village to buy the papers, a sheep
had been run over by a truck, with its stomach burst
open and its content glinting in the sun, it was still
alive. Ah, you dumb animal abandoned by everyone
and it looked at me without any hope of deliverance,
so I reversed my car and ran over its head.

As the skull was crushed its eyes popped out, landed
on the middle of the road that now had eyes to see
with, the shook of this made it shudder long rents in
the asphalt wench black tears trickled. Quickly
I threw the eyes into the thicket which was instantly
transformed into a field of tinkling blue bells.

From nowhere a road gang of small, denim clad men
with big hats appeared, they where badly paid lived
on road kills. Expertly strew soft sand on blood, filled
cracks with healing asphalt, and off they drove with
their dinner. Empty road it had no knowledge of what
had just occurred, it was up to me to remember.

how the heart does suffer

the ole concave in the chest feeling

the center of the soul

pumping of energy and life…….skips a beat

an accidental cut of the flesh

the softest inner cry that only he

can hear

the protective withdrawal

hoping no-one will notice

fear of exposing the vulnerability

feeling foolish even more stupid

believing in no self-worth

spinning darkness you comfortably

submerge into

to breath

to only breath

estrange myself from thought

to sit amongst the furious trees

in my mind

flowers are unable to grow in this

storm

its so swift

not hearing any birds singing

in the blindness

congealed

stuck

inside

subconscious habits fool us all

knowing different is alien

transcending the change

changing

I don’t know how to do it

slowly the spin cycle down

relieving the over-heated engine

when the last chug has stopped

the steam turns into fluffy clouds

sensitive, refuge

the heart beats on

not rigid and scared

calmed and open

the virgin feeling is fresh

light all around

all loved in the same way

its all’s interpretation that makes

the extent of love different

celebrate

everyone celebrate

for the air we so naively inhale

what is truth

truth is change

change is never

the same

written 22 Feb 1994

by vanessa

The Gorge

In the deep gorge, near the river that died five years
ago and is a pale scar running from inland mountains
and down to the coast, unheard words of lovers come
here to die; I love you,” Come back to me” “I can’t live
without you” whisper in the breeze for no ones ears but
the intrepid that comes here to conquer his own fear of
love. It is easy to get lost here trees are unfriendly, bark
have thorns and branches snap when you try to climb up
to see where you are, and wild beasts follow wait for you
to succumb, fall asleep so they can come eat your brain
and leave you confused and rescuers will say: “Poor man
he’s got Alzheimer.” The stillness hears fearful screams,
the unheards last effort before sinking into silence

……..
When one talks
Another must listen
Let it not be me

Disheartened

The chocolate river is dry and the German
tourists have gone home and last years cherries
hang unpicked as do almond nuts that are also
full of worms and green grass isn’t sweet.
The sun is a yellow ring on a blue pale sky,
disillusioned as a 30 watt bulb in a room
with faded wallpaper, at a run down hotel which
calls itself Bellevue; last stop before sleeping
rough. Nothing is more abject than an out of
season tourist town, sleepless shopkeeper and
bored waiters, even the flowers in the park are
grey; and except for a couple of retired seagulls,
birds have flown to Africa and will not return
before spring rain falls.

Tanka

I know so little
And would like to learn much more
But not the whole thing
How tedious it would be
A world void of mystery

Winter Night

When I opened the cabin’s door, night and frost
entered, the darkness, night brought, was disposed
of by switching on a light, the cold, frost brought,
lingered a bit, didn’t leave before the wood stove
got red hot and threatened to explode

Ice roses on windows sparkled moon was full and
on the lake trolls and hulders (female trolls) skated
watched over by tall, stern spruces, dressed in white
on this rare occasion, they didn’t know a road was
being built and they were next years Yule trees.

A distant drone, a planeload of old men going south
seeking warm sun, sand, tepid sea, and young flesh,
they didn’t know that just under them virginal beauty
waited. Who struck that match on arctic star? A fiery
rent, snow fell off evergreens; then stillness reigned

The Future Is a Dream

I was driving on a broken, potholed road, in a devastated
landscape, no houses only a bit of wall here and there,
earlier I had driven through a fading memory of a village
and when I looked back it was gone.

The road stopped by a vast plain that ended where two big
sand dunes protected it from the sea, they where building
a new city here; and there were shacks for the workers who
could not afford to live in the houses they constructed.

I didn’t see the men I didn’t see anyone at all, stillness was
empty as it had no memory of a past, it disturbed me that all
was present-time and that nothing had take place before;
I was overcome by a great fear and warm tears blinded me.

A woman came, soft bosomed, she held me close, stroked
my hair and whispered quiet words till my terror ceased;
when I could see again blank sheets hung from the sky
waiting for someone to write the story of how it began.

In the living room, coloured lights, around a plastic tree had
been blinking all night, its gaudiness, was so very human,
but I switched on all lights, touched walls, they were made
of solid stones; and my fingers caressed every unevenness.

Sore ankles, on decks of iron I had walked endlessly across
the seas; I lied down on the floor head resting on the edge
of the sofa looking up I could see dawn shine a new desire
through the skylight; yes it was good to be home from sea

The Cloak Wears Thin
Under the Soaking Rain
Clings to the Skin
too Close no Comfort
just Cold Pain
walk over Concrete
the City won’t be washed off without
needful kinetics
sins without sadness
saints without pain
killer kisses on the
blood soaked vein

Fun-Wall.

It’s raining outside it is house cold inside, a few days hence
it will be show time and fucking spruce trees everywhere.
I’m not going to buy a manicured sapling, an oak! Yes.
I willing plant an oak sapling it in my garden, if I ever get
to have one; a pot plant, on concrete painted green, calls
it my garden; in telling, it gets huge fitted around a nine hole,
golf course, how is anyone to know, my friends live inside
the internet and they are equally abstract.

I have faked everything about myself told them I’m a poet,
my poems are written by my grandmother, found the stuff
when I was clearing up in the attic, and before setting fire to
the house claiming the insurance money; it backfired, (pun)
the old lady never bothered to insure the dwelling. I live in
stable now vacated by donkeys that have vanished from our
the landscape; but never mind that misery, I feel in my bones
there will never be a summer just like the one that just left

If I write a funny story on the wall the sneakes across palestinian land, will they laugh or feel offended?