Auckland Poetry

Fontana Della Api
(The fountain of Bees)

At the corner of Piazza Barberini and Via Vittorio Veneto
I stood waiting for someone who did show up, it was
a warm September day, it had rained in the morning making
the air aromatic, but sensed I had fallen from grace, it was
time to leave Rome.

A horse, whose owner had gone into a bar for a fried sardine
and a glass red of wine came, pulling a cart, to drink water
off the well, when it had had enough I tried to let it drink some
more as it might be hours before it got another drink of water,
but the horse stubbornly refused, ate my flowers instead;
I led the horse back to the bar, but now it was facing the other
way, would the owner notice?

The horse didn’t know nor did I before reading about it in
a guide book that the fountain had been transferred from
the Via Sistina in 1644 (the book didn’t say why) and again
old Bernini had had a hand in its design

Fontana Sulle Piazza
(Fountain in a square)

At the edge of Piazza di Campo dei Fiori there was
a fruit stall in august 1961, perhaps it is still there.
I bought a banana and a couple of tomatoes and sat
by the cooling sound of the late renaissance spring
eating the fruit, which where I came from was only
available at Christmas. Formed as a soup terrine
the fountain had plenty of water and I made mental
note that if the evening was too hot I could go have
a dip there when the piazza was empty of people; as
for now a naked man who isn’t a statue would cause
some disquiet. I carried the tomatoes in a paper bag
the rest the day and most of the night, forgot them at
Fonte del Tritone at the Piazza Barberini 1637 (where
I cooled off in its water, but modestly fully dressed)
A triton supported by dolphins symbolizing harmony
and proclaiming Barberinis’s fame, but yet again old
Bernini had constructed the fountain.

Fontana Del Nettuno
The fountain of Neptune

At the northern end of the Plaza Navona, Neptune
is fighting an octopus, his white sea-horse has flaring
nostrils and is ready to jump onto the plaza, this
muscular drama is unnoticed by the boy who has
jumped into the spring to pick up something floating
there, his mother calls him back he has a new shirt on,
like a boy should worry about that.

I met Neptune once on a winter beach in the Algarve,
waist deep in water he stood, old and cold while
mermaids sat on stones knitting him a pullover made
of seaweed and since he was hard of hearing made,
fun of his enormous belly.

The plaza is full of local people, this Sunday afternoon
a warm July afternoon 1961; ancestors of Antonio Della
Bitta and Gregorio Zappalà who made the sculptures
way back in 1590.

Fontana Nelle Via Romana

There is a fountain in the Via del Babuino,
guarded by a naked stone-man so old now
that his face is disappearing by the dust of
time; you can see he’s mad and ignored by
the women who come hear to get buckets
of soft water for washing their hair.

The stone-man has to endure this ignominy,
but his consolation is that he will guard
this street fountain after the women have
gone to their graves, what’s left of them is
an image on a photo in a black frame, thrown
into a worm eaten chest on the attic.

La Barcaccia
“The fountain of the Boat”

A boy, of twelve, cups his hand and drink water from
the fountain near the Spanish steps, while watching
the traffic that seems anarchistic and cars park with
total disregard to fellow users of roads; he is twelve,
dreams of owning a Vespa scooter when fifteen,
but for now he has an old bike, not many boys, his
age, have got one.

It is seven thirty in the evening, a mild April day 1961,
the day is over, Bellini is still open and so is Vanity Fair,
selling expensive dresses and lingerie’s; but Roland’s
the Jeweler has shut shop, by the spring people sit and
are sociable, as most Romans are the hum and harmonies
of their voices make it good to be human

The fountain was designed by Pietro Bernini 1627 and
represent a sinking boat that sank here after a flooding.
And it was washed up at this spot. The boy doesn’t
know that, it doesn’t matter, it had been a fine day when
all was well in Rome and no one spoke of carbon foot
prints in the sky and other silly things

Fontana Della Galera
(Fountain of the galleon)

If I were a child and it was June 1961 I would have
enjoyed to have been captain of the galleon fountain,
near the Bramante’s stairs in the Vatican’s garden;
in my swimming trunk I would lead sailors into battle,
and strike an Errol Flynn pose.

Have the pope come to the window, dressed in white,
look down and wave, I would feel sorry for him ask
a guard if the pope can come down and be my mate,
he looked so lonely up there in the window. The guard
will tell a priest, there are many of them around,
the prelate will find this funny and tell the pope who
will come to the window, bless me and regret that he
never married and became a café owner in Berlin.

But I would not know or care to know that the fountain
was made in the 17th century, by Maderna, of whom
I know little, but I think he also was the chap who made
the Bramante’s stairs. If I go there now they will not
let me in as they would have done, the summer of 1961.

The Perpetual Question.

I journeyed through the night wanted to go back to the past and ask my first love a question that had dwelled, if not festered, on my mind for forty years. She was in her sister’s house and looked at me as she didn’t remember, so I introduced myself. “I know who you are, she said,” “but aren’t you a bit old to be traveling so far?” “For you I will journey as long as it takes, I came to ask you a question did you once love me?” Before she could answer her father came in, looking like Prince Philip, and the pair of them left arm in arm. Her brother in law, who wrote about astrology- a friendly man- promised me a great future, this to assuage my distress.

I walked out of the town and came upon a agricultural landscape with fields after fields of carrots, salads, potatoes, broccoli and cabbage, the farmer, it belonged to, told me he once had a herd of 120 prime milking cows, but had turned vegetarian because of mans cruelty to animals, he had had them slaughtered and put in a mass grave where
a carpet of soft greenness grew, grazed by no one, but happy bunnies.

I met my beloved again, in a bar, she was in a better mood and alone; I was about to ask her my perennial question; when a small, blond woman came between us and said “I have loved you all my life, but you don’t even know where I live!” Ignored her turned to my first love again, but her face was in deep shadows, she was fading fast; I concentrated hard, but couldn’t bring her back, but I knew the answer and it saddened me greatly.

The bus driving back to my own time was leaving, the little blond woman came with me, but as we journeyed she got older and older, when we arrived she was so ancient and couldn’t get off the bus.
The driver, a man with kind eyes and philosophical beard, whom
I had seen in many disguises before, promised to drive her back wench she came. I had no ring to give her, gave her a shiny euro
coin. When she looks at the coin and wonder where it came from
she will realize that I never loved her. She will sigh deeply; perhaps even blubber into her hankie and marry someone else.

Inquisitive Neighbour

The couple, who have moved into the yellow house by the river
that has been running dry for the last two year, are not young,
late middle age if you ask me, which you will not do as you
don’t know me, because I’m the man, hidden behind a great oak
at the edge of the forest, that is big as I have been relieving myself
up against it for over twenty years, but if they are married they
have not been so very long as the keep kissing and cuddling a lot when painting the house inside, I only know this because they have
no curtains yet. She, a widow and he a widower who met at
a dance (I’m guessing here) for lonely people, their love was met
with disapproval by their adult children who tend to think they
know what is best for their parents, so they left snow, frost and cold hearts, came to the Algarve. Yet they are prisoners of their past, in time their children will come, there will problem their offspring will be waiting for signs of weakness, forgetfulness a slurring of words any excuse to send them to an old folks home. But as for now they
are blissfully happy, but I do wish they will buy curtains, or paint the house’s façade ochre.

Trees on a hill

The pair of hugging trees
looks like lovers, but they resent
each others presence;

meager soil, not much nourishment
around, nature doesn’t take any
prisoners… (off with their heads)

lately though, one looks healthier
than the other, it is winning this battle
of survival,

but will hold a dead body in its
muscular embrace, till the man with
the chainsaw does his rounds;

usually in winter when trees are
shivering and the foul smell of log fire
drifts their way

Fragile Warriors

Under the glass counter an army of soft drinks dressed
in green, yellow and navy blue, stood facing a smaller,
but more potent army of bottled beer.

In the corner, looking splendid and golden topped,
a few bottles of alcohol-free lager stood somewhat
hesitant, didn’t quite know which army to join being
met with contempt by both sides.

A giant, pale blue one litre bottle of water that could
quench anyone’s thirst a hot summer’s day, suggested
the Alcohol-free should be arbiters if it came
to war; this gave the hybrids a sense of purpose and they
glowed in self importance under fluorescent light.

Not that anyone takes note of what peacemakers say, till
it’s a stall-mate and armies need a break to rearm and
enlist more non-returnable

Thirsty Cars

Those steep, tiring hills going home, I had been in town
bought a new kitchen sink, the second one in forty years,
nothing lasts, that’s how traders make their ill-gotten
gains. My car was exhausted trailing smoke, to lighten
its burden I alighted walked in front as it followed me
slowly. On a flat stretch it teasingly overtook and drove
in front of me and down a track into a deep ravine where
feral donkeys live and run unlicensed garages I wasn’t in
the mood to play “follow the leader,” so I walked home
past wayside bars where cars guzzled Brazilian sugar cane
alcohol, and played with their indicators, I ignored this
depravity and hasted away. Midnight, when my car pulled
up outside, it had lost the kitchen-sink and was splattered
in manure of the long eared members of the horse family.

Mysterious is Love.

At the supermarket today I fell in love again. I was standing
there, by the frozen fish, when I looked up and saw her by
the fruit section, weighing a bunch of bananas in her hands;
she sent me a brilliant smiled and I fell instantly in love with
my own image. I thought of Josephine Baker, the famous
dancer, and the mysterious triangle in the Caribbean where
ships and planes suddenly disappears and never seen again.

To be sure her smiled was meant for me, I turned and looked
behind me; a row of milks, on cooling shelves, strawberry,
banana, chocolate, vanilla, melon, apple, blueberry and,
ordinary white milk, a rainbow coalition of milks, all from
the same cud chewing ruminant. Looked back at her, she was
moving away from me, picking up a bottle of washing up liquid;
now an ordinary housewife in need of a perm.

Senryu (Valley)

But for the beach
My valley would have been
A deep inland sea

,,,,,,,,

But for the mountain
My valley would have been
A cacti landscape

……

But for the widow
My valley would have been
A place of bliss

,,,,,

But for the old king
I hide in a vale of shame
As his bastard son

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jan_Oskar_Hansen

When It Rains

When it rains I remember Liverpool, which isn’t
fair, ’cos it was a sunny day that the police dragged
a drunk out of the Mercy.

On the dock he was laid, the sun sunning a dead face…
too late. I didn’t see it made any difference,
his face a shade of blue.

They cremated him that took an awful long time,
a water-logged tree trunk creates a lot of smoke;
I was the only mourner.

No, it isn’t fair to remember Liverpool only when it
rains, once I did see the sun through a smoke stained
pub window.

….And it wasn’t he city’s fault that I stayed so long
that when leaving I didn’t care whether it was raining
or not.

No, I’m being very unfair, ‘cos the sun does shine,
if above a murky sky; so I really must stop blaming
Liverpool for my misery.

The Long Fall

This Indian summer keeps rolling along as
rivers run dry, nature licks morning dew and
asks: “What has happened to the rain of fall?

Autumn without precipitation, the old can
recall that it has occurred before, had it been
a first, we should rightly be deeply worried.

Rhododendron have red flowers, sky is blue
with fluffy, grazing lambs on, but I do ask:
“Where have the frogs in the dry pond gone?

Suave is the breeze that blows across the lane,
too urbane to play with dust; it effete strokes
my face, and tells me not to fear the morrow.

The Long Farewell

We had only met a few days ago, and were in love, had
plans but first she had to go see her father who lived in
another town. At the railways station we kissed again,
she entered the carriage and found a window seat; and
we were waving farewells. Only the train didn’t leave
and our smiles became fixed, one cannot stay there all
day waving. Her eyes strayed to a magazine on her lap,
I took an interest in passers by, but every so often I had
to look up, smile and mouth; “I Love You.” Finally, to
our great relief, the whistle blew, steam engine hissed
and I waved till I was sure she couldn’t see me anymore

Prince Oskar

I sat in a smallish café, near the harbour, when two
flunkies came in followed by the queen of Denmark,
who headed straight for the loo; the pair in suits was
guarding the door. When her majesty came back out
she saw me and came over; I kissed her hand it smelt
of the soap for the masses, but when mingling with
her expensive perfume, gave it a brief exclusive air.

We had coffee and spoke of the old days, but a whisper
had blown through the street, people had become aware
of her presence, time for her to leave. When I had read
my papers and asked for the bill, the manager wouldn’t
hear of it, “a friend of the queen it was a great privilege
to have me.” I didn’t tell him I’m Denmark’s best kept
secret, a product of her father’s youthful indiscretion.

Land and Sea

The land belongs to the sea and the sea belongs to thee
The way I figure it is our ancestors came from the sea
Sure they were lizards, fat lazy old lizards but before they
walked about pushing trees over or fighting it out
smashing exoskeleton against exskeleton
- bits broke off and dust clouded our view - they emerged from the deep

The land belongs to the sea as it grew out of
it
borne out of itself
before the land
was water - water

water everywhere you looked

who is to say when land
first appeared and the first creature
staked a claim to it

sought to dominate by saying it
belonged to it

the land belongs to the sea
and the sea, it belongs to thee

Now is the King of the Land holed up in his fortress
immune to the odd attack?
As his defenses were extreme
the army in his pay laid everything to waste
they wanted to kill murder and rape
they were rewarded with titles and slaves
and claimed that land
but it already belonged to the place.

They would only be conquered
by the King of the Sea.

Thinking their towers of stone
were held together fast with hard mud
thinking the army held it together
by titular examples of valour (by thugs)
thinking their actions
would provide villages for children
to watch them poisoned by drugs
that army marched over the daisies
crushed them like ice
with hammers

so the old man staggers
and waves a stick at the passing cloud
it was once his land but now it’s ours
as the march of his money is counted
that army devours the flowers

it was enough
the waves swallowing him
he holds the stick over his head
unharmed certain of death in her tender arms

the land belongs to the sea
and the sea
it belongs to thee

NZ Police have discovered a Terrorist cell
Come on! Like the cops couldn’t tell
It’s been happening for years
Why now? All of a sudden something smells
How organized is this Terrorist cell?
Are they going to make out lives a living hell?
Somebody in this cell let the secret go,
Led to discovery of this operating cell.
What kind of weaponry do they have?
Are they qualified to misbehave?
They are not any person’s slave,
Just people with a misguided way
New Zealand is not under threat,
The fact is too many people found out.

Were you young or old when you exploded?
Did you have an inkling – of your shape that unfolded?
I do know not –
You had company I see
as I twirl on this wind swept crevice
Other mounts that give us bearings
more than directions in our city
Meeting places for many of past
They understand your height, your depth –
in telling of your beauty
and the strength you hold in being.
A vantage point or a vacant niche –
Waiting for a predatory invasion.
What’s beneath your steep incline?
Layer upon layer …
Are we like you – whether young or old
We can implode –
explode – what are the triggers?
What do you teach us?
Lying here I listen but cannot grasp your enormity
But calmed and understanding inner strength.
Do we all lay dormant?
Waiting for that moment
when procrastination goes
and action is taken of our nature and woes.

Copyright Deana Platt 2002 (aka Emancipation Planz)

A night out

One evening we went for a movie
It turned out to be
The usual display of
Dumb trivialities
I was bored out of my wits
Sitting in the dark
Yawning and scratching myself
We’d had a beer before so
As the movie progressed
I became restless, shifting on my seat
Dying from the need to piss
I guess I didn’t pay much attention
To what was going on the screen
I nudged my wife and whispered
‘Let’s get the Hell out of here’
We filed out and hurried to the restroom
It felt like the evening’s greatest moment
After a movie
We went for a pizza
And had a few more beers. After that
We popped into quick store
Bought us a bottle
Then headed back home
We killed it while sitting in a living room then
An argument started
‘So you think you’re someone?’ my wife said
‘I bet you think you’re a genius.’
She was laughing like crazy as we
Continued to talk about the movie and my own writing
‘Yeah, you’re just great’ she said
‘You wrote
Your God damned novel
So now
You think you’re made. Admit it!’
And I said ‘Shit. I’m a genius. I wrote a great novel. It’s
352 pages long and it’s damn good one.’
‘You’d been fired from all your jobs,’ – she said ‘and I have been
Supporting you for years with all your writing and art.
Did you ever count how much you’ve spent on that alone?
YOU OWE ME THOUSANDS!’
We kept screaming and arguing till late then
Went to bed. I was writing some crazy chapter in my sleep then
I awoke. It was terrible
A pizza was turning in my gut burning my insides
It was four a.m.
I felt reluctant to get up
And go to the kitchen for a drink of water
I was afraid the floor would creak and moan under my feet
I was afraid to wake up my wife but
I couldn’t lie like that any longer
So I gathered my strength and got up
The damn floor was creaking and moaning under my feet as I
Crept toward the sink
I drank some water then went
To the living room, lit cigarette
And started thinking
About books, my life and all that
I felt like writing something but decided to
Go to bed instead, still musing
About death
Money
Fame
Bad pizza
Booze
I dozed off
In the morning
The whole street was
Buried under snow.

Copyright © Alexander Mikhaylov

Of the news that continually screens along the bottom of my TV
This morning I perchanced to observe of
‘Hillary Clinton’s White Hose Surge’

and I wondered
Is she about to do a Bill?
Oh for the love of a good Purge!

Deana Platt copyright 9/10/97

Senryu (ageing)

Over seventy seven
I count the days left of life
Forsaken by love.

Old men’s last boast
Telling all how old they are
Words of brave despair

They call me Tom here.
People used to call me Sir
Then I got old

Tanka (Rejection)

Thanks for your poems,
Sorry, we cannot use them
Wish you luck elsewhere,
Even though we strongly doubt it
No one can be that crazy