Auckland Poetry

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?

The Editor is back, after starting a new job. More on that later. The next edition starts here. Poems in the Fresh queue before this date are now being considered for inclusion in the next Auckland Poetry Edition (that is our Home page). Your comments are what makes this site fantastic - as well as the poetry of course. We have just detected and removed a number of spam comments. If you get a comment on one of your poems and you do not agree with it, then you have a right to ask me to simply remove it. Of course, I will. It would be helpful if anyone leaves comments on poems published before this posting while I edit the next edition. It is a surefire way of making a poet more interesting (to me). Real comments help me grow more editorial wings. Now that the site has proven to work (even if I become unavailable) and improve itself, I can safely start the next phase. For a start, editing will be a little more selective at the edition level, and perhaps quite permission on the Fresh queue. If comments become the default editorial method, then publishing great editions should be more democratic. Art and democracy - interesting mix or horrible idea? Your comments please.

squinting thru the smoky window

again

agonizing need for clear euphoria

I see that mountain

concealed

thru the window

that mound of dirty mud

piled higher than elephant shit

no desire to focus

dancing thru the dry iced dawn

I’ll take my study of avoidance

with one more breath drawn

and choking laughter

stinging eyed joy

correctional balancing of mind

revealing beautiful half notes

cradling the divine musical door

its wide open

hence rusty reality no user can use

the knocking pisses me off

turn toward momentary time

of tingles

arousing playfully

the lost child that’s willingly lost

in the maze of real truth

nothing and no where

is the real truth

the reality

the dimensions

densities’

hello 5^th dimension

I welcome you

my kind and gentle soft view addiction

with no judgment

no star tears falling like raindrops

and no mountain

just a smoky window

filled with glittering dust and sparkling diamonds

kicking off prisms of om’

again

written by Vanessa 13/11/07

I asked myself
as I was on top
of her—kissing
and squeezing
her soft lumps
of fat.

We went to
her girlfriends
new lovers
house.

It was a shitty
apartment
building back
in the old
neighborhood
I used to live
in.

The lover was
scrawny, hick-ish,
leery, and had
teeth that was
almost yellow
with orange-
brown gunk
filling each
gap.

His bed was
big enough
to accommodate
four.

Before we all
started making
out, he tried
to persuade
us to watch
Nascar videos
(we refused).

Our eyes
opened up
at the same
time as we
rubbed our
tongues
together.

Her brown
eyes seemed
to be asking
me ‘What’re
you doing
here?’

My answer
was to go
down and
slobber all
over the
top of her
plump breast.

***

I forgot about
asking what
I was doing
there.

Her girlfriend
and her lover
wanted to go
somewhere
to eat.

She wanted
to stay there.
I tried to
convince
them that
we would
be fine
hanging
out there
(what I
didn’t tell
them was
that I
intended to
hump her
big ass on
that messy—
probably
disease and
bacteria
filled—bed).

It didn’t
work.

They went
out to
eat and I
left for
home disappointed.

Sometime
after I
long broke
up with
that fat
girl, I had
the unfortunate
luck of
running into
the *now
former*
lover in
the library.
He got
right up
in my
face,
grinning,
and asked
me how
I’ve been.
I told him
I was alright
and quickly
left.
He needs
a dentist—
and if
I didn’t
leave as
soon as
I did, my
fist would
have been
a good
cleaner.

© Garret Schuelke

Inhale briefly, this starving green monster Hunts the unwantedFeeds the fascinationFumes over lost relationships Remember! We are no longer togetherHunger for horror, appeases my consciousSlow unhappy envy, blankets the nights cryNow see the escaped prisoner from my own device It’s misunderstood, no responsibility to the slaveId would be only pleasure Receiving solitude, disguises the playing demon bluesHear the ear drum beatsThis is the last time your trusted!Never hides the mask, fools know to well He whispers messages of prayer in moonlightSoft shadows foresee, protects your fiend. HidesFools in fashion know! This knows you!Remember Take of my mask. Remind yourself. Because, When the green monster becomes your only friend, Eyes of this demon will see no end!

no bus
is all I want
instead
truck stop
engines loud
carbines up my nose
old lady
smokes her roll
drum, up my nose
rubbish truck
noise and stink
pungent up my nose
old mad man
kisses the air at me
dirty old truck
dirty old man
fumes, noise, people
all I want is
the 035 home

written 13/12/94
vanessa

Women of Iraq

Suffer little women of Iraq, when the dictator fell
there were great jubilations, but you were
hesitant in your rejoicing, did you have a presentiment?

After all you had unprecedented
freedom under his cruel rule and you were free to study
and dress as you wished

Rejoice little women of Iraq new time is here it’s
called democracy and give rights for religious bigots
to roam the streets and kill women who do not adhere
to their brutal dictate.

Pity the little women of Iraq’s freedom gave you nothing
but new hardship by men who will not let go of
the wrongful power they hold in the name of Allah,
the compassionate

The hanged despot will not be remembered well, but
when twilight falls and women, in the courtyard, sits away
from the men, a grandmother will tell of the better times
women had under Saddam Hussein’s reign.

Come Dancing

The red fox and the black swan stylishly
Danced on the ice of the tarn to the sound
Lively Mexican music that has violence
And promise of sudden death deep within
Its speedy notes of hard played guitars.

A crescendo the finest spray of crimson
In winter air; the swan, with poise, bowed
Its long neck and the elegant fox did ditto
In the stillness that followed trees shivered
Snow of their branches in utter dismay.

A Short Visit  Hadn’t been here for thirty years, not since my brother’s funereal, the cemetery was bigger now; but I knew his place was near a big stone with “Chief engineer Olsen engraved; fifty years dead and he was still an engineer. I didn’t find brothers grave maybe his stone had sunk, the ground was soft with all this digging; standing still my feet sank into spongy soil. Must have gone in circles three times I came to Olsen’s grave; finally I gave him the flowers, I’m sure brother didn’t mind. Left, trying to remember his face, couldn’t, but I have a photo of him in an album. Squally wind threw rain about I could see the bay its water was gray and edgy, a ship was leaving harbour, pity the seafarers heading in to a storm, pity us all, never told my brother I loved him      

Farewell Marilyn

Frost on the window, I scratch a face on ice,
that looks like Marilyn Monroe. And the sun
has no power but lit her face, a golden goddess
she is; we see each other for hours before
she begins to fade, streaks of sorrow, but what
can I do, it’s high tide and my ship is about
to set sail for an unknown destination

Tanka  On a bail of straw The newborn child soundly slept When dawn brought light   To what now is Christmas Day We had a Saviour.   

Going Home

The white day was gliding into twilight details
clearer and shadows deeper, traffic lights sharp
green, amber and red and cars that had stopped
gleamed like a pearl necklace.
…
Ambulance and police sirens, there had been an
accident traffic down to a trickle, a small car
has hit a truck from behind, white sheet over
lady driver, her hand showed she had many rings.
….
Was she rushing home after seeing her lover?
an affair caused by the boredom of having too
little to do? Or just another middle aged woman
hasting home to make the evening meal?
…..
The pulse of the traffic is quickening, motorway
ahead car lights are on now the accident is
already forgotten, the woman was being careless
not thinking, we are safe and in our metal boxes.
—-

Peace & Quiet.

Walk took us to a nice street at an exclusive resort,
beautiful houses on both sides owned by people who
can afford two homes.
,,,,
Every house empty, watched over by security guards
that looked as commandoes; a group of workmen
keep the local nice and trim.
…..
There was a house for sale, we admired it greatly; but
it was my wife who said it first: “Necropolis! But what
are the swimming pools for?

A Cottage

I’m not taking up your space
this house is my home it’s made
of stone, built to last forever;

no children waiting for me to
vacate these rooms, when I’m
gone there will be layers of dust;

unhurried silence, sighing walls
bird song on the roof and insects
caught in a spider’s web;

I, a passing sentinel, came took
the job, roof and board, till another
soul comes and makes it a home.

Tanka

I wake up early
Think the new day’s lovelier
Than the one before
Sit up and recklessly laugh
It’s my bonhomie you see.

Tanka

Woke up cheerful
And I greatly worried why
Till the sense ended
And I was my grumpy self
Happiness is frivolous

Tanka (x-mass warning)

Santa brought us gifts
He had jolly good dram too
Claus was arrested
Didn’t drive his reindeers though
But crashed uncle’s old Volvo

Tanka  I wake up early Think the new day’s lovelier  Than the one before  Sit up and recklessly laugh It’s my bonhomie you see.    Tanka  Woke up cheerfulAnd I greatly worried why  Till the sense ended   And I was my grumpy self Happiness is frivolous     Tanka (x-mass warning)  Santa brought us gifts   He had jolly good dram too Claus was arrested  Didn’t drive his reindeers though    But crashed uncle’s old Volvo  

The Theft

A child was born, no not in Bethlehem, but in
a timbered home along a frozen Nordic coast
and since I happened to be there as a restless
soul with nowhere to go I threw it the baby’s
still sleeping soul and took it place.

Infanthood was a difficult time couldn’t do
anything by myself, was washed fed and sung
to. Closed my eyes and was a silent child;
I tried not to look at my mum since she said
I didn’t behave like an infant should

I began a new physical life, not as great as
you may think, as most things I do I have
done and said before, yet it was better than
being a homeless soul, not yet ready to yield
to the harp playing ranch -in- the sky, lot .

Lately though, the soul I deprived of bodily
life wakes me up at nights, tuneless chants;
“If your chewing gum loses its flavour on
the bedpost over night,” grins and cruelly
waits for me to lose my battle against old age.

Viva Cuba.

Fidel Castro, this saintly dictator, has the haunted look
of an old man who has looked down the abyss and seen
the churning grinder of oblivion; he clings on to twigs
of the tree of learning which is solid enough, but tends
to sway with the prevailing political thoughts of the day
and the new fashionable social philosophy.

He will be remembered as the man who brought a health
Service, money cannot buy, education for all, but he will
be reviled for not given his people the choice to choose
between 24 types of jeans and Mercedes for everyone.
As the express train of time hastens by, poor Fidel is left
on the terminal struggling to remember who he is.