Auckland Poetry

Senryu

Pity the Eskimo
With the vanishing ice cap
He can’t build a home

The Transplant

I have a bus on which I drive tourists from the coast
to the inland and show them roman ruins and a bit an
ancient road that used to lead to Rome.

But I have been losing business to the competition,
when I tout for business it is that I look too gloomy,
like I don’t really want anyone on my bus.

I told this to my dentist Jerry, he’s an American and
as such eternally optimistic, he is also a part time
cosmetic surgeon and a planter of hair on bare heads

He was only going to whiten my front teeth but when
waking up I had blond nylon hair sewed into my scalp
a permanent smile and Hollywood teeth.

Now I look as Berluscone, the Italian prime minister,
passengers think I’m a comic; when I say: “we leave
at four, you silly people” tourists laugh think I’m funny.

The Smiling Lady

We sat holding hands I was seduced by her smile,
yes, no doubt in my mind the fair lady loved me.
I did vaguely remember having seen her, not long
ago, looking up to another man just like that but
this wasn’t the time to think pettily. Since she had
rented out her flat she moved into mine, two bags
four suitcases and a wine cooler made of silver.

New love exiting time we had, she was so full
of life, not for us to sit in front of the TV to have
an easy night at home, life was too short for that.
I tried my best to keep the newness of our love
fresh, but I felt as she was drifting away from me
and quietly despaired, she was getting restless and
one day she left me for another man.

I do miss her smile, but feel a sense of relived
sleep well I do, enjoy sitting on my sofa seeing
a western movie and I remember the man she was
with before me, he looked happy to now. Lovely
lady not for her to eat yesterdays cake, wonder
what she will do when her flat is free, and music
is a dripping tap in her joyless flat.

The Video

They sent me a video from a time gone,
a family gathering, wine glasses held aloft
happy faces, what a grand illusion,

Moving pictures only mirrors a surface,
of something passing, it is not like the sea
mirroring the sky and telling a story

These moving pictures tell a big lie, nothing
about the anguish and betrayal anger and
clenched fist, voices shouting obscenities.

I knew those people once a Nordic year is
so short only lasts from April till September,
the rest is gloom and drunken melancholy.

The winter Coat

Cold day in March, mother wore a coat at least three
generations old; in the centre of town we’re stopped
by a lady highborn with a noble nose, a very distant
relation, she gave mother a 5 crown note, ( I remember
it was blue) mother was glad for that now that the fish
factory had closed and she was out of work. The fine
lady made a mistake she told mother what to buy, like
potatoes and milk, but noblesse oblige, we walked into
a very classy café where the waitresses wore uniforms
and looked down their noses; mother put the note on
the table and ordered hot chocolate and gateau, we sat
by the window in the hope the highborn should see us,
mother smoked and held the cigarette aloft the way film
stars did, but for the coat she could have pulled it off.