Auckland Poetry

An estaurine delight here you’ll find
The Whau River ebbs and flows with tide
Kingfisher or shag are only two
Of our native taonga that await you.
..For if I had a bottle
To sail on down the Whau
I’d put inside a message
And await your answers to flow
Could you unlocked coiled questions
Or bring on new suggestions
About gathering our communities
From catchment through to sea
For we hold amongst us all
Those life long learning keys
I peer to see my childhood
Reflected at the river’s edge
Crouched down with wind blown tears
It doesn’t appear … I dread.
Has pollution sullied this river?
Branched and long armed that it is
Shadows still dance each afternoon
From trees that hang overhead
Man made layers and towering tombs
Should not kill the koura, eels or fish
Nor destroy the nursing grounds
of stream or mangrove swamp
But I won’t send this bottle
To capture my heart felt plea
But read it here - my message
Living the dream is not free
I turn away from the bottle
And enter rehabilitation mode
So join us now in saving our bush
Our future generations deserve to look

Copyright Deana Platt 2004 (aka Emancipation Planz)

Starship it to me and I’ll take you on a ride
Not around the planet but deep to the inside
There will always be guides that lead from A to Z
But rock on this Foundation to find out how it reads.

ADHB it sounds just like a syndrome
Better check it out – it may lead to symptoms.
Children of our nation – you do not despair
Doctors’ bustle everywhere fixing out repairs
Entering those parts where our parents just can’t reach
Food trolleys rustle by but iceblocks are the treat
Germs are the enemy
Hurry to get the best care
Iceblocks everywhere because it
Jollies our spirits
Kisses are plentiful
Lifts take us up and down and Love abounds
Medicinal healings, magical feelings
Nurses on hand to meet your demands
Open heartbreaks are many
Parents ….laying cards and games at times
Quietness we sometimes like
Rumble and tumble on our mind – Radio Lollipop
Soothes our insides
There are many open heartbreaks but always times of joy
Unique and treasured moments
Volunteers and visitors – preciously valued
Willing and ever ready
You’ll see not only patients, parents and some toys
Zoom around and visit please…
it helps to mend our needs.

Copyright Deana Platt, 2002 (aka Emancipation-Planz)

In-tim-i-da-tion
Goes on for too long you know
Stop the bully now!

Deana Platt
Copyright 17/10/07 (aka Emancipation Planz)

Rendezvous

Cloudy, with rain, New York in October; dusk I stood outside
Radio City Music Hall and waited for no one in particular.
Jack Dempsey was walking by he had a strong masculine face,
smiled to everyone, which made sense, as everybody knew him,
beside him walked Alan Ladd, a tiny man with a big man’s face.

I felt like an inhabited, lonely island in a stream, “Hemingway?”
“No, not at all, and let me finish. A sea of people parted in front of
me joined up again, as a mighty river behind me that flowed down
the sidewalk reaching a group of excited, people, clicking cameras and flashlight that lit up even the faces of the notorious.

And there was Marilyn walking towards me, but as she came so
near that I could touch her; I was pushed aside by rude journalists who shouted silly questions at her: “Are you getting married?
Who’s your latest boyfriend?” I was her boyfriend, we had a secret understanding. Marilyn didn’t see me that twilight moment, but her perfume dreamily swirled around me as I entered the cinema to see Casablanca

Epigrams

Rome News.

The Vatican is a landlord who wants to evict the poor
From their rented homes, so the church can re-rent its
Property to the middles class, at a higher prize; without
The poor, the church is a defunct, a fading irrelevance.

Berlin News.

In Germany each civil servants uses 8 sheets of toilet
Paper a day, with exception of the ministry of defense
There they use 8.8 sheets a day, we can grasp that, but
Why are we being fed this stream of irrelevant news?

Norwegian News.

To give Al Gore, a man who didn’t have the stomach
To fight for his presidency, the Nobel Peace Prize was
A populist certainty. But what else can one except of
A country that also gave the prize to Henry Kissinger?

intercity

Gisborne to Auckland

last time I took this trip my life was never the same again

9 and a half hours

never the same

the pivotal, cathartic, life changing 9 and a half hours

of a drive

change from the drive?

or

what preceded the drive?

the drive

the full stop on “that” stage of my life

kibosh

on “that” stage of my life

stage?

or war?

survival, struggle, stress

stage?

the stage is a much happier, fulfilling, magical place

not a stage, a war

the bus drive

the same bus drive home to tamaki

the one I took 20 years ago

never the same

here it is

right here now

a chance to let “it” go

a chance to change

pushed to change

or the miracle of destiny?

cause and effect?

or change from pressure?

meant to be

the miracle of milestones

the miracle

the nine and a half hour bus drive

a signpost

a flag

the 2^nd great mark in my life

oh that drive, 20 years ago

I wish it was that same successful journey

it worked

effective

the milestone

come on what about now

make it work

what now?

what next?

whatever I want

written 3 jan 07 by vanessa rare COPYRIGHT 07

MANAGE

RESPONSIBLY

UNDERSTAND

IMMEDIATELY

RIGHT NOW

OVER POPULATION

CREATING

CONSUMERISM

CAPITALISM

FASCISM

RACISM

SEXISM

EMASCULATION

FEMINISM

SEPARATION

DESPERATION

ANTI HUMANISM

GLOBALIZATION

SURREALISM

CREATING

MANAGING

OVER POPULATION

by vanessa rare

Copyright © 2007 by Vanessa Rare

Motorway Driving

After driving on the new motorway, called autostrada here,
I began to panic; there was endlessness about it no beginning
no end, no exit, I was trapped forever doomed to drive fast
for no reason whatsoever, I began to see spirits of those who
had driven too fast, as holistic beings perpetually repeating
the accident that made them unseen, I heard metal shrieking
in a heart rendering agony only things made of earth can do,
unlike plastic that is a product of deadness and suffers no pain.

Blood filled my windscreen first as drops, then it became as
tropical rain, a deluge, a river of blood of the innocent and
the guilty, all expendable figures, as we tacitly accept this;
the automobile is power the whole society, all what we are, is
built on this shaky foundation. But we know nothing else and
will continue till the last drop of oil is extracted from the soil.
And as we sink into nihilistic despair the gypsy will continue
his slow progress, cart & horse, across the green landscape of
eternity

Senryu

To live sans regrets?
Possible if your heart is cold
And compassion’s frozen

Haiku

Summer is still here
Hoof it up from noon till five
As October sleeps

Haiku

Morning, yet still dark
Daylight hides in the basement
Thunder rules O.K.

Senryu

When Castro was young
Few cars drove on Cuba’s roads
Still driving though.

Wildlife Pleasure.

Tonight they serve giraffe neck, at the long
table in the restaurant, for fifty invited guests,
left over will be given to the poor who have
brought tin plates and metal spoons they bang
together to get attention and to make music.

They chatter about last week’s big meal when
a grilled gorilla was served at the round table,
with small oblong potatoes, rich gravy and
French wines but only for the chosen fifty.

Those outside were offered wine labels of
empty bottles to take home and decorate their
walls. Hippo stuffed with lions heart will be
next week’s menu, for afters monkey brains
sweetened with sherry Amontillado.

A Lament

I have bought an air-condition unit for the kitchen,
It hangs there high up on the wall making me feel
Prosperous, the women in the village have been in
Seeing it, since I used to be a chef and do bake my
Own bread, the men think I’m a queer, don’t mind
Their wives swapping recipes with me…

It’s strange, is it not? Forever I was a chef in hotels
And posh restaurant, not well paid and cooks where
Not seen, the person sweating smelling of booze and
Being unappreciated; alas, now they are superstars
Their love life is reported in magazines. Yet, when
My women go they leave a scent of mimosa behind.

The Witness

Doorbell rang, a police officer was selling tickets for some
do, forgotten what, he wore a smile, but was also armed, so
I bought a ticket. I admired his gun, told me he practiced
every day and was a crack shot. “Can you hit the tomcat that
crosses the road?” (The cat belonged to the nasty woman in
the house opposite mine?) “No problem,” drew his gun, shot
once and the cat rolled in the dust.

The woman came out she had a shotgun, aimed it at the officer
who ran to his car calling for back ups, she missed and went
back into the house. Five minutes later 24 patrol car drove up,
sirens and screeching tires arrived first; every car drove over
the cat till there was but some loose fur flying in the wind and
48 shooters were pointing at the woman’s front door; local TV
was also present, this was a scoop.

“Come out lady, we know you are in there, you have tried to
kill one of our officers.” “He shot my cat, she said.“ “We can
see no cat in the road, there is a bit of a tail here but that can
belong to a raccoon, or we’ll throw a stun grenade through
the window, your hair will be a mess and we know you have
been to the hairdresser for a perm this morning, a grenade”
will mess it all up again

The lady came out, saw me in the doorway and said:
“He is my witness, he saw it all.” 48 blue uniforms and 48
guns glared at me, I shook my head, in denial, made a shrug,
the woman is mad, and closed the door. The judge was lenient,
the lady is middleclass, her husband wear a suit and works in
a bank; he let her off with a caution, smiled and gave her tiny
a kitten, and everyone, in courthouse day, cried and applauded.

From Here to Eternity

It was a very long road – straight- and ending in a haze,
no place to stop for a drink only one shop selling coffins
and religious stuff. Those who lived in the beginning of
the road had never walked to its misty end, God lived
there it was said, but a keep fit fanatic, confident and
careless, walked the whole length of the road twice a day
got so bored and he hung himself. People who lived at
the beginning of the road and also those in the middle,
looked at each other and made a Gallic shrug.

The widow, a tall lady who played guitar sang folksongs
about saving the rain forest, dyed her hair olive and, bought
a white coffin and painted it green to make her husband’s
dead a celebration to life fell in love with the undertaker,
he too played a musical instrument, accordion; now they
make a good living playing sad music at funerals. As for
the haze, it turned out to come from the public bath, now
closed down, as everybody has their own bathroom, to be
seen near a bathhouse is a mark of disgraceful poverty.

It’s the end of August and we are

Low on money

Like the last summer

And the summer before that

It never ends…

It’s always like this

It will be always like this

Not exactly poverty but

A chronic lack of money,

A need to economize,

To watch your spending,

Cutting down on smoke and some food; all booze is out

Forget about clothes,

Shoes,

Socks,

Movies,

Books,

Going out,

Picnics,

Bus rides.

Hand lotion.

Pizzas,

Phone calls,

You name it…

It gets you

Year after year:

Not exactly poverty–

Just a lack of money.

And here I am,

Writing poetry.

Who gives a damn about poetry?

Yet

I persevere,

While

We economize,

Watch our spending,

Plan carefully.

Well,

At least I

Don’t have to economize

On words:

There are plenty of them

Absolutely free of charge.

I’m glad that

Writing doesn’t require much

Neither special investments nor

Expensive supplies

Just something to write on:

A piece of paper,

An old notebook.

An empty cartoon pack,

A wall,

Your skin,

My own bare ass:

In short,

Anything to scribble on.

Plus

A lot of madness

To make it

A bit more INTERESTING.

Blood is love
You protect your own
Forgive them their debts
With the truth been told
But then who is judge
If the jury is out
Is the verdict still love
Or can the verdict be found?
And what will become?
Of the meek and the mild
Their hearts so naïve
Like an innocent child
Protected or scarred
By what they can see
Living in fear
What is harmony?
Preparing for hope,
Although it seems scarce
Seeking the light
Though it vaguely seems clear
Who is the survivor?
A rhetorical question?
Another challenge in life
A most valuable lesson!

© Tina G

Some people are just crackers

I’ve decided

A gallop of silly persuasion 

Parading around like power leaks out of their ass

I try not to be so judgmental

But you demand me to judge you

With your high and mighty song

The chorus goes “Look at me or I might die of too little attention”

It’s not a hit

And even then

Your talents are like a leak in the ceiling

Annoying

And expensive

If only you’d be kinder

To your friends

Lovelier to your family

Who emotionally bail you out of hot shit

And you stink at saying thanks

Things might be different

Your words are crude

Offering no grace

And you smile like an awkward crush

Look I don’t hate you

You just baffle my senses

If anything you entertain me

But even then I’m bored

Lighten up

Have a wank

Take a pill

Say I love you in the mirror 10 times

I hear it’s great for chi

Go on

I dare you  

TOUGH OLD MAN (koro) 

I would hear you before I would see you

That bold blend of pride and character

As loud as silence 

You were a formidable might

Like a Kauri tree

Strong

Thick

Shaped in ways

That summoned  

We, were in awe

Of your tireless hands

They worked harder than a colony of ants 

Sometimes as brutal as the wind   

PUAWAI 

I think I can fly

Wings, heavy with sorrow 

Bones, bright

Could be stronger 

Skin, stained

Filthy from your words 

Mouth open

Afraid to speak

Can you hear my voice? 

Eyes, deep

Sad

But determined 

I know I can fly

I know I can fly

I know I can fly 

I may be weak, but I am not brittle
My thoughts are deep, I speak not in riddle
I smile through tears you may not see
My strength comes from my soul that bleeds
Although I may seem bright and bold
Tragedy, within me unfolds
And yes I bow my head and cry
I question the values that lace my life
To focus on where I want to be
The realisation of inner peace
Is it a myth, just another dream
Or can it become a reality?
A surge of warmth, a spray of hope
Encouraging me, to never let go
Clinging to this tranquility
I begin to heal
Through His Love for me

© Tina G

Paris, Mon Amour

My partner’s gone up to Lisbon to see her daughter and
visit relatives, I know this isn’t true, she is going to
a wedding in Paris, I wasn’t invited and she didn’t like to
tell me that. I’ve painted the hall and living room,
tomorrow I’ll paint the kitchen, then the wall around
the house, the yard and finally the wooden shutters.
When she comes home I’ll sit and read the paper,
no big deal, doing a bit of painting. If she tells me where
she has been I’ll look surprised.
Still, I would have liked to have seen see Paris,

When clock strikes and door shuts twice,
I alone sit on couch watching
The shimmering tip a smoke ring curls.
And wait quietly, for Night’s coming.
There Night leisurely strolls,
Dragging along his shaggy dark cloak,
Like a homeless man in the park.
“Again a sleepless night I see
“So why don’t you play me some songs?
Some ancient hackneyed piece,
Composed under my own weary eyes.”
So I play a song, brightest of colours and sounds
With the ticking sighs of the clock as my beat
Admiring the endless piles of plates
Lying in my sink to be washed in peace.

October Mood.

Clouds are breaking up now and leisurely sailing
north, on the sky a gigantic proud rainbow that makes
the mistake of mirroring itself on a shiny cloud and
promptly losses its soul to the image, hazes into a blur
of pale colour and dissipates. You can see the thieving
rainbow is a fake it’s the wrong way around and when
I tells it so it hastily hides behind the mountain range
trying to look pretty for people on the other side of it.
A dead turtle on the road thrown out of a fast car by
someone fed up of having a pet that only ate lettuce
and lived wordlessly under the sink.

As enormous clouds drift northward, I wonder if fish
see icebergs as we see clouds. “Look, at that amazing,”
cloud!” A poetic cod says. “It’s only chunk of ice,”
the practical cod says, it’s a big fish, has a degree in
marine biology. The poet cod doesn’t answer, rapt it
doesn’t see the net and gets hopelessly stuck in verbs,
commas, full stops and archaic words only found in
the Oxford thesaurus. The big fish swims on, but looks
up and sees cobalt light, as coming from the inside of
an iceberg, it finds that “quite interesting” but refuses to
use words like lovely… and worst of all beautiful.

Edition 4 posts follow from this point. All posts above this being considered for inclusion in Edition 5.  Your comments on other people’s work may influence the editor.

we go out and dance,
pull leaves by the fistful,
weave them into crowns
that hold the hair over
our eyes
his sweet fingers,
a song of bonesssssticky
and dripping with honey
watery eyes and
cheeks, flowery
a sudden light from the street
flooding across the floor
like spit milk
where he sleeps, still
as crumpled as paper
after a hard day’s
flower thieving

Rebecca Isgrove

(c) Rebecca Isgrove 2007