Auckland Poetry

The CONTEST.
by
Bernard V. Kyle
[C] 2007

Those minutes of longing & yearning,
Time passing, as hope starts to fade,
Pulse on the pound, the crowds raucous sound,
Has the hype, been all overplayed ??.

Some garbed in outlandish costume,
The more staid, in ritual attire,
Face paint, an added adornment,
But all, with the belly on fire.

Speakers that blare, Policemen who pair,
Players in combat, no less,
Out to succumb & overcome,
No mercy, due care, no largesse.

The siren then goes, the last whistle blows,
For some, it’s all grief & woe,
While victors gyrate, & celebrate,
A win, o’er an arch rival foe.

Blog link to Richard Taylor’s truly enigmatic work.

If ever there was a mentor for the oblique it must be Richard.  Something of a mystery the first few hundred times I heard him, but now his exotic language both infects me and ejects me from any feeling that one needs to moderate language.  Richard Taylor understands the language in a totally unique way.  Syntax is not collected under circumstances that will feel familiar and yet like the scattering of syllables we are left with insured faith.  Or at least that may be how I feel about it.  Read it and see for yourself.

http://richardinfinitex.blogspot.com/2007/09/room-23a-inside-of-eyelight-inside.html

dogs in wars

The big, white dog cowered in the shadows unseen
by soldiers marching by, there had been fighting and
many corpses lay rotting in streets, hungry dog had
been eating, first reluctantly, then with abandonment,
forgotten was ancient taboo about eating human flesh…

Soldiers, who could kill their enemies brutally and
without mercy, had an irrational fear against dogs that
ate humans. The white dog knew this, any dog seen
eating man could never again be mans best friend

When the war was over it would try to be adopted by
a nice family with small children it could look after;
but for now the dog was hungry it had to finish eating
an arm that appeared to have belonged to a soldier who
had been keen on weightlifting before joining the army
and be blown to bits by a wayside bomb.

Jan Oskar Hansen